Chapter One


Listening to the German wall clock clack away in the near-empty saloon on an overwarm Nebraska summer day might cause her to fetch a gun and shoot the dear old thing, so Marie-Rose waited on her balcony. It ran across the front of the Gilead Astoria Saloon and Hotel, and standing on it always put her in mind of standing on the prow of a sailing ship, the ship being her establishment, the ocean being the unboundaried prairie, the salt air replaced by the arid wind and loamy earth. Highest point in the town, but for the water tower. Folk such as had never seen an ocean would say the prairie must be like the ocean, rolling in waves, or lying flat, or spread to forever beneath the cloudless sky. Marie-Rose thought that kind of ornamental talk silly, but she had seen the ocean, and would admit the similarity.

The road came in from the west through the two-saloon frontier town, and back out the other side, to larger and wealthier places, St. Joseph and the branch rail, Omaha and the main line. South was the state of Kansas and the occasional war parties of the Cheyenne, north the Pawnee. Gilead was a little flotilla of hard-put but respectable structures companionably gathered for security and society, a little nub of what passed for civilization in the endless sea of sage and scrubwood, tallgrass and bottlebrush, and damned little else under the blue-white sky.

Saloon and card parlor and six rooms upstairs, three occupied by Marie-Rose and the girls in her employ, one a bunk room. From her vantage she surveyed the road running through the center of town. She and the girls paid dearly when the wind rattled the windows during winter. Spring now, though, and the noonday sun was plenty hot, though a westerly breeze crossing the prairie drew the sharp scent of a rainstorm through the bouquet of manure and creosote.

Should have been beehive busy this time of year, horses and people moving past her hotel and about the town, but traffic was slight. She could hear the rattle of a wagon round by the feed store, and one or two folk were out and about, but that was all. Her cuff caught a splinter in the railing, and she twitched it free with irritation. The sorry lot of women in the world, to be always waiting. Watching the menfolk come and go. Sometimes going with them, sometimes wondering what happened to them when they never came back.

She looked down the road to the west, past the pine skeleton of what was going to be Cade Belrose's new hardware store, where it was Gilead to the east and prairie to the west. The heat made the spindly windmill out by the bean fields look like it was about to float away. Thankful she was that it wasn't a new saloon Belrose was putting up, though the fat bastard will likely come after her business next. Shading her eyes, she could just make out a rider coming in through the waverings of heat. So the waiting was to be interrupted, praise be. She touched about her face with her handkerchief.

He came alongside the German's dry goods store, and she could make him out proper. Saddle-sore and trail dusty, tired of beans and rabbit and cactus and the hot prairie wind and gullywasher storms and no other body in sight. That's what he looked like from a distance, if Miss Marie-Rose Dumaine was any judge, and she was, but then most of them did. Not a ranch hand, no, his horse was a Badlands mustang. Needed a shoe on the left hind, too, from the gait. So a plains drifter, then, paying one of those rare visits to civilization, and Gilead, Nebraska, population eighty-five (unless that was a gunshot coming from the Crystal Spring Saloon down the other end of town, then eighty-four) was just going to have to do its best to be civilized. She adjusted her collar where the lace was overly starched.

He reined up to talk to the German's wife sweeping the porch. The woman turned and pointed east, then gestured south. A visit to the blacksmith, yes, indeed. The rider nodded, touching his Union cap. A polite one, well, that's going to be a blessing to whichever of the girls he ends up with tonight. Lisabet, Marie-Rose decided. Clara needed a night or two off, that Burlington fellow had got strange with her.

His horse walked along, moving toward the hotel. The rider arched his back in a deep stretch and rolled his head in lazy circles. Been on the trail for a while. Youngish, she judged, a creature of shimmering heat and dust. Second stranger come to Gilead this week.

So new shoes on the horse, or a new horse. Good saloon whiskey, a hot water bath, a room with a bed, a bed with a woman. Might be cash poor, though, unless he carried gold dust. Didn't look like a prospector, though, not enough kit. As she assayed, Lisabet came out onto the balcony, adjusting the lacings on her violet bodice.

"This corset is just on its last legs, Miss Rose. And don't tell me I've been eating too much, neither."

Marie-Rose murmured a murmur.

Lisabet sighed the deep sigh of the young and the bored, and leaned up on the rail.

"You should teach me those cards of yours, Miss Rose. The Gypsy cards? I could tell fortunes down in the saloon. It would be all mysterious and alluring," Lisabet said.

"I use them for solitaire, girl, I'm no Gypsy. Besides, it might give cause for the good Reverend Hilliard to speak badly about us from the pulpit, and we wouldn't want that, now would we?"

"For we are abominations unto the Lord… Well, now, who's that, then?" She'd noted that Marie-Rose's attention was directed down the road. "Doesn't look familiar. Recognize the fellow, Miss Rose? Hey, Clara!" She primped her hair, so the blond curls would catch the sun.

Clara, dark hair and pale skin, joined them from inside, flinching at the sky. "What, and is it worth being out in the noonday heat?" She fanned herself with her handkerchief.

