Iron Ties (16 page)
“Is it time for me to cut the cards, Mr. Elliston?” She smiled sweetly at him. “Just set them down, right there, and I’ll be most happy to accommodate you. There now. Well, gentlemen, while Mr. Elliston deals, I’d like to propose a toast to young Mr. Holt here.” She turned in her chair and held up her glass of bourbon. “Wishing you the best on your birthday and the luck of the draw.”
Reuben belatedly raised his beer. Fine crystal tinked against heavy-bottomed glass. The other players, except for Jed, followed suit.
Inez admired the amber color of the liquid in her glass. Her gaze slid over the rim to Preston, who was leaning against the wall, watching the proceedings with what appeared to be amusement. His eyes met hers just as she let the first taste slip between her lips, intense, warm, and smooth, right through the finish, with a hint of cloves lingering on her tongue.
Inez put down her drink. “Ante up, gentlemen.”
Coins and paper money formed a small pile in the center of the table.
She picked up her cards. As was her habit, she waited to look at her own hand, preferring to take a reading of the other players as they first viewed what Dame Fortune had blessed—or cursed—them with.
Evan adjusted his glasses. His expression changed not at all, but Inez noted that he took longer than usual examining the cards.
Must be a difficult hand to work with.
Cooper’s eyebrows shot up, then quickly returned to normal.
Ah, he must be sitting well.
Jed lifted the merest corner of his cards, leaving them face down on the table. He looked around, his eyes heavy lidded, expressionless. However, Inez could feel, ever so slightly, the vibration of his leg jittering up and down next to hers.
Hmmm. Something’s up.
And Reuben—
The boy held his cards close and looked around the table. With a hint of belligerence, he said, “I’m ready. How about you-all?”
Jed sighed and looked at Evan. Evan adjusted his glasses. “Check.”
Cooper pursed his lips, then said, “Five,” and threw in a half eagle.
“I’ll raise you five,” Reuben said immediately.
Inez looked at her lackluster hand. Ten high. No chance of a straight. No reason to throw money away.
She shook her head. “Folding, gentlemen.” She tossed her cards in, face down, and settled back to watch the scene unfold.
Everyone else called.
Jed stayed pat. Evan exchanged three. Cooper, after some hesitation, exchanged a single card, as did Reuben.
Evan started the round with another five. Cooper matched it. Reuben said, “I’ll raise you ten.”
Preston stirred by the wall. Inez, preparing to down the last half measure of her drink, paused. Jed’s jittering stopped.
Ah, he’s going to make his move.
“I’ll raise you twenty,” said Jed.
Evan pulled off his glasses and set his cards down. “I’m out.”
Cooper hesitated. Inez wondered if he was debating a bluff.
He must not have anything, or he’d not hesitate so long.
Apparently realizing that his hesitation was a giveaway, Cooper raised a hand in surrender, then threw his cards down. “Fold.”
Reuben stared hard at Jed, his left hand squeezing the photocase spasmodically. “You’re bluffing, mister. You ain’t got nothing.”
Jed rocked in the chair, looking smug. “It’ll cost you to find out.”
Reuben set his cards face down and dug in first one pocket, then the other, pulling out a mash of well-worn bills, a few gold and silver coins. After some silent counting, he pushed them into the middle. “I’ll raise ya another five.”
Inez raised her eyebrows. Although the amount in total wasn’t at all unusual for a Saturday night game, she was certain that, for Reuben, this was definitely high stakes.
Jed was glaring back at him with dislike written all over his face. “Very well. And I’ll raise you…ten.”
Jed, don’t let this get personal.
Reuben looked back at Preston, who was leaning against the wall, arms crossed, beer in hand, and said in a low urgent tone, “Hey, how much money’ve you got?”
Preston stirred from the wall and came forward. “You plan on paying me back from next week’s wages?”
“The whole next month’s more like. You got thirty dollars?”
Holt shook his head, then pulled money from his pocket. “You’re lucky today’s payday, son.”
Reuben took the handful of gold coins from Preston and slammed them on the table. Inez winced, thinking of the mahogany finish.
“Raise twenty-five.”
Jed looked down at his remaining cash. Inez could almost see him thinking:
The night is young. Reuben’s only in for one game. I could be out the rest of the evening, if Reuben does have something better.
Jed waved a hand in benediction and flung down his cards. “Take it.” He looked as if he was about five years old and had been forced to swallow a large dose of cod liver oil.
