Angel In The Saloon (Brides of Glory Gulch) (4 page)

“That’s all
right, Amelia. The parlor is one of my private rooms. You’ll soon find out this
isn’t one of
those
kinds of places.” What else could she say? The girl
couldn’t see, but she’d learn soon enough how things work around here.

They stood,
and this time Mr. Cowan was first to offer his arm to Amelia, much to Mr.
Strupel’s dismay. The four of them backtracked out the same door they had
entered and made their way through the saloon and up the stairs.

The gentlemen
were quite familiar with the parlor Corrin referred to, which was actually a
small, cozy room adjacent to her own boudoir. As business partners, they’d
often conducted private meetings there. As friends, they’ve shared an
after-dinner drink and comfortable conversation.

They made
themselves comfortable while Mr. Cowan built a fire in the small fireplace. Summer
evenings in the Rocky Mountains of Colorado were always quite cool, sometimes
dipping as low as 40 degrees.

Paul sat on
the settee with Amelia, and Corrin snuggled into an overstuffed chair. When he
had finished trifling with the fire, Jeremiah leaned back on his hands on the
floor, and the conversation continued into the night.

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Amelia yawned
after a couple hours had passed. “What time is it?”

“Almost
midnight,” came the response from Mr. Cowan.

“No wonder I
feel so sluggish,” she said. “I usually wake up around five or five-thirty in
the morning, so I am rarely up this late.” She was a staunch morning person,
enjoying the freshness of the cool, morning air. Having discovered many years
ago that this was the best time of the day for her to say her daily prayers,
Amelia would often walk to a nearby stream to sit on the bank and commune with
God. Occasionally, she would just sit in silence and learn from the sounds of
the water or the breezes blowing through the trees or the birds as they called
to one another in their euphonic songs. She believed that if one sat still
enough or quiet enough, one could almost hear a blade of grass growing straight
and unbending as it reached toward the sun.

Amelia had
been taught that if she reached toward the ‘Son’, she too would grow strong and
healthy and prosperous, eventually becoming what she was meant to be, and
thereby fulfilling her purpose in life. But what possible purpose did God have
for sending her to the edge of the earth to a saloon? Fatigue precluded her
from mulling it over any further.

Bidding good
night to the gentlemen, Corrin escorted Amelia back to her room as the
gentlemen took their leave.

At the door of
Amelia’s room, Corrin informed her that because of her business she kept late
hours, and, consequently, got up late in the morning.

Amelia assured
her this would not be a problem, as she usually just ate fruit and drank juices
in the morning. She also convinced her Aunt that she would have no trouble
entertaining herself until she got up to begin her day sometime around
ten-thirty in the morning.

Corrin
explained to her where she could find a bowl of fruit in the kitchen and then
left briefly to obtain a duplicate key to the back door in the event Amelia
would want to go exploring during the morning hours when the saloon was closed.
Upon returning with the key, she did her best to expound upon the exact
location of the privy, the general mercantile, and the church.

“If you get
lost just yell out for the closest person to help you find the Silver Slipper
Saloon, and they’ll help you out. The people in this town are all good people. You
can trust most everyone.”

Corrin also prepared
a shallow bath of lukewarm water for her in the room across the hall, which
Amelia was most grateful for. Assorted soaps and lotions lay on a dressing
table beside the bathtub, which Corrin announced Amelia could use to her heart’s
content.

They said good
night, and as Corrin turned to go to her own room, Amelia grabbed her arm and
stopped her. “Aunt Corrin?”

“Yes, dear?”

Using her hand
as a guide, she found Corrin’s face and kissed her gently on the cheek. “Thank
you.” She longed to say so much more, but was so unsure of everything yet.

Corrin smiled
and returned the kiss. “You’re quite welcome, honey.” Then pivoting quickly, she
heard Aunt Corrin retreating back toward the stairs.

She found her
way to the bath across the hall, carrying a clean chemise. Pinning her hair up
on top of her head, and after locating a cake of rose scented soap, she
disrobed and slithered down into the water, allowing its warmth to permeate
every segment of her being. She sighed enormously as all residues from the
events of the day were washed from her, both physical and mental, cleansing her
all the way through to her soul.

After the bath,
she dressed in her chemise and returned to her room, draped her clothes over
the trunk, slipped happily between the sheets, and nestled comfortably under
the quilt on her new bed.

“Dear Lord,
thank you for this day and for guiding me. And thank you for helping me to be more
open-minded to what you have planned for me. Thank you for bringing Aunt Corrin
into my life. I think... I’m going to like her...” Before she had finished, she
drifted into slumber.

As the obscurity of the night hours yielded to the
coolness of dawn’s first glow, Amelia found herself awakening to the melodic
songs of wrens outside her window, the newness of the crisp morning air, and a
certain excitement welling up from deep within. How long had it been since she
had actually awakened with anticipation of the unexpected discoveries boasted
of by a new day? The joy she felt in her heart surprised her, and though she
didn’t get as much sleep as usual, she rose from her bed.

She placed her hand upon the window pane and savored
its coolness, knowing that all too soon it would give way to the torridness of
the sun’s relentless rays. With the same efficiency and busyness of the birds
singing their melodies while hunting for their breakfast outside her window,
Amelia flitted about the room preparing for the day’s activities, anxious to explore
this foreign place.

Satisfied with her endeavor to make herself look
presentable, she slipped out the door, tiptoed through the corridor that lead
to the stairway, and slowly descended the stairs as she gripped the banister. It
was smooth and possessed the feeling of being painted.