Marie-Rose hummed noncommittally. Strangers in Gilead were something to be noted, for good or ill. Could mean business, but of late they just meant trouble. Regular travelers were avoiding the area, and the stage had bypassed them once, went missing a second time. Folk were leaving, folk gone plain missing. So they'd give this arrival the proper welcome, but she'd have her guard up sharp. They all leaned forward to evaluate the newcomer.

As the man approached, Marie-Rose saw the Union Army cap was battered and faded. No badges on it, so not a soldier, maybe formerly. Prairie pony, not government issue. Brown-yellow buckskin jacket with beaded decoration and pants of once blue denim faded bone gray. White man's jeans with a red man's coat. Once-red kerchief knotted about the neck. Rifle in the saddle holster, irons on both hips. Wore his Peacemakers butt to front for the fancy cross-body "border style" draw, meant he knew how to use them. A tomahawk swung from the saddle horn to just at the knee by a slack strap, ready for use, not just a prize or souvenir. A frontier trader, maybe a half-breed scout.

"Now, Clara," said Lisabet, "You have your Pinkerton man to keep you a-twitter, do you not? So you can leave this one to me."

"I do not, as you well know," said Clara. "He's a mystery, that's a fact. I am vexed and dismayed, and in no way satisfied with the situation."

"You mean you're damp in the dainties, 'cause he's handsome and polite and either a gelding or don't take to women…"

"He's neither of those. He's got all the necessary urges, to that I can attest. He's just tetchy, and—"

A throat clearing from Marie-Rose put the girls on notice that the rider was coming within earshot. He slowed the horse as he came abreast of the hotel, angling to the water trough at the front of the Astoria. The horse set to drinking it empty, and the rider looked about, taking in the town. He dismounted stiffly, stretching out his legs. He joined his horse at the trough, and pulling off his dust-coated cap, plunged his head in the water. He came back up, spraying water sparkling into the sunlight. He gave his head a shake, ran his hand over his hair.

As his face turned upward, his bright eyes, from under his cap, encountered the three ladies in their dresses of calendared cotton and lace. They smiled down, eyeing him like professional horse traders at auction, evaluating for health, temper, and value. Clara gave her handkerchief a birdlike flutter.

The rider blinked, shook his head to clear his vision. Water sprayed in the sunlight. His sandy hair was sun-bleached and glittering, knife-blade-cropped short, his cheeks nicked with knife-blade-shaven stubble. He looked full up with shining eyes, his dirt-smudged, strong-jawed, unlined face blossoming into a smile, a beautiful smile, a smile that spoke clearly and honestly of the manifest delight at the sight of a beautiful woman and the promise of twenty-four carat sin entirely unfettered by the strangling cant of the Sunday sermon. The rider drew in a deep, full breath as if to draw the scent of them down to him. Marie-Rose considered charging him for taking that much satisfaction from just directing that look at her girls and equally thought she should pay him for directing that look anywhere near her.

Marie-Rose said, "Well, well."

Clara said, "Land O' Goshen, all his teeth."

Lisabet said, "There's a kissing mouth."

They spoke behind saintly-sin smiles, not speaking loud enough to be heard below.

It was Marie-Rose's privilege to first address the customer, for a customer this was, all men were, unless they were Indians (rare), preachers (observant preachers anyway, rarer), or nancy (nicest fellows but poor for business), so the girls communicated with their eyes. Their eyes and their breasts.

Marie-Rose called down. "Hello there, stranger. I don't believe the Gilead Astoria has had the pleasure."

The rider held his cap at his breast. "Hello, ladies! Oh, my, oh my hello…" He just regarded them a moment, and Marie-Rose feared he might be simple. But he was just drinking them in like his horse was drinking in water.

"No, and I haven't had the pleasure of the Gilead Astoria, either. An oasis in the desert." His voice was clear and rich, with the smoky warm timbre of one of those big, rosewood Spanish guitars, the kind that thrummed under the skilled hands of a virtuoso of the rasgueado.

Lisabet leaned on the rail and spoke soft, "Clara, love you like a sister, but…"

Clara leaned right up next to her. "Not if I throw you off first…"

Marie-Rose spoke over them. "Have to make up for lost time, traveler. Now shall I and my young ladies make time for your company this evening?" Rhetorical, but proper etiquette and Marie-Rose did hold with form.

The rider's expression swelled, and perhaps something else, too, but then went winsome, and the pang of regret was palpable even at a distance. He was taking in every bit of them, all three, their hair and faces, their bosoms and bodies, yet his eyes only left Marie-Rose's eye for a hummingbird flicker.

"Now, ma'am, not a thing in this world would be more agreeable and I would dearly love to, for I've been on the trail a good long time. But I got my trusty steed here to look after, and must find lodgings for the night. I don't think my funds will extend to… to keeping company with you in the custom to which you are, uh, accustomed."

He slapped his horse's flank fondly, who ignored him, and the rider sighed a sigh mournful to wring tears from a stone. It rang a low, lascivious purr from Clara, anyway. Marie-Rose was not made of stone, but she had several stones in her immediate family, and was thus defended against the man's well-deployed charms. Entertained, but defended.

