Iron Ties (19 page)
The fact that the Silver Queen was able to make a hefty deposit in the bank on Monday did nothing to improve Inez’s foul mood. Nor did Abe’s pronouncement that the thespians would perform Friday afternoons at the saloon in addition to Sundays for at least three weeks.
“They’re willin’ and we’re able,” said Abe. “That bein’ the case, we’re gonna ride this train to the end of the track.”
The only upside that Inez could see was that the sudden influx of fluid assets allowed her to strike a deal with Mr. Braun as well as order carpets of Axminster and Moquette velvet, in anticipation of good times ahead.
Not that she had time to idle and cogitate over rug patterns and possible new furniture for the upstairs gaming room. Perhaps because of the Silver Queen’s heightened visibility, due again, as Abe kept reminding her, to the Fairplays, the saloon was busier throughout the week in general.
Inez and Abe decided to enlist Bridgette’s oldest son, Michael, to help with the crowds during the Fairplay events. Bridgette expressed mixed feelings about her eldest spending more time at the saloon. “The extra money will be handy. But that means it’ll be more of Mrs. Fairplay this, Mrs. Fairplay that, at the supper table. And after the costume she wore last time. Well.”
Inez found herself pouring more than the usual dose of liquor into her coffee. The levels in the bottles she kept aside for her personal consumption dropped at an alarming velocity.
Tuesday afternoon, the city marshal stopped by for his customary drink “on the house,” and told Inez that Weston had been released that morning. “That fella—” He tapped the side of his head. “Something’s not right. Seemed better once the Fourth of July ruckus subsided. Talked to Doc. There’s not much to be done.” He shrugged. “It’s a free country. Man can do what he wants, long as he doesn’t make a public nuisance of himself.”
Inez decided to make certain that her pocket pistol was close by at all times after that.
On Wednesday, Jed’s newspaper printed another inflammatory article about the Rio Grande, this one on the sabotage allegedly suffered by the railroad. “A ‘reliable source’ told me that rockslide was no accident. That explosion blew up a couple of cars full of construction supplies,” said Jed, sliding the issue toward Inez and Abe. “Spikes, fishplates, bolts and such went flying. Seems like the railroad’s having trouble putting the kibosh on things.”
“You’re lucky McMurtrie and Snow aren’t putting the kibosh on you,” said Inez, pulling the paper over to read it.
“The real news comes out this weekend,” said Jed.
Inez looked up and caught Jed examining himself in the backbar mirror, straightening his tie, which looked brand new.
“And what news would that be?”
Jed glanced around before replying. Even though no one was nearby, he leaned in toward her and whispered, “Grant’s arrival date.”
“And when’s that?”
“July twentieth or thereabouts, according to Doc. But mum’s the word until Saturday.” He straightened up, gave the tie a last tug, then asked, eyes still on his reflection, “Say, where’s Reverend Sands these days? Usually I bump into him sometime during the week. Spreading the word to nonbelievers in the Ten Mile District or Kokomo?”
She pulled back. “I’ve no idea,” she replied tersely.
Jed was now adjusting his hat—a bowler black as ink and apparently new, since it hadn’t seen enough Leadville dust to soften it to gray. “When he shows up, tell him I’m looking for him.”
***
Thursday night, after Sol walked her home, she prowled around her small home, feeling hemmed in. The sound of her shoes, striking the floorboards, echoed and rattled in her head. She sat to play the piano, but nothing came. Her timing was off. She hit the wrong keys. There seemed an emptiness to the room, to the house, that music had no magic to fill. Finally, as the clock ticked toward three in the morning, she surrendered, took the brandy from the sideboard with her to bed, and after several glasses in quick succession, fell into a stupor of a sleep.
Inez awakened a few hours later with the sunrise, feeling not altogether of this world. She dressed and dragged herself into the saloon for breakfast. Bridgette, who was in a flurry of flour, pie crusts, and canned peaches, left off to fuss over Inez and fix her an omelet plain with bread, butter, and fried potatoes. “And black coffee for you, ma’am.” Bridgette whisked the eggshells off the surface of the potent brew and handed her a cup.
Abe arrived just as the wagons from Gaw’s Brewery rolled up with the beer delivery. “It’s gonna be another bang-up day, Mrs. Stannert,” he said, checking off the order as the delivery crew brought the barrels in.
The thunderous sound of hundred-pound kegs on the plank floor proved too much for her aching head. “I’ll be upstairs, looking over the books and correspondence. Let me know when the Fairplays arrive.”
Inez fled to the comparative quiet of her office, pausing first to look in on the new gaming room. The walls and ceiling were finished, along with the trim. The sanded and waxed floors awaited rugs, the new chandelier was in place. The room smelled of sawdust and wax.
Good! We’ll have the table and other important furniture in place in time for the railroad and Grant’s arrival.
