Chapter Two

 

 

WHISTLING A TUNE HIS dear departed mam had sung often, Rupert finally ambled down the stairs. A new day had begun, and nothing cheered him quicker than the myriad possibilities another dawn could bring.

As was his habit, he’d woken with the sun. Unfortunately, the persona he’d adopted for this jaunt to Ironwood, Wyoming—home of the World Famous Diamond Spectacular!—would not rise any time before he had to, and thus he’d had to find creative ways to amuse himself in the hours in-between.

After his morning ablutions had been completed, he’d dealt with any lingering paperwork he’d neglected the night before. He’d sorted his undergarments into stacks according to fabric type and density. He’d tried to stare out the window for a bit, but his window looked out on the building next to the boarding house and, as the lanes were singularly close in Ironwood, there’d not been much more to see than rough wooden planks. Finally, nine of the clock had sounded, and those last of Mrs Bartel’s guests who’d lingered in their bed trampled past. Another forty-five minutes, and Rupert himself emerged.

With a bounce in his step, he navigated the last three stairs and entered the dining room. Just as he’d anticipated, it was full of guests at various stages of breaking their fast. Seating himself at the sole empty table, he made a flourish of producing a napkin and laying it across his lap. Then, he settled in to observe.

Those who weren’t guests of the boarding house but instead here just for the fine food Mrs Hyacinth Bartel provided stood in line out the door. Every morning, the line grew a little longer as a greater number heard tell of the lady’s skills in the kitchen. One day soon, he expected the line to loop twice around the establishment.

The lady herself approached his table. He always had a smile for the proprietress of the boarding house, and this morning he made it a gallant one.

“Mrs Bartel!” he cried, making the aristocratic English accent he’d affected as clipped as possible. “Do not tell me we are once again blessed with your presence! My heart shall not cope with such magnificence so early in the morning.”

The subject of his praise turned a delightful shade of pink. “Good morning, Mr Llewellyn. You slept well?”

“Of course, dear lady, of course. How could I do other in such a fine establishment as yours?”

Cheeks still that charming shade of pink, she poured him a coffee. “You must enjoy your bed, you’re always the last downstairs. Can I fix you some breakfast?”

“Now, you know I cannot say no to your fine meals. Please, bring me some of your delicious fare, post-haste.”

Wearing a delighted smile, she scuttled off to the kitchen.

His own smile lingered. He did like Mrs Bartel. His hostess had greeted him warmly upon his arrival to Ironwood, and no matter what level of buffoonery he stooped to, she had treated him the same since. It took a kind woman to do so, and he admired her all the more for it.

Casually, he looked over his fellow patrons, all of whom chose to ignore him. It didn’t disturb him in the slightest. He had deliberately cultivated such indifference.

Unnaturally silent, the Hanson family chewed determinedly at their breakfasts. Mr William Elmsworth, employee of the Union Pacific Railroad, sipped the last of his coffee, no doubt eager to begin his day. Miss Essie Lane blotted her mouth after every bite, the town’s new schoolteacher as precise in her breakfast as she was in her classroom. The men in from the fields or the mines or down after trapping continued to eat.

And all ignored him.

Mrs Bartel returned with his breakfast and a pot of coffee, handing him a plate piled high with ham and those scone-like things the locals called biscuits. He would never get through all that food, but he smiled and thanked her, enjoying the prettiness of her blush and the way she almost scurried away. Breaking open the biscuit-thing, he slathered it with butter and jam—or, more properly, he should refer to it as ‘jelly’. Dang, he needed to remember these high-falutin’ Ay-merican words if he intended to ever use such a specific vernacular in the future.

Amusement filled him at the thought. Good God, he did love playing around with accents, even if only in his head.

The texture of the biscuit-things was a bit claggy and dense. Chewing slowly, he took a sip of coffee to help wash it down as he once again glanced about the room.

Clifford Hanson cut his ham steak as his wife, Emily, cleaned the hands of their son. Little Walter protested such an action, but Emily would not be denied, hushing her son as his voice rose. Clifford ignored them, shoulders slumped and eyes downcast.

Rupert would bet any money his dejection was caused by the fact that soon they would have to leave Ironwood. An employee of Winchester Coal and Mining Ltd, Clifford had been brought to Ironwood under the presumption Winchester would find a massive coal deposit. Five months later, the Hansons still resided at the boarding house and the deposit had yet to be found. No doubt Clifford worried the company would soon recall him to Chicago.

