Weeping Angel (2 page)

“But, Lew, that's what the cow catcher is for,” the brakeman, Hardy, grumbled as he stepped out of the caboose. “To fling the cows—or deer—out of our way.”

“Bah.” Lew hopped down from the engine and bent to pick up his hat. Replacing it on his wind-ruffled hair, he sniffed off a sneeze. “Good afternoon, Miss Marshall.”

“Mr. Furlong,” she greeted in a prim tone. “May I suggest a nasal wash of salt tonic for your hay fever?”

“You may, but I'm not apt to stick anything up my nose except my handkerchief.”

Frank choked on a laugh and gave Miss Marshall a speculative glance. Looking as though she was about to expire, she didn't yield her spot in the blazing sunlight. He wondered why she'd chosen to wither like a daisy when she could have shared the shade with him. Her austere face appeared rather flushed. He'd been trying to decide whether the heat put the bloom on her cheeks, or if it had been his confronting stare. He rather liked to believe he'd been the culprit. He'd caught her sneaking haughty peeks at him. He might have been inclined to return the perusal if she'd been something to kindle his interest. But his tastes ran toward warm women, and despite the heat curls rising from the platform, she looked as stiff as the dead deer Furlong had almost run into.

The unnaturally straight way she stood reminded him of the stodgy nuns at St. John's Catholic Orphanage for Boys. Put her in a crow black dress, toss a veil over her head, and wrap a wimple up to her chin, and she could have passed for one of the sisters. Sister Mary Prim.

He'd seen her walking across Divine Street on several occasions, and once she'd passed by the Moon Rock when he was opening up. But she moved on swiftly, her eyes forward and without acknowledging him. He'd only been in Weeping Angel three months, and trying to refurbish Charley Revis's run-down shebang into a decent thirst parlor hadn't left him with quality socializing time. Not that he would have socialized with the likes of Miss Marshall. He liked encounters to be with ladies willing to keep their hair spread out on his goose down pillow for a few hours.

The only liberal-thinking takers thus far had been Arabella Duchard, an actress from the traveling Shakespearean performers who had stayed a week in May, and Emmaline Shelby, the not-as-virtuous-as-the-town-thought laundress who saw to his shirts as well as ironing some steam into his pants. Each woman had shared his company, but not his bed. He and Arabella had gotten amorous under the stars, and Emmaline wasn't willing to risk her character by going to his room in back of the Moon Rock. Their brief liaisons were conducted on the flipped-down strainer lid of her granite laundry tub. Just once he'd like to do it with Emmaline without standing up and getting his boots splashed with soapy water.

Disadvantages aside, the idea of dirtying up some clean clothes so he could take them over to Emmaline aroused his imagination. She had long legs, and he liked that in a woman. Lazing his forearm on his knee, Frank watched as Fisk yanked the handle on the boxcar door and slid the cumbersome panel on its runners.

“Any incoming passengers?” Grenville Parks asked while arranging the knot in his neck scarf.

“Nope,” Lew replied, rubbing his watery eyes. “Any outgoing?”

“No.”

“Got a crate this time, though,” Hardy commented as he unloaded a dozen milk cans into a nearby dairy cart. The hollow ring of metal mixed with his words. “All the way from Boston, Massachusetts.”

“Big deal,” Grenville said, then flopped down on a wooden bench.

“Yep, it's big, all right.” Hardy stepped inside the car and rummaged around. “Haven't seen a crate this size since we brung up that Acme Royal Range for Mrs. Beamguard. Herbert, I need a hand with this.”

“If it's as whopping as you say,” Fisk said as he poked his head inside the dark opening, “you're going to need more than my hand.”

“Get the luggage cart and we'll load it up on that.”

“Yup.” Fisk turned around and headed toward Frank.

Straightening, Frank put his foot down.

“How do, Mr. Brody.” Fisk grabbed the T-handle on the dolly and started pulling. “You waiting for something?”

“I wouldn't be standing here if I wasn't.”

Hardy tried to shove the crate, but it wouldn't budge. “Lew, get on in here. And bring Grenville with you.”

Frank watched as the four men shoved, grunted, strained, and sneezed to push the crate toward the edge of the boxcar floor.

