Shaye was back at the museum a few minutes before seven. Clark McDonald was waiting for her out on the boardwalk.
“You’re early,” he remarked.
“So are you.”
“Well, there’s a good reason for that,” he said, revealing a dimple in his left cheek. “After all, it’s not every day that I get to have dinner with a pretty tourist.”
Shaye laughed self-consciously. She had never thought of herself as pretty. She wasn’t ugly by any means, but she wasn’t sure she qualified as pretty. Her shoulder-length hair was an unremarkable shade of brown. Her eyes were green. Her figure was okay, perhaps a little on the skinny side. She had nice legs though. Long, slender, and tan. They were, she thought, her only vanity.
“It must have been quite a long day for you,” Clark remarked as they walked through the now deserted ghost town. “Once you’ve toured the town, there’s not much else to do.”
She hesitated before replying. “It was an interesting day.”
He looked at her askance a moment, but she wasn’t ready yet to discuss what she had seen, or thought she had seen, at the jail.
“I noticed one of the houses is called the McDonald house,” Shaye remarked. “Any relation?”
“No, ‘fraid not.”
They walked down Green Street, past Main, and made a right turn on Wood Street. They passed several houses until they came to one with a wooden sign on the side that said Employee Residence. Like all the other houses in Bodie, it was made of time-weathered wood. The picket fence sagged, the gate hung from one hinge, the stairs were crooked.
“Is this where you live?” Shaye asked dubiously.
Clark chuckled. “I admit, it doesn’t look like much on the outside, but I assure you the inside is a lot more modern.”
She followed him through the rickety gate, climbed the three stairs to the porch, stood to one side while he unlocked the door, then held it open for her. “Come on in.”
Shaye crossed the threshold, and found herself in an average-sized living room, furnished with a green and tan plain sofa, a dark green easy chair, and a couple of mahogany end tables. The walls were painted off-white, there were a couple of colorful throw rugs on the floor, an old-fashioned looking clock hung on the wall over the brick fireplace.
McDonald closed the door behind her. “Would you like to take a look around?”
“Sure.”
“Here, let me take that.” Clark took her backpack and set it on a ladder-back chair beside the front door.
“Well, this is the living room,” Clark said, and went on to explain that the shell of the house was original, but the inside had been modernized to accommodate the employees who lived there. It was a large house: living room, kitchen, bathroom, and two fair-sized bedrooms.
“Do the park rangers live here year round?” Shaye asked.
“Only a couple of us stay all year. I’m one of them. The winters can be rough, and we don’t get many tourists. Do you want to keep me company while I fix dinner?”
“I’m not much of a cook, but I’ll be glad to help, if you like.”
“Sure.”
She followed him into the kitchen. “What do you want me to do?”
“I’ve got some steaks in the fridge. Think you could fix us a salad while I put the steaks on the grill?”
“That I can do.”
* * * * *
Clark McDonald proved to be an amiable dinner companion. He told her he had been employed at the park for the last four years. The summers were hot, he said, the winters downright frosty, with temperatures as low as thirty and forty degrees below zero, and the wind blowing at up to a hundred miles an hour, but there was something about the place that kept him there year after year. Talk of the present day inevitably led to talk of the past. Clark had done a great deal of research on the town and its people.
He smiled at her. “Helps to pass the time when the snow’s fifteen or twenty feet deep and the wind’s howling. Sometimes I think I missed my calling. I think I should have been a history teacher. The past really intrigues me, though I’m not sure why.”
“I never cared much for history in school,” Shaye remarked, “but ghost towns have always fascinated me. Durango, Silverton, Jerome. Oh! And Virginia City in Montana. There’s a candy store there that has the best salt water taffy I’ve ever tasted.” She grinned at him. “I guess I know what you mean about the past, though. I can’t quite put my finger on it, but there’s something about walking down the streets of one of those old towns. I don’t know what it is…”
“Yeah, I know what you mean. Gives me the feeling of, shoot, I don’t know…”
“Of connecting to the past?”