Lisabet murmured, "Go ahead and push. I'd fuck him with my neck broke. That is one finely-made creature."

"Might be worth it to see if he can raise the dead with his pecker." Clara fanned herself.

The girls laughed softly together, exchanging a look that said they would gleefully yank each other's hair out over this one if it came to it. They rarely squabbled, having different likings and neither being fussy anyway, but this one… Clara trailed her handkerchief along the balustrade, and leaned into Lisabet and made to whisper in her ear, one hand on the other's exposed shoulder, one lock of her dark hair falling against Lisabet's sunny blonde, their breasts delicately and intimately brushing together just so. Whatever the rider had been about to say was lost to a low, throaty rumble that was admiration, starvation, and prayer. Lisabet made a little noise herself, and Clara breathed happy agreement. Problem solved. If he could afford it. They were in danger of a fit of giggles.

Marie-Rose slid a foot under her skirt over to give a kick, a reminder about professionalism. "Oh, now, young sir, don't you fret, no, not one bit. As it happens, there are rooms right here in the Gilead Astoria, for as you see this is the Gilead Astoria Saloon and Hotel. A room for the night, you say? And perhaps a hot bath?"

The girls both inhaled slowly and deeply, so as to underscore Marie-Rose's tempting suggestion, put so to set a man in mind of being comfortably warm, wet, and naked.

He coughed a little, and cleared his throat before speaking. "Oh, that does sound like heaven, ma'am, indeed it does. But, well… Blackie here needs new shoes…" It surely pained him greatly to make this concession.

Lisabet and Clara glanced at the sorrel he stood beside, brown-red as Marie-Rose's own russet locks, and Clara murmured "Blackie?" but one doesn't ask importunate questions in frontier country in 1871, statehood or no statehood.

"Shoes for the horse, you say? Well, now, I might be able to have a word with our Mister Johansen, the blacksmith in these parts, on your behalf. I have no doubt a suitable arrangement can be made. No doubt at all."

"Couldn't accept favors on such short acquaintance, ma'am," he said and lowered his head, sadly, regretfully, yet his eyes still stayed with hers, and allowed a little dove of hope to escape those lowered lashes and flutter up her way on delicate white wings. Marie-Rose let that little dove settle on her shoulder before answering. Boy was good.

"Not a favor, no. Mister Johansen owes me a favor or two himself, you see and— well, never you mind. You go see him right now, round the corner there, and let him get Blackie there properly seen to. Then you return to us and we'll get about having you properly seen to."

Marie-Rose returned that little dove of his with one of her own, a most beatific smile of agreeability and understanding, with a promise of perfumed delights tied to it with a silken lilac-scented ribbon, a bargain made.

The rider bowed, actually bowed. "You are too kind to a lonely, uh, hungry and tired traveler, ma'am."

"You speak to Mister Johansen directly, not his man Ivan who is a sweet creature, but can be dim. Now when you come back, you just come to the stairs at the side there, if you please. Don't want to lose you to the lure of the demon alcohol of Mister O'Malley's bar or to the card tables before we've had a chance to meet you proper. You just knock at the top of the stairs."

Clara and Lisabet were both surprised, but continued to waft the downy soft promise of indulgence downward.

"Well, I'm powerfully honored, ma'am, truly I am. Yours to command." He smiled back up at her, eyes a-sparkle. That smile would send Preacher Hilliard grabbing for his prayer book before the seizures took him to the floor. The rider sprang into the saddle, trail weariness vanished, and flicked the reins. Blackie made one last desultory tail swat at the noonday flies and ambled forward, sloshing water.

"We await your pleasure, traveler." Marie-Rose raised her hand in a small wave, and the gesture turned into a tapping of a finger on her mouth.

The rider's voice could be heard muttering "pleasure, awaiting, pleasure, oh, Lord…" then singing a trail ditty through those pretty lips as he rounded the side of the hotel.

Once out of sight, the girls turned to look at Marie-Rose, whose finger-tapping signaled concern. The invitation up the back stairs was reserved for special, known and trusted customers, never new arrivals, even young, polite, wicked handsome ones.

Clara said, "Hope to God he's got money."

Lisabet laughed. "Got that look about him that says 'I got a six-inch tongue and can breathe through my ears.' Green or hazel?"

"Need to see up close, but I say green. Talks kinda funny though."

Marie-Rose was thoughtful, however. "Clara dear, just run down and see if your Pinkerton man is on the premises."

"Thinking trouble, Miss Rose? That'd be a shame, he's wicked handsome." Lisabet asked.

Her rosebud mouth making a small "o," Clara exchanged a look with Lisabet. "I think he rode out to Hebron. Tully said so."

"Wicked handsome is one thing," said Marie-Rose, "but trouble is another, and deleterious to the financial fortunes of our establishment and therefore to be earnestly avoided. See if Tully's seen him."

Clara moved to obey. Lisabet asked, "That green-eyed devil got your thumbs prickling, Miss Rose?"

"Green eyes always make my thumbs prickle, and they're usually right, my thumbs. We're going to tread cautious."



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Chapter Two