Paige MacKenzie Mysteries Box Set

by Deborah Garner

  The woman in the green dress, who was just circling by at that moment, nodded her head in agreement. “Glad you’re here,” she whispered from a few feet away.

  Paige wasn’t so sure she could agree. At the moment a martini at the top of the San Francisco Hyatt sounded just fine to her. And a first class airline ticket to get there would promise a smoother flight than whatever she’d just taken.

  She looked around the room and saw a few more men entering. Most seemed to be fairly respectable types, not like a few of the characters she’d already seen around town. They removed their hats once inside and nodded a few hellos around the room before mingling in with the crowd.

  “I see you’re lookin’ around at your new home,” the man remarked. “It’s a nice building, this place. It was built by the Jackson Hole Gun Club, back around 1897. And it’s not just a dance hall, you know. We call it The Clubhouse. We use it for settlin’ our legal disputes and we can gather together and smoke here, too.” The man seemed immensely proud of all this. “Of course, bein’ a lady and all, you don’t smoke, but us men, we love to get together now and then and partake.”

  Well, I don’t smoke anymore, not since quitting a few years ago, Paige thought to herself, but decided it would be wise to not state this out loud.

  The music ended and the man escorted her to a seat at the side of the room, thanked her for the dance and promised he’d be back to dance with her again later on. From there he left, joining a group of men by the front door.

  The woman in the green dress had parted with her dance partner on the floor and now moved swiftly in to sit beside Paige.

  “I am so glad you’re here, honey,” she said, fluffing her hair with her right hand and pulling her skirt aside in order to take a seat on the chair next to Paige. “We’ve been wondering for weeks who the new girl was they were sending up here. My name’s Susanna, you know, like the song, “Oh, Susanna.” She hummed a few bars, and then continued. “And I know you’re Maylene, they told us your name before you got here.”

  What good would it do to try to correct anything at this point, Paige wondered? And even if she wanted to, it would have been impossible to get a word in edgewise. Susanna kept right on going, telling her about the dance hall, the customers, the town, her beau, her other friends, where she lived and where to get the best price on flour.

  “You’ll just have to see the new dresses in at Deloney’s, back in the corner. There’s one about your size in the prettiest sapphire blue. It would be beautiful with your dark hair, Maylene. And it’s got little pearls around the neckline and at the ends of the sleeves. Oh, and the neckline is low enough, without being too low, if you know what I mean.” Susanna turned her head slightly sideways and gave a little wink. Before she could continue on this time, however, both girls were startled by a crash just outside. Following others, they moved over to the front door to take a look.

  Three large, wooden barrels rested on their sides in the middle of the dusty road, piles of potatoes spread out across the dirt. A crude wagon was at a standstill, angled slightly in toward the building. Dust rose up from the ground where its wheels had come to rest. Two chickens ran squawking away from the scene. In the center of the commotion an older man stood wearing overalls and a shirt that may have been white at some point in the past. He pulled a tattered hat off his head and threw it down on the ground.

  “Dang it, Russell. Why can’t you ever watch where that horse of yours is going?” The man stomped on his hat with one foot, then stepped back and kicked it with the other. The hat went flying, landing on a small pile of potatoes a few feet away.

  “Stomping that hat of yours into the ground ain’t gonna change anything, Zeke,” a bystander shouted from across the road. “You know Russell’s not the best driver in the west. You just have to watch out for him. Anyway, he’s long gone by now.” He waved his arm down the road, where the back of another wagon was just retreating in a cloud of dust.

  Zeke huffed and turned around in a circle, surveying the damage. “Well, if you ask me, that man shouldn’t even be allowed on the road, much less on that horse of his.”

  Paige watched bystanders shake their heads and go back to whatever they were doing before the commotion. It was obvious that this was a regular occurrence, most likely repeated frequently by the same two characters.

  Susanna pulled on Paige’s sleeve and motioned for her to come back inside.

  “You can’t have much pity on those two, Zeke and Russell,” she said, laughing. “They’re always in some sort of scuffle. It’s been going on for years and it’ll probably go on for a lot more.”

