The Pride of Hannah Wade (43 page)

“I don’t have any openings at the present.”

After his reaction upon learning her identity, she had anticipated his answer. It was the stigma of the Apache again. She smiled with cool politeness. “Thank you for your time.”

As she turned to leave, Hannah caught a glimpse of a dark-skinned woman over by the ready-made clothes. For an instant, she thought it was Cimmy Lou even though she couldn’t see her face, but too many things were on her mind to wonder what Cimmy might be doing here. The passing distraction was forgotten the minute she walked out of the store.

From there, Hannah made the rounds, stopping at every place of business that might be interested in buying her jewelry. The result was more of the same ludicrous offers, which she chose to reject. At this point, her circumstances were not so dire that she felt forced to accept less than what was fair.

Late In the afternoon she returned to the hotel, hot, tired, and frustrated. She went to the desk to get her key. The young clerk didn’t see her walk up, too engrossed in the newspaper he was reading; “Husband Slays Apache Rival” announced the headline. She pressed her lips together in a tight, angry line.

The pages rustled together. “Mrs. Wade!” The newspaper was quickly shut and folded to conceal the headline. “Would—would you like your key?”

“Where’s the newspaper office?” Her hands had a stranglehold on her drawstring reticule and the pouch.

“The newspaper office?” His voice cracked on a squeaky note. “Just down the street.”

She thanked him and left the airless hotel, venturing again into the broiling heat of the dusty and rank-smelling street. Dodging horses and assorted drawn vehicles as well as the piles and puddles of animal excrement, Hannah crossed to the other side.

Hy Boler was sitting at his desk, his jacket on the chair back and his shirt-sleeves rolled up. The buttons of his vest were nearly pulled apart by the way the material was stretched to fit around his solid paunch. Perspiration glistened on the bald spot on top of his head, ringed like an open horseshoe with thick hair that grew into his Dundrearies.

A stack of newspapers sat on a table just inside the door. Hannah grabbed one from the top of the pile as she walked by it and went straight to his desk. Belatedly he heard the sharp sound of her footsteps and turned. He stood up to greet her, rolling down his sleeves.

“Did you wish to buy that, Mrs. Wade?” He wryly indicated the newspaper in her hand.

Hannah tossed it on his desk. “I don’t even have to read that story to know that you distorted the facts!” Her low voice vibrated with the anger she felt.

“Well, well, I see you do have a temper to go with that red hair.” He picked up his jacket and put it on, shrugging his bulk into it.

“How can you write this kind of tripe? Don’t you realize what this can do to people? Let’s forget the way my reputation has been ruined and the outcast I’ve become. All this notoriety has damaged Stephen’s career. It’s destroyed our marriage—“

“Have you left him?” he asked quietly.

“Yes.” Hannah stopped abruptly, checking her outburst of temper. “I suppose you’ll write about that next,” she accused in a steadier voice. “How will the headlines read? ‘Wife Leaves Husband After Slaying of Apache Lover, perhaps.”

“Too long.”

“Doesn’t it bother you that what you write can hurt someone? Surely you know it’s true that the pen is mightier than the sword. Your stories can bias people’s opinions. Don’t you care?”

“Come with me.” Hy Boler took her arm and led her to the door. “Look out there. The Silver Slipper, Andy’s Saloon and Gambling Hall, Lucky’s Place, the Hard Rock Saloon, Old Blue’s . . .” He read the names of the many saloons and sporting establishments that lined the street, not even bothering with the little signs that sported only the simple words “Beer,” “Whiskey,” and “Girls.” “Most of the people in this town can’t read. And those who can don’t want to read about what goes on in Congress—unless it has to do with mining, cattle, or Apaches. They want to rub elbows with danger and excitement. That’s why they’re
here. My business is to sell newspapers, so I give them what they want.”

“What about me, Mr. Boler? After what you’ve printed, how am I supposed to find a decent job so that I can work and support myself?” she demanded.

“Why don’t you go back to your husband where you belong?” he suggested.

“But I-don’t belong there. Maybe I don’t belong anywhere, but I’ll have to find that out.” Her determination was stronger than ever as she turned and left the office to return to the hotel.

