Lily surveyed the crowd of raggedy men. Half looked as if they had fleas, but they were her and Delia’s best hope. “Could I trouble a few of you to carry our trunks to the hotel? We’d be ever so grateful.”
Several pairs of hands gripped the trunks and valises on the street, even those belonging to Mrs. Phipps. Before Lily could direct them, Jackson Bridge handed his daughter to Mrs. Phipps and strode into the mix.
“Where do y’all think you’re taking those? Wildrye doesn’t have a hotel.”
Lily might cry after all.
“Oh yeah.” One man dropped his end of her trunk with a thump.
“Thought we’d take ’em to the White Ox.” Another fellow scratched his hindquarters. “They want to go to the saloon.”
“Saloon,” Georgie echoed as she played with the brooch at Mrs. Phipps’s throat.
Mrs. Phipps tugged the child’s hand from her neck. “Ladies do not repeat that vulgar word, Georgia.”
Even though, as Mrs. Phipps had insisted the entire way from Massachusetts, that vulgar word derived from the Italian, sala, and had been used for a hundred years to denote public gathering places? Lily laughed. Couldn’t help it. A few tears of mirth squeaked out of her eyes. Mr. Bridge’s gaze narrowed again.
At least they were free of Uncle Uriah.
“Miss?” Jackson Bridge peered down at her. My, he had nice eyes.
“I’ll take care o’ her.” A sweat-stenched fellow retrieved the trunk.
“I saw ’em first.” The itchy man shoved the other’s shoulder.
“Stop. Now.” Mr. Bridge’s voice rang with authority. The men dropped the trunks.
Dabbing her eyes with the back of her hand, Lily shrugged at Delia. “We might as well visit the, er, White Ox. The proprietor may want to hire us, and we must repay Mrs. Phipps before we leave town. If that is acceptable to you, ma’am?”
“It’s uncouth to speak of monetary matters in public.” Mrs. Phipps’s tone was as severe as her hold of little Georgie was awkward. “But as we are about to part company, I suppose we must forego propriety. Jackson promised to reimburse my travel expenses, as well as the songbirds’ expenses, so do not trouble yourself.”
But Mr. Bridge had meant he’d pay to ship birds, which cost pennies on the dollar compared to what it cost two women to travel by train, steamboat, and coach. He hadn’t anticipated such expenses. Lily would have to do the right thing and repay him. Somehow.
Not just for the travel costs. For the fee Uncle Uriah charged Mrs. Phipps, too, because an honorable fellow like Mr. Bridge would make sure he repaid his aunt that hefty sum. Lily’s innards sank to her toes.
Mr. Bridge stood among their trunks. His glare sent a few men scurrying like rodents, and she couldn’t help but be grateful for his imposing presence. She hadn’t felt protected too often in her life, but this was… nice.
I need a protector, God. Then she remembered He’d left her to fend for herself. Casting aside thoughts of Him, she approached Mr. Bridge. “Mrs. Phipps paid our travel expenses and such, expecting your reimbursement. It’s not your fault there was such a misunderstanding, so you shouldn’t be obliged to suffer. I’ll pay you what you’re paying her, so you come out even.”
He shook his head. “You mean travel costs? I say let’s call it even. I appreciate you keeping Aunt Martha company on the journey. Seems a fair trade.”
“Not just that, although your offer is generous.” And gallant. “The fee.”
“Fee?”
“Seventy-five apiece. You mentioned the amount in your letter.”
His broad shoulders shrugged. “Seventy-five cents? That’s nothing.”
Here we go again. “Dollars. Uncle Uriah convinced your aunt it was a brokering fee for our singing services. I tried to persuade them it was a mistake, but she can’t hear, he’s a greedy fool, and neither appreciated me interfering.”
His face turned red under his tan. “Never mind the money. Forget it.”
How wealthy was he, that such a loss wouldn’t decimate him? “I will not.” At his sigh, her hands fisted on her hips. “Is it because I’m a woman? I will earn it, I assure you.”
“No offense, but it’ll take years for you to earn a hundred and fifty dollars.”
Not if she could get to New Orleans or St. Louis. Why, Jenny Lind made that much performing on a single evening—
“Hey, Red Lady.” The man who’d spit in his hand pointed. “There’s Frank from the White Ox. He’ll hire you right quick.”
A mustachioed man ambled over from a storefront across the street, where two female faces appeared in the doorway. Even from this distance, bags were visible under their eyes. One half-dressed woman with mouse-brown hair stepped out onto the building’s narrow porch. A blotch darkened her arm. Bruise or shadow, Lily couldn’t tell.
She’d never seen a soiled dove before. Ma always told her not to look, but now she couldn’t tear her eyes away. Something about the thin woman’s haunted-looking eyes drew her.
Mr. Bridge stiffened as Frank approached, carrying the odor of tobacco on his person. “Welcome to Wildrye, ladies.”