  “I take it they’re regulars around here,” Paige commented, feeling any comment would be better than staying as quiet as she’d been so far.

  “Regulars?” Susanna laughed again. “There ain’t nothing regular about those two. They’re about as irregular as can be. Now you want regular, you take Jeremiah. He’s a quiet sort, but ain’t nothing else odd about him. Stays out of trouble, keeps his mouth shut. You can always find him hangin’ out down at Tuttle’s place, but he stays out of fights and other things, gambling and the like. Not like some of the other boys down there.”

  Paige looked at her inquisitively. “Tuttle’s place?” She asked, more for conversation than anything else.

  “Yep, Tuttle’s place, the saloon,” Susanna said. “Don’t worry. You’ll get to know the town in no time. Tuttle’s is the place where you can find out just about anything that goes on in this town. Not a fit place for a lady, though. I’m just warning you. People get the wrong impression about ladies who go in there. Or they get the right one, depending on the case.”

  Susanna turned to smile at a well-dressed man who had approached while they were talking. Reaching her hand out, she accepted his unspoken invitation to dance. Paige watched the two walk away and then stood and eased her way around the room towards the door, trying to appear casual and not attract attention. When she reached the front of The Clubhouse, she slipped outside.

  Most of the potatoes and household goods were loaded back on Zeke’s wagon, though he still stood there muttering to himself. Paige passed by quietly and walked down the road, small bits of dust kicking up around the heels of her boots. She passed a couple young boys sitting on the ground, thumbs plunking marbles across a flat section of dirt. A woman walked past with a high necked blouse and street-length skirt, glancing sideways at Paige with a slight frown of disapproval.

  She arrived in front of Tuttle’s Saloon and stood outside, taking in the building. It was, like the other buildings, built of wood, with a tall, false front. It was a style she was familiar with from watching old westerns and from photographs of old ghost towns. But to see it right in front of her was another story.

  The front of the saloon was plain, but had a porch that ran the length of the building, with four tall beams holding up the small, sloped front roof. True to classic western saloon style, there were two swinging doors at the entrance. In spite of Susanna’s warning, Paige summoned up her courage and stepped inside.

  The bar was long and elegant, carved exquisitely from a wood that appeared to be mahogany. Behind the front counter a tall, wide mirror covered the wall, elaborately decorated with gold designs. The counter itself was sturdy and long with bar stools all along the front. A few men sat at the bar, most wearing hats, white shirts, vests and pants made of heavy cotton fabric. Four other men sat at a table in the corner, cards in their hands, looks of concentration on their faces.

  To Paige’s immense relief, it wasn’t crowded and she didn’t seem to attract much attention. A couple of the men at the bar took a look her way, but turned away to nurse their drinks, whether out of more desire for what was in their glasses or out of disapproval at seeing a lady inside the saloon. The men playing cards kept their attention focused on their game, one tapping his foot nervously below the table, another slouching back with a sly smirk on his face.

  One man at the end of the bar, sitting alone, caught
Paige’s attention. He portrayed the classic look of a cowboy, someone well-suited for his western surroundings. Though missing the stereotypical modern-day jeans and boots, he wore a weathered hat, tilted forward. The chestnut brown hair below that was slightly ruffled, as if a gust of wind had just blown across his shoulders. His neck and forearms were deeply tanned. She guessed his age to be around twenty-five, give or take a year or two.

  As an excuse to get closer, she approached the bar and asked the bartender for a glass of water. He looked at her as if she were either crazy or lost, but poured her a glass of water anyway, sliding it slowly across the counter. He didn’t speak and Paige didn’t offer up any conversation, other than a quiet “Thank you.” She turned away from the bar and then, feeling suddenly conspicuous, turned back and tried to make herself as invisible as possible.

  Hearing the slap of the swinging doors behind her, she threw a quick glance over her shoulder. A man of about thirty years of age had entered, short but stocky in build, with a gruff expression and air of condescension. He looked around and walked over to the man sitting quietly at the end of the bar.

