Las Vegas, New Mexico, February 1879
I opened my eyes, but it was just as dark as when they’d been closed, which was a little disconcerting. I lifted my hand and wiggled my fingers, but I saw nothing in the inky blackness. I felt like a blind thing struggling towards the light of redemption. Doc’s breath, labored, stirred my hair against the pillow. I smoothed his hair from his forehead and let my hand fall gently back to my side. Morning came late in Las Vegas in winter.
The constant drip of the icicles outside our window woke me again, and I opened my eyes in the gray light that signaled morning. Doc was sitting at the table across the room, pouring coffee from a silver pot. As he saw me lift my head, he poured a second cup into the sturdy mug on the tray. The air was warming from the fire crackling in the stone fireplace.
“Morning, darlin’.”
I pushed back the quilt. “And to you, my dear. You’re up early today. Feeling better?”
“Measurably.” He coughed, but it ended fairly quickly, and he took a sip of coffee and smiled. “ ’Course, that’s a relative thing lately. Meanin’ they should put down the shovels, because I’ve outfoxed the reaper for another day. To be completely honest, though, I do feel some better today.”
I sat down beside him, cradling the coffee mug in one hand and clasping his in the other. I took a sip and felt the warmth glide down inside my chest.
“I’m glad, Doc,” I said. “It’s been a rough few days, and this time I was really worried.”
“Hadn’t been for your lovin’ ministrations, Kate, I might not be havin’ coffee right now.”
He put down his cup, reached over and gently put down mine, and gathered me into his arms.
“You are my balm of Gilead, my dear, she who keeps me whole through the thorny trials of life.” He kissed my temple and looked down on me. “I swear I don’t know how you put up with me, but I’m damned glad you do.”
My arms crept around him, loving the familiar warmth of his thin frame. Sometimes I didn’t know why I stayed with him either, but all I knew was that this half-crazy, dangerous man was my destiny, and he was my other half that made me complete. He didn’t have the boyish wonder of Silas, the handsome glamour of Jack, nor the compelling fierceness of Wyatt, but Doc had infected me with real magic—his crooked grin, quick wit, and Southern charm, and besides, who else of my acquaintance could converse with me in French, discuss Aristotle, debate the merits of Shakespeare, or make love to me as though it were an apocalyptic event? Nothing in this life or the next was likely to match that.
Las Vegas hadn’t been especially kind to us. We had come overland on the stage from Trinidad, which was as far as the railroad had been laid. After that, the bone-jarring stagecoach ride on stony mountain roads fair rattled my teeth out of my head. The town was quaint, as frontier towns went, trying hard to make a life for itself. Many Spanish families had settled here, with extensive ranches around the area, and the charming adobe and brick buildings were laid out in a pleasing landscape. There was a hotel, a boardinghouse or two, quite a few stores, a livery, a few saloons, a church, and even a bank, along with a populace determined to make it a destination. That wasn’t what we’d come for, though. We’d come for the climate, or so we’d been advised. Las Vegas was high and dry, with clean, crisp air—the ideal spot for anyone with tuberculosis. It was a place of healing, promise, and benediction. So they said, and so it was for the first month or two.
We’d found a cozy cabin near town and had settled in, fixing it up with furniture and supplies. The late autumn was beautiful, the aspens golden in the sunlight. We loved sitting out on the porch, watching the sunset and breathing the air that tasted of pine and hopefulness. Doc was better after we’d been there just two weeks. His eyes were clear, and and he was taking a full breath for the first time in many weeks, the taint of Dodge City working its way out of his system. We’d brought Rula and Doc’s horse, Hercules, on our journey, and every afternoon we rode out, coming home to our cabin and settling the horses in their stable beside it.
Then, just before Thanksgiving, winter hit, and it was the winter of nightmares. I’d never lived at high altitude before, nor known the kind of snow that could come with it. At first the locals said it was just a storm or two and would pass, like it always did. But the blizzards just kept coming, and Christmas became a frozen concept that nobody could get out to celebrate. We were lucky to just have enough food and firewood to keep going. It was the worst winter anyone in Las Vegas could remember, even the old Navajo women who shook their heads and spit their tobacco juice into the snowbanks.