“Oh, do be careful!”

The slightly throaty voice caused Frank to turn his head in Miss Marshall's direction. An expression of distress overtook her features as she clasped her dainty hands in a worried knot at her waist.

“They're all right,” Frank drawled. “They've had
enough practice lifting my liquor crates to know when to be careful.”

She eyed him with reservation, a suspicious line at the corners of her mouth. Making no further comment, she merely stared at him as if he had egg on his face.

He stared right back.

She wasn't really a bad-looking woman. In fact, he could admit in all truth, she was rather pretty. Ivoryskinned with nice cheekbones heightened by an agitated hue of rose, brown eyes reminding him of the Circassian walnut bar in the El Dorado, and lips that could have been tempting if they weren't expressing so much disdain.

She made a noise from her throat sounding like
humph
before whipping her gaze back to the boxcar where Fisk's and Lew's sorry behinds were wiggling like hootchy-kootchy girls as they shimmied the crate onto the dolly.

Frank didn't much care for women who made disapproving noises in the backs of their throats. Her
humph
leaned toward the croak of a frog. Could be she used too much of that nasal wash she'd suggested to the engineer.

“It ain't moving much,” Grenville panted, leaning against the five-foot-high wooden crate.

Walking toward the freight car door, Frank braced his hands on the floor and jumped inside. “Slide over, Fisk, and give me some room.”

Huffing, the porter readily obliged.

Frank flexed his knees, expanded his lungs with several deep breaths, then positioned himself behind the box. “On the count of three, everybody shove the crate forward. One. Two. Three.”

The crate protested and groaned, but once it got started, it took off like a cat with its tail cut.

“Hold it!” Frank ordered in a rush. “Hold it!”

The five men bolted in front of the mammoth
receptacle just in time to steer its foundation snugly on to the dolly.

Frank's thigh muscles burned, and he could feel the blood rapidly pumping through his body. Leaning on the backside of the crate, he wondered how many free beers it would take to bribe Lew, Hardy, Fisk, and Parks to give Pap a hand at the Moon Rock.

Lew swabbed his brow with his handkerchief, then squinted to read the bold inscription burned into the side of the wood. “Rogers and Company, Piano Manufactory. Boston, Massachusetts. Don't say who it's for. Just says Weeping Angel.”

“That's quite all right, Mr. Parks.” Miss Marshall sauntered forward, every curve of her body steadfast. “I sent away for the piano.”

Frank swung around. “Hold on, sister. I didn't work up a sweat just to have you take the goods.”

She blinked once, her eyes shimmering with dislike for him. He hadn't done anything to her to deserve her snub. “I beg your pardon?” she said in a tone lacking sincerity.

He didn't miss the cool challenge in her voice. “A woman's never begged for my pardon before. Begged for a few other things.”

Aghast, her brows shot up. “Well!”

“Well yourself,” he said, feeling the sun pour over him like hot buttered rum. “I ordered this piano three months ago.”

“So did I.”

“Fisk,” Frank shot over his shoulder, “is there another crate on this train from Rogers and Company?”

“I dunno.” The porter shrugged. “Is there, Hardy?”

“No.”

Frank gave her a polite smile with enough forced charm to set his teeth on edge. “Then that settles it. This piano is mine.”

She stiffened her spine to a ramrod, her brown eyes flashing a warning. “You're sadly mistaken, Mr. Who-ever-you-are.”

“Brody. Frank Brody. Owner of the Moon Rock Saloon. And owner of this upright piano.”

“You may own that whiskey mill, but you don't own this piano. I do. I am a piano teacher and I—”

“Weeping Angel doesn't have a piano teacher.”

“They do as soon as I get
my
piano into
my
parlor.”

Frank didn't like being burned at the stake by a woman he could easily picture with a rosary swaying in her hand. “Put your ruler away, sister. I'm not one of your pupils.”

Her mouth dropped open.

Grenville came forward. “I do believe this is an official matter for the ticket agent to handle. Might I suggest we bring this discussion inside and find a solution to the problem in the depot where it's cooler?”

Frank was already walking.

