Authors: Colleen Quinn
No one answered for a moment, then Jake looked him right in the eye and nodded. “Seems to me you could do that better than us.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Whatever happened between you and Rose,” Jake said between bites of corn. “She ain’t been acting herself in the past few days, and it seems to have something to do with you. It’s none of my business, but it seems to me a city slicker like yourself would have better things to do than to fool around with Sean Carney’s daughter.”
“And what’s that supposed to mean?” Michael rose from the table, unaccountably furious.
Biddle sent him a searching glance. “I don’t think he means anything at all,” the ringmaster said calmly. “It’s just obvious that you and Rosemary have had another quarrel. Perhaps it is something we can help with?”
The ringmaster sounded so practical and solicitous that Michael could do nothing but sit back down and shake his head. “No, it’s nothing. It’s just…she won’t let me talk to her.”
“Women.” Jake sighed, and Clara’s eyes rolled heavenward. “Who can understand them?”
They all nodded sympathetically. Females were something that the clowns could share as a common male misery. There were never enough of them in the lonely farm towns and mining camps of the West, and those that they did find usually wanted a coin or two of their hard-earned money as a reward for their doting companionship. Besides being a woman, Rosemary had a mind that was as sharp as a man’s and a mischievous wit that could prove deadly. Yes, Wharton deserved their sympathy, if nothing else.
“We are thinking of going to the Silver Saddle Saloon tonight,” Biddle said, ignoring Rags’s glare. “Rosemary has taken a room at the hotel, and I’m sure she’ll go. Why don’t you come? After a good ale I’m sure she’ll be much more amenable to hearing you out.”
Michael nodded thoughtfully. He couldn’t let her get away with this; she would shut him out completely, for God knows how long, before she took it into her head to try something else. This time he couldn’t even imagine what revenge she might conjure. Worse, she made him feel more guilty every time he saw her. He couldn’t stop picturing her in that gold gown, her eyes huge and filled with pain, her innocent words coming back to haunt him…
“You mean you don’t want to do this again?”
He closed his eyes. He felt the same way he had when his father had died, the same horrible anguish when he’d made all the difficult decisions that his family needed to survive. He’d done it again, done the right thing by her by not encouraging what could only be a girlish infatuation. He caught Rags looking at him the same way the bankers used to, when he’d been forced to foreclose on a loan. Never mind that he exhausted all possible alternatives first, or that he always tried to find a way that the debtor could satisfy the loan. He was still like the villain in the damned book, Simon Legree.
Yes, he would go to the Silver Saddle Saloon tonight and make her talk to him. Somehow, they had to work this out. For everyone’s sake, but especially his own.
“Pass me another one, Griggs. This damned rotgut is less potent than me mother’s milk.”
“Come on, Jake. ‘Tis a foin Irish whiskey, and there’s nothing wrong with that. Even if it is stilled in Kansas,” Rags commented as Griggs handed Jake the bottle and a saloon girl bent over the table, eyeing up the cards he held in his hand.
The Silver Saddle Saloon was a haven for the clowns and crew, boasting a real bar mirror with a picture of a naked woman hanging over the top. Smoke filled the room, hanging like ghosts in the center, reflected from oil lamps that sent splashes of light into the appropriately dim corners. A piano player tickled the ivories of an instrument that had seen better days, but the music was cheerful and the atmosphere good. The bartender hefted mugs of thick ale, grateful that the circus had not only brought in the performers, but also the townsfolk who were reluctant to end the evening in front of a solitary fire.
“Can I have a turn?” the saloon girl asked, her body bent appreciatively over Griggs’s shoulder, displaying her ripe bosom and soft skin. Griggs indicated the seat beside him, grinning in true clown fashion as the coarse blond woman flopped beside him, her painted beauty mark incongruous against her powdered skin. She sent Rosemary a questioning scowl, then tittered as Griggs passed her a handful of cards and a few rusty coins.
Rosemary scanned her own hand, her legs propped up on a barrel, her skirts falling around her like a sea of yellow waves. She forced down a smile, remembering her departure from the hotel, the clowns oohing and aahing her gown and making her feel like a fairy princess as she descended the steps. In truth, she knew they didn’t like her to dress like a woman when they went to the saloon, but something perverse inside of her made her do it. She recalled her words to Clara, that Wharton would not defeat her, and his expression made her grin burst forth like sunshine through clouds.
