CHAPTER 13

The rumored battle between the owners of two San Francisco saloons became public during a performance of the much-publicized cancan at the Silver Slipper.

Taylor Canton and Catalina Hilliard engaged in an argument during which a glass of wine was thrown. The two then disappeared, Mr. Canton apparently leaving the premises.

The altercation took place during the performance of the cancan. The risqué dance, banned in Paris, drew a standing-room crowd and was enthusiastically received. Miss Hilliard has employed the French dancing troupe of Barnard Duvier for a two-week engagement. Performances are nightly at the Silver Slipper.

Mr. Canton recently reopened the Glory Hole, located across the street from the famed Silver Slipper. The establishment has been plagued with bad luck since its founding in 1865, changing hands four times and being abandoned two years ago. Mr. Canton has vowed to restore it to its popularity of the mid-1860s and lured Lotta Crabtree as his opening act. Miss Hilliard has pledged to match, or better, any entertainment offered by her competition.

It is a duel that fascinates this reporter, and, we believe, San Francisco.

As he read the San Francisco Globe, Marsh leaned back in his chair, balancing precariously on its hind legs. He wanted the Glory Hole to receive attention, not himself.

Christ, he hoped no one associated Marsh Canton, Colorado gunfighter, with Taylor Canton, saloon owner. But who would? Who could? Unless that damned dime novel showed up. It had a sketch of him, though not a very good one.

He tried to relax. The novel had been published a year ago. Duel at Sunset, it had been called, purporting to be a “true account” of a gun battle between Lobo, the Apache-raised gun-fighter, and Marsh. Nothing about the story was correct. There had been a gun battle all right, but not between him and Lobo. And Lobo hadn’t died. But the tale had become legend all the same.

Marsh wondered if his former competitor had really been able to set aside his gun for good. But then, Lobo hadn’t had a choice; his gun hand had been all but destroyed.

He looked at his own right hand—the long fingers whose speed nothing had diminished. He flexed them. A musician’s hands, his mother had said. A killer’s hands, so many others had charged.

Marsh relaxed, letting the chair fall forward as he folded the paper. He heard the lock on the door click. Hugh. It must be just before eleven. The cook would be there soon—along with the other help—to prepare a dinner buffet. He remembered Cat’s slip last night about Hugh. Hell, he remembered too much from last night, particularly the way she felt in his arms.

But now it was Hugh he had to worry about. He felt his lips tighten as disappointment in the man sliced through him once more. How to use Hugh O’Connell?

As Hugh entered, Marsh nodded and slowly rose.

“Hugh,” he said. “Right on time.” His voice was cordial. He made sure of that.

“Mr. Canton. We had a good night last night despite—”

“I know,” Marsh said. “I went through the receipts. “We might even make a profit this month.”

A smile lit Hugh’s face. “Miss Jenny’s real good, but she said she missed you.”

“I would think she would be glad to have her usual accompanist with her.”

“She said no one’s as good as you, sir.” Hugh took off his bowler hat. “I don’t think so, either, Mr. Canton.”

Marsh shrugged and tossed him the paper. “We’re news again.”

Hugh read the item slowly, the smile fading from his lips. He looked upset.

Marsh watched him carefully. “It didn’t exactly happen that way,” he said. “Miss Hilliard accidentally spilled the wine and graciously agreed to have the clothes cleaned.”

Hugh didn’t say anything.

“Interesting woman,” Marsh said. “Have you ever met her?”

Hugh’s expression set. At least, he wasn’t a very good liar, Marsh thought.

“I’ve been in the Silver Slipper,” Hugh finally said.

“Lovely, isn’t she? A little treacherous, though.”

Hugh shifted slightly. “I don’t know much about her.”

“No one seems to,” Marsh replied laconically. “A situation I plan to change.”

Teddy went to the Oakland Farmers and Merchants Bank. It was time to meet the man who was seeking the woman called Mary Beth. He had spent five days in this city, and he’d learned very little of value.