Clark nodded. “I guess that’s it. I’m pretty rootless, at the moment, and being here, I guess it gives me a sense of…” He shrugged. “A sense of where I came from. Hell, I can’t explain it.”
“You don’t have to. I know what you mean. I did a little reading about the town last night. It must have been pretty wild in its day.”
“Oh, it was that, all right. Gold was discovered here in 1859, but it was another twenty years before the boom began. In June of 1878 there was a big strike up at the Bodie Mine. Ore was assayed at a thousand dollars a ton. In six weeks, the Bodie Mine shipped a million dollars worth of gold bullion and the rush was on.”
“That’s amazing,” Shaye exclaimed. “All that wealth buried under those barren brown hills.”
Clark nodded. “By the end of the year, there were more than six hundred buildings. The winter of ’78 was reported to be one of the worst. There were thousands of people living here then. Housing was poor. Food was scarce. Nothing much to do except hang out at the saloons and get drunk. Men gambled and fought. Hundreds of them died from exposure and disease.
“In the spring of ’79, gold-hungry men and women were pouring into town as fast as they could get here. Buildings were going up everywhere. Nearly everybody had a claim or stock in one of the mines. The men had money, and they were anxious to spend it.”
Shaye nodded. It was easy to imagine how it must have been back then. Even now, Bodie was in a remote area. In the 1800’s, the area had been sparsely settled. There had been no government and practically no law, making the town a haven for con men and prostitutes. There had been no modern conveniences. Housing was poor, the climate harsh summer and winter. Only the saloons and gambling dens, the dance halls and cribs, provided warmth and entertainment.
Once again, she was glad she had not lived back then, when the only lights were coal-oil lamps and candles. How had people managed with no running water, no gas, no electricity, no hospitals, no theaters, no entertainment of any kind suitable for a decent woman except picnics and an occasional dance? They hadn’t even had a church until the late 1800’s. Of course, women had very little spare time in those days, when practically everything had to be done by hand and made from scratch. She would have made a lousy pioneer. She couldn’t sew, hated to cook, couldn’t imagine scrubbing laundry in a tub, or hanging clothes on a line to dry.
“Well,” Clark said, “I guess I’ve bored you long enough. I’ll get that book.”
Shaye smiled. Rising, she started to clear the table.
“Leave it,” Clark said.
“I don’t mind. Really.”
“I’ll do them later.” He smiled at her. “You’re a guest, after all.”
With a shrug, Shaye followed him into the living room. Clark went to a bookcase and took a small, leather-bound book from the second shelf. Opening the book, he pulled out a square white envelope and offered it to her.
Shaye took a deep breath, knowing, in that moment, that her life was about to change forever, change in ways she could not fathom.
With a hand that trembled, she opened the envelope and withdrew a small picture. She turned it over, and found herself looking at the face of the man she had seen in the jail, the man she had been searching for in her dream. Alejandro Valverde. It was him. There was no doubt in her mind. None at all.
“Miss Montgomery?”
She looked up, her gaze meeting his.
“It’s him, isn’t it?” Clark asked. “The man you saw in the jail.”
“Oh, yes.” She sat down on a chair near the bookcase. “It’s him.” It was a face she would never forget. She looked at the photograph again. “When was this taken?”
“I’m not sure.”
“But it’s here, in Bodie?”
“Yes. I think maybe it was taken in front of one of the saloons. See here,” he pointed at the top right corner of the photo. “This looks like the edge of a sign. And this,” his finger moved down a little, “looks like it might be and I and an E. I think he’s standing in front of the Queen of Bodie saloon, maybe the day it opened.”
Shaye took a deep breath. “I saw him again today.”
“You did?”
She nodded.
Clark sat down on the sofa. “Where did you see him this time?”
