“Except about her cousin Estelle—the girl who traveled to America with her and who encouraged Victoria to come in the first place,” spoke up Daisy. “She mentioned her a couple times when the three of us were talking, remember?”
“Yes, that’s right,” said Kate, nodding. “She does speak occasionally about Estelle.”
“She always says I remind her of Estelle,” said Daisy. “Not in appearance or anything, she says, but because Estelle was kinda feisty and didn’t take no guff off nobody.”
Daisy beamed a bit at what she clearly took as a compliment. She was short, even for a gal, and particularly in contrast to the towering Moosejaw. But what she lacked in height she made up for in sass and an abundance of womanly curves, to the point of appearing on the plump side at first glance. But closer examination revealed the “plumpness” contained a layer of surprising muscle that came from being the town blacksmith, a position she took over after her late husband passed away. Her femininity, despite the ample curves, was often masked by her work attire of a man’s shirt and either trousers or bib overalls, but none of that hid a pretty face highlighted by luminous brown eyes and a brilliant smile, all capped by a profusion of yellow curls cut functionally short. The smile was far more frequently on display since she and Moosejaw had begun seeing each other and, though she still favored trousers and boots over skirts or dresses, there was no mistaking a certain glow about her that only came from a young woman in the full bloom of a romance.
“Unfortunately,” said Kate, “Estelle’s feistiness wasn’t enough to make her immune to getting ill. Very ill. When she eventually died, it was a sad and difficult time for Victoria, the meek one, who suddenly had to fend strictly for herself.”
“I never knew any of that,” said Moosejaw somberly. “And I sure never heard nothing about no fiancé from back across the sea.”
“According to Shaw,” Firestick said, “Victoria comes from a very well-off family. When I told him she was our cook and housekeeper out at the ranch, he seemed surprised and a little put off that she was, in his words, a ‘servant girl.’”
Daisy wrinkled up her nose. “He sounds to me like a stuck-up English dandy. I don’t like him already.”
“I got a hunch that wouldn’t be a hard conclusion for a lot of people to reach,” allowed Firestick. “But there’s one in particular I’m worried about.”
“Beartooth,” said Moosejaw.
Firestick nodded. “Exactly. He don’t take much to snooty behavior from anybody in the first place. And if it came from somebody showin’ up to lay some kind of claim on Miss Victoria to boot . . .”
Moosejaw grunted. “Won’t be pretty. And it’s apt to turn that way real quick-like.”
“Out of jealousy, you’re saying?” asked Kate.
“Reckon that’s the closest word for it,” Moosejaw replied.
“But Beartooth has never expressed any feelings like that about Victoria—never tried to lay his own ‘claim,’ as you put it, on her.”
“Come on, Kate,” said Firestick. “We all know those two have been dancin’ around their feelin’s toward each other for over a year now. Anybody can see it.”
“Every time I try to bring it up, try to nudge ’em together, you all tell me to mind my own business,” Daisy reminded the others.
“That’s water under the bridge for right now,” Firestick said. “What matters now is how I let Victoria know about this Shaw character and then—providin’ she’s willin’ to see him—how I keep Beartooth from wantin’ to tear him apart, especially if he starts spoutin’ off with some high-and-mighty remarks.”
Moosejaw wagged his head. “I can pretty much guarantee you ain’t gonna keep Beartooth from wantin’ to tear this gent apart. I figure the best we can hope for is that the two of us will be able to hold him back.”
“If he feels that strong about Victoria, then he should have spoke up at some point during all the time he’s had before now,” Daisy said.
“Maybe so. But that’s water under the bridge, too, like Firestick already said,” Moosejaw responded irritably. “Re-hashin’ that part now don’t gain us nothing.”
“I think we also need to remember that Victoria deserves some consideration,” said Kate. “If she wants to see this old suitor, then she certainly has the right, no matter what Beartooth thinks. On the other hand, since she fled to America after their engagement ended and has never spoken of it or attempted to stay in touch—well, I’d take that as the behavior of someone who no longer seems interested in the man or whatever their relationship was.”
