Chapter 12
KODIAK
Salt Lick ain’t much—barely more than a spit of land for beasts.
One crooked row of clapboard fronts and a church squatting by the creek.
Alice takes in the dusty landscape from the carriage.
Poor thing really ain’t never seen much besides them few acres in Ohio, awed to death over buildings slouched in mud.
She’s in for a real hell of a treat where we’re heading.
“Curious to name a town after a thing beasts lick,” she says, with a cute little squint and her mouth pursed. “On the farm, we kept a block for the cows. They’d wear it down to a nub if we let them.”
I huff a laugh. “They need it. Just like us. Wild ones’ll walk half a nation just to get to salt. Hunters figured it out quick—set yourself by the lick, and supper walks right to your rifle.”
Her brows lift just a touch. I can see the farm girl in her turning it over.
We rattle to a stop outside the general store. I swing down first, boots hitting the dirt, then offer her my hand. Her fingers hesitate before touching mine, then I help her down. Reckon there’s something ’bout me that still frightens her.
Can’t say I blame her.
Bell over the door jingles, and for a moment, the air inside feels cooler than the street.
Sunlight slants through the front windows, turning every floating speck of dust to gold.
Two men idle by the firearms, quickly distracted by Alice before they catch me watching.
My hand settles firm at her back. Not rough.
Just there, guiding. She don’t even notice, but it ain’t for her. It’s so folks know what’s mine.
“What can I get you?” the storekeeper asks, wiping the sweat off his neck with a rag. He lingers on Alice, slow as honey dripping. Undressing her in his mind, most like. Old lech.
“Beans. Salt pork. Coffee. Smoke,” I say, flat.
Alice adds softly, “Curious if you might also have a good washboard.” Her lips curve polite, a small smile she don’t even think twice about giving. But I think twice. I think ten times. That smile belongs to me.
The keeper nods, shuffling off, but not before appraising her once more. I feel it like a burr under my skin. Summer sun beats down, and even indoors it presses at my back, sweat dampening my shirt.
Alice drifts toward a shelf, her fingers brushing tins, her cheeks pink from the July air.
She lifts her hair from the back of her neck with one hand, fanning herself with the other.
She don’t see what it does—how every man in this room is watching her glow against the dull heat like temptation itself.
Then I see ’em. A box o’ matches with a little lamb on the box. Little Lamb Matchsticks. I’ll be damned. I grab a box, give it a shake to catch her attention. “Little lamb,” I say.
Alice tilts her head toward it, shy as a fawn. Her mouth twitches—sweet, quick as lightning—before she tucks it away.
When the keeper lays the washboard on the table, she thanks him with that same gentle curve of her lips. It’s innocent, but my blood spikes anyway. I want iron on my hip just so I can rest my hand on it.
She pays the coin—her husband’s silver, not mine—and I’m struck by a pang of hurt pride worse than hunger. I let it pass, but the vow forms clean in my gut. Next town, she won’t be feeding us with another man’s money. I’ll win it. Or take it. Whatever it takes, she’ll eat from what I provide.
Outside, I stop her on the boardwalk, catch her wrist. My thumb presses against her pulse. “Don’t give him your smile,” I say.
Alice blinks up at me, startled. “He was only a kind old man.”
“Old men have eyes,” I answer. My voice is hard, but not cruel. “Don’t make yourself an easy mark. Don’t need folks rememberin’ your pretty face.”
Her cheeks flush deeper as she presses her lips tight, but she agrees.
I release her wrist and sling the parcels over my arm. The heat presses down heavy, but it ain’t the only thing pressing. Ain’t a dime to my name except for a room waiting for me down south and a sweet plan.
Though I weren’t planning on having company when I dreamt it up. Can’t hold up a joint with my woman in the cross fire. It’s going to need some adjusting, but nothing I can’t handle.
Near sundown, we pack our sundries into the carriage, tie off our horses at the rail behind the general store, and step off the street into a saloon.
The air inside hits different—thick with tobacco smoke and the sour tang of beer.
The lamplight’s dim. A piano with only half its keys hides in the corner.
Men jeer, chairs scrape. A woman’s shrill laughter carries from upstairs.
Alice stiffens at my side, her skirts brushing me as she falters. The place is probably Gomorrah in her book. My hand settles at her waist, firm. Claiming. Her body don’t lean into me, but she don’t pull away neither.
We take a table in the back, far from the doors, where I can keep the whole room in view. She sits prim, folding her hands in her lap like we’re at church.
The barkeep slouches over in his stained apron, rag in hand, studying Alice slow before landing on me. “What’ll it be?”