Once in her office, she settled in her chair, pulled out William’s photo, set it before her, and opened the ledger. She reached for a quill pen, then hesitated, hand hovering by the pigeonhole holding Eli Carter’s letters. Inez pulled them out, closed the ledger and set it aside. Feeling a bit like a spy, she unwrapped and untied the bundled letters. A few old, faded newspaper clippings fell out, which she put aside for later. After ascertaining the oldest letters were on top, she hooked her reading glasses over her ears and began to read.
An hour and a half later, she stopped, and rubbed her eyes. Only two envelopes, their contents untouched, remained. The letters were all scripted in tiny, neat handwriting that took up every bit of the thin white paper. All of the letters began, “Dearest Husband,” making, if anything, the sense of snooping even stronger. The letters were clearly one side of an ongoing conversation between Eli and his wife, Lillian.
Early letters were full of reports on daily life in the small Missouri town. How she really didn’t miss the farm now, and how it was nice to have help nearby, what with Eli so far away. Lillian shortened names to mere initials, a shorthand that saved space and that Eli no doubt interpreted with ease, but which left Inez wandering lost in a forest of symbols. Mr. and Mrs. W had invited her for supper on Tuesday. Mr. D was so helpful with taking her letters to the post office on his way to the schoolhouse. How glad she was that Mr. H lived next door now, he had been such help in fixing the leak in the roof. How Mr. K was selling his land, no choice really, and leaving town for good. Repeated assurances that she was well. How she was anxiously awaiting the time when she could join Eli in Leadville. How she missed him so much and cherished the memory of his last visit home to Missouri, five months previous. That the child within her, their first, was growing, “Praise be to God.”
One letter that caught her attention in particular appeared to be one side of a tense exchange about “that horrible gun.” Lillian’s words made Inez sit straighter, a prickle of premonition going up her spine.
“Dearest Husband,” that letter began, just as the rest.
Please, no need for your many exclamation points and underlinings of the last letter. I know how you feel about this dreadful weapon and would not sell it without your consent. I’ve always known, from the time you explained its origin to me, how it is a part of your past, the past that has molded your very soul. I do not want bickering about it to divide us, like the War that divided your family and mine for so long, the War whose memories take you into your black moods and away from me. But I’ll tell you true: I can hardly abide it in the house. I wish it were gone, out of my sight. When Mr. D brought your latest letter from the post office, I had him take it down from its place above the mantel and put it away in its case, for I could not bear to touch it, much less look on it. Every time my gaze crossed it, I thought of the young man, whose body was scarce cold when you took it from him. A trophy of the War, a sharpshooter’s rifle, you told me, made for the killing of men. If you refuse to let me sell it now, I only hope that, when I arrive in Leadville hence, with our baby, our future, our hope, our joy, that I will be able to convince you to put the past behind and this weapon with it. With my love always, Lillian.
After that, Lillian’s letters became briefer, darker. She feared the smallpox sweeping their town would find her. “But I keep myself apart, as much as possible. Our good neighbors have been kind enough to bring me what I need, so that I can avoid the contagion. Mr. D has been a godsend, helping me and others as well.”
Then, the neighbors. “Mrs. H and the boy have been stricken down and are in a bad way. I pray for them both.”
Finally, the last two letters. The one on top was addressed in a different hand. Dread and a sense of the inevitable weighted Inez’s shoulders. She told herself that it was a story done, that nothing could be done to change its already completed course, for Eli or Lillian.
Inez drained the dregs of her cold coffee, steeled herself, and pulled the letter from the envelope. The pressure of pen on paper was light and the script small and tight, making the words difficult to render. She put her reading glasses on again and squinted to make them out.
After a brief salutation, it continued, “It’s my duty and sorrow to inform you that your wife contracted the pox and passed this last week.”
Inez pulled off her glasses and closed her eyes. She could imagine the pit of anguish and despair that must have opened beneath Eli, reading the news in a stranger’s hand, far from home, far from all that had transpired. Unable to say a final goodbye, to close her eyes, kiss her cheek, even cold, one last time. And the unborn baby….
She took a deep breath. Opened her eyes, replaced the glasses, and scanned the rest hurriedly, rushing past the extended condolences. The word “Colorado” flashed past. She returned to the sentence, hunting down its context.
Please advise if I can assist in the selling of your property, shipping of household goods, etc. I may even act as delivery agent myself as I, having heard much of Colorado and her opportunities, have quit my post as schoolmaster and will be heading that way along with fellow travelers, your neighbors, who also are coming West for her opportunities.
The handwriting, which had become more hurried and tiny as the letter progressed, was nearly unreadable at the signature line. A “B” started the first name and a “D” started the last. But the rest was undecipherable.
The schoolmaster, this Mr. D., he came here? Is here still?
She folded the letter and stacked it on top of the others.
Perhaps he brought the Sharps to Leadville. And Eli, perhaps as a last gesture of respect to his wife, because he was sick of it all…the War, its lingering effects…sold the gun to Evan. Next time I’m in Evan’s store, I’ll have a word with him about this.