He knew that Edwin Adams was a widower for seven years now, and that he was president of one of Oakland’s most substantial banks. From everything he’d heard, Adams was a prudish, upstanding family man, a pillar of the church.

Whenever he asked about Adams, he was told of the tragedies that had befallen him: a wife with a lingering illness, a daughter who had disappeared, but no one knew much about her.

It didn’t make sense to Teddy. Why would Molly—Mary Beth—leave a fine home? Why was she so frightened? Why couldn’t she go home?

Teddy was a good judge of character. You got that way in a saloon. A good barkeep quickly sized up the troublemakers, the customers who got mean when they drank, the ones who wouldn’t pay their bills. He knew his appearance was deceiving, that people didn’t pay much attention to him; that gave him a chance to pay attention to others. He had thought about the best way to approach Edwin Adams, to try to form his own opinion about the man.

He squared his shoulders and went inside.

The man at the desk closest to the door peered at him through heavy spectacles. “Can I help you, sir?”

Teddy moved over to him. “I’m thinking about buying a farm around here,” he said. “I saw your bank said ‘farmers’ and wondered whether you make farm loans.”

The man looked over his visitor’s face, his large frame and ill-fitting suit. “Do you have collateral?” He looked superciliously at Teddy, as if he doubted he knew what the word meant.

“Collateral?” Teddy said, although he knew exactly what collateral was. He had learned a great deal from Miss Catalina. “I got a stash, if that’s what you mean. Made it in mining. The lode ran out, though, and I plan to go back to farming. Got enough to buy the place but don’t know about seed and animals.”

The man’s posture changed, straightened slightly. “Where is this farm?”

“Ten miles to the north. The Alvin Becker place,” Teddy said. He’d read the notices of sale in the local newspaper.

The man still looked doubtful. The Becker farm was prosperous. Teddy could almost see his mind work, reevaluating his first impression.

“I would like to see the top man,” Teddy said, setting his jaw obstinately.

“I’m his assistant, Frank Redd. I can help you, sir,” the man said, suddenly more polite.

Now it was Teddy’s turn to look arrogant. “I’ll only talk to the top man,” he said.

The clerk looked doubtful. “I’ll see if he has time,” he said, and rose from the desk, making his way to a back glass-enclosed office. He knocked and spoke for several seconds to the man inside, and then returned, looking anxiously at his pocket watch. “Mr. Adams will see you for a few moments. He has an appointment at noon.”

Teddy lumbered into the back office, surprised when the man rose courteously, a smile on his face. “I understand you’re considering buying the Becker place. Good farm, Mr.…”

“Stanton,” Teddy said. “Theodore Stanton.”

“Have a seat, Mr. Stanton,” the man said. “I’m afraid I have an appointment shortly, but I can spare you a few minutes now.”

Surprised, Teddy sat. The man was wrapped in cordiality, a broad smile above a neat beard, but his pale blue-gray eyes caused a chill to run through Teddy.

In the way that he imagined a miner or farmer might in the presence of a bank officer, Teddy squirmed in the seat. “I was wondering … if I do buy the Becker place … can I git loans?” he started. “And would my money be safe here? I’ve seen banks go bust.”

“How much money are we talking about, Mr. Stanton?” Adams’s eyes were gleaming now.

Teddy shrugged with a man’s reluctance to discuss personal business with someone he didn’t know well. “Enough,” he said uncomfortably.

“Of course it will be safe. We’re the soundest bank in Oakland.” There was smugness in the claim, not pride, and Teddy recognized the difference. “We’re very stable. Ask anyone.”

“I like to know who I deal with.”

The man’s smile faded slightly, but held. “What would you like to know, Mr. Stanton?”

“I place a big stock in family. Got a big one of my own,” Teddy lied.

“Well, then,” the banker said, “I have a daughter myself, though my wife died seven years ago. Haven’t had the heart to marry again.”

