Katie Rose (11 page)

“That’s exactly what happened! How dare you accuse me, a man of God.” He shook his head dismally, as if unable to bear all the wickedness in the world.

The barber glanced at Thomas, who appeared righteously indignant. Drawing his brows together, he addressed Emily sternly, now that he had the guilty party.

“Young lady, most women do not intrude on men’s baths,” the barber said in a preacherlike tone of his own. “I understand that the reverend here has garnered quite a bit of attention from the unmarried ladies in town, but none of them have gone to this extreme!”

Emily looked at Thomas. He still maintained that scowl of indignation, but Emily saw the twinkle in his
eye. Crossing his arms behind his head, he reached for the cigar, but not before she saw the seductive wink he sent her. This preacher radiated an animal magnetism that had almost been her undoing earlier, while the barber was behaving much more like a man of God!

“Who is your father?” The barber persisted.

“Huh?” Emily tore her attention away from the smirking Thomas once again. His implication was quite clear.

Emily flushed in horror, then stammered, “I … my father was killed.”

“Then you live alone?”

At her nod, the barber began once more to deliver a sermon. “Then I suggest you hightail it out of here before your reputation suffers further damage. And if you want the minister’s attention in the future, I think you should go about it the way a decent woman would, such as inviting him to dinner. You young girls these days should be ashamed of yourselves, throwing yourself at a man of God like that.”

The barber shook his head and clucked, as if equally shocked at her brazenness. Emily opened her mouth to object, but clamped it shut. She realized that the barber’s explanation for her presence, while not flattering, was much more believable then anything she could concoct. Emily turned and with as much dignity as she could muster stalked out of the room.

Thomas Hall may have won this round, but the game was far from over.

As soon as she left, the barber bolted the door, still shaking his head over Emily’s boldness. “That young miss needs to be taken in hand! My pa would have taken a razor strop to any of his girls that behaved like that.”

“She could use it,” Thomas agreed, allowing his amusement to flow freely now. He chuckled out loud. Emily’s expression had been priceless. He’d been expecting that, as a Sherlock Holmes devotee, her next move would be to follow him. Yet not even Emily could have predicted this turn of events.

That thought made him pause. Once again the prudish Miss Potter wasn’t nearly as prudish as he would have thought. While he would never guess it from her manner, her reaction to him was telling. Initially when he’d captured her hand to keep her from finding anything other than his hat, he’d thought to embarrass her, even teach her a lesson, but when he’d looked into her eyes, the passion he saw made him forget everything except having her. His laughter died as he realized just how close he had come to acting on that desire.

“I’m glad you can laugh about it. I do apologize, Reverend. Please don’t think all of our young ladies are like that. The nerve of that woman, barging in here like some hussy!”

“Oh, I don’t think of Miss Potter that way.” Thomas felt oddly compelled to defend her. “I just think she didn’t expect to get caught. You know how young girls are. Curious and all that. And Miss Potter has twice the curiosity of most girls.”

“Then you know her?”

The razor blade felt cold against Thomas’s throat. “Sort of. We came in on the same stage together. Her father was John Potter. The one that owned Shangri-La.”

“Oh, that Miss Potter.” The barber nodded as if it all made sense now. Wiping the blade on his cloth, he pinched Thomas’s nostrils to get a closer shave. “I hear she’s been causing a ruckus all over town. I guess the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. With her taking that house over and all, I’m surprised she hasn’t opened shop yet.”

Thomas struggled to sit up as righteous anger swept through him. “Miss Potter is nothing like her father,” he said sternly, surprised by the indignation he felt. After Emily’s outrageous behavior, he
should
let the man think whatever he wanted. Yet the barber’s assumptions infuriated him. “And she certainly isn’t a … bordello girl. She’s just different, that’s all.”

“No offense, Preacher.” The barber shrugged indifferently, then plopped a steaming towel down on his face. “I didn’t know you were so—involved with her.”

