“He has an office at the theatre. We could start there,” Daniel said, “But only if ye’re sure it’s not an inconvenience.”
“I have chores to do, but they can wait.” As long as she had enough time before dark to arrange room and board for the night, she’d slay as many dragons as she could with what was left of the day.
As they walked down the crowded and uneven boardwalk, they didn’t have an opportunity to discuss the case. When she saw the theatre, she pulled Daniel and Noah into an alley to discuss the case. “Tell me about the drum. You mentioned it belonged to Noah’s grandfather and that it was a family heirloom. Can you put a value on it?”
“I saw a similar one at Hughes Store. They wanted five dollars for it,” Noah said.
“Do they still have it?” If the store stocked one drum, she could use that as a negotiating tool.
“They sold it.”
“That’s a shame. We know how much a replacement drum should cost, but we need to determine the value of your drum. It was a family heirloom shipped from Scotland. That adds to its value. What would you say it was worth?”
“I doubt the value of a family heirloom adds much, but the shipping costs would. Folks are used to paying more to get merchandise from Chicago, St. Louis, New York City.” Daniel’s gaze lifted as he calculated in his head. “I’d ask for ten dollars.”
“Good. I’ll ask for twenty. Now, we need to put a value on Noah’s pain and suffering, both from the fall and the anguish he’s experienced because his grandfather’s irreplaceable drum was destroyed. I suggest seventy-five dollars for a total demand of one hundred.”
“One hundred dollars?” Daniel asked. “Mr. Tabor will laugh us out of his office.”
Noah’s eyes grew wide. “A hundred dollars is a fortune.”
She returned her attention to Noah. “It sounds like a lot of money, but how can you put a value on your life? That’s the issue. The unsupervised dog almost caused your death and did destroy your drum. And as much as you’re favoring your back right now, I’m not sure we can rule out an injury to your back, arm, or shoulder.”
He grimaced slightly as he twisted to face her. “There’s nothing wrong with me.”
She would drop it for now, but later she would mention to Daniel that Noah had to see the doctor as soon as he returned to town, not only to be sure he was okay, but if the case went to trial, she would need medical records to present to the jury.
“Come on. Let’s go press our case,” she said.
During the walk along Harrison Avenue and through the crush of people, Amber kept a practiced eye on Daniel. Every man he passed either tipped his hat in recognition or stepped aside to allow Daniel the right-of-way. He didn’t move for anyone. And it wasn’t just his height, it was the way he carried himself with military precision. The Civil War ended thirteen years ago. He would have been old enough to have served.
“What kind of work do you do?” she asked.
“I work for the railroad.”
“Rio Grande or Santa Fe?”
“Rio Grande.”
“Did you serve under General Palmer during the…” She paused, trying to remember what the Civil War was called at the time. “War of Rebellion?”
“Aye, for a while.”
Her next question was to ask Daniel if he worked directly for Palmer, the president of the railroad, but they arrived at the theatre, and she turned her focus to her client. If she got involved in a discussion of the Royal Gorge War, she might reveal the result of a ruling the court hadn’t yet made. It was best if she stayed in her lane right now.
Noah pointed ahead. “That’s Mr. Tabor’s phaeton. Do you see it?” There were half a dozen wagons and carriages parked alongside the street. She couldn’t tell one from the other. “It’s the one with the two black horses,” Noah said.
“Beautiful pair of horses.” As wealthy as Mr. Tabor was reported to be, he could afford to replace a kid’s drum. Knowing both her opponent’s assets and the value of her case before negotiating began meant she rarely left money on the table. She hoped her skills transferred to the nineteenth century.
Noah mounted the steps of the three-story building and pushed open the door. The ground floor was divided into two store sections. One section was occupied by Sands, Pelton, and Co., a men’s clothing store. A mocha brown frock coat in the window display caught Daniel’s eye. Removing his hat, he looked at the coat curiously but didn’t slow his pace. Across the corridor was the J.S. Miller Drug Store, and at the rear of Miller’s was Phil Golding’s saloon.