The last letter rested on the blotter before her. She picked up the envelope and knew immediately that it was different. There was no address. Something thick was enclosed, not paper, but something bulkier. And the envelope was sealed. Inez stared at it, loath to violate its confidentiality, but knowing she’d not put it aside unopened. The letter opener slid through the envelope easily, then snagged partway through on the contents. Inez forced it to the end, tearing a ragged rip in the envelope, reached inside and pulled out a length of loosely woven cloth—red, white, and blue.
I’ve seen this before.
It was a cousin to the one she found by the river.
A knock on the door shattered the moment.
Inez dropped the cloth with a start to the blotter. “Who’s there?”
“Mrs. Stannert?” It was Maude Fairplay.
“Just a moment.” Inez hurriedly tucked the letters back into the pigeonhole and wound the cloth around her hand like a skein of yarn.
Maude Fairplay eased open the door and strolled in, her maid behind her, struggling to pull the hand trunk over the sill. “No, no, please don’t rise. If I might use your back room to prepare?”
“Let me be sure it’s ready.” Cloth balled in her fist, Inez left her chair and hurried to the door leading to her dressing room. “I won’t be a minute.”
Once inside with the door shut behind her, she feverishly yanked open the dresser drawer and pulled out the other strip. The cloth pulled from the riverbank was dirty, stained, and worn. The one from Eli’s envelope, less so. Yet, it was the same color scheme. The same pattern. Only Eli’s was longer, complete, two white stars set in blue, equal distance from the banded narrow ends. “Eli and the railroad man knew each other!” Inez said fiercely to herself. “Rio Grande business or not, I’m going to find out who the man was with Eli!”
Inez wound the two strips of cloth together, put them in the very back of the drawer, and gave the washstand’s accoutrements a perfunctory inspection. She opened the door, intending to announce that the room was ready, and found Maude standing by her desk, holding William’s photograph. “So.” Her voice, usually so melodramatic, was soft, wistful. “Your son?”
Inez walked over, her first inclination to rip the case from Maude’s hands and slam it closed. But Maude’s tone, combined with the lingering sorrows from Lillian’s letters, stopped her. Instead, she held out her hand. “Yes. That’s my son, William.”
She gave the photocase to Inez. “So like his father.”
Inez snapped the case shut, still looking at Maude. “Dodge City.”
Maude backed up a step. “So you knew. All along.” Her face twisted. “You look as if you wish to stab me through the heart. But truly, since we are both here, through some horrible trick of fate….‘The wheel is come full circle.’ Edmund, from
King Lear
. Fathers and their children. Oh, Lear had his. You have yours. But I, I have none. And my heart will never heal from that sorrow.”
“That’s no excuse for what you and Mark did.”
“Of course not.” Maude sank onto the loveseat. “I cannot dissemble. The name Stannert…I thought, it’s possible there are many Stannerts. What are the chances that it would be him and you? When you said he was dead, I thought, maybe I could avoid you, since you seemed intent on avoiding me. But it isn’t possible to avoid the past.” Maude’s eyes were tired, haunted. “Well, we’re alone now, Mrs. Stannert.”
The maid by the door stood still as a statue, frozen with an expression of dread etched on her features.
“So I suppose this is the proper moment to say I’m sorry. That what occurred between your husband and me was—” Maude fluttered her fingers. “A dalliance, on his part. Clearly, he’d no intention of it being more than a single encounter. My reasons were, alas, complicated, and far from noble. I hoped that, by clearing the air, we might make peace between us. If you wish, Mr. Fairplay and I will cancel the rest of our appearances here at your saloon. I’ve no desire to put you through an excess of pain. The decision, Mrs. Stannert, is yours.” Maude settled back into the curve of the small sofa.
Inez had crossed her arms fiercely during Maude’s speech, holding herself together by sheer will.
But in the silence that prevailed after Maude’s words, something curious happened. The knife of anger, which had twisted its point into Inez’s heart, melted, and left a sensation that Inez had trouble identifying at first.
Rather like sorrow. Tinged with fatigue, and a lingering sense of loss.
Forgiveness.
Inez finally released a sigh. “Oh heavens, Mrs. Fairplay. All that was long ago. It probably would be no surprise to you that Dodge wasn’t the first or last time my not-so-sainted husband strayed. Please, no dramatics in my office. Save your energy for your performance.” She held out her hand.
Maude said, “Thank you, Mrs. Stannert,” took Inez’s hand, and stood.
“There now,” Inez said briskly. “Much better. You seem a bit unsteady. I have a special stock of brandy that should settle your nerves. Send your maid downstairs if you’d like some, and I’ll arrange it.”
With a tremulous smile, Maude murmured her thanks again and moved to the back room, her beribboned skirts swishing softly over the floorboards.