Thomas could image the man’s smug expression even with his eyes closed. “I’m not involved with her,” he said dryly, lifting the towel to speak. “Miss Potter happens to be an acquaintance. I’d hate to think this town is so ungodly that anyone would take pleasure in spreading rumors about her.”

“Well, you’re right about that,” the barber said quickly, abashed. He removed the towel, then carefully splashed cologne on Thomas’s face. The sting
nearly brought Thomas out of the tub, but the barber only nodded thoughtfully. “Miss Potter may just be different, but if I were you, I’d keep an eye on her. She looks like trouble.”

Thomas sank back into the tub and let the warm water envelope him. Silently, he couldn’t agree more.

Emily slipped a black fishnet stocking over her toes, frowning as she inched the difficult material up over her ankle, then her calf, pulling the stocking up to her thigh where a black lace garter waited. Tucking the material beneath the tight garter, she reached for the second stocking and repeated the process. Satisfied, she stood before the mirror, astonished at her reflection.

A black satin corset pushed her breasts upward indecently, making them threaten to spill over the flimsy garment at any moment, and a matching lace petticoat rustled around her thighs. It was amazing the difference that a few carefully chosen clothes made. Thank God she hadn’t thrown everything of Rosie’s out, because this saloon-girl outfit was perfect. She looked experienced, a seductress among men, not a little milliner from Boston who stammered helplessly at the sight of a naked man in a bathtub. Giggling, Emily slipped on the yellow dress trimmed in black lace and felt very naughty indeed.

Seating herself before the mirror, she drew her hair up into a thousand little curls, allowing a few tendrils to frame her face. There was no lack of hairpins in Rosie’s drawer, so even with a few mistakes, Emily was able to pin her curls into a charming upswept
hairdo that brought out her eyes. Borrowing Rosie’s rouge, she deepened the pink of her mouth and her already flushed cheeks. Yes, even Thomas Hall, the would-be preacher, would have to take a second look to know it was her.

Unwillingly, Emily’s mind went back to the incident with Thomas at the barbershop. In spite of her inexperience, Emily was certain Thomas had been as aroused by her presence as she had been by his. His bold invitation made her legs weak just thinking about it. A delightful fantasy flashed through her mind, of doffing these seductive clothes, and splashing into the tub with him. She would be sitting in his lap, her arms draped over his shoulders, her face right up against that rough beard. She could almost see Thomas’s stunned surprise, then feel his hands against her skin, tracing a bubble as it slid tantalizingly down her throat, all the way down to her breast.…

Good Lord, where were these wicked thoughts coming from? Emily fanned her face, hoping to cool the hot color. It must be the clothes. That had to be why Rosie and the other saloon girls dressed this way. It made one feel positively indecent.

Still, as the yellow satin dressed shimmied over her slender hips, she enjoyed the confidence the odd garb gave her. Emily slipped little jet earrings on her tiny earlobes, gems that glittered with each toss of her head, and made her eyes sparkle. A touch of kohl, and a few of Rosie’s plumes finished the look, and she stepped back and smiled in pleasure.

Emily Potter was gone, and in her place was a
seductive barroom wench, one who knew the ways of the world and feared nothing. Forget Thomas, she told herself, and move on with the case. And the saloon was the most logical place to go next. The saloon girls knew everyone, and given the fact that her father’s home had been a bordello, it seemed certain that the two places would have customers in common.

Confident in her objectives, Emily took the back way into town. Discretion was the better part of valor, she reminded herself, and successfully avoided observation until she found herself outside the bar.

The Silverdust Saloon was a typical western gin mill, complete with swinging doors, a rustic facade, and a cowboy hitting the boardwalk just as Emily tentatively approached. Tension coiled inside her as she stepped aside, giving the cowboy a sympathetic glance. Ignoring her, he thrust his hat down hard on his head and stormed away, muttering that he would return and blow all their fool heads off.

Summoning all her courage, she stepped through the swinging doors. Inside was just as raucous as the outside appearance had promised. Smoke hung thickly about the room, and a mahogany bar with a huge mirror behind it took up one entire wall. The town’s men were either absorbed in games of faro or standing at the bar guzzling whiskey. The saloon girls struggled to keep the men’s glasses full, dodging the drunken miners and the rowdy cowhands, all the while expertly avoiding the groping hands, and slipping extra tips from the tables unobserved into their pockets.

