Two Brides Too Many (25 page)

“Neither one of us has ever touched a gun before.” Her voice quaky, Nell crept backward, away from the door.

“Never you pay any mind to that.” Boney climbed onto the chair and lifted the shotgun off the nails. “I’m here to show you how to use it.”

Kat gave Nell a quick glance. Nell’s taut face mirrored Kat’s own trepidation.

“You shouldn’t need it none…ya know, for people. Had me a talk with the fellas up here”—Boney gestured vaguely behind him—“and they’ll look out for ya. Every last one of ’em knows there’s only two men allowed at this place.”

“Two men?” Kat narrowed her eyes.

“Unless you holler for more, ma’am.” A smile lit his eyes. “Me, of course, ’cause I’ll be needin’ to check in on you. And that doctor gentleman friend of yours.”

“Morgan Cutshaw.” Kat heard the wistfulness in her own voice and turned away from them. Was that what Morgan was—her gentleman friend? At the moment she wondered if he wasn’t a thorn in her side.

T
HIRTY
-T
WO

L
ewis P. Whibley cut himself a big bite of steak. He almost had his fork to his mouth when the silver-haired crone at the head of the table regarded him with a frown and shook her head.

“Mr. Whibley,” she droned, “you’ve forgotten about giving thanks again.”

This time he didn’t bother to act surprised or repentant. He just gazed at the piece of meat on his fork and reluctantly set the utensil on his plate. Soon enough he’d bid the Sylvanite Inn and the town of Victor adieu and settle into his own place in Cripple Creek. There, he’d do as he well pleased. In the meantime, he nodded and closed his eyes.

“Would you do the honors this suppertime, sir?”

His eyes closed and his head bowed, Lewis waited for the short man across the table to squeak out another long prayer. He waited in the silence and wondered if he could manage to sneak that bite up to his mouth without being caught. When he peeked out to check on the possibility, the other folks at the table were staring at him.

“You, Mr. Whibley. I meant you.”

“Me? You want me to say grace?”

She nodded, her lips tight and her hair bobbing like a quail pecking at seeds.

“Ma’am, I would, but my throat’s feeling tinder-dry this evening.”

“Seemed right fine when you were taking my money last night, Whibley,” the short man said.

Short and whiny
. Lewis made a mental note never to board in the same house with his prey again, but he knew the man was right. He was perfectly fine while taking money from him and all the others.

Giving thanks had been the last thing on his mind when his eyes had popped open on the back of that wagon and he found himself in Victor. Why, he was still finding chicken feathers in his bag even today, and he’d used up most of an expensive bottle of toilet water trying to get rid of that awful stink. But thanks to all the patsies here, his luck had shifted. Another night of the same, and he’d have a healthy stake for setting up in Cripple Creek. Even enough for a visit to his favorite redhead. And Cripple Creek was bound to be just as lucrative—even more so with all construction workers he’d been hearing about.

The proprietor at the head of the table cleared her throat.

Two prayers in one week seemed a bit much after so many years of not speaking to God, but he’d try it. If God didn’t strike him dead for being so familiar with Him, he might even make it a habit, since the last one seemed to work.

“Very well, then. Shall we pray?” He cleared his throat. His mother had asked that question before every meal. One time, he’d answered no. He was picking himself up off the floor before he’d even seen the back of her hand. He’d taken women and their prayers seriously from
then on, but until now he hadn’t had to do so with a juicy steak turning cold on his plate.

“Dear Lord, we like to eat, so we thank You for Miss Mabel’s fine grub. Amen.” The
amen
didn’t echo off the china plates like it usually did, but he was already too busy shoveling steak into his mouth to pay the others any mind.

His room here was nice enough, but being smack-dab in the center of town had its disadvantages. Street noise made it nigh impossible to get any rest during the day, making his Cripple Creek cabin all the more attractive. As he recalled, the fellas up in those foothills kept to themselves. They liked their privacy as much as he did.

“You got another piece of that meat, ma’am?”

“I don’t.”

Lewis scooped another spoonful of mashed potatoes onto his plate and buttered a third biscuit. Steaks would taste better cooked in his cabin anyway.

T
HIRTY
-T
HERE

O
n Sundays, Morgan liked to treat himself to a breakfast out, away from the hospital. He clicked his tongue and flicked the reins, guiding his horse down Hayden Street. If he hadn’t planned a day of zigzagging across town, he would’ve been on foot this Sunday morning. Instead his coupé shimmied across the uneven roadbed at Bennett Avenue, and he parked in front of the Third Street Café. After he wrapped the reins around the hitching rail, he stepped into the well-appointed restaurant.

He had only been to one other eatery spared by the fire, but this one’s polished walnut tables and door frames offered warmth, and it had quickly become his favorite.

A waitress approached him, carrying a coffeepot and an empty cup. “Have the perfect table for you this morning, Doc.”

Morgan looked around the room. Only two of the tables were occupied.

“I know how you’re partial to that one over there.” She tipped her
head toward the empty table against the wall, and the feather that stuck up out of her single white braid bobbed.

“Yes, thank you.”