“A daughter? I got one. Eighteen, she is. Joy of my life.”

The banker tried to smile, but now Teddy definitely felt the chill in him deepen. Something odd flickered in the man’s eyes, an almost burning light that had a hint of madness. Teddy would have sworn it had nothing to do with grief over losing a daughter, and everything to do with obsession. He had seen obsession before.

The banker fidgeted with a gold watch on a chain stretching across his vest. “You’ll have to excuse me, Mr. Stanton. An appointment, you understand.”

Teddy stood and reached out to grasp the man’s outstretched hand. It was curiously limp. “I’ll be back, Mr. Adams.”

Marsh spent four days hiring and training his women dealers. He employed eight so that six would always be on duty daily, from early afternoon to closing. He was very careful in his selection, not as concerned with beauty as he was with intelligence and character. He did not want cheating. But the dealers were all attractive, and he made it clear very quickly that any infraction of his rules meant instant dismissal. He had been assisted by Hugh, who convinced some of his Irish friends that their daughters would be safe at the Glory Hole, and it was he who suggested that the young ladies’ dresses not be too revealing.

Marsh paid well. His receipts had been far better than he expected. He’d nearly reached the end of his bankroll when the Glory Hole opened; now, despite the costs, he was replenishing it. And finally something other than death was occupying his mind.

Teaching eight females roulette and blackjack and poker was not easy. He found himself learning an entirely different kind of patience from that of waiting on the street to face another gunman.

If Marsh’s gaze occasionally wandered to the doors, and to the Silver Slipper across the street, he yanked it back. Nothing about the attraction between him and his neighbor was any good. After the evening of the cancan, he questioned his original assumption that bedding Catalina would end his growing obsession with her.

It would be best, he’d decided, to remain at a wary distance, at least until he had the Glory Hole, his second obsession, well established.

So he’d thrown his complete energies into that, hiring and instructing and keeping books. He’d always been good at figures, and he found he enjoyed the mental exercise they demanded. It had been a very long time since he’d exercised any of his abilities other than instinct, and now he felt that strange sense of loss that was recurring with disturbing regularity. He was remembering law school, the mental games required and how he had relished them. In the years since, so much of himself had been walled off; now chunks were peeling away, leaving exposed raw pieces of himself.

As if to continue to deny any change, however, he took several hours each morning to himself, riding off to the hills and practicing with his Colt, reminding himself that the gun was still who he was, the life source of what he had become. To forget it was to deny the last twenty years, and he couldn’t do that. And he could never forget the danger that would always follow him because of those twenty years.

One of the girls, who was practicing shuffling cards, caught his glance, and the cards went into fifty-two different directions. Her face colored, and he gave her a soothing smile. “It’ll come,” he assured her. Did he really frighten young ladies that much?

He stood, needing air, needing to get away from the looks of his students. He had tried to make it clear he had no interest in anything but their employment as dealers. But he wasn’t used to self-denial. And his manhood had certainly been stirred by the lady across the street.

He reached the door. A man was lounging against the side of the building. He had been hanging around for several days, and Marsh had taken notice. The man’s gaze continually seemed to go to the Silver Slipper, and he had taken several drinks at the Glory Hole, each time choosing a chair and table next to the window.

There was something about the man that gave Marsh pause. A furtive quality. He measured the man more closely. Dark-brown hair slicked back. Sideburns that needed trimming. Tan-and-yellow-checked suit that had the ill fit of store-bought frugality.

Marsh told himself it was none of his business. The man was obviously staking out the Silver Slipper, not the Glory Hole. Anything bad that happened to his neighbor was only good for him. It was what he wanted, wasn’t it? Catalina Hilliard deserved every misfortune after the beating he’d taken, the humiliation of jail.

Yet … he couldn’t prevent the onslaught of a certain amount of protectiveness. Besides, it was his battle. His revenge. No one else’s, goddammit.

He didn’t want anyone else to destroy what belonged to him.