“In the jail again. It only lasted a few moments, but it was so real.”
“What happened?” He leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees, his gaze intent upon her face. “Did he see you? Did he say anything?”
“It happened so fast. I looked in the window, and suddenly he was there. He didn’t say anything, but he looked at me…” She glanced down at the photograph in her hand, remembering the impact of his gaze meeting hers. “I felt what he was feeling.”
Clark shook his head. “Amazing,” he murmured. “Simply amazing.” He studied her a moment. “But why you?”
“I don’t know.”
“I tried to contact him again after I saw him that first time, but I never could. I even got a medium out here one night,” he admitted, looking somewhat sheepish. “Nothing.”
She didn’t know what to say, so she gestured at the book in his hand. “Did he write that?”
“What? Oh, no. It’s a diary, written by the woman he was supposed to have killed.”
“May I see it?”
“Of course.”
Shaye placed the photograph on the end table, face up, as Clark offered her the book.
“I could use a cup of coffee,” he said. “How about you?”
“Yes, please.”
The cover of the diary was brown leather, the pages inside were old and brittle, yellow around the edges. She opened the book carefully, her gaze skimming the first page. Diary of Daisy Joanna Sullivan, commenced this 1st day of January in the year of our Lord, 1879.
Shaye thumbed through the book, skimming over the entries, until she came to a page dated April 2nd.
I started work at the Velvet Rose today. It is a much Nicer place than my old crib on Maiden Lane. The girls are friendly and my room is nice, although there is dust everywhere. I can’t believe I’ve been in Bodie almost a Year. I’ve never worked a mining town before. The traffick in the streets is never-ending. Huge wagons arrive carrying freight from the railroad. They are pulled by teams of twenty horses, sometimes more. Ore wagons come down from the mines, and there are wood carts and hay wagons and lumber wagons. Stagecoaches, too. One of the coaches was robbed today.
April 3rd. I had eight customers today. I love this town. All the men are rich. And generous. And Madame Louisa lets me keep half of what I make. If this Keeps up, I’ll be able to save enough money to go back home.
April 4th. This town never closes. There isn’t much Law here. The sheriff lives in the County Seat, which is twelve Miles away. Killings are frequent, especially in Chinatown. I guess that is to be expected, since all the men carry guns.
April 5th. One of the girls who worked at one of the other saloons killed herself last night. Her body was found in a ditch two miles south of town.
April 6th. I met someone tonight. His name is Alejandro Valverde. He is a gambler, and a good One, too. I took him a drink, and he asked me to stay. I sat beside him for an hour, and he won over a thousand dollars. When he was ready to leave, he gave me a hundred dollars! He said it was because I’d brought him luck.
April 7th. He came into the Rose again tonight and asked me to sit beside him. For luck, he said. He is a most Handsome man. And Kind. He treats me like I was a lady of quality. He won again tonight, and gave me another hundred dollars.
“Coffee?”
Shaye looked up, startled. “Yes, thank you.”
Clark handed her a mug, then sat down on the sofa. “Lose yourself in the Old West, did you?”
“Yes, I’m afraid so. How was Daisy killed?”
“She was shot in the head. They found her body in the bedroom of her house.”
Shaye took a sip of coffee, her gaze falling on the photo on the table. It was a strong handsome face, but it was his eyes that held her attention. They were vibrant and alive, even in a photograph that had been taken over a hundred years ago. Alejandro Valverde. “You said he swore he was innocent. Weren’t there any other suspects?”
“Dade McCrory was questioned.”
“McCrory?”
“He was Daisy’s partner in a saloon. In her diary, she mentioned that she thought McCrory was stealing from the till. Apparently, they had several fights about it.”
Shaye nodded. “Go on.”
“Like I said, McCrory was questioned, but according to an old newspaper article, he had an alibi.” Clark grunted. “Claimed he spent the night with one of the girls at the Rose. And the girl backed him up, swore he was there the whole night.”