She decided to explore this strange, new environment
further before heading outside for a quiet talk with her Maker. Before long,
she concluded that the stairs jutted from the second floor only to separate the
room below into two, large halves. Feeling around the perimeter of the room,
Amelia familiarized herself with the location of its windows and the two front
doors. Her friends had always described the front entry to all saloons as
containing two, swinging half-doors, but this one was composed of two,
full-sized wooden doors with a latch that locked them together tightly.

Scattered throughout the large hall, numerous round,
wooden tables sat in no particular pattern, each with several chairs stacked
upside down upon them. The tables were not fancy and by running her hands along
the tops and sides, Amelia discovered that many of them had been scratched and
marred through much apparent use.

Against the back wall to the left of the stairway,
resided an upright piano with a round, revolving stool nestled safely under the
keyboard, out of the way of those who may be tempted to rest upon it and pound
out an unlikely tune. Amelia lifted the lid and gently rubbed the tops of the
smooth, ivory keys, fondly remembering the myriad of hours she and her mother
had spent at their own piano at home, not playing the roles of mother and
daughter, but rather as instructor and pupil. Grace Jackson had traded her
beloved china hutch for that piano, and it had become as comforting and
familiar to Amelia as her own mother had always been.

It had been four months since Amelia stood near a
piano. As she recalled the last time she played, silent tears trickled down the
contours of her cheeks. It became too lamentable for her to dwell upon---not
now---not today. She quickly put it out of her mind. Banishing the liquid
nuisances with the back of her hand, she proceeded to locate middle C with her
right index finger and skillfully guided her fingers across the tops of the
keys as if they were whispering a silent cantata. Being careful not to play a
single note, in her mind Amelia strained to hear the music her fingers were
meticulously performing. She took a deep breath, sighed heavily, and with
admirable determination proceeded with the tour of her newly acquired habitat.

Next, she located the smoothly polished bar. There was
a considerable amount of temptation within her to explore the area immediately
behind it, but she was unyielding to its beckoning, and decided against it at
this time.

Testing the door to the right of the bar, Amelia found
it unlocked, and she cautiously opened it and slipped into the chamber within.

It didn’t take her long to discover she had entered
the kitchen where she had spent a delightful evening the previous night. Finding
her way to the sideboard where her Aunt had told her she would find a heaping
bowl of fresh apples, Amelia confiscated a large, firm one from the top and
placed the treasure into her skirt pocket.

She located the pump handle, and then after much
fumbling around, found the hutch containing dishes and glasses. With glass in
hand, she carefully made her way back to pump a fresh glass of cool water ,and,
as usual, she spilled some of the precious liquid down the sides of the glass,
over her hands and shirt sleeves into the basin directly below.

Amelia huffed as she carefully placed the glass onto
the board beside the pump and began her accustomed search for a towel. After
cleaning the mess as best she could, she reclaimed the glass and located the
back door. Once outside, she locked the door, tucked the key back into her
pocket, and followed the structure until she came to the corner of the
building.

Leaning backward against the wall and making sure she
was about four feet to the left of the corner, Amelia proceeded to pace forward
in a straight line as her Aunt had instructed her. She counted her steps until
her walking stick hit against the small structure. “Seventeen paces to the
privy,” she reminded herself aloud.

Meticulously placing the glass of water on the ground,
she covered it with her handkerchief. Upon emerging from the tiny structure she
took up the glass, backed against the side of the edifice and edged her way
around the right corner.

Counting paces once again, she proceeded to walk a
straight path until her cane collided with a tree. Turning 180 degrees, she sat
down, leaned backward and allowed the hushed reverence of the morning to wash
over her with its cleansing authority.

Amelia remained silent as she increased in the
knowledge of the unseen world around her. Wrens and robins darted about,
calling their messages in euphonic song to one another.

She could smell the distinct aroma of pine and spruce
trees. Amelia knew their boughs would be bending and swaying in an orchestrated
dance, stretching ever upward toward their Creator; their mere existence a
testimony of the great and sovereign God who fashioned them from the earth and
who cares for them as a watchful gardener tends to his garden. As she listened
to their sighing, she could almost hear them call out soft praises to their
Creator.

Amelia began to softly and reverently sing her own
praises to God. There were many who wouldn’t understand her way of
communicating with him, but she didn’t care much what other folks thought. She
simply talked with him as if she knew him intimately, like confiding in a dear
friend. And she counted him as her dearest friend of all. Amelia sang songs of
gratitude and love. She sang humble praises to him. She quietly communicated
with her God in song for nearly forty-five minutes and then began her usual
morning prayers consisting of petitioning the Lord on behalf of others as well
as herself and recalling previously memorized Bible verses.

Upon completing her prayers, her soul was at peace. A
joy beyond any other had saturated her from head to toe, inside and out, and
she was bursting with it. She thought she might be able to reach up and touch
one of those clouds her dear friend, Molly, had been articulating about since
they were youngsters stretched out on the plush, velvety lawns of the Dodson’s
abundant Southern home.

As she consumed her apple and drank the water that had
now lost its coolness, Amelia daydreamed about Molly and their childhood
adventures back home in Georgia, recalling minute details of various splendid
adventures they had shared. She smiled at the fond remembrances. Soon, she
would ask Aunt Corrin to transcribe a letter to Molly and would tell her friend
everything that has happened to her since her mother died.

But a feeling of uncertainty intruded on her peaceful
morning. Could she trust her aunt with her innermost thoughts---the kind of
thoughts that would reveal and expose everything about her? The secrets shared
with Molly down through the years were deeper than those she shared with her
mother. How could Amelia expose herself to her aunt in the same way right now? She
would either have to wait or find someone else who could be trusted with such
sensitivities.

Her deliberations were suspended by the sudden barking
fast approaching her. Amelia stood up lickety-split.