“Whiskey,” I say. “And lemonade for my lady.”
Alice stiffens, blinking at me. The barkeep nods and shuffles off.
She leans in, her voice a quick hiss. “You order for me now?”
I tilt back in my chair, grin slow. “Reckon I do.”
“What if I wanted whiskey?”
“Like some saloon girl?”
Her cheeks turn pink, but she tips her chin up. “Perhaps. If that were my preference, you may keep your judgments to yourself.”
I hum. God I love it when she bites back. “Want me to order you a whiskey, Miss Alice?”
“No. A lemonade is fine.”
“Good.” My attention drifts to her lips before I drag it back to her eyes. “Suppose I could’ve let you order for yourself…but I like sayin’ what touches that pretty mouth.”
“You’re a vile man.” She huffs, but I catch a blush creeping up her neck. Her attention skitters to the space behind me, then to her fingernails, then a knot in the table—everywhere but where I sit.
Mmm. There’s a pleasure in riling her with my wicked notions. Though best I ease off ’fore she gets too ornery.
I let the room settle in my head, figuring where the trouble would come from if it came. A couple men by the bar look our way, then don’t.
She smooths her skirt. The seconds stretch.
The barkeep brings the drinks. I take the whiskey, slide the lemonade toward her. She glances at the glass, then at me. Her lips press together, a tiny line, before she lifts the lemonade and takes a prim sip like it’s communion wine.
The first moan comes faint, muffled through the ceiling boards. Then another—higher, sharper. The laughter at the bar hushes for half a beat before the room rolls on like it ain’t there.
Alice freezes, color flaring up her throat, right to her cheeks. She sets the glass down too fast, the base clinking against wood.
I lean back easy, swirling my whiskey slow, watching her squirm. I knit my eyebrows, tight and puzzled. “Hear that?”
She stares at the table. “I…yes.”
Another moan, louder this time, with the rhythm of bedsprings groaning under it. Her fingers twist in her lap, ears red.
I bite back a grin, tilting my glass back and letting the brown liquor gather at one end. “What d’you reckon they’re doin’ up there?”
Scandal blazes across her face as she takes a harmless swat at my arm. “You know full well what they’re doing. What kind of place is this?”
I chuckle soft. “Place like this? Saloons’ll fill your belly, wet your throat, give you a game o’ cards or a fiddle tune if you’re lucky. Might be a hot bath in back. And upstairs…” I take a sip, let her hang on it. “Upstairs a man can pay for company.”
Her mouth falls open, pretty lashes flutter. “And you, you’ve no doubt gone upstairs often enough yourself. Paid your coin for that kind of company.”
I laugh low in my chest, shake my head slow. “Now there’s where you’re wrong, little miss.”
She bristles, chin lifting. “You expect me to believe you haven’t?”
“Believe what you want. But I ain’t never paid for company.” I drag the rim of my glass along my lip. “Never had a problem findin’ it free.”
“That’s no better. Careless. No doubt you’ve courted every illness from here to the Mississippi.”
I lean forward, elbows on the table, voice dropping for only her. “You worried for me, Alice?”
She flinches at the intimacy in her name. “I worry for myself. If you take such risks, you endanger everyone you touch.”
A grin tugs at my mouth. “I ain’t touched you yet.”
She shakes her head hard, words tumbling out fast. “I didn’t mean it like that!”
I let the silence stretch a beat, then take a slow sip of whiskey, watching her flounder.
She smooths her skirts. “And you presume much, Mr. Randolph.”
“Mmm,” I say finally, drawlin’ it. “Don’t pretend you ain’t thought on it.”
Her lips part, ready to protest, but nothing comes. She shuts them tight again, turns her face away. Another moan seeps down from the ceiling, and a man’s grunts call after it. Alice shudders, clinging to herself, gripping her elbows like an orphan in the cold.
I lean just enough for my words to brush her ear. “That husband of yours ever make you moan like that, sugar?”
Her gasp is sharp, scandal written plain on her face, but she says nothing. I grin into my glass. “Didn’t think so.”
My whiskey glass runs dry, and the barkeep’s quick to set another in front of me. By the time the food lands—a slab of beef and beans boiled flat—I’m halfway through the second.
Alice cuts neat little bites, chewing delicate.
“You’ll starve, eatin’ like a bird.”
Just as she scowls at me, a shout from across the room pulls my eye—men crowding around a table, cards flashing in their hands, chips scattering cross wood. My blood warms hotter at the sound, and before I think twice, I shove my plate aside and stand.
Alice’s head snaps up. “Where are you going?”
I tip my glass toward the game. “Cards. Luck’s callin’.”