Reuben let out an ear-splitting whoop. He grabbed up the photocase, kissed the cover fervently, then gathered up the money, cramming it into his pockets. Preston tapped him on the shoulder. “Whoa there. You owe me. And Mrs. Stannert. So what’s the rake?”
Inez did a quick mental calculation and said, “Ten dollars.”
Preston pulled a gold eagle from Reuben’s winnings and set it on the table. “Much obliged.”
Reuben drank down the dregs of the beer, his face glazed and shiny with excitement. He turned to Preston. “Reckon I got enough now to go down the street.”
Preston settled his hat. “If that’s how you want to spend your money.”
“Damn straight!” he yelled, then glanced guiltily at Inez. “Sorry, ma’am. Thanks for lettin’ me play in your game.” He muttered something to the rest that sounded like “a pleasure” and hotfooted it out of the room.
Preston lingered at the door and smiled at Inez. “Don’t know if him winning was good or bad, but it’ll give him something to talk about ’round the tents later.” His gaze caused her cheeks to flush as if brushed by a warm breeze. He nodded to the men around the table, saving a cold stare for Jed, and left, leaving silence like a vacuum behind him.
Inez stared at Reuben’s cards, left in a haphazard pile face down on the table.
She looked up at her players. All eyes were locked on Reuben’s cards.
“Gentlemen, you did
not
see me do this.” She reached over and flipped over Reuben’s hidden hand.
A busted straight.
“How’d the evening go?” Reverend Sands pulled Inez’s hand into the crook of his arm as they turned away from the Silver Queen and began making their way up Harrison.
It was two thirty in the morning, but it could have been ten at night for the press of people still out and about. The crackling of firecrackers and stray pops and booms of guns and black powder had lessened considerably. Still, Inez wagered that many folks in Leadville were not getting their full measure of sleep that night, even with nightcaps pulled down around their ears and their heads under feather pillows.
She pulled the collar of her cloak tight to keep the cold from seeping down the back of her neck. “We had a pretty good night, all in all. We pulled in a decent amount from the bar. And the usual game went well.” She leaned against him as she walked, feeling the solidness of his arm tight against her side. “Even Jed behaved himself. Well, mostly.”
“Mostly?”
She described Doc and Jed’s haranguing, Preston and Reuben’s short visit to the game room, and Reuben’s triumphant departure. “The consensus at the table was that Reuben proceeded to celebrate at Frisco Flo’s,” she concluded.
“Mmm-hmmn.”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “What does that sound mean?”
“I understand Flo’s offering special discounts to veterans of the war. A patriotic gesture in honor of the holiday.”
“You understand? Does that mean Madam Flo had the poor taste to extend said offer to you?” She heard the snap in her tone, but didn’t care. She started to move away.
The reverend covered her gloved hand with his own, holding it in place. “Sometimes, Mrs. Stannert, you’re as prickly as a porcupine rattling its quills.” He stopped speaking while they walked past the Board of Trade Saloon. Its requisite brass band was braying loud enough to drown out all sound from the streets.
As soon as her ears stopped ringing, Inez said, “Are you going to tell me you went to preach to Flo and the girls on one of their busiest nights of the year? What humbug.”
“‘O ye of little faith.’ Matthew 8:26. Flo and her women haven’t been to church for over a month. I stopped by to remind them that the mission will soon be open and that they’re also welcome at Sunday services.”
“Welcome.” Inez gave a short laugh. “I’d say the majority of parishioners are a whole lot less welcoming than you are. So, were the Holts there? Did Reuben celebrate his birthday at the whorehouse?”
“I don’t see what it matters, either way.”
She twisted her mouth shut.
Truly, what business is it of mine? It’s not as if I care.
But the image that flashed through her mind was not of Reuben, lounging in Flo’s Turkish-appointed parlor, but of Preston Holt.
She pushed the image away with a guilty mental shove and focused instead on the closeness of the reverend’s body to hers as they finished walking the few short blocks to her home.
Taking the two steps up to her little porch, she fished her key out of her pocket. Another low boom echoed from the hills of the mining district. “They’ll have nothing left to celebrate with tomorrow, much less fire off at work Monday morning,” she remarked, unlocking the door.
“I expect most will be out of town for the Fourth. The races. Picnics. Sure you won’t join us?”
“Hard to say.” She entered and put the key on the small end table. “Oh, I almost forgot to mention. Weston came by tonight. He caused quite a scene in front of the saloon. Doc showed up and took him to the jail. Said he’d be safe there.”
Sands muttered something under his breath as he shed his hat and coat and hung them on the coatrack.
