Cactus Flower (3 page)

      
“Eulalie
Gibb, Mr. Chivers. We corresponded.”

      
Dooley’s
eyes went round. “Er, yes, ma’am.”

      
Eulalie
waited, but he didn’t seem inclined to continue speaking. Perhaps
he was uncertain because of the unorthodox way she’d been introduced.
Not that it was her fault. Yet she felt obliged to clear the air—in
a manner of speaking. It would take a month of windstorms to clear the
cigar smoke out of this place.

      
“I
just arrived by stagecoach, Mr. Chivers, and I wanted to meet you first,
before I searched for lodgings.”

      
“You
ain’t got no place to stay?”

      
Eulalie
considered telling him that no, she didn’t have no place to stay;
rather, she did have no place to stay, but she figured that would merely
confuse him. Grammar seemed to be as uncommon as manners in Rio Peñasco.
That was all right. Eulalie was ready for whatever the territory offered
her.

      
“Yes.
I need to secure lodgings, but I wanted to meet my new employer first
and introduce myself.”

      
Dooley
Chivers had begun to frown at her, a circumstance Eulalie feared boded
ill for her future employment. She braced herself, prepared to battle
tooth and nail to hold on to this job, such as it was. She and Patsy
needed it. She’d be hanged if she’d let Mr. Chivers un-hire her after
he’d hired her. Besides, she had no choice.

      
“Uh,
I’m not sure about this,” he said.

      
Drawing
herself up as tall as she could, Eulalie said, “You were sure in your
letter. We agreed to a salary.”

      
“Well,
yeah, I know it, but I didn’t think you’d be—you.”

      
“Who
did you think I’d be?” she asked, irritated by his lack of logic.

      
He
shrugged. “Well, I reckon I didn’t mean that, exactly. It’s only—”
He broke off abruptly.

      
“It’s
only what?”

      
Muffled
footsteps sounded on the saloon’s plank boards. The room had been
silent except for Eulalie and Dooley’s voices. Slowly men began picking
themselves up from the floor, dusting off their trousers, and resuming
their seats at various tables. Eulalie supposed some sort of western
communication with which she was unfamiliar had taken place, and that
the men sensed danger was over for the nonce. The danger wasn’t over
for her, however. Nor was it over for Patsy. It might never be.

      
That
thought buoyed her flagging courage. She wasn’t going to let Mr. Doolittle
Chivers cheat her out of her job.

      
“You
hired me, Mr. Chivers.”

      
“I
know it, but—”

      
“Yeah,
Dooley, you hired her.”

      
To
Eulalie’s surprise, Nick Taggart appeared next to her. She wasn’t
sure she wanted him there, even if he did seem to be on her side. Because
she felt the need to fight her own fights, she said, “I sing very
well, Mr. Chivers. You won’t be disappointed.”

      
“Well,
but …” Dooley looked her up and down in a fashion Eulalie imagined
she’d better get used to. “Well, but what about costumes. You can’t
go on stage dressed like that.”

      
Ah,
so that was it. The man dealt in flesh as well as liquor. Eulalie, who
prided herself on her unflappability, was prepared for this, as she
was prepared for everything. “I have a plethora of costumes, Mr. Chivers,”
she said in a voice as dry as the wind blowing the earth away outside.
“Why don’t you allow me to sing tonight so you can see for yourself?
Your customers won’t be disappointed, I can assure you.”

      
This
time it was Nick Taggart who looked her up and down, as if he were undressing
her in his mind’s eye. Eulalie did not react outwardly. Inwardly,
she blushed up a storm.

      
“Well
…” Chivers still sounded uncertain.

      
Nick,
however, had evidently made up his mind. He said, “Yeah, Dooley. We
won’t be disappointed.” To Eulalie, it sounded as though he’d
enjoyed his visual inspection of her body.

      
“I
just don’t know, Nick. If you say so, mebbe it’ll be all right.”

      
Although
Eulalie wasn’t sure she liked Nick Taggart, she did appreciate his
support. She even smiled at him.