Although doing better at first, Doc grew worse as the weather fell upon us with all its fury. For the last month, caring for him had been up to me. The doctor in Las Vegas was little better than a novice at his trade and certainly not up to the task of dealing with Doc and his illness. I’d brewed tea, made tisanes, applied chest poultices, but finally resorted to Indian herbs and remedies offered by the squaws in town—most of which turned out to be the best medicine we’d found yet for lung ailments. I had no prejudices about the native people, knowing full well that the people who lived in a geographic area, whether it was the Walesians, the Viennese, or the Navajo, knew what they were about when it came to treating the illnesses of their own areas, including the city people who came to them for a cure. The Indians of the American Southwest were no different, and they became the practitioners of healing I could rely on, rather than some ill-trained idiot from Massachusetts who didn’t know the difference between tuberculosis and a chest cold.
Two weeks ago I thought Doc had breathed his last, but after taking the local herbs and tea I’d brewed, he pulled through. This morning, for the first time since, he was out of bed and looking as though he’d live.
After finishing my first cup of coffee, I was awake enough to really register the drips outside our window. I pulled back the curtains and hauled up the window frame. The air was still cold, but not freezing, and the ice that had covered everything for weeks was gone, while the sun warmed the frozen landscape. A couple of kids wandered down the road in front of our cabin, a dog following them, the snow slushy in their footsteps.
“Doc.”
He joined me at the window, his arm snaking around my waist and his mustache tickling my neck as he kissed me.
“Darlin’, it looks like we’re in for a thaw. A life-savin’ one at that.”
“Since you’re feeling so well,” I said, sliding my hands under his bathrobe and onto his bare chest, “maybe some mild exercise couldn’t hurt. You need to make sure your muscles don’t atrophy with all this snow and altitude. Keep the blood pumping, so to speak.”
He kissed me, the taste of coffee and desire on his tongue, and so it was we missed the brief February thaw.
Real spring was a long time coming to Las Vegas. Blizzards came back, and once they stopped, the entire town was awash with floods and mud instead of daffodils and new hope. I’d never seen anything like this and apparently neither had the long-term residents of the town. I trudged, slipped, and fell on my way into town and the general store, arriving home muddied and angry, clutching the sacks full of groceries I’d managed to glean from Mr. Toravason.
Doc’s cough returned in full glory—without the fevers and sweats, but still he wasn’t doing as well as I hoped. From what I had learned from the Indian women, dry and clean air was a good thing, but the altitude itself was not, especially for someone who was gasping for oxygen. Every time the women came by and heard Doc cough, they kept pointing downward and shaking their heads. It made sense from not only a native perspective, but from scientific and common knowledge. There was simply less oxygen at altitude. Why did doctors think this was a good thing for tubercular patients? I was starting to think doctors didn’t know shit from snake oil.
On top of that, our stake was getting low. We hadn’t been able to ply our trades in Las Vegas since we’d arrived, between Doc’s illness and the godforsaken weather. True, spring was in the air, but it was bringing the need for serious change along with warmer temperatures. If we didn’t do something fast, we’d be stuck penniless in this town on top of the world with no way to get out of it.
Bat’s telegram was the incentive we both needed. It seemed there was a railroad war going on, and Bat needed all the best gun hands he could find, with the promise of hefty remuneration if the right side won—the right side being Bat’s, of course. I didn’t pay much attention at first, but Doc was all afire. Within two days, I was kissing him good-bye as he boarded the stage for Trinidad. He was still frail, but the color in his cheeks was the good kind, and I hoped that his longing for action would heal him more than sipping tea and gambling ever could. There was no stopping him anyway, once he had the bit in his teeth, and if I hadn’t learned that fact in loving Doc, I never would have lasted this long with him.
“I’ll be back in no time, sugar. With Bat in charge of this thing, we’ll take them down fast.”
He didn’t care who was fighting whom, and, frankly, neither did I at that point. He was right; Bat would most likely figure the right side of it all, and, as little as the two of them liked each other, they were and always would be comrades in arms who had a history and trust that transcended all other issues. That was the way of things on the frontier, I’d come to learn. There were a lot of people out here, but few who had honor, were trustworthy, and knew how to stand up for themselves amid a sometimes wavering sense of justice. They all knew each other and called on each other when needed. I had no doubt Wyatt and his brothers were involved as well, and I had no worries about that either. Those were men I could trust to make sure Doc came back to me, and there were none better to have his back, as he’d done for them before.
I kissed him soundly and clung to him for only a brief moment, sensing his urgency to board the stage and leave this winter of pain and weakness behind him.
“I love you, Doc. Don’t do anything too rash.”
He gazed down at me, sandy hair falling on his forehead, blue eyes bright, and mouth in the sardonic twist I knew well.