“Mr. Tabor’s office is in the front section of the second floor,” Noah said, heading toward the staircase. “Mr. Tabor uses the furnished rooms for his residence and office. On the third floor are sleeping rooms for visiting actors and a few offices. You could rent one and have your own law office.”
She didn’t plan to lock herself into a lease. There were too many places to go, too much to see to stay in one place very long. “So you’ve been to Mr. Tabor’s office before?” she asked breathlessly, winded from the hike up to the second floor.
“I run errands for him.” Noah led her down a red-carpeted hallway, the dog jogging along behind them. A set of double doors that opened onto the theatre stood ajar. Noah stopped in front of a nearby door. “This is Mr. Tabor’s office.”
Noah’s hand was poised to knock when Amber pulled it back, needing time to catch her breath. “Why don’t you and your father wait out here and let me handle this.” She lifted her gaze to Daniel, and he frowned. “I’ve got this,” she said. “I’m going to pour it on really thick, and I can do that better if I go in alone.” She didn’t want Noah or Daniel reacting to her negotiating tactics. “You probably should officially hire me before I go in.”
“Would ye represent us in a potential lawsuit against Mr. Tabor?” Daniel asked.
“I’d be glad to represent you in this matter.” She extended her arm and his large warm hand swallowed hers. She was embarrassed by the calluses on her fingertips from fretting guitar strings. She’d never given the roughness of her fingers much thought until now. She withdrew her hand and shoved both into her jacket pockets.
“I expect a full report.” The demand robbed his voice of its smoothness, and she almost saluted him. If she’d had any doubt about his previous military experience, she didn’t now.
Noah marched over to a bench in the hallway and sat, his hands in his lap. “Will you be very long?”
“Not as long as I was with the judge.” She swept back wisps of hair around her temples, tucked in her shirt, and brushed the muck off her jeans. Satisfied she’d done the best she could with what she had to work with, she knocked.
“Come in,” a man said gruffly.
She opened the door, causing it to swing inward with a creak of protest. The dog slipped in ahead of her and disappeared behind an ornate desk that sat square in the middle of the room. Before she closed the door, her eyes met Daniel’s, and his narrowed ever so slightly, as if he could see beneath her jacket, beneath her flannel shirt, beneath her skin, all the way to her heart. She didn’t understand the look or her reaction to it, but now wasn’t the time to dissect either one.
Her eyes adjusted to the yellow light coming from a gas chandelier. She quickly assessed the room and the man behind the desk with his distinctive mustache that would do a walrus proud. Mr. Tabor was not only the owner of the theatre, the Matchless Mine, the Tabor Bank, and the Tabor Hotel, but he was also the current lieutenant governor of Colorado and a well-known philanderer. Amber had grown up around Leadville, and you couldn’t spend time in the town without hearing Horace Tabor tales.
Heavy velvet drapes covered two windows. A gaudy Victorian sofa stood on one side of the room, with a sideboard, bookcase, and table on the other, while two leather chairs faced the desk. The furnishings were large, heavy, and dark. And the man, looking bemused, smoothed his mustache.
The scent of a cigar permeated the room. The aroma reminded her of rain-soaked e
arth, loamy soil, and lying face-down in a meadow. She liked his choice of cigars, but she was reserving her opinion of him until their negotiations were over.
Mr. Tabor glanced up, looked closely at Amber, and as his eyes trailed the length of her body asked, “Who are you?”
“Amber Kelly, and I represent Noah Grant.”
Mr. Tabor took a satisfied draw on his cigar then rolled the ash into a crystal ashtray. “Fine boy. Runs errands, helps around the theatre during productions. What’s his complaint?”
“Your dog ran out into the street and collided with a bandwagon, jostling the musicians. My client, the drummer, fell off the back into the path of a freight wagon. The wheels ran over his drum and barely missed crushing his head.”
Mr. Tabor leaned back in his chair, blandly regarding her while his thumb hung from the armhole of his vest. He cocked his boots on the desk corner. “I’m sorry about the boy and the drum.”