“I wondered about that, too,” Firestick conceded. “But at the same time, she must have kept in contact with somebody back there. Shaw came here knowin’ she was somewhere in this valley.”
“Didn’t you know? She exchanged letters once in a while with another cousin in London,” Kate said. “Not very often, just enough to keep track of her parents. Again, she was never very specific. But reading between the lines, I got the impression her folks were against her coming to America so she avoided direct contact with them and used the cousin as a sort of go-between.”
“Yeah. I remember takin’ letters from her to post in town a time or two,” said Moosejaw.
“Guess I got left in the dark about that.” Firestick shrugged. “Not that it was—or is—any of my business. But at least it explains how Shaw knew where to find her. The cousin in London must have let something slip.”
“It still doesn’t answer whether or not Victoria wants to see Shaw, though,” said Kate.
Firestick sighed. “No, it don’t. Comes right back around to only one way to find out. I’ve got to go out to the ranch and let her know he’s here. See what she wants to do about it.”
“And if she doesn’t want to see him?”
“I’ll worry about that if and when the time comes.” Firestick twisted his mouth ruefully. “But Shaw’s already made it clear he didn’t come all this way to be turned down.”
CHAPTER 13
From behind the bar at the Silver Spur Saloon, Art Farrelly pushed a pair of tall, frothy beers in front of the two cowpokes who’d just bellied up on the other side. “There ya be, fellas. Coldest, crispest beer served south of Denver,” he proclaimed.
Josh Stallworth shelled out some coins for payment, then wrapped his fist around the handle of one of the mugs and tipped it up for a long, thirsty pull. Beside him, Charlie Gannon did the same.
They lowered their half-drained mugs together. Emitting a satisfied belch, Charlie said, “I can’t prove your claim about coldness, mister, and I doubt you can, either—but I’ve got to admit this here’s some mighty prime stuff. It surely does hit the spot.”
“And then some,” added Josh.
Farrelly grinned. “We don’t get no complaints. And, purely for the sake of seein’ to it the quality stays high you understand, I sample it regular-like myself, just to make sure.”
All three had a good chuckle over that.
Fishing out some more coins, Josh said, “I don’t know how long it’s been since you’ve done any samplin’, but how about havin’ a round on us so’s you don’t fall behind?”
“How can I refuse a generous offer like that?” Farrelly grabbed a mug and filled it for himself. Hoisting it high, he said, “Here’s to good old days and better new ones.”
At the far end of the room, a wide space had been cleared and three men were busy beginning to fashion a platform of sorts from the assortment of fresh-cut lumber that had been brought in and stacked close by.
Above the din of hammering and sawing, Josh said, “Looks like you’re in the midst of betterin’ your new days by sprucin’ the place up some.”
“Aye. That’s the decision of the boss,” said Farrelly. “They’re building a stage for Frenchy to start performing on.”
“Frenchy?” echoed Charlie.
“Frenchy Fontaine,” said Farrelly. He frowned. “If you fellas don’t know who she is, you must be new to these parts.”
> “Just got into town a handful of minutes ago.”
“Well then, that explains it. Frenchy Fontaine, you see, is a song and dance gal. A real Frenchy she is, and a real beauty to boot. Voice like an angel and a set of legs like . . . well, er, like an angel, too, I guess. And, boy, she don’t mind kickin’ ’em high and showing ’em off.”
“You sound like you’ve seen her perform plenty of times already,” said Charlie.
“Every chance I could.” Farrelly glanced rather furtively to either side. “Bein’s how she used to do her show down the street at the Lone Star Palace, see, I used to have to sneak in for a peek once in a while. I had to be careful the boss didn’t catch wind I was doin’ business at the competition. But it was worth the risk, I’ll tell ya. And now, lo and behold, Frenchy’s gonna start doing her act right here at the Silver Spur. Her opening night will be Sunday. Far as I’m concerned, that’ll be the high point of this year’s spring festival.”
Josh and Charlie drank some more of their beers.
“Yeah, as we rode in we saw signs all over about this festival shindig. Looks like it’s a pretty big thing around here, eh?” said Josh.