“Why did they think Valverde did it?”
Clark blew out a deep breath. “He used to carry a hide-out gun. They found it beside her body.”
“What about fingerprints…oh, I guess they didn’t do that back then, did they?”
“No. Too bad.”
“Do you really think he was innocent?”
“I think he was capable of violence, but not murder.”
Shaye glanced at her watch. As much as she wanted to stay and hear more, as anxious as she was to read the rest of the diary, it was after nine, and she had a long drive ahead of her. “I’d best be going. Thank you so much for dinner, and everything.”
“It’s late,” Clark remarked. “Maybe you should spend the night. I hate to think of you bouncing over that road at this time of night.”
“Oh, no, I couldn’t.”
“I’d feel better if you did. My roommate’s on vacation. He won’t be back until next week. You can use his room.”
“Well…” It was tempting. She looked at her watch again. If she left now, she wouldn’t get to Reno before midnight. Besides, how many tourists had a chance to spend the night in Bodie?
“I wish you would. It’s a bad road. What if you got a flat? You wouldn’t want to be stuck out there in the middle of the night, would you?”
He had a point, she thought, but she really needed to be on her way. She was about to refuse when her glance fell on Valverde’s photograph. She didn’t really want to leave, she thought, at least not until she’d read the rest of Daisy’s diary. “I think I will stay. I’ll just run up to my car and get my overnight bag.”
“I’ll go with you.”
“That’s not necessary. I’ll be fine.”
“You’re sure?”
She laughed softly. “Of course.”
Some of Shaye’s confidence waned as she left the house behind. The town was dark, lit only by a full moon and a dark sky filled with glittering stars. She hadn’t realized how far away the Nolan House was from the parking area until she had to walk it in the dark.
She was a little breathless by the time she reached her car, which was the only one left in the lot. Unlocking the rear hatch, she grabbed her overnight bag which held her cosmetics and toothbrush, pulled a change of clothes, socks, underwear and her nightshirt out of her suitcase and jammed them into the overnight case, then closed and locked the door of the Rover.
She stood at the top of the path a moment, looking down at the sleeping town, trying to imagine what it would have looked like in its hay day, the streets crowded with wagons and people. A cold chill slid down her spine. In the drifting shadows of the night, it did, indeed, look like a town inhabited by ghosts. Wispy white clouds appeared over the hills, moving slowly across the indigo sky, playing peek-a-boo with the moon.
“There are no such things as ghosts, Shaye Montgomery,” she muttered. “No matter what you think you’ve seen, there are no such things as ghosts. Or goblins. Or things that go bump in the night.”
She repeated the words over and over again as she walked down the path and turned right on Green Street. Yet even as she told herself she didn’t believe, she knew in her heart of hearts that what she had seen was real.
A cool breeze seemed to follow her down the street, stirring small dust devils, carrying the echoes of voices long dead. The childish voice of the Angel of Bodie. The sultry laughter of the ladies of the evening, a slow deep voice that she knew was his.
She wanted to run, but something slowed her steps.
She passed the Methodist Church, and the notes of an old hymn seemed to whisper to the wind. She heard the clanging of a blacksmith’s hammer and the whinny of a horse as she passed the old barn; the ca-ching of a cash register as she neared the Boone Store; the faint sound of weeping as she passed the morgue; the ringing of a school bell, the sound of children reciting their lessons as she approached Main Street.
When she reached the schoolhouse, she glanced in the window, and the inside of the building seemed to light up. She could see two dozen boys and girls sitting at their desks, see the school teacher standing at the head of the classroom, a long pointer in her hand. She stared, transfixed, thinking it looked like a scene out of the Haunted Mansion at Disneyland.
What would she see if she went to the jail?
The soft summer breeze kissed her cheek as she reversed her direction. She turned right on Main Street, her steps quickening as she made her way through the darkness toward the jail.