“I suppose you’d say the same if the boy’s head had been squashed under the wagon wheel?”
“No, that would have been horrible.”
Even though she hadn’t been offered a seat, she took one in front of his desk and crossed her legs. She glanced around the office again and asked, “Has Gladys Robeson performed here?”
“She was supposed to open tomorrow night but cancelled. She’ll never be invited back.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. I’m sure she’d have been a sell-out. Do you have many of those?”
He stroked the extravagantly large mustache and grinned at her like a licentious fool, giving her the creeps. “Every act I book is a sell-out.”
“After we transact our business, we’ll talk about an act I know will be a smashing success and would be available tomorrow night. I can promise the newspapers will write glowing reviews. Patrons will flock from all over Colorado to see the show.” Okay, she was exaggerating, but she had to get his attention.
“Who’s the talent?”
“A variety entertainer in the vein of Gladys Robeson. Interested?”
“Might be.” Although his face remained bland and disinterested, he couldn’t hide the excitement in his voice.
“Let’s get this business concerning Noah Grant out of the way, and we can talk about a collaboration.”
“Noah’s accident wasn’t my fault.”
“That’s where we disagree, Mr. Tabor. The cute retriever behind your desk is your property, and if your property causes injury or damages to others, you can be held liable.”
“Not in Colorado.”
“Yes, even in Colorado and even in Leadville, and my client has asked me to sue you for damages. I would much rather talk about booking an act that’s a guaranteed money maker for you, but my client’s drum was crushed when he tumbled off the wagon. And I intend to honor my client’s requests. So, on his behalf, I’ll file a civil complaint in the morning claiming damages and personal injury in the amount of five hundred dollars. I’ll also file a civil action on behalf of Mr. Grant for loss of consortium in the amount of two hundred dollars.
“Now,” she continued, “if we can dispose of this matter, we can talk about scheduling the act I know will delight your patrons.”
“What’s the name of the act?”
“One matter at a time,” she said.
His smile faded, and his face became sharp-planed. “I want the name and the talent before I’ll consider your demand.”
She opened the humidor on his desk and looked at him. “Do you mind?” He shook his head and she selected one of a dozen cigars in the Spanish cedar-wood humidor. She gently pinched the cigar between thumb and index finger, working the entire length inch by inch, searching for hard or soft spots. Satisfied there would be no draw problems, she passed the cigar beneath her nose, taking in the sweet aroma.
Mr. Tabor leaned forward and struck a match. She looked at him, smiling, while he lit the tip. Then she puffed, sending the rich tobacco’s fragrance into the air between them.
As soon as it was lit she realized her mistake and ordered her body not to react. Coughing would destroy the effect she was going for.
“The talent,” she said between puffs, “plays guitar and a little banjo and fiddle, and has a gritty voice the men in Leadville won’t stop dreaming about. And that’s all you’re getting until we settle this other business.”
Mr. Tabor shook out the match and dropped the stick into an ashtray on his desk. “And she can open tomorrow night for a five-night run?”
She played with her cigar, rolling it between her fingers instead of smoking it. “One show per night for a five-night run.”
He leaned back in his chair, locked his hands behind his head, and watched her. “Three hundred dollars and a release of all claims.”
“Noah is ten. His father doesn’t know yet if he might have a long-term back injury—three seventy-five.”
“Three-fifty. And that’s my final offer.”
She rolled the cigar between her fingers then flicked the gray ash into the ashtray in a quick tap of her finger. “I believe I can get Mr. Grant to sign off on that.”
Mr. Tabor lifted his brow. “You going to smoke that, or just twirl it about?”
She looked at it. “It’s not to my taste.” And stamped it out in the ashtray.
“Then we have a deal,” he said.
She paused a moment. There was something else. “I want the dog. If she stays with you, she’ll be dead within six months.”
Mr. Tabor waved his hand in her direction. “Take her. Ripley’s an annoying mutt.”
