Chapter 4
“Owen.” Cecil Dudley greeted him with a frown of suspicion. “We settled up last night.”
“I came for a drink,” Owen said, even as he searched out the feminine laugh that floated over the low male voices and the tinkling of the piano keys.
There she was, throwing back her head, exposing the single button open at her throat. Her hair was up but coming loose around her hairline. Her cheeks were flushed, and her hands were animated as she spoke to a man at a table who gazed up at her with adoration.
There was a stiffness in her demeanor, though. A stubbornness.
Owen smiled to himself, suspecting she had spotted him as he arrived. She knew he was here and was deliberately trying to appear merry while refusing to look his way.
Watching her gave Owen a rush of heat to the belly and lower, one stronger than any shot of alcohol. It was accompanied by a twinge of frustration, though. Why did someone so blatantly dishonest have to pique his interest this sharply?
Cecil clapped a clean glass in front of Owen and poured from a bottle he kept on a shelf above the rest.
Owen wasn’t wholly convinced that Cecil’s fancy bottle contained anything more than the coffin varnish sitting in the plain bottle at the end of the counter. Whiskey makers shipped their product in casks and gave proprietors labeled bottles for convenient serving, but Owen knew for a fact that not everyone filled their Real Kentucky Bourbon bottles with real Kentucky bourbon.
Cecil kept up appearances, however, by using his other bottle for the rest of the men at the bar, when Owen nodded that he should pour drinks for them.
Generosity was expected from a man in Owen’s position, one who eked pay from his dirt. Treating others was also a good reminder there were guaranteed wages in Quail’s Creek when these men tired of working their own claims.
Whatever the glasses contained, the shots were appreciated. Owen got a string of nods.
He shot his own and hissed out his breath, rolling his wrist for another while the burn was still settling in his gut.
“What keeps you in town?” Cecil asked as he topped him up.
“I want to open a saloon,” he replied.
“That’s a good one, Owen.” Cecil saluted him with the bottle before moving away to fill more glasses.
Irritated at the continued disbelief, Owen turned to view Dudley’s operation.
Every time he entered a saloon, he considered whether he should offer to buy into it. He had figured out back in California that pulling gold out of the ground was only the first step. You needed a place to put it. The forty-niners hadn’t got rich by leaving their nuggets in a bank. They’d used them to open the stores that outfitted the hopeful, and saloons to comfort the discouraged.
Saloons, Owen had observed, mined the dust from men’s pockets without anyone breaking a sweat. The weather didn’t impact business, either. When it was fine, men ambled in to slake a thirst. When it was blustery, they hurried through the door.
Owning a business would give Owen a fallback when the gold played out, which he and his partners were aware could happen anytime. They’d seen it in California more often than they could count.
Buying into an established saloon would be the easiest way, but Owen had yet to find a proprietor he’d want to be in partnership with. Cecil wasn’t blatantly dishonest, not that Owen knew of, but he cut corners by making his own tarantula juice, same as most saloonkeepers did. And even though The Dudley was the best in town, with an upper floor that Cecil planned to turn into rooms he could rent, it was still plain as a mud fence.
Owen wanted something like he’d seen in Sacramento—the kind of saloon he’d only peeked into because he couldn’t afford to drink there. He didn’t want to take money from men who couldn’t afford to give it up. He wanted the rich ones who talked up their business ventures, so he’d know where to gamble his money next.
“Mr. Stames,” Temperance greeted stiffly as she came to stand beside him, probably because it was the only open space at the bar. She set down her tin tray and a handful of coins. “Two beer and a whiskey, please, Mr. Dudley.”
And then there were girls. Owen was of two minds whether to hire any. They certainly brought in business. There were three times as many men in here tonight as last night. Word had got round that a pretty, new, unmarried woman was serving and being sociable.
There was an unsavory side to it, though. While she stood with her back to the room, oblivious, Owen stared down more than one drunk who was leering at her.
“How are you this evening, Rose? Or is it Miss Goodrich?” He was goading her a little, perhaps unwisely, but he wasn’t known for being subtle.
“No need to stand on formality, Mr. Stames.” She turned to face him, and he noticed she had two buttons open at her throat. “Not when you’ve already called me a liar to my face.”
Definitely unwise.
