Chapter 1 #2
Thomas shouldered past a group of miners arguing about claim boundaries. The smell of unwashed bodies and stale tobacco smoke hung thick in the winter air.
A painted sign swung from chains ahead—The Silver Strike. Good enough.
The interior was dim after the bright winter sunlight, and Thomas paused inside the door to let his eyes adjust. The place reeked of whiskey and sawdust, with an undertone of something sharper.
Cigar smoke, maybe, or the particular desperation that clung to men who spent their days underground working for barely enough to survive on.
A handful of men clustered around tables, nursing drinks despite the early hour. A few glanced up at his entrance, their gazes watching—the way men in rough towns always sized up strangers.
He ignored them and headed for the bar.
The barkeep, a grizzled man with more scars than teeth, wiped at a glass with a rag that looked dirtier than the glass itself. “What’ll it be?”
“Coffee. If you have it.” He’d need his wits to get out of James’s trap. Especially without saying or doing something he’d regret.
One eyebrow climbed toward the man’s receding hairline. “Coffee.”
“That a problem?”
“No problem at all.” The man set down the glass and turned to a pot sitting on a small stove behind the counter. “Just don’t get many asking for it.”
Thomas leaned against the bar and tried to let the anger drain out of him.
Not an easy feat.
Every time he thought about James’s face—that earnest, we-know-what’s-best-for-you expression—the fury climbed higher in his throat.
A mail-order bride. As if he were some pathetic recluse too inept to find his own wife. As if he even wanted a wife.
The bartender slid a chipped mug across the scarred wood. The coffee inside looked thick enough to stand a spoon in and smelled like it had been sitting on the stove since yesterday. Perfect.
He wrapped his hands around the mug’s warmth and stared into the dark liquid.
Somewhere a few miles from here, a woman traveled toward a future that didn’t exist. Some poor soul who’d believed the letters his brothers wrote—probably full of descriptions of the ranch, the mountains, the life she could have here.
All lies.
Well, not lies exactly. The ranch existed. The mountains were real enough.
But the husband? That was pure fiction.
He took a sip of the coffee. The brew tasted as bad as it looked—bitter and burnt—but at least it gave him something to do with his hands besides put them through a wall.
“Trouble with a woman?”
Thomas glanced sideways. The bartender had returned to his glass-wiping, though his attention remained fixed on Thomas with the knowing look of a man who’d seen every kind of misery parade through his establishment.
“Something like that.”
“Always is.” The man chuckled, a sound like gravel in a tin can. “They’re either the cause of your problems or the solution. Sometimes both.”
Thomas didn’t respond. The last thing he needed was philosophy from a saloon keeper.
What kind of woman agreed to marry a stranger sight unseen anyway? Someone desperate, probably. Or running from something.
That thought pricked his conscience. She came all this way, expecting...what? A home? Security? Love, even?
He shoved the thought aside. Not his problem. He hadn’t made her any promises.
He had his own plans.
California. Only a few more weeks before he’d have his supplies gathered and be ready to head out. Stake a claim on his own land. Start his own ranch.
His own future.
Not one mapped out by his brothers or dictated by family duty or trapped by some English title he’d never asked for.
A burst of laughter erupted from a corner table, harsh and mean-edged.
He glanced over. Four men sat hunched around a table in the corner, cards spread between them. The kind of men who looked like they’d been in Butte too long—faces hard with disappointment, clothes worn past decent.
One of them held a woman on his lap. She couldn’t have been more than eighteen, dressed in a faded calico dress that had seen better days.
Her eyes darted around the room like a trapped animal looking for escape, and her smile was fixed in place with the brittle quality of something about to shatter.
The man holding her had one meaty hand clamped around her wrist, his other arm wrapped tight across her waist. He said something Thomas couldn’t make out, and his companions roared with laughter.
The girl’s smile never wavered, but her fingers clutched the edge of the table until her knuckles went white.
He should look away. Not his business. Butte was full of hard men and women trying to survive however they could. He couldn’t solve everyone else’s problems when he couldn’t even settle his own.
The girl’s face had gone pale beneath the rouge on her cheeks.
Thomas set down his coffee mug.
“Those aren’t men you want to cross.” The bartender’s voice held an unmistakable warning.
“I’m just going to have a friendly word.” He was already moving away from the bar. The anger burning in his chest since James’s revelation found a new target, and he welcomed the shift.
He could actually do something about this situation.
The four men didn’t look up as he approached their table. Too focused on their cards and their captive audience.
Up close, the girl looked even younger—maybe sixteen. A smudge of dirt marked her jaw beneath the powder, and the dress hung loose on her thin frame. Her eyes flicked to Thomas for a half second, and something in that look—hope mixed with terror—made his jaw tighten.
“Gentlemen.” He kept his voice easy, his posture relaxed. He’d learned years ago that the appearance of calm could diffuse most any situation. “Wondering if I might borrow the lady for a minute.”
The man holding the girl finally looked up. His face wore hard angles and old scars, with eyes that had gone flat from too much whiskey or too much disappointment. Probably both. “We’re in the middle of a game.”