“What?”
“I said I’ve got little patience left for Weston Croy. I know that’s not right. ‘In your patience you will possess your soul.’ Luke 21:18. I’ll be back in a minute.” He headed toward the kitchen. She heard the rear door squeak as he went out.
Inez wandered into her small parlor and turned to the sidebar. She ran a hand over the brandy decanter, still half full, debating, before turning away and advancing on her piano. She picked up the soft gray shawl draped over her piano stool and wrapped it around her shoulders. Sitting on the stool, Inez loosened the laces of her shoes, kicked them off under the piano, and set her stockinged feet upon the cool metal of the foot pedals. Idly, she paged through a stack of sheet music until, about a third of the way down, “La Campanella” surfaced.
Liszt.
Her mother’s face swam into memory, looking as it had nearly twenty years ago. Her hazel eyes shone, her face alive with unaccustomed energy as she described watching Franz Liszt play in France. “The God of the piano. That’s what they called him in Portugal, Inez. I’ll never forget watching him play “La Campanella.” It was a highlight of my Grand Tour, before I met your father.”
Entranced, Inez had asked her mother to play it for her.
Her mother threw back her head and gave one of her rare laughs. “Oh Inez, my child. It’s not a piece I would ever attempt. It’s far too difficult.”
All of eleven years old, Inez rose to the challenge. “Someday, then, I’ll learn to play it, Mama. And I’ll play it for you.”
Her mother frowned. The animation fled her face, leaving the stern expression so familiar to Inez. “It’s not an appropriate piece for a woman—or, in your case, a girl—to play. Liszt composed for the masculine pianist. The intervals, the agility and accuracy required…it’s beyond feminine capabilities. Practice your Mendelssohn, Inez. When you’re ready for something more difficult, we’ll move on to Chopin.”
As soon as she could after leaving home, Inez bought Liszt’s “Grandes Etudes de Paganini.” And no matter what she’d left behind later—possessions, precepts, and principles discarded during the tumultuous decade of traveling with Mark—she’d stayed faithful to Liszt. And Chopin, and Mendelssohn.
In the parlor silvered with moonlight, she set the music on the stand, lifted the keyboard lid, set her fingers on the keys, and flexed her feet on the pedals.
Measures five through thirteen were difficult. The grace notes in measure fourteen made it even worse. She hesitated over the fingering and returned again and again to the quick two-octave jumps, her frustration mounting over each stumbled phrase or clashing note.
The reverend’s voice came from behind her. “That doesn’t sound like music to relax by.” His hands settled on her shoulders.
The tension, which had been mounting up her shoulder blades and into her neck, melted under his touch. She tried the leaps again, slowly, concentrating on delivering the fingers from one chord to the other, like birds taking flight from one tree to another.
“I’ve not had much time to practice,” she said. “No time, actually. And I’ll never learn to play this if I don’t work on it.”
“How long have you been practicing?”
“Nigh on twelve years.” She switched mid-measure, leaving Liszt behind, sliding into Beethoven’s “Moonlight Sonata.”
Slow, liquid notes rippled, waves in a pond.
Sands caressed her neck. She allowed her eyelids to close halfway. The music and his touch washed away the tightness in her stomach, the burning in her eyes, the sadness in her soul. A sweet ache stirred deep inside.
His fingers curled into her hair, taking hold, pulling her head gently back.
He bent over to kiss her throat. Her mouth.
The chords beneath her hands died, the last note drifting into the night.
“I hope they keep him locked up through the Fourth and beyond.” Inez stood at the saloon’s Harrison Avenue doors, cup of coffee in hand, and looked north up the street toward the jail.
All manner of four-wheeled conveyances filled the street, carrying families, church and social groups, and every proper young woman in Leadville to day trip destinations like Twin Lakes, Soda Springs, and the Mount Massive Hotel. Parasol fringe fluttered, whips cracked, babies cried, and picnic baskets and blankets jostled on the laps of passengers as wheels bumped over the street’s hardened ridges of baked mud. Men on horseback wove through the wagons and buggies, the younger fellows shouting and showing off for the women, who clung to the seats, lace handkerchiefs held to noses to block out the dust.
“My God,” she said to herself. “Isn’t anyone staying in town?”
“Sure.” Abe came and stood beside her, drying his hands on his apron. “When the Fairplays come this afternoon, we’ll be jumpin’. None of the theaters are open today, so we’ll be the only game in town.” He followed Inez’s gaze. “Who’s in jail?”