“Oh, you bet. Big church service in the morning, belly-bustin’ picnic on the church grounds at noon, rodeo in the afternoon, foot-stompin’ square dance that night. And, of course, the usual spillover from all that coming around regular-like to do some whistle-wettin’ right here. With Frenchy makin’ her, whatyacall, debut, we’re expecting that spillover to be the biggest ever.”
Josh flashed a wide grin. “Sounds like a heck of a good time. Reckon we couldn’t’ve hardly picked a better time to show up.”
“You fellas figure on stickin’ around hereabouts?”
“Could be. If we find what we’re lookin’ for,” said Charlie.
“Well, if you’re lookin’ for ranch work, you’re right—you couldn’t hardly have timed it better,” Farrelly said. “Every wrangler, ramrod, and ranch owner in the territory will be in town over the weekend. If you’re wantin’ to sign on to an outfit, you should have plenty of opportunities.”
“That’s good to know,” Charlie allowed. “But in the meantime, for the night or so, we’re gonna need a place to bunk. Something hopefully with a roof over our heads for a change. We saw a hotel when we was ridin’ in, but that’s likely a bit rich for our blood. Anything in town for a couple drifters pinchin’ their pennies a mite tighter?”
“Matter of fact there is,” Farrelly answered. “Go see Hans Greeble at the general store. He’s got a big loft up over his storeroom where he rents out spots for fellas passin’ through, like you boys, to spread their bedrolls and be warm and dry. Bathin’ and laundry arrangements can be made, too, all for real reasonable prices.”
“Sounds like what we need. Thanks for the tip.”
“Don’t mention it. Be sure to stop in again. And don’t forget Frenchy’s big debut on Sunday night.”
* * *
Earl Sterling sat behind the desk in his office at the rear of the Lone Star Palace. He was groomed and dressed to his usual precision, but he nevertheless looked haggard, worn down. His expression was grim, his eyes bleary and bloodshot.
Arthur, his brawny head bartender and bouncer stood before the desk, looking uncomfortable as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other.
“Are you sure of your information?” Sterling said. His gaze was not focused directly on Arthur but rather fixed balefully at a spot somewhere over his left shoulder.
“Not much doubt, boss. There’s carpenters over at the Spur now, building a stage for her to perform on,” replied Arthur.
Sterling’s mouth stretched tighter, the corners turning down even more. “Two back-stabbing snakes,” he muttered. “An ungrateful bitch and a conniving bastard who couldn’t beat me in straight-up competition on his best day. So now Coswick jumps at the chance to take advantage when he thinks I’m already rocked back on my heels.”
Arthur worked his lower jaw faintly, like he was ready to say something, but then held off.
“To hell with both of them,” Sterling declared. “Frenchy was wore out as an attraction around here anyway. The cut she took for the added business she supposedly brought in was way out of line with what she actually drew. Good riddance. Let Coswick find that out for himself. He’ll dump her quick enough when he does—he won’t put up with her like I did. Let her try to come crawling back to me then and see where I tell her to go.”
“Frenchy was with you a long time, boss,” Arthur said.
“So what?” Sterling finally shifted his eyes to the big bartender. “A long time can be too long, and that’s the point it reached with us. I started seeing the first signs of it when she tried to talk me out of bringing in some doves like I wanted. Jealousy, that’s all it was. That’s the way a woman gets when you let them hang around for too long. They think they got some kind of claim on you, how you should think and what you should do.” Sterling jabbed a thumb into his chest. “Well, not this hombre. The only person who makes rules for me is me.”
Arthur nodded. “Whatever you say, boss. But I was wonderin’, er, what about Frenchy’s things?”
“What do you mean ‘things’? What about them?”
“Well, the way she went out in such a big hurry she left a lot of her things behind. You know, some clothes and personal odds and ends. Said as she was going out the door that she’d be sending somebody around to pick them up, but nobody’s showed up yet.”
“Then she’d better get it taken care of pretty quick or I’ll throw the damn stuff out in the street. If she’s gone, she’s gone all the way.”
“Uh-huh. I understand that. I just didn’t know if you’d, er, already sent Miss Cleo to start doing that.”