      
With
a huge sigh, Dooley Chivers acquiesced to forces stronger than himself.
After a few more doubtful minutes, which included a discussion of where
Eulalie would spend the night, he even took Eulalie’s wicker bag.
He then proceeded to lead her to the small dressing room behind the
stage.

      
While
Nick lingered to escort Junius home, he talked to Dooley Chivers, who
had reappeared not long after he’d led Miss Gibb backstage. Dooley
sported a hang-dog, harassed expression beneath the whiskers on his face.

      
“Hell,
Nick, she’s no more a saloon singer than I am.”

      
Since
Nick had heard Dooley sing once or twice, this was hard for him to imagine.
He laughed. “Aw, give the girl a chance, Dooley. Maybe she’ll be
really good.”

      
Dooley
didn’t appear much cheered by Nick’s suggestion as he took a gulp
of beer. “Really good. Yeah. For her sake, I hope so. And for mine,
too. The boys ain’t gonna like it if she stinks.”

      
It
was difficult to imagine Miss Eulalie Gibb stinking, in any sense of
the word. Nick didn’t say so. “She’s a smart cookie, Dooley. She’ll
be all right. Hell, even if her voice isn’t prime, she’s prime to
look at, and that’s what matters.”

      
“Prime?”
Dooley looked like he wanted to run away and hide. “Prime, my ass.
She’s stiff as a board.”

      
Nick
shrugged. “She’ll probably unbend when she starts singing. She sure
looks good.”

      
He
didn’t know why he was sticking up for the pungent Miss Gibb. He didn’t
like her. Yet when he’d pushed open the saloon doors and seen her
there, holding big Lloyd Grady off with no more than her acid tongue,
he’d felt a spasm in his heart that had hurt like a fit. He’d have
shot Lloyd there and then except he feared the bullet might hit her.
It galled him that he still felt a need to protect stray females. After
putting up with what he’d put up with when he was a kid, he should
know better.

      
“Hell,
Nick, I don’t even know how she looks. She says she’s got costumes,
but I ain’t seen ‘em yet. She looks like a schoolmarm to me. The
boys hanker after skin.”

      
“Yeah,
I know they do.” So did Nick. He was kind of looking forward to seeing
some of Miss Gibb’s, even if she was sharp as a cactus spike.

      
It
had been decided that Miss Gibb would sleep in the saloon that night,
upstairs in an empty room. Tomorrow, Nick had told her, he’d introduce
her to Mrs. Johnson. Mrs. Johnson, widowed mother of five sprightly
children, would be happy to rent her a room, even if she had to have
her children build it.

      
Eulalie
had argued at first. “Is Mrs. Johnson a respectable female?”

      
“Sure,
she’s respectable,” Nick had retorted, nettled. Hell, he’d expected
her to thank him and her lucky stars he’d come to her rescue again.
“Anyway, she’s likely to think it’s you who’s not very respectable,
if you don’t mind my saying so, Miss Gibb, singing in a saloon and
all.”

      
“I
do mind your saying so, Mr. Taggart. And I am imminently respectable,
thank you very much.”

      
Nick
had been able to come up with no rebuttal to that one, so he’d shut
his yapper.

      
“I
ain’t easy in my mind about her sleeping here tonight, either,”
Dooley said glumly. “What if some of the boys get frisky?”

      
Recalling
Miss Gibb’s belly gun, Nick said, “I expect she can take care of
herself.”

      
“Hell,
yes, she can take care of herself. But I don’t want her shootin’
up the clientele, dammit.”

      
That
was a reasonable point to Nick’s way of thinking. “If you want,
I can stand guard, Dooley. I don’t have to go home until Junius sobers
up anyway.” Nick and Junius lived behind their smithy at the north
end of Rio Peñasco.

      
Dooley
watched him slanty-eyed for a moment. “You got any plans for the female
yourself, Nick? She ain’t bad looking, but she’s mean tempered.
I don’t want to have to mop up any man’s blood if she gets mad and
shoots him, especially not yours.” He frowned and rubbed his chin.
“Mebbe I should ask the sheriff to keep her in a cell overnight.”

