Chapter 2

Boone

Gazing around Silvers Barbershop, I know my old man would be proud. From the time I could talk, he hammered the importance of success into my head. I would have walked on water to impress Boone Silvers Sr. Good thing he only asked that I keep the shop he built from the ground up afloat. Not that I don’t love the place. It’s been my home for my entire life. Besides the memories I collected in the Wylder School House, my life has played out within these four walls beneath the red, white, and blue barber’s pole. Some good, some bad, but all while lowering the ears of Wylder’s finest.

He taught me how to boil and wring hot towels with the old washer by the door at age seven. I could draw the perfect bath, worthy of fifty cents, using the boiler in the back by age eight. He didn’t raise his voice while teaching me to sharpen blades on a horsehide strap at age nine—not even when I sliced my thumb open. I listened to his lecture on how to clean the blood off all the surfaces while he stitched me up.

I became the man behind the legend when I was between hay and grass. My fondest memories are of us shaving and clipping at the two shop chairs—side by side. As he slowed down, he became my trusted advisor and host. Sometimes when the shop’s crowd is in a shindy like today, I can hear the old man’s laughter amongst the cowboys.

I miss ya, Pa. I’m sorry I failed to produce an heir to pass on your wisdom as you generously passed it on to me.

Pa had the finest funeral Wylder had ever seen. Cowboys rode in from the four corners of the U.S. and some guests sailed over from Europe to pay their respects. Now, newcomers passing through stop in because of my reputation, which adds shine to the Silvers’ name.

Not only is my shop the hub for gossip and unofficial news in Wyoming Territory, I also make it my mission to use the latest gadgets and follow the latest trends in grooming. Whether a fellow wants the Jackson style, half-shingle, quarter-shingle, pompadour, or mutton chops with a splash of Jockey Club fragrance, I can turn a frog into a prince.

“I don’t know, Junior,” Former Sheriff Hanson says in a towel-muffled voice. “I’m a Simon-pure guy. You can get away with an odd stick style ‘cause you are young. Why are men shaving their jaws between their sideburns and chins? Can they say they wear a beard if the man’s jawbone is bare?” Hanson visits my shop twice a week whether he sits in my chairs or not. Poor guy misses the hustle and bustle of his occupation. I’m happy to fill his social cup until he ties down the lovely pianist who the rumor mill has linked with him.

“You see sir,” I say to his reflection in the mirror. “The style encourages the fondness of a lady friend. Her soft, little fingers are manner born to fit in the space perfectly. Something calls deep in their feminine heart to caress you just so.” I wedge three of my calloused fingers in the space between my wide chops and narrow beard.

While Hanson is not sold, he is not the target in my sights. The reflection of every man behind him is bug-eyed with interest. The Harvey brothers absently rub their jaws in unison. The officials from the railway office whisper by the washstand while gesturing at their faces. Ah yes, this will be another profitable yet busy day.

“I don’t believe your flannel mouth at my age. I’ll stick to my usual,” he grouses.

“My pleasure,” I say with a tilt of my chin and a clap on his shoulder. “Let me wrap you in a warmer towel and we will get started when your beard has softened up.”

“Not too hot,” he calls after me. He will never let me live down the time I scalded him when I was nine years old. He was my first customer. I don’t know whose face was redder. The injured Sheriff or my furious father. Needless to say, Hanson gets his services for free—for life.

I chuckle all the way to the boiling cauldron of soda water where I keep the towels warm. No one gets barber rash because of my father’s foresight in building the shop with such a gadget. Innovation and a bending ear are the basis of customer service according to my father, and I took his advice to heart. My eyes mist as I wring out the towel between the rollers and not because I’m receiving a face full of steam. He taught me to do a bang-up job as a barber, dentist, and human being.

“Let us know if your style gets you more female attention first, Boone,” one of the railway officers—Adam, I think he is called—heckles at me.

The shop fills with laughter as I wrap Hanson’s head in his towel. I’m pleased when only the former Sheriff’s nose pokes out from the folds of the worn cotton. Laughing customers are happy to wait in my lobby and purchase more services. In the interest of continuing the jovial banter, I say, “I’ve already had the ungloved fingertips of Miss Elisa Holland—”

I’m cut off when the laughter escalates to a dull roar. There’s no harm in using Miss Holland to shoot my mouth off. She cuts a fine figure but chases after every man in Wylder with the focus of an eagle snatching salmon from the river in mid-flight. No one in this room has escaped the crosshairs of Husband-Hunter-Miss Holland. Even the retired Sheriff.