“If I sent Cleo to start doing what?” Sterling demanded, clearly getting exasperated.
“Throwing out Frenchy’s stuff. I met her coming down the stairs when I was headed this way and that’s where she said she was going—back to Frenchy’s apartment to clear it out. She said she didn’t want any of that slut’s trash cluttering up the place—her words—for when she got ready to move in herself.”
Sterling shot to his feet. “I never agreed to that!”
His movement was so sudden and his voice so harsh it caused Arthur to take a step backward. “I didn’t know, boss. That’s why I was wondering.”
“See how women sink their clutches in you and try to maneuver you, Arthur?” Sterling threw his arms wide. “A damn little trollop—how bold can you be? I let her turn my head for a few seconds, feed her a line or two about thinking she’s something special, and . . .”
Sterling stopped abruptly, his face flushing with a mixture of anger and embarrassment for saying more than he’d meant to. “Never mind. I’ll go straighten out Cleo. You get word to Frenchy, go yourself if you have to, and tell her she’s got twenty-four hours to clear out the rest of her stuff. Tell her to send somebody. Not, for God’s sake, to come herself. I don’t want to see her around here again and I sure as hell don’t want her and Cleo to run into each other. All I’d need would be for an eye-gouging catfight to break out between those two on top of everything else!”
CHAPTER 14
When Firestick got to the Double M, he found Victoria and Beartooth both outside by the horse corral. They were watching Jesus Marquez, one of the ranch’s vaqueros, breaking a steel-dust mare he had galloping in circles within the enclosure. The mare seemed to be behaving and responding fairly well as Firestick rode up. But judging by the way the animal was breathing hard, the sweat and dirt streaking Jesus’s face, and the thick haze of dust still hanging in the air, it was evident that not very long ago a heck of a battle between bronc and rider had taken place.
As Firestick reined up close to where Beartooth and Victoria were leaning against the corral fence, Beartooth turned and squinted up at him. “You just missed a good show. Likely better than most of the bronc bustin’ anybody’ll see at the festival rodeo on Sunday. That little ma
re had a double-barreled load of fight in her. ’Bout gave Jesus more than he could handle.”
“He stuck with it, though,” said Victoria, also turning. “I don’t know how, but he did. It’s nothing short of amazing to me the way he’s able to stay on those raw, wild horses when they leap and twist so violently in their attempts to buck him off.”
Victoria was an attractive, full-bodied woman a few years short of thirty. She had thick, richly textured chestnut hair, a finely sculpted face, and striking blue eyes that left a lasting impression on everyone who met her.
Looking down at her now, standing there in her simple yet flattering dress and half-length apron with the breeze slightly stirring her hair, Firestick tried to picture her—knowing what he’d recently learned of her background—in an elegant gown in a posh upper-crust setting. It was an easy picture to make, even though Firestick’s experience with posh settings was pretty limited. Still, the point was that Victoria—like Kate, for that matter—had the grace and beauty to blend against any backdrop and only make it the better.
Firestick was drawn from his appraisal by Miguel Santros, Jesus’s uncle and the ranch’s second full-time vaquero, responding to Victoria’s comments about bronc riding. From where he also stood leaning against the corral fence, he said, “Experiencing how much better it is to stay on the horse, instead of getting thrown off, is a great skill developer.” A wry smile spread across his weather-seamed face. “Although, speaking from experience, I can say that even remaining on a bucking bronc is not the most comfortable way to spend one’s time.”
As he added the last, Miguel absently placed the palms of his hands to the small of his back and ran them down over his flat rear end. As Jesus’s mentor and one of the best men around when it came to gentling and training horses, the old vaquero certainly knew whereof he spoke.
“I can only imagine, though, even that is painful,” said Victoria with a rueful smile of her own. “I ache for days after merely watching a bronc being ridden down.”
Overhearing this from inside the corral, Jesus steered the mare over closer and said, “Not that I want to cause you any pain, Miss Victoria, but I hope you’re going to come to the rodeo on Sunday and see me ride there. I plan on placing pretty good in some of the events and bringing home a few ribbons.”
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