He’d done nothing but stare at her, disapproval coming through loud and clear as she joined Griggs and Rags at the hotel desk, her skirts swaying, her hair falling freely down her back. The clowns, thank God, acted as if nothing was wrong, that it wasn’t at all odd for Carney to sashay down to the saloon, garbed like one of the working girls, for a night of whiskey and debauchery. In truth, Rose was contributing very nicely toward their own plan, but she didn’t know that. What she did know was that Michael, who was tied up with the boss canvasman and couldn’t leave yet, had stared at her as if he wanted to wring her neck. She had wanted revenge and found it was easier than she thought.
“I’ll take two. Hit me.” Rosemary picked up the bottle and drank a swill of whiskey. My God, it felt good to have the shoe on the other foot again. Even the game was going right. Griggs passed her two cards facedown, and she lifted them, hiding a smirk as she saw the ace of hearts. She lowered her lashes, knowing full well that her eyes would give her away, and she sighed as if the cards were not at all to her liking.
“Are you in?” Rags asked suspiciously, glancing at the full pile of coins before her. The other occupants of the saloon, farmers and ranchers, outlaws and traveling miscreants, drew closer to the poker table, enchanted by the pretty whiskey-drinking girl with the Irish luck. She nodded as if uncertain, then shoved a pile of coins into the center of the table.
“I’m in. Player bets fifty.”
The men drew in a sharp gasp, and the saloon girl pouted, annoyed that this mere slip of a girl could so easily claim so much attention. But Griggs had put his hand on the swell of her shoulder, playing with her soft skin, and she knew she’d make some money this night despite the dismal hand she held. Scowling at Rose, she folded, then turned her attention toward the silent clown.
“Looks like you and her, honey. Finish this up and we’ll see what else you’re good at.” No longer considering Rose a rival, she gave her a reluctant grin. “You’re as sharp as Madame Moustache with those cards, sweetie. You’ve got us all on edge.”
Rags sent Griggs a wink, then put in his coins. Collectively the men watched as Griggs slid his own coin into the center of the table, then displayed his hand. The clowns smirked, satisfied that a full house would win, until Rosemary displayed her own hand. It was a royal flush, hearts up.
“You’ve got the luck tonight,” Jake boomed, watching as Rosemary gleefully took the pile of coins. Accepting the congratulatory cigar from Griggs, she let him light the end of it, choking as a blue cloud of smoke enveloped her face. Coughing, her eyes streaming, she grinned as she managed to expel a thick smoke ring, the way she’d seen them do. The clowns roared, their voices thick with whiskey, Zachery kissed her on the cheek, and the locals applauded. When the mist finally cleared from her eyes and she could see, she gasped as Michael Wharton leaned over the table, his face a mask of pure fury.
“Get up,” he whispered, his voice like steel. “You’re coming with me.”
“L
IKE HELL.
” Rosemary pulled her arm away from him, rubbing the shoulder he’d grabbed so tightly that it hurt. Sending him a scathing glance, she tucked up her skirts and retrieved the new cards Griggs had handed her. “I’m not through playing.”
“You are as of now,” Michael said, his voice like ice. She dared defy him like this! He wasn’t quite sure what he’d expected, knowing she’d gone off with the men, but he sure didn’t expect her to be seated in the midst of the local ruffians, clad in a sweet dress that could only have been procured from Clara and provocatively showed every soft curve of her body, smoking a cigar, and swilling whiskey! Every male instinct within him was outraged, particularly as she gave him a mischievous glint from her startlingly green eyes, as if daring him to do something about it.
“I’m afraid not.” Rosemary batted her eyes and leaned forward, aware that his own eyes fell magnetically to the low-cut neckline of her dress. “You see, I’m on a winning streak, and you don’t jinx one of those.”
“Leave her alone, pal,” one of the ranchers called out, dismayed to see their entertainment threatened by this tall, elegant-looking stranger. “You ain’t her husband, are you?”