The station house remained cooler, but not by much. Frank gave the large clock mounted on the wall enough of a glance to note the hour. 3:48
P.M
. He had twelve minutes to get the piano to the Moon Rock in order to open on time.

He'd put his all into fixing up the saloon, sparing no expense on the decor to revive the western showplace of the sixties and seventies. The upright piano was his mail-order ace in the hole.

Lloyd Fairplay who owned the Palace four doors down and around the corner from the Moon Rock, had music—a discarded church organ. The instrument wasn't in the best shape, but music was music. When Lloyd's feet pumped the rubber-cloth bellows, passable notes burped up the done-for reeds. And depending on how many drinks a customer had, they could make out the songs and sing right along.

Lloyd's organ was orchestrating Frank's business down to virtual stragglers, basically just those who passed through Weeping Angel and didn't realize the Moon Rock's menu was minus musical entertainment until after they'd plunked down their two bits.

Without a piano, the Moon Rock Saloon would continue to play second fiddle to the Palace. Dammit, he needed a New American upright. He'd paid for one. He owned one. And woman or not, he aimed to fight her strings and keys for the crate.

Sliding a taxidermic hoot owl out of his way, Frank put his hands on the hardwood counter and drummed out his irritation. Miss Marshall came inside and stood a healthy six feet away from him.

Grenville slipped through a double-hinged door the same height as the counter. He made a big to-do about putting on a pair of half glasses with tarnished wire frames before fitting a green-billed visor on his head. His expression took on a professional air as he lifted his gaze. “Now then, do either of you wish to file a complaint with the Union Pacific for lost or damaged goods?”

“Cut the bullshit, Parks,” Frank returned, slamming both his hands down on the counter.

“Mr. Brody!” she exclaimed. “May I remind you, you are in the company of a lady.”

He might have taken a moment to remember his manners if she hadn't been looking at him as if he were something she needed to scrape off the bottom of her shoe. “May I remind you to loosen your corset—you're laced too tight.”

“Well!”

“Well yourself.” Frank turned his glare on Grenville. “Parks, I ordered a New American upright parlor piano from Rogers Pianos in Boston. I paid one hundred and fifty-nine dollars for it—not to mention the goddamn shipping.”

“Excuse me, Mr. Brody,” she disputed as if she had
him over a barrel, “but why would you order a
parlor
piano?”

“Because I have a
drinking parlor
. And a man's thirst isn't at its prime unless he can drink his liquor while he's listening to a piano player belt out obscene songs.”

Her lips parted in surprise.

Grenville shook his head. “Well, I can't release the piano until someone can prove ownership. Does either one of you have a bill of sale?”

“Certainly.” She set her black-tasseled pocketbook on the counter, opened it, and produced the proper document.

“I didn't plan on having any trouble,” Frank said, irked she would come so prepared. “I don't have mine with me.”

“Ah ha!” she blurted.

“Sister, nobody your age should ever say
‘Ah ha!'
You just put ten years on yourself.” Frank ignored her offended gasp and yanked his hat off. “Parks, trust me when I say I have the bill of sale. It's at the Moon Rock. Where I should be.” He swiped his hair out of his eyes before putting the panama back on. “I'll concede, by some damn coincidence, both myself and the lady here have ordered the same piano from the same manufacturer. There's apparently been a mix-up at the company, and they've only sent us one upright.”

“But only one of you has shown proof of sale,” Grenville said. “If you can't produce your receipt, Mr. Brody, I have to give the piano to Miss Marshall.”

“I've got it at the Moon Rock,” Frank repeated. “I'll show you the receipt after the piano is at my saloon.”

“No, that won't do. Even if you do have a proof of sale, there'd still be only one piano and two receipts. Nothing like this is in the Union Pacific manual,” Grenville mumbled. “If we had a telegraph in town—which we don't—this matter could be cleared up right
away. But because this will have to be handled through the Wells Fargo, I can't legally let either one of you take it.”

Miss Marshall gazed at Frank. “You're right, there's obviously been a dreadful mistake made at the factory. One that will take weeks, perhaps a month, to figure out. Time I don't have to sit and wait. If you would be so kind as to give me this piano while—”

“Look,” Frank said in what he felt was an indulgent tone, “I don't begrudge you your hobby—”