Chapter Three
Her table clock had struck one chime when the stranger mounted the rear stairs, and she was prepared. She had sent Lisabet downstairs to fetch a plate of stew, for Marie-Rose knew menfolk, and told her to take her time fetching it, for Marie-Rose knew womenfolk. Best she have a chance to talk to this fellow a bit first. She opened the back door to his knock, and there he stood, cap in his hand, bag on his back. The tomahawk's feathered head looked out over his shoulder, poking out of the bag.
His smile for her was easy and agreeable, and up close it was as much a prairie fire as from a distance. But he was road-wearied just the same, showed a few crow's feet around the eyes. Beryl-green eyes, which caused cause her a twinge. He smelled of horse and dust and of worn leather smoky from sleeping on hard ground beside campfires of pinyon and juniper bark. His face showed signs of being quickly scrubbed with trough water and Marie-Rose did admire the effort.
"Afternoon, ma'am. William Anders Carlyle reporting as ordered." He gave a flourish with his cap.
"Welcome, Mister William Anders Carlyle. I am Miss Marie-Rose Dumaine, Miss Rose to all, your hostess for as long as you choose to grace our fair town. Do step inside, though I am pleased to make that a request, not an order."
He moved past her, and she closed the door behind. She gestured down along the short corridor to the front of the building. Four doors at this end of the hotel, four more along the mezzanine that overlooked the saloon. He walked a saddle-bowed walk, rough and ready, and she followed.
"I took the liberty of setting the water to heat, Mister Carlyle, should you be desirous of your bath straight away."
"You read my mind, Miss Rose. I'm not in a fit state for the company of ladies."
"I believe I correctly surmised the presence of a well-groomed gentleman wearing an ill-fitting coat of travel. But I think if I had read your mind, I would be slapping your face for the next hour." She observed him with arched eyebrow.
Then kissing on that rosebud mouth, she thought to herself. At which thought it entered her mind that she might be coming down with something.
He ducked his head, glancing back a look that allowed her correct assessment. At the top of the staircase that lead down to the saloon was the guest room with the bath. She stepped beside him to open the door, and he made only the smallest move to make way. She felt her neck prickle from the heat of his eyes on her hair, and she would swear he leaned forward to breathe in as she had her back to him.
They entered the room, and he let his bag slide to the floor.
Sunlight filtered through the lace curtains and across the walls, making the lower wooden panels glow richly and the upper gilded wallpaper sparkle. The great brass tub was the pride of the Astoria, along with the big old grandfather clock down in the saloon. Wood-shod, the tub was, and curved like a big coal scuttle. It sat near the center of the room, aligned so the bather could face the door and still have a hand out of sight over the side, customers often being jumpy about company. A pair of tall brass buckets waited by the fat iron stove, stocked wood box, towels on the highboy beside it. A table and chairs sat against the other wall, and a thick mattress bed, brass head and foot, with quilted blankets. A china bowl and a pitcher were on a commode in the corner, a shaving mug with a razor and strop hanging on the wall beside a small mirror.
He breathed in deeply, letting his eyes flutter closed. "Ah, honeysuckle and rosewater. Your scent, Miss Rose? Or is yours the lilac?"
"Where you coming in from, Mister William Anders Carlyle?"
"From points west, ma'am, been a long time on the trail. Looks like a fine town."
"That it is. What manner of business brings you to us?"
"When I saw the Astoria, Miss Rose, I completely forgot." That sparkling smile again. Those emerald eyes. Evading so prettily.
"I trust you reached a suitable arrangement with Mister Johansen?"
"Yes, we did, ma'am, and I'm in your debt, truly."
Not yet, you aren't, my boy, thought Marie-Rose.
"Will you be playing cards this evening, Mister Carlyle?"
"Well, I wouldn't say no to a friendly game, but…"
"Are you well supplied with tobacco?"
"Not a regular indulgence of mine, thank you kindly." Seeing those teeth she felt the fool for asking.
"Bath water is on the boil, Mister Carlyle. I'll have a plate brought up for your supper, if you'd like."
