Steel Heart (Historical Western Romance) (Longren Family series #2, Chloe and Matthew's story) (8 page)

             
January snowed its way into February.  Workmen came and went, transforming The Faro Queen from both fires.  Imported marble made up the entrance to the lobby where Matthew slept, more nights than not, on the davenport.  Whenever the snow allowed sufficient excuse, I spent nights in a room upstairs in the Queen, chastely allowing Matthew to make his way down to the lobby before turning in.  When my father became belligerent, or the snow, miraculously, stopped for a day or two, I went back to Gold Hill, where Elizabeth Seth seethed in her parents' custody and the circuit court judge worked his way closer.

             
Evenings, Maggie, Annie, Sarah, Kitty, Issy, Caroline and I sewed on my dress and on Annie's and Maggie's and, eventually, everyone's.  We all wanted new dresses for my wedding. 

             
I was afraid to touch mine; afraid the slightest mistake would ruin it entirely.  White satin spilled over our laps as we worked; our fingers and mouths working and filling Annie's shop with talk and warmth.  My dress had a square neckline that dipped down to where ivory buttons started.  The buttons led to a shirtwaist line, the bodice fitted and covered with an ivory lace almost too fine to touch.  Fitted, puffed-shoulder sleeves stopped mid-forearm.  The full skirt went down to my white kid boot-tops, and the back trailed into a train.  In the early dark of February evenings, the light from the oil lamps made the dress glisten and shine. 

             
"If baby's breath is blooming, you can wear it in your hair," Kitty said, dreamily.  She missed the fact that Annie gave her a sharp look.  Kitty wasn't so much planning her own wedding as planning
all
weddings; she hadn't picked out one beau, she'd picked out
all of them.
  Romantic only began to describe her nature.

             
During the days, I worked at The Queen as often as not.  Maggie interviewed girls to clean the rooms and cooks to prepare meals and Hutch interviewed bartenders, though he intended to work the bar himself whenever time and circumstance permitted.  Matthew showed unexpected talent working with the crown molding that circled the tops of the walls, and at any details that needed a fine, finishing carpenter's hand.

             
Nights, my father expected me home if the weather held.  My mother would cook, knowing better than to entrust that to me, and I'd make biscuits and wonder how I was going to feed my husband once we'd married. 

             
As the month grew old, the activity in the Queen increased, people running from one task to the next, shining brasses, setting glasses onto the mirrored shelves behind the bar, bringing pots and pans into the hotel kitchen, curtains and quilts into the upstairs rooms.  Maggie collapsed each night closer to midnight, from all appearances and tales, and Matthew began looking as if he never slept.

             
There were no more fires, no hands emerging from nowhere to shove me bodily into the path of a carriage.  Violet kept her distance and Cynthia, when I saw her on the street, gave me a look of intense fury; she'd heard about the engagement and clearly was
overjoyed
on my behalf.

              Saturday, March 5, 1881.  The snow stopped in the last week of February.  A weak sunlight filtered into Nevada, a promise of spring that wouldn't really arrive until May. 

             
At five o'clock that unexpectedly temperate evening, The Faro Queen officially opened her doors for the first time.

             
Brasses shone; the marble floors sparkled.  Glass in the windows shone clean; the mirrors behind the bar reflected crystal cut bottles of whisky and bourbon, wines and a selection of beers.  Hutch Longren stood behind the bar, shaking hands, taking orders, talking to friends and strangers, laughing at comments, watching with pleasure as Maggie, her blonde hair swept up, her new dress a deep blue that suited her, greeted everyone entering the hotel.  The Faro tables were up, the dealers trained, Matthew standing in on one table, though I suspected he'd cheat for the fun of it.  Oil lamps lit the woodwork and the rose-patterned rugs that softened the wood floors.  From the kitchen, the scents of shortbread and roast chicken, potatoes and pies, filled the restaurant and wafted into the bar, drawing the patrons to eat.

             
The Faro Queen was open.  The mayors of both Virginia City and Gold Hill had come, bringing wives and families, meaning my father and his counterpart in Virginia City, and Sheriffs and deputies and teachers and the affluent from both cities as well as those curious about the new games and the new hotel.  Women wore their finest dresses, the new shirtwaist jacket style dresses and light wraps in the almost-warm evening.  The opening was scheduled for early evening, giving residents plenty of time to eat, drink and play before the evening performance of Hamlet at Piper's Opera House. 

             
The Longren boys had made the move from silver miners to casino owners, Hutch and Maggie had moved from Gold Hill to Virginia City and Matthew and I were soon to wed.

             
Spring was on its way.

Saturday, April 16.

              "Did you sleep at all last night?" Maggie asked.  She had flown into the room I'd taken pretty much permanently in the Queen, opening curtains, opening windows, singing to herself, and making certain that if I had been sleeping, I was no longer.