  “What’ll it be for you today, Cyrus?” The bartender called down the bar, clearly giving the man more of a welcome than Paige had received. She wasn’t surprised, having been warned by Susanna that women weren’t welcome in the saloon.

  “Just the usual, Slim. A glass of your best rotgut barrelhouse whiskey, and the sooner the better.” He slapped his hand on the counter, perhaps out of impatience or perhaps for emphasis. “Oh, and give Jeremiah another of whatever he’s having, too.” He tossed a couple silver dollars onto the counter and turned to Jeremiah and lowered his voice. Paige inched a little closer. Thankfully, the two men didn’t seem to notice.

  Though Paige couldn’t hear all of their conversation, she was able to pick up bits and pieces. Between gulps of whiskey, Cyrus and Jeremiah seemed to be working out a plan, though what it was about Paige couldn’t tell. Phrases such as “back at the cabin” and “ain’t safe there” and “when I know, you’ll know” were fairly clear. The tones of the voices raised and lowered, as if some degree of disagreement existed between them, but nothing they wanted others to notice.

  Looking sideways carefully, Paige saw that Jeremiah had not changed positions, eyes focused on his whiskey, which he swirled in circles with a steady movement of his glass. Cyrus, on the other hand, shifted his weight back and forth, fidgeting with his drink and appearing impatient. At one point the conversation remained too hushed to make out any of the words, but seemed to quicken and become animated, voices rising as it did. Cyrus pounded his fist on the counter and leaned in toward Jeremiah in a threatening manner, then pulled back and took a large gulp from his glass.

  “You’ll just have to trust me on this one,” Paige heard one of the two men say. She guessed from the rough tone that it must have been Cyrus. Jeremiah didn’t respond, but leaned forward, falling directly into Paige’s view. She snapped her head back quickly in an attempt to cover up her eavesdropping.

  Cyrus, however, seemed to have noticed her, because he set his glass down on the bar, straightened up and stuck both his thumbs in his belt, one on each side of a large silver buckle. He walked slowly over to her, his boots clicking sharply on the sawdust-covered wood floor.

  “Maybe the lady needs a whiskey,” he said, tossing the words down the bar to the bartender. Paige began to shake her head, suddenly wishing that she hadn’t had the nerve to come in. She pulled up straight, hugging her arms close to her sides, as if this would somehow give her protection. Cyrus moved a little closer and leaned one arm on the bar, his other hand reaching out to touch Paige’s hair.

  “Leave the lady alone, Cyrus,” a voice stated firmly from behind him. Cyrus turned to find Jeremiah facing him squarely, clearly meaning business.

  “She’s not bothering anyone,” Jeremiah said, continuing to stare Cyrus squarely in the face.

  “Well, the way I see it, she don’t belong in here if she ain’t lookin’ for trouble,” Cyrus said, lifting his shoulders and raising his eyebrows, as if to demonstrate that this was an obvious fact. “This ain’t no place for ladies. I figure she must want some kinda trouble if she came in here.”

  Jeremiah took another step toward Cyrus. “Well, you figure wrong. It’s none of your business why she chooses to come in here or not come in here. Now you back away now, Cyrus. I mean it.”

  Cyrus looked back and forth between Jeremiah and Paige, who stood motionless by the bar, watching the two men. He considered the situation and Jeremiah’s insinuations, and decided it wasn’t worth taking a chance. He tipped his hat to Paige, just as if he’d never stepped away from his proper manners, turned around and walked across the room and out the door, leaving it to swing behind him.

  Paige looked over at Jeremiah and whispered a thank you, still a little shaken by the incident.

  “It’s no bother,” Jeremiah said, regarding her with curiosity before lowering his voice to match her whisper. “But he’s got a point, ma’am. As he said, this ain’t no place for a lady.”

  “I guess you’re right,” Paige agreed, taking the cue to leave before more potential trouble could rise up. “I think I’ll just go now. Thank you again.”

  Jeremiah tipped his hat and went back to his place at the end of the bar, turning his head back only once to watch Paige as she walked out the door.

