Margaret Brownley (26 page)

But Hap did not settle down. If anything, he grew more overbearing with each passing day. He even went as far as to insist that his customers wipe their feet before entering.

He no longer whiled away his days reading old newspapers in glum silence. Instead, he priced his goods, checked his shelves, and made his customers obey the ever-growing list of rules and regulations for shopping in his store.

Since Hap no longer required her services, Libby busied herself making curtains for the newly built Golden Hind Saloon. The saloon was twice as big as the original. The baize-covered gaming tables took up only half of the floor space.

The dirt floor had been replaced by wooden planks and there was even a small portion set aside for dancing, although Libby couldn’t imagine what use that town had for the floor space.

The saloon was empty that afternoon while she worked. Nearby, Noel was taking his afternoon nap.

She stood on a chair in front of one of the saloon’s windows and worked a red and white calico curtain along a thin wooden rod. If she had her way the town would have no saloons but since she was alone in this opinion she hoped her handiwork would make them look less like dens of iniquity.

She was so absorbed in her work she failed to notice she was no longer alone until a familiar voice cut through her thoughts.

“Libby! Are you trying to break your neck?”

She nearly fell off the chair in an effort to glance over her shoulder at Logan. He grabbed hold of her waist and held her until she’d regained her balance.

“Goodness’ sakes, Logan,” she scolded, tapping his hands away from her waist. “Don’t go sneaking up behind people like that.”

He stepped back. “I’m sorry, Libby. But you shouldn’t be standing on chairs.” He stared at the window. “I never heard of curtains in a saloon. Do you think it’s, eh, proper for a saloon to look so feminine?”

“Curtains don’t necessarily make a place look feminine.” She straightened the hem of one panel. “They make a place look homey.”

Logan looked unconvinced. “This is a drinking and gambling hall, not a place to raise a family.”

She gave him an exasperated look and climbed down from the chair. Dragging the chair across the wooden floor to the next window, she pointed near his feet. “Would you be kind enough to hand me that pole.”

He picked up the wooden pole that had been whittled out of a tree branch and handed it to her.

“Do they have curtains in Boston saloons?” he persisted.

“I wouldn’t know,” she said. “Until recently I never as much as stepped foot in a saloon. Hand me those curtains, will you?”

He gathered up the curtains that lay across the bar and draped them carefully over his arm so as not to wrinkle them. She worked one panel and then another onto the bar, then climbed back onto the chair to slip the pole into the slots of the wooden brackets.

Logan held on to the chair as she worked. “Well, I’ve been in every gambling saloon on this side of the States and I can tell you that I’ve never seen a single one with curtains.”

“Is that so?” she asked, unperturbed.

“I don’t even know why we need all these windows,” he continued. “Do you know how hard it is to make a window? And who knows when we’ll ever get enough glass?”

“It’s rather an inconvenience, I know. But look at the lovely view.” She moved a curtain aside and gazed through the paneless window. “The snow looks mighty lovely on those mountains.”

“You can see that exact view by standing outside on the porch.”

Not knowing how to argue with such odd logic she reached upward to adjust the gathers. The chair wobbled beneath her, but held by Logan’s steady hand, it offered no real danger. Nevertheless, Logan refused to let her step down unassisted. Instead, he lifted her by the waist, holding her momentarily suspended before easing her gently to the floor.

“Well, now,” he said.

She glanced up at him and their gazes locked. “I think I’m all right.” Her voice trembled slightly; her heart did flip-flops.

“I hope so.” His voice sounded almost as tremulous as hers.

It wasn’t until she pushed gently against his hands that he finally released her and jumped back as if caught stealing, red-handed.

An awkward silence stretched between them.

He rubbed his thigh as was his habit whenever his leg bothered him, and she turned her attention back to the curtains, as if not to notice. She knew how defensive he became whenever she mentioned his leg.

“There,” Libby ventured at last. “What do you think?” She glanced at him and when she discovered his gaze still on her, she stepped back to have a better overall view of both windows.

“They do give the place a bit of respectability,” Logan admitted as he stepped beside her. As if by mutual agreement, they began an in-depth discussion of the curtains.

“You don’t think they’re too red?” she asked. What she really wanted to know was where he’d been these last few days. But it would never do to admit that she noticed him gone. “We don’t want to give the impression that this is a house of ill repute.”

“The curtains are half white,” he remarked.

“That’s true.”

They stood side by side a moment longer, staring at the curtains before she thought of something else that was safe to say. “You don’t think that they’re too full?’ She turned to him and upon finding him staring at her lips added, “The curtains?”

He lifted his gaze, seeming to absorb her into the dark smoldering depths of his eyes. “I don’t believe so.”

Feeling a warm flush rush to her cheeks, she reached out to touch the hem. “What about the length? Do you think I should shorten them?”

“The length is perfect.”

Never had so much been said on the subject of curtains.

They discussed the weight of the fabric, the size of the checks, the particular shade of red, and might have continued in this mundane vein indefinitely had Noel not announced with a lusty cry that it was mealtime.

In a frenzied rush that was meant to hide her rampaging emotions, Libby collected her sewing supplies in one arm and Noel in another. In the process, she dropped her little gold scissors and a spool of thread.

Logan immediately retrieved her supplies and handed them to her. “Do you need help?”

“No, thank you,” she replied in a breathless voice. “I can manage.” She walked a few steps backward. “It was nice seeing you.” It was necessary to raise her voice to be heard over Noel’s lusty cries. Over the sound of her fast-beating heart.

“Same here,” Logan called back. “Oh, and Libby….you’re right. The curtains do add a homey touch.”