“Perhaps it was a misunderstanding. Is Cecil Dudley your father? Because you appear to work for him.” He was fighting the temptation to ogle her chest, but her lips were equally nice to look at.
“And who is responsible for that?” she asked sweetly.
“I don’t know.” He had completely forgotten what they were talking about. “Why don’t I buy you a drink and you can tell me?”
“I’m entertaining the gentlemen at the card table. Perhaps another time.” She picked up her tray and sashayed away.
Cecil sent her a disapproving look, but Owen caught his eye and shook his head to indicate he wasn’t offended. On the contrary, he was more beguiled than he’d ever been by a woman.
Why? Much as sex could be a delicious pastime, he didn’t cat around nearly as much as people imagined he did. He knew where babies came from, and he didn’t want any. He’d also seen enough disease in the army to know he didn’t want any of that, either.
No, he knew all too well the dangerous side of dalliance and the profound consequences that came of them, so he was damned cautious when it came to sex.
Flirting never caused any harm, though. He didn’t understand—sometimes literally—the fascination some had with heavy topics of conversation. He much preferred banter and small talk. The world overflowed with injustice and heartbreak. Trying to fix any of it was like trying to keep the moon from rising. He would take a tall story or a teacup drama any day. Hell, he would stir them up if he couldn’t find one, not that anyone appreciated him for it.
Temperance hadn’t. She was punishing him by sitting over there acting as though ol’ Beckett, who Owen knew from experience had breath like a dragon, was the most eligible bachelor she’d ever met.
Judging by the tendons that came up in her neck, she seemed to have realized Beckett could wilt flowers with a compliment. As much as Owen enjoyed watching someone in an awkward situation, he wasn’t outright mean about leaving them to suffer.
He knocked back his bourbon, then walked across to set two quarters on the table in front of her. “Shall we dance?”
The look she swept upward was one of persecution before she blinked it away.
“Me?” She touched her collar.
“Depends. How’s your gout, Beckett?” Owen asked without taking his eyes off Temperance.
“Pretty bad, Owen. Thanks for asking.”
“I suppose it will have to be you, then, Rose.”
She swept her lashes down, perhaps not sure if she was relieved or dismayed. She offered a warm smile to Beckett as she stood. “Good luck with your horse, Mr. Beckett.”
She led Owen to the small space at the back of the saloon near the piano. Owen gave the man a quarter and asked for a polka.
“It’s your fault,” Temperance said as Owen set his hand behind her shoulder and accepted the press of her palm to his own.
“What is?”
“That I’ve had to take employment here.” Her arm settled along his, and her hand perched like an indecisive butterfly on the top of his shoulder.
He didn’t get a chance to reply. The lively polka started, and Owen led her into the step-skip, back and forth. She followed with perfect timing and leapt when he pivoted, whirling across the space before him. When her feet touched the floor again, her face was flushed, and a lively glimmer had come into her eyes.
The next dance was a jig that she matched with equal enthusiasm.
Owen had forgotten how much he enjoyed dancing. He would have gone four more, but someone cut in. She danced two more with two other men before she was free to catch her breath.
She didn’t come to Owen at the bar, though. A pair of newcomers had wandered in.
Owen knew at a glance they were green as grass, lured to Pike’s Peak despite the smell of winter approaching or the grave warnings from those who’d actually been here.
Saloon owners expected their girls to welcome everyone and do their best to keep paying patrons inside their saloon so Temperance went straight to them.
Owen had his own reasons for greeting fresh faces, so he joined them.
“Oh!” Temperance said with animation, catching at Owen’s arm when he stepped up beside her. “You boys will want to meet Mr. Stames. He’s a partner in the Venturous Mining Company.” She dropped her tone, so she said the company name with hushed reverence.
Owen suspected she was being sarcastic.
“Harry and Darry have been telling me they’ve come to stake a claim of their own. I’m sure you can fill them in on all the best practices,” Temperance said.
Owen dragged his brains out of the fact his elbow was being hugged into the swell of her breast and cleared his throat.
“I sure can.” Whenever he met innocent, misguided clodpolls like this, he saw himself back in fifty-one, nagging at Virgil to come with him to California, convinced it wasn’t too late to find their fortune. God, had it been a mistake. It was one of two profound mistakes that would eat at him until he was dead.
His guilt over taking Virgil from his family was the reason Owen did everything he could to make sure their mining company thrived. He hitched himself into a chair and held up two silver dollars because he wanted the boys to see them.