"You have read my stomach, Miss Rose. I fear there's no part of my anatomy safe from your—"
He reined up as Lisabet swept into the room, plate of stew and cornbread in one hand, bottle with cup on top in the other.
"Well, good afternoon, sir." She spoke with a lilt, and let her skirts rustle as she moved across the room to set the plate and fork on the side table. "I take it you're feeling a bit peckish? And you look right parched." She artfully arranged the plate, the fork, the cup, and herself on the table.
"Thirsty… and starving…" He was looking at her as he'd lick a honeycomb.
"We'll have to fill you up, then…" Lisabet gave the smallest toss of her head.
Marie-Rose rolled her eyes just a mite, and stepped over to take Lisabet by the arm.
"Let us leave Mister Carlyle to his supper and bath, Lisabet. You said yourself he's trail beat and parched."
Lisabet produced a moue of displeasure, but allowed herself to be led out. She paused, framed in the doorway, and turned her head to the side, preparing to say something of a fetching nature that might give Marie-Rose indigestion.
All part of the game, but it bordered on the cruel. He was trapped halfway between the women and the table, and Marie-Rose thought he might just fall in half as he was equal famished for both. He put up a brave front, though, and Marie-Rose took pity. She gave Lisabet a shove, who squeaked a little, but moved.
"You take your time, Mister Carlyle, and come downstairs when you're good and ready. We'll be near at hand should you need anything at all."
"Thanks, Miss Rose, and thank you, Miss Elizabeth. You are angels to a weary wayfarer." Damned if his voice did not convey a husk of unvarnished sincerity.
You are a dangerous creature, you are, she thought as she smiled politely at him, and we are just going to enjoy the hell out of every waking moment of you before some galoot gives you a bad case of lead poisoning and that had best not goddamned happen in my establishment.
The ladies stepped into the hall, and Marie-Rose pulled the door closed behind her. She waited till she heard the click of the lock and the sound of his boots moving away from the door.
Lisabet hummed happily. "Well, if he don't take the rag off the bush. He's a right fine-looking man, Miss Rose. Right fine. He sure wants entertaining, don't he? He is living, breathing 'wants entertaining'."
"That he is, girl, for a prairie wolf, so you keep your head about your shoulders. Men that pretty are trouble. Mark me. You go downstairs and see to the saloon a bit."
"You got a suspicion, Miss Rose? Talks awful nice."
"I'm forethoughtful, as you well know. Nice is fine, if you like 'slick as an ice patch.' Don't you go all fluttery. And no, I'm not giving him over to Clara." She led Lisabet down the stairs.
"Damned if you couldn't start a fire in a rainstorm with how bad he wants entertaining…"
Marie-Rose frowned. "Get. I'm just going to look in on him, see if something suspicious comes out of his war bag."
Lisabet nodded and took herself the rest of the way down the stairs. Marie-Rose returned to her own room, just beside this one, grumbling. Last thing she needed was her girls going all dandy-lion over a honey-mouthed saddle tramp.
Marie-Rose's room was the most richly outfitted in the hotel, of course, and in all of Gilead, truth be told. Filled with fine furniture and appointments, brocade velvet curtains instead of gingham, lace on every surface. A toiletries table to do a music hall proud and a glittering clock from Europe ticking away under a glass dome to keep her company on long nights. Instead of the usual armoire in the corner of the room, Marie-Rose had an actual built closet, which was unusual, but served a further purpose. In that closet, against the wall shared with the entertaining room, there was a small stool. Marie-Rose entered, pushing past her hanging dresses, sat herself on the stool, and removed a cloth-wrapped plug from a spy hole in the wall just at eye level. A cunning bit of work, looking through a bit of painted silk covering the hole on the other side. It gave a full view of the room where her women would entertain. Trusted patrons could be entertained in the girls' own rooms, but not questionable customers and certainly not strangers. On such fellows Marie-Rose kept an eye so she could take action in case things got unpleasant. She kept a derringer handy in the closet, in case the gun in the dresser was too far away. Usually didn't have to use it more than two or three times a year, though more than one of her regular customers had to be spoken to sharp about irregular treatment of the girls in the last months. Luckily Lisabet was sturdy farm stock and could put up a fight if need be. Clara was no shirk, but a slight thing. That Burlington agent had been through several times last year, ordinary as a hen house egg, but just the other night he got strange and had to be ejected. The Carlyle fellow was just going to use the bathtub, but times being what they were she'd rather know about anything suspicious sooner than later.
