Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
Henry Jordan sat back in his chair and stretched as he glanced around the saloon. Now that Caleb was out of jail and back on the ranch, Henry was glad to have his old routine back. Tonight, he’d been playing poker for several hours, and his luck, so far, was holding.
The Belle Saloon was loud and busy, as it was every night.
About as long and as wide as three railroad cars placed side by side, it was one of the most popular brandy holes in town.
A sign on the wall claimed that it was the earliest of Elkhorn’s permanent sporting and drinking establishments, and Henry had no reason to doubt it.
The Belle was a few doors east of Judge Patterson’s courthouse, and the town jail was conveniently located across Main Street.
The bar itself—a solid, gleaming mass of pine—ran lengthwise along the left side of the room.
It could easily accommodate a score of men standing comfortably with a drink in hand and still have room to draw and shoot, should the need arise.
Behind the barman’s alley, four panels of looking glass lined the wall.
The mirrors added to the saloon’s feeling of spaciousness, but it also allowed the management to watch everyone and everything.
Considering the clientele, Henry thought, keeping an eye on things seemed a damn good idea.
The bartender—a tough, sharp-eyed Scotsman—shouted over the din at one of his assistants, who hurried toward a back room.
Scarred and swarthy, the barman had tattoos that were visible from his throat to his collar and from his cuffs to his fingertips.
He’d supposedly sailed the seven seas before landing in here and appeared to bear inked evidence of his travels.
Between Henry and the barman, a miner standing at the bar gestured to the mirror panel closest to the door, explaining a distinctive flaw in the upper corner of the panel to a young fella wearing the stiff new clothes of a greenhorn.
A bullet hole and some resultant spider webbing was the focus of their attention.
Legend had it that Bat Masterson himself, stopping in for a drink and a card game on his way to or from Dodge City, had drunkenly wagered he could shoot the odd-numbered horn off a nine-point rack of elk antlers mounted beside the mirror.
He’d missed and promptly been escorted out.
Along the right side of the room, a half dozen faro stations stood amidst another dozen tables arranged for poker and drinking.
The place was abundantly illuminated by lamps hanging on the walls.
A set of stairs broke up the space about a third of the way back from the front door.
Four steps climbed to a pulpit-like landing before turning and continuing up to a handful of rooms provided for those seeking feminine companionship.
Off and on all night, a piano player had been plying his trade on the tinny-sounding instrument at the foot of the stairs.
This was the music man Paddy liked to come and listen to.
He was a gray bearded fellow with a wooden leg—a trophy from the Battle of Chancellorsville, Henry had heard.
Right now, he was standing with the sheriff, Zeke Vernon, who was working his way through a bottle at the end of the bar.
The Belle had it all, and business tonight was brisk.
There were fifty or sixty men in the place.
The buzz of lively conversation filled the air, along with clouds of smoke and rough laughter.
The card tables were nearly full, and the whiskey and brandy were flowing.
Women were dealing faro or circulating flirtatiously, while two assistants to the barman were running back and forth delivering drinks.
The burly bouncer sat attentively on a stool by the front door, the ever-present Greener coach gun leaning against the wall beside him.
Henry turned his attention back to the game. He was sitting with three fellas at a table about halfway down the saloon. A side door into an alley stood open, and he liked this table for that reason. Fresh air was a good thing, what with the smoke and the ripe smells of unwashed, hardworking men.
One of the players, a miner everyone knew as Fingers, was struggling to shuffle.
The others were casting annoyed looks at him fumbling with the cards, but the difficulty was understandable, considering the fella had only half of a pointer finger and a thumb on his right hand.
The impatience of the other players was to be expected, though.
They were looking to win back some of the money sitting in front of Henry.
The seat next to him had just been vacated by a player who decided to try his luck at faro. Henry winced as he caught the scent of the strong, familiar perfume of the woman who slid into the chair. He didn’t have to look to know who was back.
“Hello again, Henry,” she cooed.
He expelled a breath through puffed-out cheeks. “Mariah.”
“Still doing good tonight, I see.”
“I might be doing better if that seat was filled with some fella interested in playing poker.”
She pouted and pushed back a red curl that hung by her ear. “Don’t blame a girl for having a soft spot for you.”