So far, she hadn’t seen anything annoying about her that supervision and love wouldn’t cure. “If you’ll give me paper and a writing instrument, I’ll pen the terms of our agreement. Then we can get on with scheduling the entertainment.”
He turned a crystal inkwell stand toward her and placed two blank sheets of paper on the desk, along with a pen with a fresh nib. She picked up the gold nib pen and removed the inkwell’s lid. The strong scent of solvent and finisher escaped and mingled with the smoke from her cigar. She carefully dipped the nib into the indigo blue ink, then put pen to paper. If not for the constant dipping into the well and the scratching across the paper, she would have finished drafting the terms of their agreement in half the time.
After inking the date at the top of the paper, she handed the document to Mr. Tabor. He nodded toward the sand shaker next to the inkwell. “Aren’t you going to dry your words?”
“What?” She threw a puzzled glance at the shaker and remembered the judge had sprinkled sand over his signature after signing her law license. She picked up the shaker and sprinkled coarse sand over her carefully constructed sentences. Mr. Tabor held up a leather wastebasket and she tipped the sand off the document.
He looked at her oddly, but she just handed him the agreement. “If you agree this incorporates all the terms we discussed, please sign. Then Mr. Grant will sign, releasing all claims against you.” She pointed over her shoulder. “He’s waiting in the hallway.”
Mr. Tabor dipped the pen in the faceted inkwell then bent over the document, the top of his head revealing thinning brown hair streaked with gray. Carefully, he scratched his name above the straight line she had drawn for his signature. His gaze, which had been intently focused on the document, returned to her.
“After you obtain Mr. Grant’s signature, we can move on to our next matter.”
A quick glance at the document, and she gave him a closed-mouth smile. His signature would do a first-grade teacher proud. The ink showed controlled pressure on the pen. The letters were well-shaped, and even the flourish at the end of the “R” appeared practiced until perfect. His signature stood out in stark contrast to her easy writing style.
She stood, surprised by the stiffness in her knee joints, probably caused by her non-warmup sprint across the street to reach Noah before the freight wagon. Slowly, she eased away from the desk. “I’ll be right back.” The click of the door echoed in the hallway, and Daniel, sitting on
a bench next to a sleeping Noah, jumped to his feet.
She whispered, “I need your signature on an agreement.”
“What am I agreeing to?” Daniel whispered in return, as he stepped over to her.
“You’re releasing all claims against Mr. Tabor, and in exchange he’s paying you three-fifty.”
“Three dollars and fifty cents? That will almost buy a new drum.”
She smiled. “Not three dollars. Three hundred and fifty.”
He cocked his head processing what she’d just said. “What’d ye do? Put a gun to his head?”
“I made him a deal he couldn’t refuse. Please don’t go in there and undo my work. Sign the agreement, take your money, and leave.”
“As long as ye didn’t do anything illegal.”
“Promise.” She held up two fingers. “Scouts honor.”
“I don’t know what kind of honor that is, but as long as ye say ye did nothing illegal or unethical, I’ll take ye at yer word.”
Amber and Daniel entered the office, and she pointed to the vacant chair and the paper on the desk. “You can sit here, read the agreement, and sign on the line next to Mr. Tabor’s signature.”
Daniel pushed the ashtray with the slightly smoldering cigar aside and read the terms. He nodded his tacit agreement and signed above the line. His fingers were long with short nails, and the backs of his tanned hands had a splattering of light-colored hair. His hands had a strength about them, the kind of strength that made her shiver down to her bones. She pushed thoughts of his hands aside and read through the document one last time before returning the agreement to Mr. Tabor.
“If you’ll release the funds, we can conclude our business as it relates to the Grant family,” she said.
Mr. Tabor opened a drawer in his desk and removed a green lock box. He drew out a stack of bills and counted out the agreed-upon amount. Before he handed it over, he said, “I want a name.”
The Amber Brooch: Time Travel Romance (The Celtic Brooch Book 8) Page 9