“I’m her boss,” Michael answered coldly, knowing the way to get an emotional rise out of her. “And if she doesn’t come with me now, she may not have a job tomorrow.”
Rosemary gasped in outrage. Griggs and Rags grinned, but Biddle looked indignant. “Now, I say, old boy, there’s no need to run on like this. Rosemary often joins us for cards. What business is that of yours?”
“Yeah.” A lanky cowboy who’d been watching Rose for quite some time stepped up from the bar. “I don’t like your attitude. Why don’t you just leave her alone and go back to wherever you came from?”
Without another word Michael punched him. Rosemary gasped, the cigar falling from her mouth as the cowboy tumbled to the floor, crashing into the tables. Whiskey and beer flowed like two ambling rivers across the scarred wooden floor, while the ranchers stared in disbelief at the now unconscious cowboy.
“You son of a bitch.” One of the ranchers got to his feet and threw a punch at Michael, catching him neatly on his jaw and sending him staggering back into the card table. Rosemary’s eyes widened in horror as Michael threw himself bodily into the man’s reach, then caught him with one of the cleanest uppercuts to the chin that she’d ever seen. Reluctantly she had to admire him. She didn’t think he had it in him.
“Get him, boys!” a rancher called. They tumbled into the fray as the saloon girls shrieked and the bartender dropped below the bar. Biddle and the clowns rushed to Michael’s defense as the locals outnumbered him, preparing to teach him a lesson in the art of Kansas chivalry. Rosemary cried out as another punch sent Michael flying backward into Griggs’s arms, and the saloon girl ducked beneath the table as glass shattered everywhere and the coins followed.
“My feathers!” the saloon girl cried as her headpiece tumbled out of her curls and onto the floor. Reaching for the dyed ostrich feathers, her hand abruptly withdrew as two cowboys crashed to the floor directly beside her, tusseling amid whiskey and broken glass, and she whimpered beneath the table.
“Help him!” Rosemary shouted as two ranchers held Michael while another pummeled his stomach unmercifully. Griggs grabbed at the one, loosening Michael’s arms, while Michael tried to kick his legs free. Looking around for a weapon, Rosemary snatched up the whiskey bottle and brought it crashing down on his tormentor’s head. The man’s grip loosened, then he fell to the floor in a neat lump, freeing Michael enough to defend himself.
The cowboy who’d been eyeing Rose seized his opportunity and grabbed her, shouting in a voice that resembled an Indian’s war hoop. Rosemary slapped him, but the cowboy, incited by the atmosphere, grabbed her arm and pulled her closer to him. Rosemary struggled, her movements impeded by her skirts. She gasped as the cowboy attempted to kiss her, the stench of stale beer and his rough skin burning her face. He had just planted his lips on hers when she felt him pulled forcibly from her. She had one quick glance at Michael’s furious face, then the cowboy doubled over as his fist landed in the man’s midrift and he sank to the floor.
“Get out of the way!” He reached for her, but another punch caught his face, and he was pulled into the fray once more.
Whiskey sprayed everywhere, the stinging liquid adding to the dense air. Gaslights shattered, and the acrid scent of smoke filled their lungs. Cowboys tusseled with clowns, ranchers fought with farmers. Inspired by bloodlust, boredom, and whiskey, the entire saloon burst with pent-up emotion. The saloon girl sobbed for her feathers, which were now mere strands of their former glory.
“All right, break it up!” The sheriff strode into the room, followed by a parley of local men. Rosemary climbed on top of a table as the sheriff began the ordeal of arresting the drunken men. She nearly fell as the table was banged by two rolling ranchers, and she searched through the brawl, trying to determine what had become of Michael. She saw him a moment later, his starched white shirt in tatters, his body bathed in blood, whiskey, and mud. She shuddered as the sheriff seized him, ignoring his protests.
“Sure, sure, you’re the boss, that’s what they all say. Tell it to the judge.”
Rosemary covered her mouth with her hands as Michael was hauled away, battered and arguing loudly with the rustic Kansas farmers. Aroused from a sound sleep, the local men yawningly did their duty, wanting nothing more than to get back to bed. One by one they hauled the still-conscious men into town, where a jail cell and coffee would dispel the fight that was still in them. But none of them minded too much.