This town had taken a turn to the decent in the last few years. It still held some rough edges, and men more often sported a firearm than didn’t, but this was a town on the rise. As such, Winchester Coal were hoping to get in on the ground floor before others of their ilk figured out the potential for profit Ironwood provided.

He took another bite of his biscuit. Smith and he had kept their ears fairly close to the ground to discover why Clifford Hanson was in Ironwood. Winchester Coal had taken great pains to keep their presence secret, which only boded well for his own purpose. If they felt they couldn’t announce themselves, and if Clifford thought he would be returning to Chicago soon, it all pointed to Winchester Coal and Mining Ltd being unable to turn the unoccupied land. Most of the land in Ironwood was already claimed, and by taking the miserly route, Winchester had shot themselves in the food. His own employer had deep pockets and a willingness to empty them. It was rather obvious which would be the victor in this particular race.

Mr William Elmsworth stood from his table and nodded respectfully to Mrs Bartel. Making his way across the dining room, he stopped only to deposit his dirty plates on the tray table intended for that purpose. As he did so, Rupert spied an attempt by the man to clear the ink and oil from his hands. He flicked his gaze over Elmsworth. The man’s clothes held more precision than usual, his beard clipped close to his cheeks.

He blotted his mouth with his napkin. So the big meet with the boss was happening today. Elmsworth wasn’t overly nervous as yet, so it must be happening in the afternoon. Smith would have plenty of time to position himself to best advantage.

Taking a sip of his coffee, he marvelled at the flavour, as he always did. A fine beverage, coffee, one he’d not had occasion to try before coming to this side of the world. His mam’s cottage had been modest, and his bastard of a father had never provided anything he didn’t have to. They’d had nothing but what his mam could scrap together, and what the local parish saw fit to give. Now he was a man of some means, he enjoyed every extravagance he could, though he couldn’t wholly escape his beginnings. Most of his wages resided in a bank in San Francisco, and more than like they would stay there. He had no family on which to spend his income, no home to upkeep. There was only him and Smith, and the occasional silk waistcoat. And, of course, coffee.

A smattering of conversation from a group of men standing in line held mention of the Diamond Saloon and its coming Burlesque and Spectacular show. Such a mention returned his thoughts to last night, and the lady owner of the saloon.

He’d miscalculated there. Badly.

As he always did, he gathered information on his mark, speaking with the townsfolk in such a way they’d no notion of the information they provided. All had spoken of how much Mrs Alice Reynolds loved her saloon, how fiercely she’d mourned her husband, and the successes she’d made of her burlesque show.

He’d focussed on the latter, theorising she would desire to return to a city better suited to burlesque. The plan had been to offer for the saloon and sweeten the offer by tempting her with thoughts of a return to a big city. He knew she was originally from Chicago, that she’d come to Ironwood as an almost-child bride and, from the opulence of the Diamond and accounts of the burlesque show, all signs pointed to a desire for something bigger and flashier than a fledgling town.

Gently, he would have suggested she was better off in Chicago, have it so she thought the idea her own. When she agreed, he would modestly offer to take all her holdings—including her land claim and the coal deposits within—and she would gladly accept, her thoughts occupied only with the profits of the sale and how she could use them to stage her show in Chicago. Thus, his mission accomplished, he could return to his employer with the coal-rich land title and continue on to his next assignment.

Instead, he’d insinuated she could do nothing without a man and effectively made it so she’d discounted everything he’d said.

Smile gone, he stared into his coffee cup. It was such an idiotic blunder. Everything about her screamed of her independence. She’d made the Diamond saloon on her own. She’d made a burlesque show so spectacular they spoke of it in San Francisco. Hell, they spoke of it in New York. And he thought it was a prudent course of action to imply she was in want of a man?

He shook his head. He didn’t even know how he could be so daft.

“You’re a born idjit, boy, and that’s God’s own truth.”

He looked up, somewhat bemused to have his thoughts verbalised.

Smith pulled out the chair opposite, collapsing into it with a groan. The man appeared as if he’d been rode hard and put away wet, the grey stubble on his cheeks patchy in places, his clothes rumpled like he’d slept in them for nigh on three weeks. Knowing him, he probably had.