She beat him to the table, and as soon as he sat down, she set a full cup of aromatic coffee in front of him. “You need a menu today, Doc?”

“No, thanks.”

“A man who knows what he wants, that’s what I like.” She pulled the pencil from behind her ear and tapped her forehead with the eraser. “What’ll you have my mister stir up for you today?”

“Buckwheat waffle with syrup. Two eggs over hard. Three slices of bacon and hash brown potatoes.”

“You’ve got it.” Her smile revealed gaps in her lower teeth. “We’ll have that right out for you,” she added, and turned toward the kitchen.

Morgan set his hat on the empty chair beside him and smoothed his hair into place. He looked around at the paintings that dotted the walls—all landscapes. The watercolor above his table featured the same view of Pikes Peak that he’d shown Kat from atop Tenderfoot Hill. Remembering the quiver that crept up his spine that day as she stood beside him and took in the view, he wondered if he might see her at church this morning. He hoped so. They hadn’t spoken since their heated discussion Friday about the cabin. Although he still disapproved of the move, he hated that things were strained between them.

“Hey, Doc.” Judson Archer lumbered toward his table. “Mind if I join you?”

Morgan reached out for a handshake. “Good morning, Judson.” He pointed at the empty chair across from him. “Please, have a seat.”

“Thanks.” Judson carefully lowered himself in the chair. “Saw your buggy out front and I hoped you might have a minute.”

“A couple of minutes. Maybe even three or four for you.” Morgan chuckled, but when Judson’s facial expression didn’t change, he quieted and lowered his voice. “You’re healing all right?”

Judson shifted in his seat. “Yeah, I’m all right as long as I don’t sit for too long.”

Morgan lifted his cup. “You want some breakfast?”

“Nah, but the coffee smells good. Might have a cup.”

Morgan could see the waitress already on her way to the table with his plate and a jug of syrup in one hand and a coffee mug in the other. She set the plate down in front of Morgan and the full cup in front of Judson.

“Thank you. Just what I needed.”

She studied him and raised a brow. “Ain’t you the one that got thrown off his horse?”

Judson nodded, reaching for the bowl of sugar.

Clucking her tongue, she shook her head. “You sure you don’t want something to eat, darlin’?”

“No, thanks, ma’am.” When she nodded and walked away, Judson wrapped his hand around the cup and looked up at Morgan as if he wanted to say something, but he didn’t speak.

Morgan offered God silent thanks for his meal and then lifted a fork full of potatoes to his mouth. “Hope you don’t mind if I eat while we talk.”

Judson shook his head, seemed to study the table, and cleared his throat. “I’ve had a lot of time to think while I’ve been cooped up the last couple of days.”

Morgan stabbed a bit of fried egg. “Knowing our recent history, I’d say this has something to do with a Sinclair sister. Nell?”

“I’m afraid I’ve ruined everything.” Judson set his elbows on the table and rested his chin on his folded hands. “I sent for her, but then all the money I had for our future was taken. I thought it was important, that I could only marry her if I could give her what she was used to. You know, the tub, electricity, frippery, and such.”

Morgan chased the last of his egg down with a big gulp of coffee. “And now?”

A shadow darkened Judson’s blue eyes. “I want to marry Nell. I know God will provide for us. She cared for me before, Doc, but do you think she still does?”

Morgan understood the hope in Judson’s voice. He recalled the joy of talking to Kat about her writing and sitting beside her at the lunch table Friday—before her move came up in their conversation.

“I’m certain she does.” Morgan set his fork on his plate. “Remember, I told you Friday she asked me about your welfare. And she did send you the cookies.”

“That’s just good upbringing, Doc.” Judson sighed. “She’s all I think about. I have to make it right!”

Morgan raised an eyebrow and asked, “Have you given any thought to how you might approach her? Find out for yourself how she feels about you?”

“Yeah, but…no good thoughts. You have any idea of the best way?”

“I suggest we ask her confidante.”

Judson shifted in his seat. “Her what?”

“Hattie Adams.”

“The one that owns the boardinghouse?”

Morgan tapped the table with his index finger. “The very one.
The sisters were staying with her, and Hattie’s become a good friend to us all.”

“Just tell me when and where, Doc.”

“Hattie’s place, up on Golden Avenue. Two o’clock this afternoon.”

“I’ll be there.” Judson jumped up from his chair. “Thanks.”

As Morgan returned the man’s wave, he made a note to ask Miss Hattie about his own need for ideas.

Hattie sat comfortably in the seat in front of Kat, driving her wagon with complete control. Her Sunday hat, a regal burgundy that matched her outfit, dipped its brim with each rut in the road.

Kat glanced back at the crate that rattled around in the bed of the wagon. A miner’s hat. A lunch bucket. A pick. Overalls. Mucker’s boots. Patrick Maloney’s life had been reduced to a wooden box. Ever since the fires, the local churches had served as collection and distribution sites. The more fortunate brought extras for those who had lost all they had to the flames. She’d heard of many miners among those devastated by the destruction. Surely someone could benefit from Patrick’s belongings.