  The road was quiet as she stepped through the swinging saloon doors and out onto the porch. It appeared that Zeke had loaded up most of his spilled goods on his wagon and moved on. Only a few loose potatoes remained scattered around the road. Fearing a lecture back at The Clubhouse if she returned after taking an unexpected break, she headed off down the dusty road, toward a few structures on the outskirts of the newly-forming town.

  On what might be considered a side street, there were a few other buildings with tall, western-style false front exteriors, as well as others not much larger than sheds. One appeared to be a blacksmith’s shop, while another seemed to provide building supplies and machinery. Others offered various services to the growing community, from taxidermy to dental treatments. Paige winced, imagining what a trip to the latter might entail. In the distance, a church rose up, sturdy red brick giving it a stance of permanence.

  Paige paused in front of one building front that had a large piece of machinery in the window. Putting her hand to her forehead, she pressed her face up against the window, attempting to see inside. It appeared to be a printing press, large and clunky, not at all like the sleek machines of modern times. Of course, Paige realized that, to the people she had just met, these were modern times. This particular printing press was likely considered a marvel to this community.

  Stepping back, she looked up at the letters painted across the front of the small building. “Jackson’s Hole Courier,” it announced, triggering a memory from the research that Paige had been doing. Indeed, the valley had been called Jackson’s Hole before the name was simplified.

  She tried the door, finding it locked, and then scouted around on the ground, where her eyes came to rest on a small paper caught underneath the side of an old barrel. She reached down and gently pulled the paper loose, straightening it out and turning it right side up, so that she could see the print.

  Her heart felt a faint flutter when she saw that the date at the top of the page was Sept. 27, 1909. It matched the scenes that had played out in front of her, but the whole scenario still seemed impossible. Though she recalled her step through the glowing arch, the reach for the skeleton key and the instant change of surroundings when she stood back up, it just wasn’t feasible.

  She scanned the front of the paper and noted several small articles. One announced building plans for new structures around town. Another recounted a dispute over a homesteading tract along the river. Yet another gave information on navigating the pass. Paige could hardly imagine what a trip over Teton Pass would be like in 1909. It was difficult enough getting over the pass in current times, con
sidering the steep grade and often slippery road conditions.

  On the second page of the four page publication, Paige’s eyes fell on an intriguing article. An expedition had worked its way up along the river, stopping at numerous points to pan for gold. Though it reported that only traces had been found, it seemed to imply that perhaps there was more to the story than the members of the expedition were telling. Realizing it could be pure speculation on the editor’s part, or even an attempt to entertain the paper’s readership, Paige wasn’t sure it could be taken seriously. Still, it seemed to fit in with her growing suspicion that gold had something to do with the mysterious activity she had come across, both in the past and the present. Or was that the future, she wondered, considering where she seemed to be standing at the moment?

  Paige read carefully through the article, which told of a difficult trip, rough camping conditions, a few scares with wildlife who didn’t appreciate their calm territory being disrupted and a list of names of the men in the expedition. Somehow she was not surprised to find both Cyrus and Jeremiah’s names in that list. The account stated that no significant amount of gold had been found, yet also commented that a few of the men weren’t talking about the trip, asserting that they didn’t have much to say. Paige couldn’t help but wonder if some weren’t talking because there wasn’t much of anything to report, while others weren’t talking for other reasons.

  She skimmed through the rest of the paper, which consisted of a variety of notices. Some indicated claims filed for homesteading sites, while another advertised new merchandise at Deloney’s Store. One small article listed supplies expected to arrive in town the following week, already en route from Denver. There was an account of an unexpected meeting with a few members of the Shoshone tribe, though no problems had resulted from the encounter. Small tidbits about people around town also followed, resembling a modern-day gossip column.

  Paige clutched the newspaper and looked around her dress for some place to hide it. There didn’t seem to be any pockets and the corset didn’t allow so much as air inside, so there certainly wasn’t room for paper. Finally, Paige folded it into a small rectangle, pressed it as flat as possible, and stuck it into her left boot, where it rested just below the edge that boasted the black tassels. She could feel the paper scratch against her leg as she walked, but it wouldn’t be noticeable from the outside.