“Rosie, would you be a darling and fetch us a round of bourbon? Keep the change. Where are you boys from?”
They regaled him with their adventures in getting here. When Temperance returned and dealt out the drinks, Owen swung out his knee and patted his thigh in offering.
She hesitated, then perched her bottom on his thigh.
Oh, hell. He’d been trying to show off to these pups, but now he had a lapful of warm curves he was hard-pressed not to cradle and nuzzle. His arm twitched and tension hardened all his muscles. Everything hardened. Everything.
He swallowed.
“Have you shared all your best tips for finding gold?” Temperance asked Owen brightly. “My father maintains that iron staining is a good sign. It might be yellow or purple, but red soil and quartz are definitely things you ought to look for.”
Well, shit. Owen turned his head to stare at her with bemusement.
“I thought your father wrote feasibility studies,” he said.
“What do you think those are?”
“I haven’t the faintest idea.”
She huffed with exasperation, but she was right here. It completely spoiled the effect when he could watch her chest rise and fall in the edges of his vision. Her position on his knee put her eye-to-eye with him. He’d never noticed a woman’s eyebrows before. Hers were a playful shape that swept up from the center then down and quirked expressively as she spoke.
“My father is an academic in the study of natural sciences. He schooled at Oxford. He’s taught at many fine institutions, most recently at Chicago University. He has considerable experience in geological survey, having spent years preparing almanacs in Canada.” She drilled that into Owen with a severe look. “One was very well-received at an exhibition in London.”
“He sounds smart,” one of the Harry-Darrys said with awe.
“He’s very intelligent and well-educated. I only wish he had applied his knowledge to prospecting.” She leaned forward, making Owen want to catch his arm around her to steady her. “Then I would be an heiress to a gold-mining company. Instead, I will only inherit his best advice on how to find it.” She sat up straight again, sending all of Owen’s senses swinging afresh.
The boys chuckled, eager to hear more, their attention fixated on her.
Her advice wasn’t bad. Not on the face of it, but Owen had been one of these boys. He’d chased the ‘signs’ in California and damned near starved to death.
“Your father is misinformed,” he told the instantly thorny Rose. “You boys can run around looking for rusty dirt all you want, but a better strategy would be to head out to Quail’s Creek. You’ll get a regular wage while you learn what’s involved. Meals are included when you’ve put in a full day’s work. There’s even a new bunkhouse to keep everyone alive through winter, with work available at the mill or the stone crush.”
Temperance’s bottom had stiffened against his thigh as she sat tall as a pike, hanging her jaw open with affront at him.
“If you go it alone, you’ll be building a cabin rather than panning,” Owen continued. “The cricks are already freezing. You’ve missed putting in gardens or putting up preserves. You’ll be starving until the spring thaw. Trust me, I’ve been there. I did it in California for a year before I gave in and hired on with the companies. Those were hard lessons, but that’s how I knew what to do when we found gold here.” That was the absolute truth.
“How did you find it?” one asked.
“Dumb luck,” Owen scoffed. “My partner Virgil wanted to go home to his family in St. Louis. I convinced him to come this way. We’d heard there was gold in these mountains, so we put together a company—that’s another thing we learned in California. One or two people isn’t enough. You have to pool your smarts and work together if you want to make a claim pay. Even at that, all of us were freezing and miserable, ready to eat our own boots. When spring came, Virgil said he was done with gold and going home. He couldn’t resist one more pan, though. Who can? And there she was.”
“Gold?” Harry asked with reverence.
“A nugget the size of my thumbnail.” Owen showed the tip of his thumb. “If you want to hear a very entertaining story about that nugget, you ask him to tell you when you get to Quail’s Creek.”
Virgil would chew down his own teeth before relaying that story, but it was entertaining. Hell, anyone who’d been here this summer had heard it. Owen had told a dozen versions of it himself, none as good as being there for it.
The boys’ curiosity was roused. They were looking at each other, rethinking their plan.
“Take the ferry across first thing,” Owen prodded. “The ferryman will point you onto the trail to Quail’s Creek. I’m heading back there myself, once I finish conducting my business here in town. I’ll see you there.”
Temperance had heard enough. She abruptly stood.
“It’s a busy night, boys. The gentlemen at the other table look thirsty. I’ll speak to you later.” She sent a glare toward Owen that vowed she would die before she spoke to him again.