As she passed the Kirkwood Stable, she caught the pungent odor of manure, the sweet scent of hay, and then she was standing in front of the jail, her body trembling, her heart pounding wildly.
Step by slow step, she moved closer to the iron-barred window. Took a deep breath. Looked inside.
In the flickering light of an oil lamp, she saw Alejandro Valverde stretched out on a narrow cot. One arm was folded behind his head, his ankles were crossed. A thin plume of smoke rose from the cigarette he held in his left hand. She glanced quickly around the room. There was a square table and two chairs in the opposite corner. A black coat was folded over the back of one of the chairs. She could hear snoring coming from the sheriff’s office adjacent to the jail.
Valverde took a deep drag on the cigarette. Sitting up, he dropped the butt on the floor, ground it out with his boot heel. He sat there a moment, and then he stood up and began to pace the floor, his long legs carrying him quickly from one side of the room to the other.
He didn’t look like a ghost at all. He had form and substance. She could smell the smoke from his cigarette, hear the sound of his footsteps as he paced the floor, see his shadow move across the wall.
Shaye watched as though mesmerized. She saw him so clearly. He wore black wool trousers, a white shirt, a black vest embroidered with tiny gold fleur de lis, black boots. The candlelight cast red highlights in his hair, which was long and black with no hint of a wave. His brows were straight, his nose was sharply defined, his jaw was firm and shadowed by the beginnings of a beard.
And his eyes were brown. A deep, dark brown. She saw them clearly when he came to stare out the window.
She started to back away, then realized there was nothing to fear. He couldn’t see her. She probably wasn’t really seeing him. It was probably just an illusion, or maybe she was dreaming. Of course, that was it. She wasn’t really here at all. She was asleep back in the Nolan House…
And then his gaze settled on her face and for one heart-stopping, soul-shattering moment, she would have sworn that Alejandro Valverde was alive, that he was looking at her, seeing her. He was close, so close she could see the tiny lines that fanned out around his eyes, the faint white scar near his hairline. So close.
Overcome by a sudden, inexplicable need to touch him, she lifted her hand, her heart pounding fiercely as she reached toward him…
And the moment was gone. The cell was dark and empty, and she was alone save for the sighing of the wind that had suddenly turned brisk and cold.
Hugging her overnight bag to her chest, she turned and ran down Main Street and didn’t stop running until she reached the Nolan House.
Clark was standing on the porch. “I was beginning to worry about you, “ he said.
“Hey, are you all right? You look like you’ve seen a…”
“A ghost? I have.” She moved past him into the house, stood shivering in the middle of the room, her overnight case clutched to her chest.
Clark shut and locked the door. He pried the bag from her arms, urged her to sit down on the sofa, draped a thick red wool blanket around her shoulders. He left the room for a moment, came back carrying a glass which he thrust into her hand. “Here, drink this.”
She took a sip, gasped as the liquid burned a path down her throat. “It’s whiskey!”
“Drink it,” he said. “All of it.”
She coughed, then drained the glass, grateful for the warmth that engulfed her.
“It was so real,” she said. “So real.”
Clark smiled sympathetically as he sat down at the opposite end of the sofa.
“Bodie has its share of ghost stories. Some of the workers have claimed to see lights going on and off in some of the buildings…”
“I did,” Shaye said, her voice rising with nervous excitement. “I saw lights tonight. In the schoolhouse.”
“Really? My roommate swears he heard piano music coming from the old Sawdust Corner Saloon last year, but no one I know has ever seen anything.”
“I heard music, too, coming from the church.”
Clark shook his head. “One of the park employees was living in the old Mendocini house a while back. He was having lasagna for dinner one night, disappointed because he hadn’t had any garlic. He said all of a sudden his eyes began to water and he started sneezing. He went outside for some fresh air, and when he went back inside, the whole house reeked of fresh-cut garlic.”
Shaye grinned, amused in spite of herself. “I’ve never believed in ghosts.”