             
I glanced at the mantle clock, an ornate thing of black wood and pointless gold curlicues, and saw the day had not yet realized six a.m.

             
"The men are going to the church early to change.  Your mother is coming to help you prepare, though I don't know what she thinks you need help preparing.  The cooks are finishing the wedding feast and you're not going to fit in that dress after eating all that, but you can't not eat it because they've worked so hard, and Mr. Barnett has brought the cake."

             
She fluttered across the room, set a mug on the dresser by the mantle clock and a vase full of fresh flowers that rather stank.

             
"Hutch is—" She colored.  "Well, I drew him a bath and left him to it."  She straightened the flowers, went to the chifferobe and checked on the dress, in case it had escaped during the night.  I wouldn't have admitted it for the world, but the flash of white satin I saw as she opened and closed the door again reassured me.

             
It didn't reassure her.  She opened and closed the door a few more times.  I don't know where she thought the dress was going to go.

             
"I think you're more nervous than I am," I told her, but then, I was up and dressed in traveling clothes, washed and combed and had already, several times, checked my dress where it hung in the chifferobe, and there was the fact that it was there, in my room.  I'd been far too nervous to leave it in Annie's shop the night before when, late in the evening, the group of us had affixed the final seed pearls, all of which we'd managed without bleeding on the dress at any time, despite numerous needle-struck fingers and most unladylike swearing.

             
My dress was ready.  Isabel, my maid of honor, had her dress and was staying in a room down the hall from me.  Maggie, Annie, Sarah, and Kitty had sewn bridesmaid dresses as we worked on my dress.  Matthew's best man was Hutch and his groomsmen, friends from the mine, John Overton and Marcus Millichap. 

             
"I brought you coffee," Maggie said.  It was the first thing she'd said since entering and finding me awake that made sense.  She turned then, from the window where she'd looked out over C Street, and came over and sat down next to me where I perched on the bed.  "I'm happy for you.  You're going to be happy.  Matthew will be.  He'll finally settle.  And you'll be my sister."

             
I smiled and felt a little of the panic the day was bringing to recede.  "I think I already am," I said.  For a minute, we sat, her arm around my shoulders, my head on her shoulder, both of us staring at the chifferobe.

             
Then, in tandem, we stood, crossed the room and checked on the dress. 

              At sundown, we assembled at the church.  Matthew rode with his brother, I rode with Maggie and everyone else arrived there somehow.  The wind had picked up, because Nevada is windy in the spring, but the skies were clear and the sunset a general apricot color over the Sierra in the distance.

             
My father—The Honorable Mayor Anders, somber in a dark suit, his white hair combed for a change—met with me in a small anteroom. 

             
"Not too late to change your mind," he said and I bristled before my mother said, "Chloe, your father is making a joke."

             
I wasn't so sure of that, but I responded, "I've sewn one million seed pearls onto this dress.  The wedding happens."

             
Annie, fussing with my train, said, "Don't exaggerate.  I'm sure it was only half a million."

             
Every church has an organist.  A surprising number of churches have organists who can't truly play.  Ours was no exception.  When Mrs. O'Grady began pummeling the keys, my mother slipped away to allow Hutch to lead her to a front row pew, her parting words being, "The sooner you head up the aisle, the sooner she stops,"  which made all of us giggle so much that Mrs. O'Grady had considerably more time on the organ than she should have.

             
It was my father who finally made me and my party of six behave and he did it simply: He kissed me on the cheek again, so seriously, like a man who feels he's losing his daughter.  Then, he took my arm and settled it comfortably over his and nodded at Isabel to lead.  With Maggie and Annie, Sarah, Kitty and Caroline following, we stepped into the church.

             
At first glimpse, I almost bolted.  The pews were filled, the invited friends and family standing and looking back to me.  My knees went weak, my breath went away, my ears buzzed and I was sure I wouldn't even be able to remember my name.

             
But Father led me, one slow, cadenced step at a time, and I looked up on the third step and saw Matthew, waiting, handsome and calm in a dark suit, his dark curls wild, his eyes only on me.

             
He didn't look pale or scared, or as if he meant to run at any minute.  He looked joyous and proud and as if he might, actually, run—to me.

             
My father kept me moving slowly, gracefully and despite my knees, step by step, until we reached the group before the altar, where first Isabel stopped and then we did, and he gravely transferred my hand to Matthew's and retired to the pew to sit beside my mother.

             
I looked into Matthew's eyes and couldn't look away.  Reverend Shaw read the service and we took our vows and, at some point, I responded and heard Matthew respond to questions asked us and vows made and, all the while, there was Matthew, eyes bright, mouth turned up in a smile.

             
He kissed me, and we were wed.

              The Faro Queen lobby was strung with lace and lit with candles.  Always gleaming, it now glowed under Annie's ministrations.  The cake Mr. Barnett had baked stood high and beautiful on the bar top and Hutch opened bottles of champagne.