“Good morning, manservant.” Rupert gestured with his cup. “Coffee?”

Smith scowled. “Don’t be sassing me, boy. You and your idjit ways have disturbed that girl you’re after. She’s been talking on it all last eve, according to the barkeep at the Diamond.”

Ignoring Smith, he rattled his cup. “Are you sure I can’t tempt you, manservant? It is the finest brew this side of the Rockies.”

“Don’t be calling me manservant in that uppity voice of yourn. I have a mind to keep what I’ve learned of your lady friend to myself.”

“Now, now, Smith. We’ve talked of your temper before. How are you ever to advance in life if you maintain such hostility?” As the older man spluttered, he hid his grin with his cup.

For all his joshing, he counted every blessing he’d ever had since Donald Smith had chosen to enter his employ on a fine autumn day six years ago. Originally a native of South Dakota, Smith had answered the advertisement for a jack-of-all-trades, and by the end of the year, had proven himself adept at information gathering. By the time their second year had passed, he knew he would not be half as successful if Smith were not around, to gather information and to belt him about the head if he needed it. He was not so unaware not to know he needed a swift kick up the arse every now and then.

Here in Ironwood, they maintained the illusion they didn’t know each other well. Occasionally, they shared a breakfast table, just as Rupert did with those seeking to break their fast when the dining room overflowed, and they might come upon each other as they walked about town. Soon, the fiction they were strangers could cease. The time allocated for Smith to gather information was coming to an end, and they needed to get down to the business for which their employer paid them.

Setting down his cup, he picked up the coffee pot Mrs Bartel had left and poured for both himself and Smith. “In all seriousness, Smith, what did you learn?”

“She’s as she says.” Exhaling, Smith leant back in his chair. “Her husband’s been dead nigh on five years, and yet she’s got that saloon runnin’ tighter than he ever did. The only whores in the place are the ones in business for themselves—she’s got them dancing girls, but they’re dancing girls. She won’t have a bar of it if the girls decide to supplement their income. The men come in, drink their whiskey, play their cards. The place shuts down afore three in the morning most nights, and only a little later on payday. Thank you, boy.” Smith took the coffee, a look of pure bliss settling upon his weathered face as he sipped.

“Every month, she runs some fancy shindig in the theatre next to the saloon. It’s become popular enough she can hire acts from Cheyenne and San Francisco and trek ‘em in just for the experience. Even the respectable ladies are envious when they speak of it, though they speak in whispers, as if it’s something to be ashamed of. She has half the town eating out her hand and the other half wanting to.” Smith glanced at him. “You’ve got a tough one there, boy.”

Rupert merely raised his brows at such an absurd comment. It didn’t matter how tough they were, there was always a weakness. “And the land?”

“Ah.” Smith leant forward. “Now, that’s the funny thing. I couldn’t get much about the land. Seems no one’s heard of her havin’ any claim, or even possessing a desire for such. She’s kept that one tight to her chest.”

“Hmm.” Bending his arm, he placed his elbow on the back of his chair. How intriguing. She’d inherited the claim from the esteemed Mr Seth Reynolds, along with his saloon, and if any in Ironwood cared to investigate, the truth was writ large in the town’s land register. If one knew where to look, and had the cash to grease the palms, one could learn anything. Still, intriguing none seemed to know. Maybe it was he could use the information.

“Why, Smith, look at all we have discovered. We’ll have this nut cracked by lunch tomorrow.” He grinned. “And you said she’d be tough.”

“What are you thinking, boy?” Smith asked suspiciously.

“Only thoughts that will get us paid.” He stood and, ever the gentleman, pushed in his chair. “You enjoy your breakfast, Smith. Mrs Bartel’s food is smashing, simply smashing.”

Smith scowled at him. “Don’t play the fool with me, boy. That girl is different from the others. She’s got a head on her shoulders and she knows how to use it. What’s more, she loves her saloon like a mother loves her child. You’d do well to watch your step.”

With a wave of his hand, he dismissed Smith’s concerns. “Mrs Reynolds will sell her saloon, Smith. She’s a person, like any other, and everyone has their price. It’s just a matter of finding it.”

Shrugging, Smith reached for a biscuit. “Don’t blame me when that girl eats you alive.”

Chuckling at Smith’s absurdity, he set his hat on his head and exited the dining room. As if anyone could get the better of him.