“Th–thank you.” She couldn’t smile, even though this man owned the saloon and was her lone hope for employment.
“I hear you two fillies might be wantin’ jobs?”
“We sing.” Lily’s voice was steadier than her shaking legs.
“Miss Kimball.” Mr. Bridge’s warning tone sizzled her cheeks.
“I’d be happy to audition.” Anything to get the job. How else would she repay a staggering sum like a hundred and fifty dollars to Mr. Bridge? Her thoughts flew through the numerous musical compositions she’d memorized. What should she start with? Maybe a rousing Stephen Foster tune.
Frank laughed. “No need to demonstrate, songbirds. I’d love to hire y’all.”
Lily’s shoulders sagged with relief. “Thank you.”
“Thank you, missy. I can use more gals. But not the singin’ kind.” The meaning of his words curdled her stomach. “From where I’m standin’, you two don’t got much other choice. What say you?”
He waited, arms extended. For the moment, however, Lily was rendered speechless.
“Enough.” Jackson gripped Miss Red’s elbow and led her back toward her sister. The Kimball gals were foals compared to a wolf like Frank, and the thought of them in his employ twisted his guts into a honda loop. “You won’t be working for him.”
“Not that it’s your concern, but I wasn’t going to accept. My sister and I are not—that is to say, how insulting.”
She’d wanted a job in a saloon. What was he supposed to think?
“Is that a no?” Frank called after them.
“Yes,” Jackson said over his shoulder.
“No,” Miss Red said over hers.
They looked at each other. “Yes?” Her eyes narrowed.
“No. I mean, yes, the answer is no.” He wasn’t typically tongue-tied around females. Then again, he didn’t talk to too many, except for Georgie.
“And I meant no as my answer.” She shuddered. “Not that he deserved a response.”
“No decent female would want to work there.”
“Nobody wants to work there, Mr. Bridge, but some might not feel they have another choice.” With a gentle twist, she extricated herself from his light hold on her elbow.
Heat burned up the back of his neck. Who was this filly? She dressed and spoke like a lady, but she’d come to work in a saloon. Part of him wanted to figure her out, but she wouldn’t be in town long enough for that to happen. Just as well. He had two females to contend with now—Georgie and Aunt Martha—and they were enough.
Aunt Martha still sniveled. “This is not my fault. Even Mr. Beadle read saloon.”
“I know.” Miss Red patted her shoulder.
“You girls are so kind. I shall miss you when you go home.”
“Home?” Miss Red uttered the word as if it were foreign.
“We can’t afford to return.” Miss Yellow sniffed into Fred’s bandanna.
Jackson’s innards unlooped in his gut. Aunt Martha, however, smiled serenely. “Jackson will pay for the return trip.”
Money didn’t grow on mesquite. He removed his hat and ruffled his hair. “All talk of money aside, the stage won’t come in for two weeks. This isn’t a regular stop.”
Miss Red laughed. “Of course not. Well, we couldn’t leave anyway, not owing you so much money. We’ll find a way to repay you. Meantime, we need a place to stay. Since there’s no hotel, how about the jail?”
“We don’t have one yet. Nor do we have a church or any families who aren’t already stuffed to the chinks of their houses or down with measles.” He shut his eyes for a second, praying a familiar line. Not my will but Thine, Lord. “You’ll stay at Bridge Ranch with us.”
Georgie clapped. Miss Yellow beamed like sunshine. Aunt Martha blinked, as if not quite sure what just happened.
Miss Red, of course, scowled. “I don’t think so.”
“You want to pitch a tent in town?” He beckoned to Fred. “Let’s get the trunks in the wagon. C’mon, Georgie.”
His daughter climbed one of the clover-green wheels into the bed while they loaded the trunks and valises. While Jackson assisted Aunt Martha into the seat, Fred helped Miss Yellow beside Georgie, climbing in after her. That left Miss Red.
Her arms folded across her chest. “Staying with an unrelated man isn’t proper.”
Neither was working in a saloon, but he didn’t press it. “We’ll keep it proper.”
At last she nodded and trudged to the wagon bed. Maybe he feared she’d change her mind, or maybe he was a blame fool, but he took her by her narrow waist and hoisted her up beside her sister, as dispassionate as if she were a bag of grain. But oats didn’t smell like violets or remind him he hadn’t touched a woman’s midsection since Paloma died.
His face was probably as red as her hat when he climbed into the seat. All he’d wanted was two birds. It was as if God heard the “two” and ignored the rest. Jackson was out at least two hundred dollars between the gals’ so-called fee and transportation tickets. Out of his house for two weeks while they sheltered there, because he couldn’t leave them on the streets of Wildrye.
And now he was surrounded by two times the females he thought he’d go home with.
That means I need two times the patience, God. Twice as fast.