He walked over to the Silver Slipper.

The big man was still absent from his customary place behind the bar. But Catalina was there.

Marsh went up to the bar, hooked his foot on the long brass footrest, and regarded her carefully. She looked just as pretty in the daylight as she had in the glow of oil lamps. He’d never seen such clear eyes. And if he hadn’t known better, he would have sworn he saw a moment of greeting in them.

“Whiskey,” he said peremptorily.

“Our whiskey is better than yours?” Her smile was taunting.

“Perhaps there’s a certain … pungency to your hospitality.”

“Pungency?”

“Sharp … painful,” he explained with a slight smile.

“Then why inflict it on yourself?”

“So I keep asking myself.”

“Bad example. You preferring the Silver Slipper.”

“Are you suggesting I leave?”

“Oh, no, I’m glad to take your money.”

Marsh threw a coin on the counter. “I’m just trying to be a good neighbor.”

“You?” she asked with disbelief.

“Just thought you might like to know there’s someone taking an uncommon interest in the Silver Slipper.”

Catalina’s glance quickly went to the door and then back to Marsh. “Why should you care?”

“I have my own plans for the Silver Slipper,” he said. “I don’t like interference.”

“How thoughtful of you,” she said, but she left the bar and moved to the window, quickly studying the man leaning against the wall of the Glory Hole. “One of your thugs?”

“I don’t hire thugs.”

But Cat didn’t retort as she usually did. She studied the man more carefully. Now that Canton mentioned it, she had seen him earlier. She should have noticed him still lurking around. She usually would have, if she hadn’t had other matters on her mind. She turned back to Canton. “How long?”

“How long what?” he asked innocently.

“How long has he been there?”

“I noticed him last night when I closed and again this morning. He was in my place earlier.”

She chewed her lip. It was an endearing habit, Marsh thought. And out of character. He knew she hated to show any kind of uncertainty—to the world or to him.

She walked back behind the bar and shoved his coin, still lying there, back at him. “The drink’s on the house,” she said easily, as if she’d made some kind of decision. It was, Marsh thought, as much of a thank-you as he was likely to receive. He nodded.

“And send me a bill for the suit,” she said, as if it were an afterthought.

He shrugged this time. “Not necessary. Your cancan brought me customers too.”

Cat hesitated, not sure she really wanted to prolong his stay, but not particularly eager for him to leave either. He had something up his sleeve. She knew it. Otherwise, why would he warn her about the stranger?

“I hear you have some women dealers.”

“Word sure does travel in this city.”

“It does, doesn’t it?”

Their gazes met and dueled. She recognized the initial onslaught of that disquiet that always flooded her in his presence, and she resented it.

His gaze swept around the room. “I haven’t seen your bartender … the big man.”

Did he notice everything? She suspected so. “He’s been out of town … on business … for a few days.” Marsh straightened his shoulders. “Nothing to do with you,” she added hastily.

“How nice of you to reassure me,” he said, the slightest bite in his voice.

“It is, isn’t it?” she purred. “Now if you will excuse me, I have work. We expect a very big crowd again tonight.”

“Ah, so does the Glory Hole. A bit of gambling before the cancan. Remind me to thank you appropriately some day.”

“Anything for a neighbor,” she said sweetly.

“And just for that, I’ll keep an eye on our curious friend outside.”

She shrugged, wanting to appear indifferent to him, although she was worried far more than she’d ever want him to know. She still had a past. Which included murder, in fact. And part of her always lived in fear of being discovered.

“As you will,” she said and turned away. It was an abrupt and effective dismissal.

He chuckled. She made entrances and departures better than anyone he knew. But then the chuckle died as he noticed her hand clenched in a fist at her side.

Miss Catalina Hilliard was not nearly as indifferent as she seemed.

He wondered whether it was the man outside. Or himself.

Either way, it was intriguing. He gave her back a brief salute and took his leave. He might do a little investigating on his own.