South Texas
May 1858
At the coachman’s whoa, Lily Kimball prepared for the worst. She wedged her leg against the opposite seat and flung her arm across Martha Phipps’s torso to prevent the dozing older woman from tumbling across the stagecoach. “Brace yourself!”
Lily’s younger sister, Delia, gripped the coach door. The whole, hot, miserable ride from Corpus Christi, the driver had demonstrated competence with but two speeds, breakneck and stop. When he yelled whoa, the coach wouldn’t so much slow as it would lurch to an abrupt halt.
Poor horses. Lily didn’t have to know a thing about the beasts to pity them.
The rapid slowdown hurled the ladies forward then back, pinching Lily’s neck. At least it was over fast. She removed her protective arm from Mrs. Phipps.
The older woman blinked into consciousness. “What did you say, dear?”
Lily patted their chaperone’s bony arm. “Just to brace ourselves, ma’am.”
“Why?” Her dry mouth smacked. “We aren’t even moving.”
Indeed they were not. Now.
But Lily and Delia required buttressing of a different sort, because their final destination of Wildrye, Texas, waited outside the coach. The Kimball girls were about to become Ma’s worst nightmare, and if that didn’t require a body to brace herself, nothing did.
Sorry, Ma. But you died and left me and Delia alone, with nobody to watch over us. Not even God. We do what we have to do.
“Lily?” Delia’s whisper sounded like a child’s. “What if Mrs. Phipps is wrong, and—”
“We are singing and nothing more. Temporary degradation.” But her fingers snaked into her pocket, anyway, to finger the brass token she kept to remind her of her goal. “We’ll be gone faster than a cat can lick its ear.”
Delia nodded, but her face was as pale as her white-blond hair. All wide-eyed like that, she didn’t even look her eighteen years.
With a quick tug, Lily adjusted the yellow ribbon tying the straw bonnet under Delia’s chin. Then she patted her own temples to feel for her bonnet’s rose embellishments. If the cream clusters were square above her ears, her crimson corduroy hat must be on straight, even after that jerky stop.
As for the rest of her, well, there was nothing she could do about the grime caking her red plaid ensemble or the perspiration dampening her from brow to boot. Although she shouldn’t care about making a fine impression on a gaggle of drunken saloon layabouts. And drunk they would be, despite what Mrs. Phipps insisted about her estimable nephew.
No, she and Delia—and Uncle Uriah—knew what sort of saloon Jackson Bridge ran. But Lily and Delia lacked the heart to enlighten Mrs. Phipps. In mere moments, their chaperone would learn Jackson Bridge peddled whiskey, and it would break the poor dear’s heart.
She wasn’t inclined to like Mr. Bridge, for his occupation and for deceiving his aunt Martha. But he was her employer, and she needed the job. So when the coach door swung open, Lily ignored the thudding of her pulse in her ears, mustered a smile, and prepared to step out.
A hand reached for hers. A large hand, too young and clean to belong to the grizzled coachman. “Miss?”
Nice to know someone in Wildrye was polite. Giving her hand to the tall figure clad in a brown coat, she looked up to behold a pleasing, square-jawed face framed by dark brown curls and a wide hat brim. And she gaped.
“Miss?” His cocoa-brown eyes narrowed in concern.
Never before had Lily been so grateful for the privacy of her own thoughts, because she liked him looking at her, and she liked his strong hand under hers. Which was nonsense.
She must be overtired, indeed. “Sorry. Thank you.”
If she’d imagined he was anything more than polite, she stood corrected, for the instant her boots touched the ground, his hand let go and his attention returned to the coach.
Delia received the same courtesy and baritone “Miss” from him. But other tenor and bass greetings of “miss” and “ma’am” competed in a chorus behind her. Lily turned.
A dozen men gathered, doffing hats and nudging one another in the ribs. A few broad smiles revealed stained or missing teeth. A lanky fellow expectorated into his hand and used it to slick back his stringy orange hair.
“Gal folks,” somebody said in an awed hush.
Delia gripped Lily’s hand. “Who are they?”
“Customers.” Mercy, her voice was as tight as a toad’s when the lake went dry.
So many men. Looking at her with expectation and appreciation. Maybe she couldn’t do this after all. Lily spun back to the coach. “Mrs. Phipps?”
The tall man in the coat guided their chaperone from the coach, his hand beneath hers. Mrs. Phipps’s free hand fluttered as words spilled over her lips, one over another in excitement over her estimable nephew, no doubt. But if the frail woman didn’t mind her feet, she could miss the coach step and—
Mrs. Phipps lunged forward. Lily reached out, but the man caught the older woman to his chest. With a quick shift, he hoisted her into his arms. The poor lady didn’t have the wherewithal to protest.
Or do anything. She’d fainted.
“She’s overheated. She needs shade.” Lily pointed to the row of plain storefronts behind the group of bystanders. “And water. And Mr. Bridge.”
“Don’t fret. I’ve got her.” The man in the coat brushed past her as if Mrs. Phipps weighed no more than the clothes on her back. The crowd parted from him like hair to a comb, allowing him to settle Mrs. Phipps on a plank bench against the storefront.
Lily tugged a paper fan from her bag and waved it in front of Mrs. Phipps’s heavy-lidded eyes. “She’ll be fine in a minute. None of us are accustomed to this heat, but my sister and I have it in hand now.” To prove the point, she handed the fan to Delia so she could face the onlookers. “May I trouble someone for water?”
Three fellows jostled to comply, including the redheaded chap who’d used spittle as hair unguent. Lily shuddered. She’d not care to take a cup from his unwashed hand.