“Kate darlin’, I’ll be back with you before you know it. Set Las Vegas on its ear while I’m gone, and we’ll take it over when I get back. Guaranteed.”
Charlie Ross pulled out a chair at my table and sat down with a satisfied sigh, coffee in hand. He watched as I licked powdered sugar from my fingertips, and we both laughed.
“I can’t resist,” I said. “Those are the best beignets I’ve had since New Orleans.”
Charlie’s eyebrows rose, and I laughed again. “Well, all right, maybe the only beignets I’ve had since New Orleans, but they’re damn good.”
“I know it,” he said, but this time his sigh wasn’t satisfied. “Trouble is, that’s pretty much all Andre will cook—pastries and bread. Not that they aren’t good, but on top of that, he doesn’t understand much English. Since Anna left, I’ve been spending nearly all my time in the kitchen, and I can’t keep doing that and run this whole place, too.”
Charlie’s Plaza House, a restaurant and small hotel in the heart of Las Vegas, was a gem. I had rented one of those six rooms, moving into town when Doc left. The food was wonderful, the rooms tasteful and clean, and the hotel was close to Downey’s saloon, where I was dealing in the evenings. Life in Las Vegas was calm and, for the moment, secure, and I found myself actually enjoying being on my own. Much as I loved Doc, last winter wasn’t one I wanted to repeat.
I put down my napkin and had started to rise when a hand on my shoulder pushed me back down into my chair. Startled, I bit back my angry question when I saw the badge of Sheriff Johnson six inches from my nose.
“Kate Haroney?”
“Yes.”
He threw some papers on the table. Charlie was frozen where he sat, hand on his coffee cup. I raised my eyes to the sheriff’s glare. “Technically, you’re under arrest for violating the gambling laws of Las Vegas. There’s a twenty-five-dollar fine, and if you can’t pay it, I’m going to have to take you across the street.”
I opened my mouth to protest, and he slammed his meaty palm down on the papers. “No sense in lying. We’ve got witnesses, and we don’t want any trouble around here with your kind.”
Anger sizzled in my veins, and I wanted nothing more than to slap his face. Doc had warned me that Las Vegas, like many towns in the West, had an ordinance against gambling, but no one took it seriously, as card games went on all the time in the back rooms of all the saloons in town. I guess somebody had lost too much money or didn’t like the way I dealt and took it upon themselves to make sure I wasn’t able to do it anymore. I took a deep breath.
“Sheriff. I assure you I was unaware I was in violation of any law and am most deeply regretful that I have broken one in my ignorance. When and where can I pay this fine? Would right now do?”
Sheriff Johnson stepped back and, thankfully, took his hand off my shoulder, as I don’t think I could have stood it a moment more. Charlie was clearly enjoying this by now and took a sip of coffee, his smile mostly covered by the rim of the cup. I shot him a glance, and he winked.
The sheriff conceded that now would be fine.
I dug into my reticule and laid the money down on top of the papers on the table. He snatched it up like it was gold dust, stuffing the money and the papers into his pocket, and turned to go.
“Sheriff.”
He glanced back at me, clearly surprised I had anything to say.
“Do I get a receipt?”
He frowned and looked at Charlie. “He’ll do. He’s a witness, right, Ross?”
Charlie nodded solemnly, and Johnson turned on his heel, slamming the door behind him.
I picked up the last beignet. I took a bite, and the powdered sugar exploded on my tongue. At least one thing was still good about the morning. We sat in silence for a time.
“Apparently I’ve lost my job,” I said, chewing reflectively on my beignet.
Charlie took another sip of his coffee, eyeing me over the rim of his large cup. “Can you cook, Kate?”
“Well, you know, Charlie, yes, I can. I’ve never done it for more than ten people or so, but I think I could manage more.”
Charlie laughed and stood up, untied his white apron, and handed it to me. “Well, girl, I think you just got a new job, if you’re game. You don’t, by any chance, speak French, do you?”
“As a matter of fact, I do.” I smiled, and I knew Charlie wasn’t at all surprised. This was a fortunate turn of events for him, all things considered.
“Well, then. Lunch time’ll be here soon. Let’s see what you can do.”