Her tension eased and fascination began to creep over her. This was it! She really was living her dream, and detecting just as her hero Holmes would have done! She, as the world’s only other consulting detective, would become part of this scene and discover what clues she could. The idea was heady.

“Hey, girlie, fetch me a beer.” One of the men thrust his glass at her and Emily started, then realized that she obviously blended in perfectly. Taking his mug, Emily gave the cowboy a smile, then headed for the bar.

“You new around here?” The barkeep took the glass and filled it quickly, scraping off the excess foam. “Nancy hires ’em, and doesn’t tell me a thing.”

Emily nodded, her feathers dancing. “I’m here to see Nancy. I’m looking for a job.”

“I’m Nancy.” A hefty woman deftly positioned herself between Emily and the bar. Emily saw that the woman was pretty, but had so much rouge and rice powder on her face that her own complexion was completely hidden. Drenched in perfume and paste jewels, her hair a conspicuous shade of red, she looked every inch a soiled dove, used to dealing with drunks and cowboys.

“Emily.” Emily extended a hand in a ladylike manner. Nancy raised a brow, then accepted the gesture. Her critical eye ran over Emily, taking in her dress, the rouge, and the too-tight slippers she wore. Her brows knotted together in suspicion.

“Hey, girlie, where’s my beer?”

“Keep your shirt on, Charlie,” Nancy yelled back without even turning her head. She smiled at Emily,
though her eyes were still questioning. “Don’t you pay them no mind. These cowboys all get lickered up after riding the trail. They’re just letting off steam. So what’s a lady like you doing here? And don’t try telling me you’re just a saloon girl, ’cause I know better. The way you hold your head, your walk … you ain’t no ordinary dove. Now, you either tell me what’s goin’ on, or I call the sheriff.”

Emily sighed. Just like Watson, she knew when the jig was up, and to try to fool Nancy was impossible. Truth was her only hope, and she shrugged her bare shoulders. “I’m John Potter’s daughter. I just came into town and I need a job.”

“Potter!” Nancy’s penciled brows thrust upward like the wings of a blackbird, and she whistled in surprise. Instantly her suspicious manner changed. “Why didn’t you say so? Hell of a man, was old Johnny, though I didn’t know that was his name until recently. We all called him Mullen.”

“You mean he was here under an assumed name?” Emily asked, excited. “The coroner’s report listed him as Potter!”

“Yes, the sheriff identified him soon enough, although using another name is not exactly uncommon out in the West. Most of my girls don’t use their own names. Anyway, Rosie and I were good friends, and she had nothing but nice things to say about your pa. We had an understanding, a business agreement, if you will, about the girls. Rosie stayed away from the Silverdust, and I sent her johns. It worked just fine.”

Emily nodded, though the full implication of all that escaped her, and she quickly dismissed the
shudder that passed through her at the mention of the ghost’s name. “I was wondering if any of the girls knew something about what happened that night.”

Nancy nodded. “So that’s why you’re here! I reckon’ if my pa died like that, I’d want to know, too.” She tapped her foot for a moment, then her face brightened. “There was a girl. Lizzie Wakefield, she called herself. I hear tell she’s living in Boulder.”

“Hey, Nancy! Can’t you have teatime later? I want my beer!”

Nancy sighed, then glanced back to Emily. “I suppose we can talk later. Are you really in need of work?” When Emily nodded eagerly, the woman grinned. “All right, table three is all yours.”

Emily took the mugs the bartender offered and walked stiffly onto the floor, careful not to spill an ounce of their precious contents. She could barely contain her excitement, and couldn’t wait to flaunt her success in the reverend’s face. She’d only been in the bar a few minutes, and she already had one clue. Lizzie Wakefield in Boulder. She placed the drinks before the cowhands and was about to return to the bar when a voice stopped her in her tracks.