She saved me for last. I thought the rumors surrounding my wife’s disappearance would keep her at arm’s length. Who would want a hard case whose wife chose to be a California widow rather than live under his roof? However, in a town where men outnumber women five to one, Miss Holland managed to run out of potential suitors.

“Who hasn’t peeled her claws from their person?” Someone yells in the crowd.

A chorus of “here, here,” rolls through the room. I focus on the unfamiliar gentleman in my second chair while Hanson steams in the first. Unfurling his towel, I check his skin for pooling moisture to wipe, moles to avoid with my razor, blemishes to pop, and rough patches to treat with tonic before lathering his face.

When I fling the used towel into the boiling soda water, the bounce of copper curls through the window plucks my wits from my head. I spent hours in the Wylder School House pulling those curls to watch them spring back into their coil. Old Man Wylder leads the prettiest flower to grow in this town down Old Cheyenne Road.

I thought she was living in England. From her pink hat topped with greenery down to her black leather slippers, the woman blossomed from a pretty maiden into a heart-stealing lady. She’s been gone six years. Six. Long. Years. Long enough for me to forget my obsession with her and try to love someone in my social class.

Look how well that turned out.

Why didn’t one of these blowhards tell me Abigail Wylder was back in town? I purchase my badger hair shaving brushes from her brother-in-law, Ikshu Sagebrush. Of course, the man couldn’t pass the scuttlebutt to save his life. It takes me a good ten minutes to get the price of the goods I order out of him.

The poor man is also yoked to Abigail’s ill-natured sister, Ava. She blew in from New York last Christmas and snatched him from his teepee like a cyclone crossing the prairie. I thank the Good Lord she didn’t look my way. However, Abigail’s sweet smiles and melodic voice make her the opposite of her sister’s waspish temperament.

“Is that Miss Abigail Wylder back in town?” I yell the obvious at the crowd, to collect the gossip, as is my due for pulling their rancid teeth on occasion. My razor rasps against the horsehide strap hanging from the second chair. When my client’s chin is lifted to the heavens, I start the broad strokes to clear his cheeks.

“Came in on the train about six weeks ago,” Hanson grumbles beneath his towel.

“Was it due to her sister’s shotgun wedding?”

The question is answered with boos.

“A shotgun wedding would require a baby, and Mrs. Ava Sagebrush’s spindly as prairie grass,” shouts one of the railway officers.

“Nah, Ikshu’s a standup guy,” I say to my client’s jaw, but loud enough to keep the crowd engaged.

“I’m glad you approve,” declares Ralph Wylder.

A hush falls over the shop.

Heat creeps up my neck. I broke the cardinal rule of gossip—keep an ear to the bell over the door. Time for some flattery to save face. If I keep my focus on my client hopefully, the Wylders won’t notice the color on my cheeks.

“Having the loveliest daughters in Wylder is the easiest way to become the center of the town’s gossip. Wouldn’t you agree?” I rub my client’s face dry and reach for the Bay Rum. Who knows which Ralph Wylder has walked into my shop today?

There’s the Ralph we all know most days who’s right as rain. However, some days he doesn’t remember we are all friends and on the shoot over nothing. I’ve never thrown him out, but my neighbors at Long Horn Saloon have come close.

“Why Mr. Boone Silvers,” says Abigail. “I always thought your family got its name from mining. Now that I’m grown, I think it’s from your sweet-talking.”

“Nah,” I say to the mirror. I can’t look at her without my heart beating triple time. “If I had a silver tongue, I’d pawned it years ago. Then I wouldn’t be shaving the likes of these scoundrels.”

My clients roar with laughter and jeers. The tension drains from my shoulders. I don’t need a fight to break out amongst my sharp instruments. I’d be here all night stitching, mopping, and giving complimentary services. With the jingle of his coins in my palm, I release my client from the confines of his smock and help him from the chair. The action turns me face-to-face with Abigail.