“Weston Croy.” She went back inside and liberated a bottle of whiskey from the backbar. “Let’s go to the office for a moment. I need to talk with you before I start balancing the books.”
Upstairs, Inez unlocked the office door. The saloon’s cat, a calico that preferred soaking up the sun to hunting rodents, squeezed past her skirts to claim a warm spot on the braided rug.
Inez sat at the desk and brushed the orange and black cat hairs from her dark blue skirts. “The cat is shedding dreadfully. A clear sign that winter’s finally over. For a month or two.”
Abe lowered himself to the sofa, knees creaking. “That Weston fellow’s bothering you some, sounds like.”
“More than some.”
Abe listened gravely as she related her previous encounters with Weston.
“He thinks, at least sometimes, that he’s still in the war,” Inez finished.
“Man sounds outta control.”
“Reverend Sands tried to help Weston for a while. But it seems now as if he’s washed his hands of him.”
“That’s right. Your reverend was a Union man.” Abe leaned back on the settee.
“Like you.”
Abe hmmphed. “Partly. At the start of the war, I was wearin’ the gray.”
Inez stared. “You fought for both sides? But…why? What were you doing on the side of the Confederacy?”
Abe shrugged. “I was a free man, like my pappy. When the call came, I joined the Louisiana Native Guards. Mostly, I was protectin’ my home, the home of my family. And protectin’ our property too, there was that. There was thinkin’ among the colored that everything we had might just get taken away if we didn’t step forward. I was defendin’ Louisiana, didn’t give a hang for the Confederacy. When New Orleans was occupied by Federal troops, they called for free colored to join the Union Army, and—” Abe spread his hands— “plenty of familiar faces from the original Guards started wearin’ blue. It was a long time ago, Inez. My point is, lots of men saw hard times. Your reverend, I’m guessin’ he prob’ly was in the thick of things. Most, like him, just put it behind them as best they could. Some, like this Weston, just didn’t have the spine to see it through.”
Inez set her coffee on the ledger. The ledger made her think of the columns of numbers—income one side, charges on the other, and how the charges could deplete, bleed a business dry, until there was nothing left.
If a man saw too much, was too much in the red, maybe there just was no way for him to come back into balance.
“I wonder what happened that he ended up like this,” Inez said to herself.
Abe rested his forearms on his thighs and cracked his knuckles. “He was talkin’ ’bout the cold, right? Well, hard marchin’ drove some men crazy. The waitin’ did too. Almost worse than battle itself.”
“Worse.” Inez made an irritated gesture. “Everyone mentions the horrors of war, but no one will say. So what was it, Abe? The killing? Seeing others die?”
Abe’s mouth tightened. “All right, Inez. Here’s a story t’ give you a taste, if’n that’s what you’re askin’. A soldier offered a friend sittin’ next to him a drink from his canteen. Was real hot that day. The heat never bothered me too much, but some got sunsick, just plain lost their minds and motivation. Anyhow, this fella’d just reached out to hand him the canteen when a shell hit. Blew his friend’s head off, leavin’ him sittin’ there, canteen held out, and him all covered with blood and brains.”
Inez raised a hand to her throat.
“Yep.” Abe cracked his knuckles again, then wiped his palms on his black worsted pants. “And that soldier didn’t end up pissin’ hisself every time a gun went off, like that Weston fella.”
“Abe.”
He looked up, tension etching his face.
“Did that happen to you?”
“Nope. Happened to Mark Stannert, Inez. Your husband.”
Her throat closed. It took a minute to work out the words. “He never told me.”
“Reckon not. It’s not the kind of story men share with their womenfolk.”
She turned and stared out the window, at the hulk that was Mount Massive. “Do you think….Could that have something to do with Mark’s disappearance? Maybe some memory set him off. Like what happened to Weston.”
Abe shook his head. “I never saw Mark havin’ that kind of trouble. But if old Unconditional Surrender Grant comes to town, I’m wonderin’ if there won’t be a whole lot more men havin’ nightmares.”
***
Two hours and a quarter of a bottle later, Inez ran an ink-stained fingertip down the last column of figures, double-checking her addition, then slammed the ledger closed. She leaned back in her chair, staring out the window at the rooftops along State Street and the mountains beyond. A cool breeze slipped in through the half-opened window and shifted a few papers on her desk. She set the ounce of pure silver that served as a paperweight on top, then flexed her fingers absently to work the kinks out of her cramped hand.
The street was nearly deserted.
I surely hope the Fairplays will bring them in. If they’re out there.