             
Fiddlers played on the small stage set on the side of the bar and Matthew, bowing with all appearances of sincerity, took my hand and led me to the floor.  We danced until breathless, until my parents joined in, then Hutch and Maggie and Annie grabbed John Overton's hand and pulled him in.  Soon, the lobby was full and swirling and the music loud and the laughter louder and no one noticed, or at least they pretended not to, when Matthew and I slid away.

             
We slipped out through the back door, the one Elizabeth Seth had come through on that day in January when she set fire to the Queen and tried to kill me.  There were still traces of snow in the lee of the foothill, in the places where shadows of buildings shaded the ground in the afternoons, but the air was warmer tonight.  April in the high desert can bring sleet and freezes and snow that piles up on Mt. Davidson.  It hadn't and I was grateful.

             
We leaned on the porch rail to the right of the back door and watched as a few clouds moved across the moon.  Somewhere in the night, a coyote howled, but just one, and none answered it.  From a nearby building, an owl chortled softly and, from behind us, the music rose again as the dancers clapped and chanted and boots rang against the floor.

             
Matthew put his arm around my shoulders and we stood, alone in the night, content, for the time being, to be silent.  When I let my head fall against his chest, he tilted his head down, used one knuckle to tilt my head up and our lips met.  The kiss was sweet, gentle and lingering, with the promise of so much more that tonight, finally, could happen.  Tonight, Matthew wouldn't sleep on the couch in The Faro Queen's lobby and tonight, most likely, we wouldn't sleep in the house he'd bought from Hutch.  It might only be a few miles away, but the room I usually took at the Queen was only a few flights of stairs away.

              He carried me through the door, over the threshold, our eyes never letting each other go.  He kicked the door shut behind us with his foot and carried me to the bed where so many nights he'd said goodnight to me.

             
The bed gave under his weight.  He sat, pulling me down with him, cradling me in his arms.  His mouth found mine again, in the half dark room lit only by the gas lights beyond the windows.  His face was lines and shadows, hollows of cheekbones, dark of beard.  His eyes seemed endlessly dark; in the shadows, I could make out the love in his eyes.

             
I pressed myself against him, feeling his heartbeat quicken beneath his suit jacket.  My arms stretched around his neck, my cheek against his chest.  We pressed together, kissing as if we meant never to stop.  His hands were gentle on the buttons of my dress, reverent, almost, as if he'd never before gone so far. 

             
The jacket of my dress finally fell open to the corset beneath and then he smiled, just a little, and whispered, "Can you breathe in that?"

             
And I couldn't, not really, and I said so, feeling his fingers more sure than mine, even as he untied the stays and pulled the ribbons free.  He slipped the arms of my dress off my shoulders, pulled them behind, gently, so my arms came free.  Already, I was tugging at his tie, at the buttons on his shirt, shoving shirt and suit coat off together, tangling him in them and untangling him, at the same time my mouth explored his smooth chest, the hard muscle, the hot skin, the smell of him, the way Matthew still smelled of freshly cut wood and sage and Nevada dirt and the wind. 

             
When his arms were free, he continued the mysteries of the dress, fussing with bustle and buttons meant to tame the train when we danced, buttons that allowed him no closer to freeing me from the dress but confounded him and finally made him laugh, swearing softly, asking, "Did Annie make this to fox me?"

             
"Wouldn't put it past her," I said, my words muffled by his throat, his curls, his skin.  I pushed away from him, stood to get a better take on the dress, suddenly unable to remember how I'd gotten into it in the first place and, standing, felt it fall from me in a rush of satin, pooling around my knees, too much dress to go much farther but I was free, still booted, but the corset fell away. The under shift twisted easily over my head; the dress, I stepped clear of.

             
The room was cold.  We hadn't bothered with a fire, hadn't remembered to close the curtains earlier in the night.  I didn't feel the cold.  I felt Matthew's heat, felt his impatience as we struggled now with his trousers, a perfectly normal garment that to our fingers felt strange and ill-made.  We laughed together, tugged, stopped when Matthew sat to kick off his boots, then stood again, working the buttons on the trousers until they, too, fell away, and there was just the two of us, standing together, pressing together so close we could be one person.

             
The icy sheets welcomed us and warmed around us quickly.

              In the morning, I woke with sunlight pouring into the room through curtains we'd never remembered to close.  My head was nestled in the hollow of Matthew's shoulder.  His lips were in my hair, gently kissing me awake.

             
When I shifted to smile up at him, he winked and said, "You never took your boots off, Mrs. Longren."

             
I stilled, shifted my legs under the quilts and laughed.  "My feet are warm, Mr. Longren. That oddity may never happen again."

             
Which made Matthew laugh.

              He carried me over the second threshold after services that Sunday morning, back into Gold Hill, into the house that had been Hutch's, and only for a little while.  We would leave on Tuesday morning to honeymoon in Reno.