Temperance had madeseveral mistakes this evening. The worst one had been sitting on Owen’s knee.
She could have refused. She should have refused. It had been highly improper. She had known it as she did it, but some libidinous part of her had wanted to take him aback and, yes, revel in the physical closeness. To her great shame, she found him attractive. She had thought she could sit on him and flirt with the other men and somehow show Owen that he wasn’t getting to her.
Instead, she had been strummed with yearning while he maligned her father.
She avoided him for the rest of the evening, beyond annoyed with him. Now, however, the rest of the men thought they could pull her into their lap. She had been fending off grabbing hands all night.
“I’ll walk you home, Rose.” Owen appeared beside her as she accepted her wages from Mr. Dudley and dropped them into her purse. Mrs. Dudley had already gone to bed.
“It’s not far. I’ll manage,” Temperance insisted, but her stomach was pitching with premonition, especially when another man slurred, “I’ll walk her home.”
“I’m not sure you can walk at all.” Owen stepped in front of the man, blocking him from lurching after Temperance as she headed for the door.
Temperance finished tying on her bonnet and hurried through the batwings that hung in the arched doorway into the saloon, arriving in the empty foyer. The door to the street was next to a stairwell to the upper floor. As she pulled the door inward, she backed herself onto the first step up the stairs, then let the door close.
Had anyone noticed? While belligerent voices argued and footsteps shuffled toward the foyer, she quietly backed her way up the stairs. At the top, she waited around the corner, listening to the saloon empty out.
If anyone had spotted her or tried to follow her up here, she would have screamed herself to death—which she would also do in the streets if someone accosted her on her way home, but she doubted anyone would help her there.
Goodness, drunken men liked to wag their jaws on their way to saying good night. It sounded as though Mr. Dudley was relenting and pouring one more round. Was Owen still among them? She couldn’t tell.
Ugh. This was taking forever. She shuffled closer to the chimney where she slid down against the wall to sit on the floor. Warmth from the bricks soaked into her shoulder. It felt really good after such a long day.
As soon as the men were gone, she would slip down the stairs and make her way… She yawned. Make her way...
She jerkedawake with a sharp inhale. Her sensation of falling had come up against the rough bricks of a cold chimney. She tried to get her bearings in the dim light of?—
She was still above the saloon!
She bit back a groan of remorse that turned to agony as she pushed herself to stand. Her neck was wry, her lower back frozen into a scooped C. She desperately needed a privy.
Idiot, she scolded herself and felt into her purse. Her money was still there, at least. She’d gotten away with hiding up here. Now she only needed to get away.
Peering down the stairs, she saw that the front door was still secured with its deadbolt. At least she didn’t need a key to get out.
Slowly, quietly, she tiptoed down the steps. Each time one creaked, she paused and took a slow breath, listening to her heart pound in her ears.
When she was on the bottom step, she peered over the batwings into the dark saloon. It was lit only by the faint predawn light penetrating the shutters Mr. Dudley had closed overnight.
She would have to leave the front door unlocked, but if no one on the street saw her leave, they’d have no reason to presume the saloon had been left unlocked. Right?
She bit her lip and shifted to stand at the door where she squinted through the shutter vanes to see if anyone was outside. Blast. It was late enough the sky was silver blue. Men were hugging their jackets tight as they moved down the boardwalk across the street. She would have to be ready when her opportunity arrived.
Carefully, she slid the bolt, jolting at the loud squeak-click as the bolt fell into its notch.
“Is someone there?” Mrs. Dudley’s voice scared her out of her skin.
Trying to muffle her scream with her purse, Temperance turned to face the batwings as one pushed inward toward her.
“No?” she squeaked.
“Miss Goodrich.” The older woman was still in her nightclothes. She held a few sticks of kindling that Temperance very much feared would be used to stab her through the heart.
“I am so sorry.” Temperance held up a staying hand. “I was trying to avoid some unpleasant men last night. I went upstairs while they left. I didn’t meant to fall asleep.” Her pleading was only making the other woman stand taller.
“Go.” Mrs. Dudley used her handful of sticks to point at the door behind Temperance. “Do not come back.”
Temperance had never said anything worse than ‘damn’ in her life, but she found herself muttering some very fetid curses after arriving on the street.