Cimmy Lou clutched the bundle of store-bought clothes tightly to her middle as she skirted the houses on the edge of town and drifted close to the mesquite and creosote brush. When she reached the faint trail leading into it, she stopped and checked to make sure no one was watching her, then slipped down the path, running a few yards until she was out of sight of anyone passing by.

She hurried along it, not liking the scurrying sounds she could hear on either side of her. In her haste, she missed the brush-covered entrance to the high-walled gully and had to double back. A faint smell of smoke was in the air, which worried her. She wiggled past the thorny branches that hid the camp. Bitterman stood well back in the gully, his hands clamped over the noses of their horses to silence any whicker.

“Any trouble?” He quickly came to her and took the bundle from her arms, carrying it to the small circle of dying embers and ash.

“No.” Cimmy Lou followed him, eyeing the fire with misgiving. “I thought we weren’t gonna build a fire in case the Apaches saw the smoke.”

“I kept it small an’ used only dry wood so it wouldn’t make much smoke. Apache trick.” He gave her a sly
smile.” ‘Sides, I had to fix the brands on the horses. We couldn’t go ridin’ with that ‘US’ mark on their flanks. Anybody’d know fo’ shore they was army horses. I changed it to ‘08.’”

“How’d you do that?” She was impressed by his cleverness.

“Heated the cinch ring off a saddle. It was easy. Now, if I can jes’ git shed of this uniform…” Bitterman opened the bundle and shook out the pants and shirt she’d bought for him. Satisfied, he began stripping off the blue pants with their telltale yellow stripe. “Did anybody see ya?”

“No.” At least she didn’t think so. “I saw Miz Wade in the gen’ral store. I ducked into a corner real quick. What d’you s’pose she was doin’ there?” Cimmy Lou sat on the ground and hugged her knees to her chest as she eyed his wiry body, so thin and narrow—and scarred up just like an alley cat.

“Nothin’ was said? No talk ‘bout anybody out lookin’ for us?” He pulled on the pants and hitched them high around his waist.

“No. All the talk is ‘bout that Apache. He tried to escape yestiday an’ the majuh killed him.”

“Maybe it took their minds off’n us.” With his pants fastened, he stuck the muzzle of his revolver in the waistband.

“When are we gonna leave here?” Cimmy swatted at a fly that was buzzing around her head. “You said we was goin’ to Colorado.”

“Not fo’ a couple days,” Bitterman told her. “I wanna give those brands a chance t’heal up.”

“But what if they did send a patrol after us?” She sighed her impatience at the delay and the unnecessary risks they were running. “We’re so close to the fort—they might find us. We could be miles away by now.”

“That’s what they’re figurin’. They’ll never think to look fo’ us this close. An’ that herd of cattle we passed
wiped out all our tracks. If we don’t move fo’ a spell, we won’t leave any sign fo’ them to find. This is the safest place we can be fo’ a few days. By then, they’ll figure we’re long gone an’ quit lookin’.” He chuckled. “And ain’t it a laugh that we been sittin’ right here under their noses all the time.”

“I guess it is.” She smiled, then stretched out her arms, arching her back in a tired gesture. “I never thought I’d git so tired of doin’ nothin’.”

“You want somethin’ t’do? Come here.” He motioned her toward him and sat on the hard ground as she scooted over to be wrapped in his arms.

“Tell me what it’s gonna be like in Colorado again.” Cimmy walked her fingers across his chest with idle interest.

“It’s dreams yore wantin’. I thought it was me,” Bitterman chided, but he obliged. “We’ll find us a minin’ camp that’s really boomin’—“

“An’ you’ll get a job dealin’ faro in one of the gamblin’ houses an’ I’ll charge ten dollars fo’ every shirt I wash,” Cimmy declared. “I won’t throw the water out till I run it through a sluice an’ get the gold dust. Maybe even find a nugget.”

“An’ you’ll meet a rich prospector an’ git him to give you all his gold.” He smiled against her soft hair. “You’d be good at that.”