“Until now?”
She couldn’t say it out loud. If she admitted it, it would make it true somehow. “I think I’d better get ready for bed.”
Clark nodded. “Sleep in, if you want. I don’t have to go in until ten tomorrow, so I’ll probably sleep late. If you get up before I do, help yourself to something to eat. There’s coffee in the cupboard.”
“Thank you.” She pointed to the diary on the table. “Is it all right if I finish reading that before I go to bed?”
“Sure.”
Picking up her overnight bag and the book, Shaye followed Clark down a narrow hall into a small square bedroom furnished with a double bed and a chest of drawers. There was a pair of well-worn sneakers in the corner; a Dodger baseball jacket hung from an old-fashioned brass hook on the back of the door.
“There’s an extra blanket on the shelf in the closet if you get cold.” Clark lifted his hand in a gesture that took in the whole room. “Make yourself at home. There’s plenty of hot water if you want to take a shower.”
“Thank you.”
“If I don’t see you in the morning, it was nice spending the evening with you.”
“Thank you. I enjoyed spending the evening with you, too. Goodnight, Clark.”
“Goodnight.”
Shaye closed the door behind him. With a sigh, she dropped her overnight case on the bed, popped the lid and took out her nightshirt and toothbrush. She felt a little self-conscious about taking a shower in the house of a man she had just met, but a hot shower was just what she needed to relax her.
She showered quickly, slipped into her nightshirt, brushed her teeth, and hurried back to her room. Closing the door, she picked up the diary and slipped into bed.
She turned the pages carefully, skimming over the entries, pausing to read whenever she saw Alejandro Valverde’s name. As the days went by, he was mentioned more and more frequently. Strangely, they were never intimate, yet Daisy’s feelings for him were obviously very deep. He continued to visit the Velvet Rose saloon and give her money, and in a short time, Daisy had saved enough to quit.
The entry for May 5th read: I can’t believe it. Rio and I are partners.
Our new saloon will open next week. We’re going to call it the Bodie Belle. Instead of being one of the girls, I will be the hostess. It’s like a dream come true. The only men I’ll have to share my bed with will be those of my Own choosing, and I won’t have to charge them. Best of all, I’ll get to see Alejandro every night. I love him so much. I wonder if he knows. I wish he felt the same…
The new saloon appeared to be a success. Of course, in a town of ten thousand, that was no surprise. Daisy talked of having money for the first time in her life, of ordering clothes from New York City and Paris, of trying to become a lady so Alejandro would notice her.
She had drawn flowers around the border of the page dated June 3rd. Today is my nineteenth birthday. The girls made me a cake. Celeste gave me some perfumed soap. It smells divine. Bethie gave me a silk kimono. But, best of all is the gold locket from Rio . Maybe he does care.
Nineteen, Shaye thought, and already a seasoned prostitute. She tried to imagine such a life, tried to imagine what it would have been like to work in a smoky saloon, to sell her body to any man who had the price. She remembered reading about some of the whores in one of the books she had bought. One, named Eleanor Dumont, had lived in Bodie. According to the book, she had been a pretty young French girl with a flare for gambling. Female gamblers had been rare in those days, and the men had been fascinated by her. She had spent twenty years following gold strikes from Idaho to South Dakota. When her luck was bad, she turned to prostitution. As she grew older, Dumont was dubbed Madame Moustache due to a thin line of dark hair above her upper lip. In 1879, Dumont was residing in Bodie. In September of that year, she borrowed three hundred dollars, which she lost gambling. Leaving town on foot, she went out into the desert and swallowed poison. She was buried in the outcast cemetery in an unmarked grave.
There were others: French Joe, Nellie Monroe, Emma Goldsmith. And Lottie Johl, who had once been a whore, but gained respectability with her painting, and by marrying the local butcher.
Shaye glanced at her watch. It was after midnight. One more entry, she thought, one more page. But she couldn’t stop reading.