Best try to rouse the lady before the water arrived. Lily bent to the unresponsive woman and slipped the reticule from her wrist.
“I’m not sure you should be rifling through her bag like that.” The man in the coat watched her with narrowed eyes, as if he expected her to steal from it. Who was he, the sheriff?
She held up the filigreed vinaigrette. “Smelling salts. She’s needed them several times since we left Massachusetts.”
“You’ve been with her this whole way?”
As she waved the vinaigrette under Mrs. Phipps’s nose, the pungent ammonia odor of hartshorn stung her eyes. “Yes. We—”
The older woman roused, blinking and smacking as if she’d had a pleasant nap.
The coated man was even more handsome smiling than he was when serious. “Mornin’, Aunt Martha.”
The blood drained from Lily’s head. This was Jackson Bridge? Handsome, polite—and her boss. He didn’t look like a saloon owner, although, to be fair, she’d never met one. But this fellow’s neck and hands were sunbrowned, indicating he didn’t spend much time indoors, much less pouring whiskey or counting coins.
The fellows who’d run for water returned with a glass so full, liquid sloshed over the side. Lily took the slippery-wet cup and held it to Mrs. Phipps’s mouth. “Drink it all, ma’am.”
Mrs. Phipps took a delicate sip but no more.
“Better now?” Mr. Bridge’s hand cupped his aunt’s shoulder.
“My, yes. The sun blinded me a moment, ’tis all.”
A bundle of pink froth and dark brown hair barreled into Mr. Bridge’s side. “Pa, are they here?”
So this was the motherless child Mrs. Phipps spoke of. Lily wasn’t sure what sort of father a saloon owner would make, but this one seemed genuine in his affections when he lifted the girl into his arms. “That’s no way to greet Aunt Martha, Georgie. Say hello, proper like.”
“Hello.” The girl grinned, revealing tiny teeth. “Where are they?”
“What a precocious child.” Mrs. Phipps blinked. “Greetings, Georgia. They are right here, as you can see.”
Georgia craned her neck, in search of whatever they were, as a sandy-haired young fellow in a blue plaid shirt pushed through the crowd. “Sorry, Jack, she got away. Oh.” Catching sight of Delia, his eyes grew wide as flapjacks. “Howdy, miss.”
Delia flushed a becoming shade. “Good day.”
“Martha Phipps, meet Fred Davis, my friend and part owner of Bridge Ranch.” Mr. Bridge turned to Lily. “And these are, er—”
“The Kimball sisters.” Lily stepped forward, her stomach swooping now that the dreaded moment had arrived. But the sooner she and Delia began earning coins, the sooner they could exit this town and find honorable employment. Swallowing her pride and a mouthful of dust, she looked Mr. Bridge in the eye. “We appreciate the opportunity to work at your saloon, sir.”
He didn’t blink. “I’m sorry, you’re who?”
Mrs. Phipps stood with a harrumph. “The women you asked for, of course. Close your mouth, Jackson. You are making a horrid first impression.”
Jackson shut his mouth, all right, biting back the first words on his tongue.
He’d asked for books. And trifles for Georgie. But women? Never. Yet here were two, their gaping jaws seemingly held in place by the red and yellow bows of their bonnets. “I didn’t ask for women.”
“Yes, in your letter.” Miss Red Kimball lowered her head like a challenged buck. “Red and yellow headed with the ability to sing.”
“But brown headed would do,” Aunt Martha added. “Not that it was necessary. They have what you requested. Hair the hues of their bonnets. Songbirds for your saloon.”
Oh no.
“Saloon,” Georgie echoed.
It was too late to cover her ears, so Jackson slid his daughter to the ground so she could get distracted. Find a bug or something to play with. She shouldn’t hear this.
“I said I had a salon. A parlor. In my house. And I wanted two canaries, not crooners.”
Aunt Martha blinked. Miss Yellow’s lips quivered. Miss Red smiled, a becoming but confusing response. “Oh, Uncle Uriah.”
“There’s no birdies for my cage?” Georgie scowled.
His hand landed atop her pink calico bonnet. “No, sweetheart.”
Georgie sucked in her breath and issued a wail so high-pitched it could peel layers of bone from his teeth. Miss Yellow joined her in the tears, and Fred’s paw thumped the gal’s shoulder in a comforting pat. Aunt Martha, too, was misty-eyed, already arguing with him without pausing to breathe. “This is not my fault. You said songbirds. And saloon. Look what trouble your poor penmanship has wrought.”
“Lookee that.” A ne’er-do-well from the crowd hooted. “Bridge done made three gals cry, and it’s not yet suppertime.”
And him with but one handkerchief. He pressed it into Aunt Martha’s hand. Georgie wiped her face on his britches. Miss Yellow dabbed her eyes with Fred’s huge red bandanna.
But Miss Red didn’t weep. Her blue eyes crinkled in amusement. Then she sighed, and the look was replaced with resolve. Like she was used to disappointment. Pity stirred in Jackson’s gut when she brushed her hands, as if wiping off the dust of the entire debacle.
“Come, Delia.” Her voice rose above the noise of the other three tearful females. “We’ve arrangements to make.”
As she spoke, the stagecoach driver shouted farewell. Jackson waved his arm to forestall the coach, but the horses bolted down Front Street like their tails were singed.
His arm fell along with any sense of hope he had of speedily getting out of this mess. Without the coach, the womenfolk couldn’t leave Wildrye.
Thank heaven they weren’t his responsibility.