I took off my apron and headed outside for some air. Breakfast at the Plaza, light on eggs, pancakes, and bacon, and heavy on Andre’s heavenly beignets and croissants, was over for another day. I’d been head cook, or “chef ” according to Andre, for some months now, and I found, much to my surprise, that I loved it and was damned good at it, too. Andre was much more than a baker, and once he had someone to communicate with, we had made the Plaza’s restaurant into the best in town, replete with more than pastries. Our coq au vin, beef bourguignon, and Andre’s Languedoc stews were legendary, as was my humble chicken fricassee and other recipes from my Iowa days. We spent hours poring over Andre’s spattered, old French cookbook and coming up with new dishes nightly for the uninitiated citizens of Las Vegas. There was something wonderful about creating culinary delights that fascinated me, and it made my imagination soar like it hadn’t since my time in New Orleans with Jack. Quite a few of the railroad people had sampled our food and had been impressed—even the hard cases from back East.
I woke early this morning in Room Six of the Plaza Hotel and found I was happy, oddly enough. It made me smile, and I was content to rise with the sun and begin my day. I felt good, my head and eyes clear, and I was eager to see what the day would bring; today promised to be quite a day for Las Vegas. The railroad was scheduled to arrive for the first time at two o’clock this afternoon, the fourth of July, 1879.
Las Vegas had discovered late, however, that the Atcheson, Topeka, and the Santa Fe wasn’t exactly pulling into the middle of town. It turns out the tracks and depot itself were on the other side of the river, nearly a half mile from the town center.
Last night our staff had set up two huge tents across the river, right beside the depot itself, one for diners and one as a makeshift kitchen. We were roasting a hundred chickens, just as many steaks, and fifty racks of ribs in preparation for this auspicious day. Las Vegas and most of its citizens had been in a frenzy ever since the announcement of the July fourth railroad arrival. I had to admit this was a historic moment, and, even though I knew more than most about the problems railroads could bring, I was excited about it. I knew it wouldn’t take long for the other side of the river to become a hotbed of saloons, restaurants, and God knows what else. They built things fast out here.
I had just lit a cigarillo and plopped down on an empty crate when Andre pulled up with the wagon. We had brought wagon-load after wagonload of tablecloths, furniture, cutlery, and china—not to mention food—over to the depot this morning.
“Katee, more sauce, s’il vous plaît,” he said, his long blond hair flying out of the rawhide tie at the base of his neck. Andre was a slender man, so French that I sometimes wondered how he’d managed to survive and get this far west from New Orleans, his first stop after Paris. “We cannot make the sauce over there. Too primitif.”
“Andre, sweetheart, we’ve got plenty of time. Don’t fret,” I said. He stopped only when I firmly put my hand on his arm.
“Ma chère, it’s only eleven o’clock. I have two huge buckets of barbecue sauce ready for you. Those chickens and my sauce will be stone cold by two o’clock if you don’t slow down. Here, have a smoke.”
He sighed and took the cigarillo I held out.
“Oui, oui,” he said. He sat down beside me, blowing out smoke, shooting me his sweet smile, and relaxing for the first time today. He was just a kid, maybe twenty-two, and I knew he wouldn’t be around for long, especially after the railroad came. Someone with his talent in the kitchen was destined for San Francisco, or even New York, even though he didn’t know it. Andre’s passion was food, and that passion would lead him to much bigger venues than Las Vegas, New Mexico, and my rudimentary assistance with American-style dishes. In a way I envied him, because Andre had a path, and I knew that as surely as I knew I had none.
Cooking had given me back a dimension of myself I wasn’t entirely comfortable with, bringing back memories of the Smiths, but in spite of the satisfaction, I knew it wasn’t something I’d want to do forever. I smiled at Andre and patted his shoulder. We were good for each other, and both of us had learned a great deal.
“I’ll get the sauce. You stay here,” I said, my voice firm, and he nodded. “I’ll handle whatever else you need, as well as the desserts, just like we planned. Send Manuel and Jimmy for them around one. We need you to stay focused and calm.”
He nodded again, only understanding half my words, but fully grasping my intent. Most of the time we didn’t speak French because he was working diligently on his English, and, except for recipes, I did my utmost to ensure he’d learn it. Trial by fire was the surest teacher, I’d found.
I headed back into the kitchen, where things were under control. The girls were making salads, biscuits, and beans. This was no day for French specialties, but western fare and only the most expected and delectable. Cat-head biscuits and barbecued beans went with everything, and that was what our esteemed guests wanted with barbecue—along with strawberry shortcake made with berries I’d gotten from Mexico. I headed towards the dining room, empty now of diners and half the furniture gone.
“Wipe those glasses. I see spots!” Charlie yelled at the hapless young waiter who was closest. “We can’t have spots, for God’s sake. Not today!”