“We already talked this out.” Henry didn’t want to be mean to her, but he didn’t like her hanging around him. Mariah was a working girl with a job to do, and they’d had their moment, but it was past.
The deal went around. Henry looked at his down card and immediately folded. Maybe his luck wasn’t gonna hold.
The Belle wasn’t a large saloon in comparison with other establishments in Elkhorn.
There were a growing number of other places for entertainment, showier and more pretentious than this place.
Most of them offered the Triple-W’s—whiskey, whores, and wagering—but Henry liked the well-lit, friendly feel of the Belle.
At least, that was the lie he kept telling himself.
Truth was, if Belle Constant decided tomorrow to move her establishment to Wyoming Territory, Henry suspected he'd suddenly discover a powerful interest in Wyoming Territory.
Right then, the noise in the saloon suddenly dimmed, and the real reason he came here and nowhere else came gliding down the steps.
Gleaming curls of long black hair were piled atop the woman’s head and held in place by ivory and silver combs.
Skin the color of summer prairie grass glowed in the lantern light.
Ample curves of breasts teased above the silver drape of the dress that hugged every soft angle.
The flair of hips needed no dresser’s skill.
Her face was a work of art. Large black eyes and the delicate arch of her eyebrows dominated high, smooth cheekbones.
But her full lips, the color of wild roses, knocked every thought from a man’s head.
Belle Constant, owner and proprietor, stopped at the landing, one hand on the railing, the other on the shapely curve of her hip.
Damn, but she was a sight.
The remarkable thing was that she knew exactly what every person in the room was doing while somehow making it look effortless.
“You’re gawking.”
Henry ignored the voice in his ear.
From his first visit at her saloon, Henry had been smitten. He had a weakness for beautiful women. He’d be the first to admit it. But Belle was a goddess. And he wanted her.
“You oughta haul your tongue back in, Henry.” Mariah wasn’t giving up.
He’d come to realize the landing on the stairs was Belle’s favorite spot. From there, she could survey her entire domain. She was the reason the saloon was so well-run. A glance at the Scots barman got a slight nod in return. The same subtle exchange with the bouncer. All’s well.
“Ante up, Jordan,” one of the players said.
Belle absently pressed a finger against her lower lip and Henry stared. He wanted to kiss those lips.
“I’m out this hand,” he replied, not ready to take his eyes off her.
As far as Henry had seen, Belle didn’t drink with customers, didn’t sleep with them, didn’t do any favors.
She was the queen of the place, and what impressed Henry wasn't the beauty—though Lord knew there was plenty of that.
It was the way every person in the Belle seemed to take their cue from her.
One look. One nod. One raised eyebrow. The entire saloon moved to her rhythm.
“You never stared at me that way,” Mariah complained, beginning to sound peevish.
“Don’t you have something to do? Some other fella to pester?”
Belle turned slightly on the landing, and her silver dress brushed against the railing. It was a sad day when Henry was jealous of a damn railing.
Mariah’s hand moved onto Henry’s lap. “I can give you whatever you’re hankering for, cowboy.”
He took her hand in his and gently pushed it away. “I’m fine eyeing that pretty one up there.”
She scowled and her chair scraped a few inches away, but not far enough to suit Henry.
“Her Christian name ain’t even Belle. It’s Beulah.”
“Shocking.”
“And she’s real plain without all the paint.”
“Don’t tell me.”
Belle’s watchful eyes paused at Henry’s table, and he raised his glass to her as she held his gaze for a moment.
The sound of shouts erupted from a table of rowdy cow punchers in the front corner of the place, ending the magical moment.
“Those boys ain’t going to be here long, I’d wager,” Mariah continued, turning her plump face toward the cowboys. “She don’t like men. Especially the rowdy ones.”
Henry let the comment pass. He’d seen fellas tossed out on their ears if it looked like they’d let their brandy or whiskey get the better of them.
At the first sign of a ruckus, a mere raised eyebrow from her would send her bouncer into action.
And there were always a few patrons who were happy to assist in ejecting the offender out into the street.
Henry looked back at Belle. Another woman went up the stairs, and the two put their heads together, whispering.
It was rumored Belle kept a pistol strapped to each calf. He wouldn’t mind finding out the truth of it personally.