“I can see that.” Thomas smiled—the charming, harmless smile that made people underestimate him. “Won’t take but a minute. The lady’s employer is looking for her.”
“Her employer?” The man tugged the girl a little, and she winced. “That would be Nelson, and he’s right here.”
Thomas slid his gaze to the man he’d called Nelson—a wiry fellow with thinning hair and a mouth like a knife slash. The one who’d laughed loudest at whatever crude joke had been made.
Nelson eyed him. The gleam in his eyes that said he might be willing to hand her off to Thomas if that increased the profit in his pocket for the girl’s time.
Would buying an hour—or an afternoon—really do much to help her though?
She needed a new home. A new life. And he couldn’t give her either. Probably.
Or could he? If he bought her freedom, would she have a place to go? Friends or family back East?
What was he thinking? He couldn’t rescue every girl in every mining town saloon in the Montana Territory.
But the way her fingers trembled against the table edge...
“How much?” He pulled two coins from his pocket—money he’d brought to buy supplies for California, for a fresh start that apparently his brothers were determined to prevent.
Nelson’s eyes lit up. “Depends on what you’re wanting.”
“Just her time. For the afternoon.” The words tasted sour, but he kept his expression neutral. “I’ll pay double your usual rate if you let her go now.”
The man holding the girl—the one with the scarred face—tightened his grip. “We ain’t done with her yet.”
“Jake.” Nelson leaned forward, his gaze fixed on the silver in Thomas’s hand. “Let the man have what he’s paying for.”
“I said we ain’t done.”
The temperature in the room shifted—that moment when a situation teetered between resolution and violence. The other two men at the table had gone still. Waiting to see which direction this would tip.
He’d talked his way out of worse situations than this. He could do it again.
“I’m not looking for trouble.” He kept his hands visible, the money in his open palm. “Only want to spend some time with the lady. You’ll get your cut, I’ll get her, and everyone walks away happy.”
Jake’s chair scraped against the floorboards as he stood, still gripping the girl. He was a big man—taller than Thomas by a few inches and built like someone who’d spent years swinging a pickaxe. The kind of size that usually ended arguments before they started.
Thomas didn’t move. Just kept an easy smile in place.
The bar lay behind him—maybe eight strides away. The door to his left, blocked by another table. The other two men were still seated, but they’d be on their feet in seconds if this went bad.
“You think you can walk in here and take what you want?” Jake’s breath hit his face, reeking of whiskey and decay.
“I think I offered fair payment for the lady’s time.” He shifted his weight so he could move if needed. The girl had gone rigid in Jake’s grip, her eyes wide. “I imagine Nelson will give your money back.”
Jake’s mouth twisted into something that might have been a smile on a friendlier face. “Maybe I don’t want the money.”
The other two men stood now. Chairs scraped across floorboards. The sound seemed far too loud in the sudden quiet. All other patrons had gone still. Waiting.
His own pulse surged through his body, but he kept his breathing steady.
He’d been in worse spots than this. That time in Fort Benton when he’d accidentally insulted a trapper’s wife. The cattle thieves two years ago. The stallion that had nearly crushed his ribs.
Though looking at Jake’s fists—each roughly the size of a loaf of bread—maybe this ranked higher on the list of stupid decisions than he’d initially thought.
“Then what do you want?” He kept his tone conversational. Just discussing the weather.
Jake released the girl with a shove that sent her stumbling against the table.
She caught herself but didn’t run. Just stood there frozen, like a deer that had spotted the wolf but couldn’t remember how to move.
“I want you to mind your own business.” Jake stepped closer, crowding into Thomas’s space. “And get out of my saloon.”
Was it this man’s saloon? Or did he simply spew big talk?
Still, retreating now would be like showing your back to a mean dog—it only made them bite harder.
Some distant part of his mind whispered that this may be exactly the kind of recklessness James had been talking about—walking into a situation that could get him killed over a girl he didn’t know.
But he’d already opened his mouth. Already charged the bear. No backing down now.
“Actually…” He let his smile sharpen just enough to show teeth. “I think this is exactly my business now. Seeing as I’ve already paid for the lady’s time.”
The first punch came faster than Thomas expected—a wild haymaker aimed at his jaw. He ducked sideways as the wind of it passed over his head. His shoulder crashed into the table edge, scattering cards and coins across the floor.
The girl screamed.
Thomas straightened in time to catch Jake’s second swing on his forearm, the impact jarring all the way to his shoulder. Pain bloomed hot and immediate, but he shoved it aside and drove his fist into Jake’s gut.
Like punching a barrel. The man barely grunted.
Then Jake’s companions were moving. One grabbed Thomas’s left arm, yanking it behind his back. The other came at him from the front with a fist raised.
Thomas drove his boot down on the instep of the man holding him. Bones crunched, and the grip loosened enough for him to wrench free. He spun, using the momentum to throw an elbow that connected with someone’s face. Cartilage gave way with a wet crunch.
Someone howled.
The room tilted as something slammed into the side of his head—Jake’s fist, probably, though everything had gone a bit fuzzy around the edges.
Then the distant crack of a rifle echoed through the air.