      
“Not
necessary, Dooley.”

      
“I
dunno. Might be safer than here.” Giving Nick a good hard look, he
said, “But you ain’t staying in her room.”

      
Nick
shook his head, nettled. “I don’t have any designs on her, for God’s
sake. I’m offering to do you a favor, Dooley. Let her stay here tonight,
and I’ll stand guard.”

      
“Not
if you aim to sleep with Violet, it won’t,” Dooley said flatly.
“I ain’t havin’ one o’ my whores occupied for a whole night
and not get no money for it.”

      
“I
wasn’t aiming to sleep with Violet,” said Nick, who had been. “Hell,
I already slept with her once today, and I’m not a greedy man.”

      
“Huh.”
Dooley sipped his beer and thought about Nick’s offer. “I reckon
you can stay here, then. It’ll save you a walk in the morning.”

      
So
Nick whiled the rest of his day away playing cards in the Opera House
and wondering just what kind of costume Miss Eulalie Gibb would wear
that night in her premier performance. He also wondered if she could
let the starch out long enough to put on a good show.

      
There
was much speculation about the new singer among the men in the saloon.
Nick listened and grinned and didn’t participate, although he couldn’t
account for his reluctance to do so. Nor could he account for the compulsion
he experienced to shoot several men who were ruminating rather salaciously
about Miss Gibb’s anticipated charms. His reaction was nonsensical;
he knew it. Therefore, he left his gun on the table—as a subtle warning
that he wouldn’t tolerate cheating—and maintained his composure.

* * * * *

      
Eulalie
looked at herself in the mirror and frowned at the image she saw reflected
therein.

      
“I’ve
never seen anything so coarse and vulgar in my entire life,” she muttered
at her reflection. “Perfect. Exactly the image I was striving for.”

      
Eulalie
knew very well that coarseness and vulgarity were qualities much prized
in the western territories. She’d studied up on the matter specially,
when she and Patsy had decided they needed to get out of Chicago. She
only hoped she could make plenty of money quickly, so that she could
send for Patsy before Gilbert Blankenship found her. Patsy was still
pretty well laid up for the time being, but once she healed, Eulalie
wanted her here so that she could watch out for her.

      
Poor
Patsy was too sweet for her own good, and look what it had gotten her.
Eulalie was way past sweet; she’d learned the hard way that sweetness
only earned a girl grief.

      
Although
she hadn’t told Patsy so, she’d decided during her trip to Rio Peñasco
that she’d even sell her body if she had to, in order to protect her
sister. Patsy would have been appalled and refused to let her go if
she’d told her, so she hadn’t. Patsy had enough to worry about already.

      
Rather
short-sighted, Eulalie had donned her spectacles in order to make sure
her costume fitted right and was indecent enough, and that she’d rouged
her cheeks to a high-enough bloom. Putting her hands on her hips, she
turned slowly in front of the mirror, looking at herself from all sides.
Perfect. She plucked her glasses off and laid them on the dressing table.

      
“God
bless Marjorie Dobson,” she murmured, picking up her comb.

      
Marjorie
Harrison had been a showgirl in Chicago before she’d married a Mr.
Hilton Dobson, who’d spotted her in the chorus. Now Marjorie was a
respectable and respected matron, and she’d gladly donated her costumes
to Eulalie and Patsy when Eulalie had explained their desperate situation
to her.

      
Fortunately,
Eulalie and Marjorie were about the same size, except that Eulalie’s
bosom was somewhat larger than Marjorie’s. In Eulalie’s estimation
this was a good thing, since it was sure to titillate the males who
would pay to watch her parade her wares. Eulalie felt nothing but contempt
for most men. She’d loved the one good man she’d ever met, and now
he was gone. She was almost looking forward to teasing these beastly
Westerners with her forbidden fruits for Patsy’s sake. She worked
her hair up in the way her mother had taught her, weaving
faux
pearls in it and then stabbing a perfectly garish ostrich feather through
the knot on top.