In July, Daisy bought a house, and for the next month, most of the entries were about the house and the fun she had furnishing it.
But, mostly, Daisy wrote about Alejandro. It reminded Shaye of her own first schoolgirl crush, of the diary she had kept, when every entry was about Steve Adams and how cute he was. Shaye had written practically every word he had said to her, what he wore to school, how jealous she was when he ate lunch with Sherri Bensal. Daisy had recorded the same kinds of things about Alejandro, and Shaye realized that for all Daisy’s “experience” with men, she was very naïve and very innocent.
In early August, jealousy reared its ugly head. Alejandro hired a new girl to work in the saloon. An entry dated October 8th read: I hate her! Why doesn’t he look at me the way he looks at Maddy Brown?
Shaye sighed as she read on. Every entry was tinged with jealousy. Some of the pages were tear-stained, the words blurred and illegible.
She read on, unable to stop. There were fights and harsh words through a long cold winter. It culminated in mid-December. The entry for the fifteenth was stained with tears: Rio told me today that he sold his half of the Belle to Dade McCrory. I can’t believe he would do such a thing without discussing it with me first. He said he doesn’t like owning a saloon, that it involves too much responsibility. He said he talked to Rojas over at the Queen of Bodie, and he’s going to start dealing there tomorrow night. Well, he can just take Maddy Brown with him, because tomorrow she’ll be out of a job! Maybe I’m being too hasty. If I keep Maddy here, maybe he’ll come back to see her…
The next few pages were tear-stained, filled with the pain and heartache that only the very young can feel.
The entry for January 1, 1880, read: A New Year. I wonder what it will hold for me.
The entry for January 31 was only four words that conveyed a world of sadness: Will winter never end?
Shaye quickly read the succeeding entries, which talked about Daisy’s new partner. As Clark had said, Daisy wrote that she was certain McCrory was skimming the profits. In February, she started drinking with the customers, something she had apparently never done before. By March, she had graduated to whiskey. In April, she was taking men to her bed again, sometimes for money, sometimes for “love”. In May and June, there were more references to McCrory.
It was in June that she found the nerve to confront McCrory. The entry for the seventh read: “He can deny it all he likes, but I know he is Stealing money from the cash drawer. We have more customers than ever and should be making a bigger profit. Dade said it was my fault, that I was drinking up our profits. The Bastard. I told him if it didn’t stop, I was going to ask Rio for help.”
June 20. I went to see Rio this morning. I wore my new dress. I didn’t have anything to drink last night. I was very nervous about seeing him again, but he was very Kind and Gentlemanly. I told him that I was sure Dade is cheating me, and he said he would have a talk with Dade. He said he was sorry things hadn’t worked out better with Dade, and that he would take care of everything. And then he told me how pretty I looked, and I threw myself in his arms and told him I loved him. I begged him to come back to the saloon, to give me another chance. He smiled down at me, not with love, but with Pity in his eyes. How could I have done such a thing? I have never been so mortified in my Life.
There were several other entries. She mentioned a new shipment of crystal glasses from New York City, a letter from her sister informing her that her mother had died.
The entry for thirtieth took Shaye completely by surprise. I can’t believe it! Dade asked me to Marry him! He went down on his knee and declared he loved me. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. I told him I couldn’t marry him, that I didn’t love him. He told me I was a fool, that Rio would never marry a girl like me, and stormed out of the house.
And then, abruptly, the entries stopped. The last one, dated July 4, 1880, read: I can’t stop loving him, but I know he will never love me. I don’t want to go on living without him…
With a sigh, Shaye closed the diary and put in on the table beside the bed, then turned out the light. She couldn’t think of any reason why Valverde would have killed Daisy. McCrory seemed to be the only one with a motive.
Slipping under the covers, she closed her eyes. Love, she thought. Was there really such a thing? And did it ever last?