In the days to follow, the loud hammering and constant sawing continued to echo from one end of the little valley to the other. The men started work at the crack of dawn and worked until it was too dark to see.

The snow had melted on the upper peaks, and the water rose above the banks of the river, filling the channel and running down the mountainside.

A few miners had already gone to check out the diggings, but most stayed in town to finish the task at hand.

Main Street became more clearly defined as wooden buildings replaced the canvas tents and rag houses that had previously been scattered at random like so many dice.

Sharkey had his very own barbershop and set to work painting a tree log with white and red stripes to represent a proper barber pole. Now that he could better express himself artistically as he put it, he no longer wore out his elbow looking down the neck of a whiskey bottle.

On the day Sharkey officially opened his barbershop, Libby dropped by to inspect his new premises.

“What do you think?” He took Noel from her arms and held the boy up. “Ain’t this the finest barbershop this side of the Miss’ssippi?”

Libby readily agreed, despite the makeshift furniture, which included upturned whiskey barrels and a broken butter churn. “It’s most impressive.”

“I plan to send away for one of those barber chairs.” Sharkey straightened the row of barrels with a toe of his boot. “You know, the ones that go up and down.”

“That’s wonderful, Sharkey.”

“And Hap ordered a full case of Ring’s Verb’Na Cream, like those fancy folks use. Makes the whiskers slide off  like butter from a knife.”

He brushed his fingers against the downy hair on Noel’s head. “Noel will need a trim soon. You know he has a whole year of free haircuts coming to him”

“I think we have a while yet before Noel needs a haircut.”

Choo- Choo entered the barbershop, wheezing like an old man. “There you are, Miss Libby. The boys need you to settle a little dispute.”

“Oh, dear, I hope it’s not serious.”

“It has to do with naming the town.”

Libby frowned. “But I thought the vote wasn’t until Saturday.”

“It’s not the voting that’s causing all the fuss. It’s deciding who gets to vote and what names they get to vote on.”

Libby sighed and reached for Noel. “I’ll see what I can do.
“You can leave him here with me if you want,” Sharkey offered.

Libby smiled. “That’s very generous of you, but I think the men might be more willing to listen to reason with a young one on hand.”

Cradling Noel, she walked with Choo-Choo toward the group of men gathered in the middle of Main Street. As usual whenever Libby arrived on the scene, the miners whipped off their hats and began acting all self-conscious and polite.

“Now here’s a sight for sore eyes,” Beaker said.

“Pur-ty as a pitchur,” another agreed.

Big Sam gained Noel’s attention and then proceeded to make goo-goo sounds.

Despite the sea of friendly faces that greeted her, Libby sensed an edge of tension in the air. Seeing Macao and his Chinese friends standing back from the crowd, their faces dark and somber, she ventured to guess the source of the tension.

She turned to McGuire. “Choo-Choo tells me there’s a problem.”

McGuire looked uncomfortable. “It’s nothin’ ta worry your pretty little head over.”

“If you don’t mind, I will make my own decisions as to what to worry over.”

Big Sam rested a large dark hand on McGuire’s shoulder. “What Duncan here is trying to say is that we are conducting a dem’cratic process.”

“Yeah!” Keefer shouted. “That means we get to choose what names to vote on.”

Libby had never paid much attention to politics, but she knew the meaning of democratic process. “I thought anyone could submit a name.”

“Yeah, well that didn’t include no chinks!” Big Sam grumbled.

Libby directed a pointed look at the strapping run-away slave. “How many names have been submitted?”

McGuire glanced down at his notes. “Altogether? Ten.”

“Well, now,” Libby said. “It seems to me that ten is a mighty nice number to vote on.”

Big Sam dropped his head and fingered his hat. Choo-Choo let out a hissing sound. Hap, who was standing on the steps of his store, scratched his hairless head. Feet shuffled, looks were exchanged, but nobody was willing to disagree with the town’s only woman.

McGuire waited, and when no one spoke up, he prompted the crowd. “Well men? What do ya say?”

Sharkey, who had left his shop to follow Libby and Choo-Choo, spoke up. “I say if we must vote on ten names to keep our Miss Libby, here, happy, well then, it’s a small price to pay.”

McGuire scanned the sea of faces. When no further objections were forthcoming, he nodded, indicating that the matter was settled. “Very well. If no one has anything else ta add, Ah’ll read the names that we’ll be voting on. Thornton and his men will be in charge of the ballot box. Ya get one vote and one vote only. Are there any questions?”

“Does that mean everyone in town has a vote?” Libby asked.

McGuire ran a finger along the collar of his shirt. “If ya’re asking if the chinks….eh …Chinese residents have a vote, Ah would say…eh…”

Libby smiled sweetly. “Oh, I know our Chinese residents have a vote. They are, after all, citizens of this town. What I was asking is, if
I
get to vote?”

McGuire’s mouth flapped like a broken shutter. Nevertheless, he failed to produce even one intelligent sound.

While the miners waited for their leader to respond, Thornton, who had been watching the proceedings, stepped forward, pulled off his fine straw hat and gave a gentlemanly bow.

“Naturally, you shall have a vote.”

“That’s most democratic of you all,” Libby replied, suddenly aware that Logan has just ridden into town.

“It only makes sense,” Thornton said grandly. “A woman as intelligent as yourself should certainly have a say in important matters.”

Logan nudged his horse forward until Thornton was forced to step away from Libby.

Thornton gave Logan a dark glowering look, before turning to the waiting crowd. “How many agree that Libby should have a vote?”

Shouts of approval exploded from the crowd. Even Big Sam gave consent.