His coat was a pile on the floor atop his bag, gun belt hung from the bedpost. He was sitting at the table, spooning up stew. His tomahawk lay at hand it. Taking all of a minute to empty his plate, he tossed back a beaker of water, took one swig of whiskey, and set to stripping for his bath. He sang to himself in the manner of them as spent long days alone.
"You're as stiff as my smoking barrel,"
"You're as dead as a desert night."
She didn't recognize the song he hummed and the words weren't making her feel partial.
"You're a notch and I'm a legend,"
"You're at peace and I must hide."
Boots came off awkward, and he banged his heels on the footstool and wiggled his toes through socks that sorely wanted darning. No women in his life at all, Marie-Rose ascertained. He shucked his jeans, and in a patched and well-worn union suit gave them and himself a good shake. The kerchief knot took a struggle to get undone; the leather lanyard with a curious brass bit remained on. He let his union suit fall to the floor.
He was every bit as pretty in his skin as dressed, nicely made and compact, lean-muscled like a mountain lion, and Marie-Rose would hazard he was fast and had the endurance of a chaparral pony to boot. Baby's bottom on a pair of tree trunks. Those sturdy legs told of time spent in the saddle; they'd frame a church window. Just a nice Lutheran church, though, not a cattle-driving cowboy Methodist window. He picked up his jacket for a shake as well, and Marie-Rose noted an impressive collection of scars scattered about his skin. Some straight, some ragged, some old, some new, all well-healed but this body had seen fighting and then some. Nasty fighting, too. Tanned oven-biscuit brown from top to tail, so cold-river bathing and sprawled-on-a-sunny-rock drying. Foursquare solid muscles, Mother Earth strong shoulders ready for any burden, from the weight of the world to his sweetheart's sleeping head. All his parts of proper size and weight; other than trail dust and grime he looked a right healthy specimen. No scabs or sores on any bit that might come into contact with someone in her employ. Must have come from back east originally – that habit eastern folk had of butchering up a little shaver's pecker was a damned crime. Still, it was a pretty piece to go with the rest of him, hefty and serviceable. In true man fashion, he set to some serious scratching in that neighborhood, setting the cropped but sizable cob to happy dog-tail wagging.
Much as she enjoyed the view of a well-constructed male of the species, and he was that in spades and clubs, she was more interested in the contents of his bag. Alright, a most prime and finely-constructed male of the species, which would in no way distract her from attending to the contents of his bag. Alright, he wasn't going to do much with his saddlebags, so nothing for it but to admire the unshucked flesh. A washerwoman could do her laundry on that belly. He put a finger in the bath, and then looked to the water kettles. As he hefted one off the stove with one arm, Marie-Rose took a moment to appreciate the workings of the healthy muscles. He emptied the one into the tub, and set the other on the stovetop. He went to the window, which was open to allow such breeze as there was to allay the clawing heat. He leaned a shoulder against the wall, letting the dry breeze play over him. Sunlight dappled him through the curtains, and he stood a while, looking thoughtful, hand moving absently along his jaw.
His eye fell on the shaving razor, and he rubbed his stubbled chin. He leaned into the mirror and the light from the window set those green eyes to sparkling. The wing of a dark bird crossed her heart. She was right to warn Lisabet to be distrustful. Green-eyed quicksand rascal.
She quietly replaced the plug, as she would learn little from watching him shave. Nothing suspicious, but nothing to set her at ease either. Not a waste of time, though, not that she paid mind to such things generally, as damn, that's a sight for a widow woman to keep herself warm with on a cold night for years to come, and there's a truth.
She left her place in the closet, and made her way downstairs to the saloon to see to things.
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