Discouraged, Inez rested her hand on the recent photo of William her sister had sent, propped open where she could see him while she worked. She traced the contours of his round face, touched the nose in the image.
And what are you doing today for the holiday, little William? Perhaps playing by the ocean. Giving your Grandmere fits with sticky hands, having eaten your fill of ice-creams. And I am so far away.
Inez grasped the bottle of whiskey and added more to the cup, which by now had lost even the tinge of coffee.
A knock on the door startled her. A splash mottled the leather cover of the ledger. “Yes?” She grabbed a piece of blotting paper to wipe the cover.
Sol opened the door. “Mrs. Stannert, the Fairplays are here. Turns out, the missus needs a place to gussy up. Mr. Jackson said….” He hesitated here, looking over his shoulder as if to determine whether he really needed to continue, then looked back. “Well, he thought she could use your room. In back.”
Her grip on the bottle tightened as she stared at the hapless bartender. “Oh. He did, did he?”
“I guess it’s the only place with a mirror, and a pitcher and washstand and stuff. Plus it’s the only place she could, hmm, change.” Sol seemed uncomfortable plowing into these areas of the feminine sphere.
“And I guess Mr. Jackson is too much of a coward to discuss this with me himself.”
“Well, he’s talking with Mr. Fairplay and—”
“Never mind!” she barked. She shot out of her chair and in a dozen steps was across the office to the door that led to her private room. Once inside, she scanned the area. Her wardrobe stood open, her and Mark’s clothes, hanging side by side. She strode to the wardrobe, grabbed a wide-brimmed straw hat from the top shelf, and slammed the twin doors shut, twisting the handles closed with a vicious yank. She picked up the pitcher, saw there was still water in it, and slammed it down.
Grabbing her cloak off the peg, she stormed out of the back room. “Sol, please inform Mr. Jackson that this was
not
part of our bargain. Mrs. Fairplay may use my room. I suppose I have no choice. But she’d better not rifle through my things. I’m off to the church picnic. I believe I’d rather listen to the church women prattle than hear Mrs. Fairplay pontificate about life on the stage and warble her lines.” She paused to drain her cup.
Inez turned to go, then stopped, retreated back to the desk, seized the near empty bottle, and slammed down the rolltop to hide the bills and ledger from prying eyes.
“Can’t arrive empty-handed,” she said tersely.
Sol stared at the bottle in her hand, clearly horrified.
“Oh, stop staring, Sol. I’m not going to bring a bottle of liquor to the church picnic. I’m taking this downstairs so that Maude Fairplay is not tempted to take a little liquid courage on the house before emoting. Please go ask Bridgette to wrap up a cherry pie for the church.”
Sol took the stairs down two at a time, whether anxious to fulfill her request or escape her ire, she didn’t know.
Inez stepped carefully from tread to tread, the distance seeming to grow and collapse with each step. C.A. stood by the bar, snapping his pocketwatch open and shut, open and shut. Maude was holding forth to a rapt knot of drinkers, who gazed upon her as if she were visiting royalty. Behind Maude, glancing around nervously, a tiny woman with the Orient in her features balanced an enormous valise and two hatboxes, while gripping the handle to a small, wheeled trunk.
Deciding that the missus was otherwise engaged, Inez focused on the mister first. “Mr. Fairplay.” She drew out his name in a drawl and held out a hand in greeting. “Soooo sorry I won’t be in attendance at your first performance here at the Silver Queen. Alas and alack. I have, however, a church social to attend.”
He swept off his pearl-gray derby, and bowed over her hand extravagantly. Inez glared at Abe over the top of Mr. Fairplay’s head and continued, “Mr. Jackson and Mr. Isaacs will take excellent care of you and help monitor the crowd that will no doubt be beating down the doors any minute to attend your performance. And here comes Michael O’Malley as well. It appears we have plenty of extra hands this afternoon to handle the adoring throngs.”
Bridgette’s eldest son was heading toward Inez, a brown-paper-wrapped pie-shaped bundle in his hands, gaze riveted on Maude.
“Thank you, Michael.” Inez relieved him of the pie and turned to Maude, who was waving her fan in a dramatic fashion. “Ah, Mrs. Fairplay. The room upstairs is ready for you. I look forward to hearing a review of your performance on my return this evening.”
She turned to Abe, adjusting her hat. “You won’t miss me at all, I’m sure.” Her eyes swept around the half-full room. “Probably no one else will either.”
Inez turned and swept through the door, pie held high before her.