“What you think I oughtta buy first? A satin gown, maybe—or a fancy dress.” She snuggled against him, burrowing against his narrow chest. “I want a house someday—made outta wood an’ painted white—where people’d come callin’ on Sunday.”

“Things. Is that all you want, Cimmy?” Bitterman craned his head around to look at her.

“No. I can git them. There are ways a body can do it.” It wasn’t often that she thought deeply about anything. She flattened her hand against the warm, hard flesh of his chest, feeling the beat of his heart.
“It’s this man art’ woman thing, that’s what this world is ah about. When it wears off, there ain’t nothin’ left. You might as well be dead.”

“Do you think any one man can wear you out!” he asked, half-serious and half-teasing.

Cimmy tilted her head back, bringing her lip close to life. “You can try,” she urged.

Laughter rumbled in his chest as he shifted to lay her on the ground. When he rolled his body onto her, Bitterman felt the power in those twisting, playful hips. “I’m gonna show you a time these next few days,” he promised.

She laughed and wrapped her arms around his neck to pull him the rest of the way down. This man and woman thing was a power struggle she always won.

H
ANNAH PAUSED IN THE DOORWAY OF THE HOTEL’S
dining room and looked for an empty table. There were few in the crowded room. Hy Boler was at his usual corner table; he was a nightly customer of the establishment, as Hannah had learned over the last three days. She made a point of ignoring him as she crossed in front of him to sit at a nearby table.

“Stew, please, and hot tea,” she requested when the waitress stopped. The selection was easily made: the stew was the cheapest item on the menu. Considering that this was a mining town and all the prices were steeply inflated, that wasn’t saying much.

The clatter of dishes and silverware combined with the loud talking in the room made it difficult for her to think. It seemed that she had tried everywhere, exhausted every possibility, and no one wanted to hire her. The town already had a schoolmaster, but they had made it plain anyway that they didn’t consider her
suitable. The local seamstress insisted that she had all the help she needed, and none of the restaurants wanted her waiting on the customers. All the stores turned her down—nothing was available anywhere. She sighed in frustration, not bothering to look up when the waitress set the bowl of stew in front of her. She had no appetite, but she forced herself to eat it anyway.

Her chair faced the doorway, and as a man walked in and took off his wide-brimmed black hat, her glance idly fell on him. His frock coat and showy cravat were the trademarks of a professional gambler. His gaze searched the room; obviously he was looking for someone. Hannah picked up her teacup. Over its rim, she saw his gaze stop on her. Immediately he started forward, wending his way past the tables and chairs straight toward her. After a momentary uncertainty, she decided it must be someone behind her he was meeting, and took a drink of the tea.

“Excuse me.” He stopped before her chair. “It’s Mrs. Wade, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” She frowned in wary confusion.

“You were described to me, but the party failed to relate how very beautiful you are. Permit me to introduce myself,” he drawled. “I’m Ace Bannon.”

“Mr. Bannon.” She placed her hand in the one he offered and he bowed over it with courtly ease. The southern drawl, the smooth gallantry—it all went with the silver wings in his dark hair and the touch of aristocratic arrogance in his features.

“I have heard that you have been looking for work.” He flashed her a smile.

“Yes, I have.”

“I have a proposition for you which I’m sure will be financially rewarding for both of us. I own the Ace High Saloon and Gambling Hall. I run an honest game, but you must have noticed how much competition I
have from other less scrupulous houses on the street. I need something that will attract the trade. You would make the perfect drawing card, Mrs. Wade. We’ll fix you up with a white buckskin outfit with lots of fringe and beads—why, we’ll turn you into a genuine Apache princess. Those miners will pay plenty for the chance to dance with you. Naturally, I’ll waive my percentage, and you can keep all the money from the dance tickets.”

“No, thank you.” She was curt and cold.

“I beg your pardon.” He showed his surprise. “I assure you that you’ll find it a very profitable venture.”

“No.” The dining room seemed unnaturally quiet, its customary clatter of dishes and voices suspended. Hannah didn’t have to look to know that everyone in the room was watching and listening to their conversation. She didn’t know which made her angrier—that he thought she would consider such a proposal, or that he made it in public.