I put my hand on his shoulder, as I had with Andre. “Charlie, nobody’s going to see them until tomorrow, anyway.”
His head whipped around, and he stopped short. “Kate, it’s a nightmare. They’re going to think we’re a bunch of hicks.”
I laughed. “Charlie, we are a bunch of hicks, if you compare us to New York and Chicago. Darling, that’s just what they’re expecting. Our food, on the other hand, will be fabulous, as will the presentation. Everything’s going well over at the depot. Maybe it’s time you headed over there, just to ease your mind. Take Andre with you, and I’ll be along.”
He visibly relaxed, his shoulder easing under my hand, and turned to me, his face expectant. “You think so, really?”
“Really.” I nodded at the waiters and drew Charlie with me to the bar. “It’ll be fine. You hired me to run the kitchen, as well as the dining room. Trust me. Have I ever let you down?”
I poured him a stiff whiskey and watched as he swallowed it, relaxing even more.
“No, Kate, you haven’t.” He looked at me, and he seemed to believe it. I poured myself one, too, and felt the better for it.
“All right, then. Go on over there.”
Charlie slid off the barstool and walked towards the door, his portly frame outlined in the bright sunlight pouring through the windows. He turned back to me as he reached the doorframe, grinning, and I smiled back. It was going to be a red-letter day for Las Vegas, and I was going to make sure it was one for the Plaza Hotel as well.
I rode Rula over the bridge after I’d sent the last wagon of food away. It looked like the Second Coming here, with people lined up six deep around the depot. I couldn’t imagine where they’d all come from. Cowboys, ranchers and their wives, gamblers, bar girls, railroad men, townfolk, Indians, and some I couldn’t categorize—all were waiting for the train to arrive, with children running around them like small dogs herding cattle. Red, white, and blue bunting decorated the depot itself; a brass band of uncertain origin had materialized in the last half hour, playing alongside the mayor of Las Vegas and prominent citizens seated on a makeshift dais that had been erected seemingly overnight. People with parasols, hats, frilly dresses, and dust-free suits dug out of closets vied for a position as close as they could get to the tracks.
I tied up Rula behind the tents and tugged the strings of my apron-front tighter. I knew my worth was behind the scenes, at least until the festivities were over and everyone turned to the food and drink they were anticipating nearly as much as the train.
The magic hour approached, and, right on time, the rumble of the train itself was felt on the tracks, guided by those intrepid spirits who galloped in on horseback shouting its imminent arrival. Heads bobbed up and down with excitement, ladies’ parasols dipping and gentlemen’s hats in eager hands, ready to be thrown in celebration.
When the train pulled into the depot, the crowd exploded, trumpets blaring, hats flung to the wind, cheers heard and echoed from the mountaintops all around. Las Vegas was on the road to progress. Passengers and railroad executives stepped off and joined the crowd.
The mayor’s speech flowed over the dignitaries from the railroad as they paid obeisance to his words, and within moments of the last toot from the brass band, hordes of people made their way into the large tents of the Plaza Hotel. We were more than ready for the onslaught.
Our alfresco setup was quite charming: carpets laid over the ground, tablecloths fresh and white, and the crystal and silver gleaming. Before even the first fork was lifted, I looked at Charlie, and we both grinned. Our Great (impromptu) Railroad Picnic was a success. The champagne corks popped, and the toasts began. From railroad honchos to town fathers, everybody had what they wanted on this day.
The waiters were charming and helpful, and the diners enjoying themselves immensely. We sent some of the boys back to the hotel for more champagne and whiskey and the occasional request, but half an hour in, I knew all was well.
I wandered outside to get Rula and ride back to the hotel. Only a few children played in the dust beside the train, with a few curious adults checking out the engine and the massive wheels of this amazing machine. I inspected it as well, empty now of its crowd of people, its engine still puffing and cooling from the long ride of the day. There were at least ten passenger cars idling on the track, and, as I watched, a man, black suit elegant on his slender frame, stepped carefully down from the third car. This man was never in an ungentlemanly hurry. His long fingers pushed his hat back from his brow, and he stopped on the last step down from the train, his angular face curved into a smile.
“Darlin’. You didn’t think I’d miss this for the world, did you?”
Apron flapping, I ran to Doc like he was the best thing I’d seen in months, because he was. He laughed as I collided with him, and his arms hugged me so tight I thought I’d stop breathing. I kissed him all over his face until his lips found mine, and that lasted some time. He finally pulled back and looked at me, his eyes dancing.
“Like I said, you ready to take on Las Vegas, Kate?”