When did she traverse my shop? I mustn’t have heard her dainty slippers like I would a man’s boot clomps. My gaze travels up her pink skirts to her tucked waist before I can stop myself. I spend my coming-of-age years daydreaming of her hourglass figure and now that we are grown…well, I guess the more things change, the more they stay the same. I snap my eyes to her face in an attempt to find a safe place to land. Shoot, she hasn’t lost her round cheeks in her years in England. My palms itch to cup them and feel their softness…I’d drown in her golden brown eyes as I sip at her plump lips…

“Mr. Silvers, Mr. Boone Silvers, are you all right?” Her gloved fingers on my wrist, along with the concern in her voice, melt away my fantasy.

“Sorry,” I say with a smear of my hand down my face. “When the shop is this flush, my mind spins with things I must do directly.”

“Oh dear,” she replies with a press of her lips. She has yet to remove her hand and the contact has started to burn. If I’m not careful, the heat may spread to indecent places. “I hate to impose on you like this, but I thought you might not be so busy on a Tuesday. I have a rather delicate favor to ask.”

When she looks up at me through her lashes like I’m her last hope, it is on the tip of my tongue to offer her the moon. Over her head, we have attracted the attention of the Wylder gossip circuit. I hope what she requests isn’t too humiliating, because I’ve already gone up the flume. My regulars receive my glare to mind their own business. They divert their eyes but not their prying ears.

“Pa’s tooth is bothering him something awful. He let me take a look at the black, rotten thing, but he won’t let me pull it. Could you convince him to let you pull out his sore tooth?” Her lips pucker into a heart shape each time she says ‘tooth.’ I’m a goner to lips like hers.

“Ya got a stinger there, Mr. Wylder?” I call to her father, who rubs his jaw and shrugs in response. “Let’s get that humdinger out and then we can talk about the railway line.”

I wink at Abigail when Ralph climbs into my vacant chair without a fuss. Stepping to his far side, I have the perfect view of her swinging hips as she returns to the front of the shop. The waiting clients step aside like subjects before a queen. They tip their hats over their dumbstruck smiles.

Every man is under her spell, but she doesn’t pay us a lick of attention. I’m settling Ralph’s cape in movements that mirror hers as she settles her skirts on my bench. Without a second glance my way, or thankfully any other fella’s way, she opens a newspaper from the Old States. It’s a month old, but news doesn’t travel west as quickly as it travels east.

“Oh, they are building our little railway line out to the west coast. Did ya hear?” Ralph’s brain has traveled back in time twenty years…at least. My father laid the railway ties across Wyoming and used his wages to set up this here shop.

Waving my pliers over his infected mouth, I count, “One. Two—”

I shoot a glare at the railway officials who snicker at the old man’s remarks as I yank. Pa taught me that a well-timed glare can separate even the fiercest Kilkenny cats. Ralph doesn’t need to be corrected—those days held more sweetness for him than today. When my wife skipped town, my mind drifted back in time, and I would pretend she would be upstairs waiting for me when I closed the shop. Self-preservation, I guess. I understand Ralph’s reluctance to move on when his wife is no longer waiting for him either…but he has his children, while I will never have any.

“There you go,” I say with a grunt. With a splatter of blood and pus, Ralph’s tooth pops out. I tuck the corner of the towel on his chest into the hole in his gums to soak up the excess. “Try not to swallow any of the gunk coming out of there. I’m going to rub some whiskey in the socket to help with the pain, but I’m going to suggest Miss Wylder call for Doc Coyote if the blood doesn’t run clear.”

A feminine shriek snaps all eyes to the front benches. A few men reach for the six shooters on their belts. Abigail is standing glassy-eyed with her fist in her mouth. The newspaper pages flutter to the floor like autumn leaves.

“Pardon me,” she says in a quavering voice. She pats her curls as if they will betray her rioting emotions like her face. “He can’t get an infection at his age. I was overcome with fear of losing him. Pa, why didn’t you tell anyone sooner?”

Her emotions dance between embarrassment, fake annoyance at Ralph, and the true sadness underneath. In my profession, I read people all day to give them the best service possible. Do they want to talk, listen to scuttlebutt, or just get a quick spit shine? Moreover, I’ve studied Miss Abigail Wylder more than my teacher’s lessons in school. I know every curl on her head. She can’t hide from me. Whatever she saw in those pages broke her heart.