Debra Lee Brown - Rocky Mountain Marriage

“I’m closing the saloon, and that’s that.”

“Tonight?” Jim exchanged glances with Delilah.

“Why not tonight?”

“It’s Friday, that’s why.” Chance arched a brow at her, and she was struck, not for the first time, by how handsome he was.

She pushed the unbidden thought from her mind and said, “What’s so special about Friday?”

The girls giggled. Delilah gave them a hard look and they instantly quieted.

“It’s the biggest take of the week,” Chance said. “Except for Saturday. At the bar in drinks and tips, at the tables in winnings, of which the house gets a five percent cut, and uh…well, you know.” He jerked his head toward the doorway, where Delilah’s girls continued to gawk at her.

Dora frowned, not understanding him.

“He means upstairs, honey,” Delilah whispered.

“Oh!” Her cheeks blazed, and it wasn’t because the kitchen was overwarm, even with half the employees of the Royal Flush crowded into it.

“The house gets a twenty-percent cut of that business. It’s a damned good share.” Chance didn’t blink as he watched her.

“And, uh, you’re the house, Miss Dora.” Jim grinned ear to ear, as if she should be overjoyed by the notion of making a profit from the scandalous enterprise.

“I see.” Dora was mortified. At the same time she was intrigued. “And, um, just how much would the house make on an average Friday night?”

“Enough to pay the mercantile in town what Wild Bill’s owed ’em for the past month,” Jim said.

Delilah nodded her agreement.

“That much?” John Gardner had taken it upon himself to prepare a listing of her father’s outstanding debts for her. The mercantile bill was sizable.

Looking at their faces and listening to the boisterous crowd out front—a crowd that in one night promised to spend enough money at the Royal Flush to settle a debt for which she was now accountable—it was clear to her that nothing would be accomplished tonight. So, against her better judgment, she relied on intuition and gave in. For now.

“Very well,” she said in her most teacherlike voice. “The Royal Flush will remain open—for tonight. And, um, perhaps tomorrow night as well.” If Saturday was, indeed, the most profitable evening of the week, only a fool would close the saloon before then. She had bills to pay, and she was simply being practical.

Delilah and Jim breathed audible sighs of relief. The girls squealed as Tom drummed his fingers on the door frame in a mock concerto.

“Good decision,” Chance said. He drained his coffee cup and set it in the sink. “Bill would have been pleased.”

“Yes, well…” Somehow that thought wasn’t comforting. Furthermore, she was sick and tired of Chance Wellesley’s meddling, and was determined to nip it in the bud. “I do have one question for you all before I retire.”

They looked at her, all ears.

“Mr. Wellesley was not in my father’s employ, was he?”

“No, ma’am,” Jim said. “Chance don’t work for nobody except himself.”

Chance frowned at her, but she continued, undaunted. “Then why does he claim to know so much about the operation of this saloon?”

Delilah and Jim exchanged another look. The girls giggled, and Delilah hushed them. “Me and Jim keep the place running,” she said. “Have done even when your pa was alive. But Chance, here…well, he entertains folks, if you know what I mean.”

“Oh, he’s entertaining, all right.”

Chance shot her a slow smile that threatened to melt the skin right off her if she let it. She didn’t.

“He brings in a lot of business,” Jim chimed in. “High rollers from all over. The Flush wouldn’t be the Flush without Chance.”

No, she thought, as she studied him. It wouldn’t.

He stared back, and for the barest moment dispensed with that boyish affectation he seemed to cultivate like a weed. In a moment of clarity, she realized with shock it was cultivated. But why?

Where had Chance Wellesley come from? No one seemed to know. And why had he made himself a permanent fixture at her father’s saloon for the past six months? She’d learned that fact from Tom not an hour ago. What was his stake in her affairs—she was certain he had one—and why had he, just now, looked away as if he were hiding something, something he desperately wanted kept secret?

Dora blew out a breath.

Sometimes, late at night, when she read the mystery novels she was so fond of, she’d imagine herself as the protagonist, an amateur sleuth. Right now a bit of sleuthing seemed in order, with Chance Wellesley as the subject of her investigation.

“It’s late,” she said, and moved to the back door.

Chance beat her to it and held it open. “Sweet dreams.” The boyish charm was back.

A blast of night air and her own determination sobered her. She ignored him and turned to the small crowd of anxious faces that, she realized, were her employees now. “I’ll see you all tomorrow.”

“G’night, Miss Dora,” they said in unison.

“Good night.”

It was a good night. A wagon load of miners with money to burn showed up at the Flush round about midnight. A dozen easy hands of poker later, Chance had cleaned them out. He went to bed smiling and a hundred dollars richer, but for the second night in a row couldn’t sleep.

Every few minutes he caught himself peeking out the lace-draped windows of his room to the cabin out back where Dora sat at the desk, late into the night, scribbling away in her diary. Once she glanced up at his room, but it was dark, and he took care, this time around, to stand in the shadows.

What had she found in that safety deposit box? He had to know. Whatever it was, she’d taken it with her. Tomorrow he planned to search her cabin. The fact that Bill even had a safety deposit box stunned him. He hadn’t expected it, and he was a man who didn’t like surprises.

She had mettle, he’d give her that. Standing on that stage tonight took guts, though her speech hadn’t accomplished what she’d intended. The other thing that struck him was that she was practical, Bill’s daughter through and through. She’d shelved those prissy sensibilities, at least for the time being, and had let the Flush ride.

“A school,” he said to himself in the dark. The woman couldn’t be serious.

When he finally did sleep, he had the dream. It was worse this time. He woke up in a cold sweat, the bed sheets twisted around his legs. He was close, so close he could feel it. The money was here. He was here. It was one of them, he was sure of it. Tom? Jim? Rowdy or old Gus? Hell, it could even be Grimmer or Gardner. For all he knew it could be Dora Fitzpatrick herself.

Wild Bill had had a partner—a silent partner who’d known about the money. That’s why he was killed. Chance was going to find out who it was if it was the last thing he did.

It very well might be.

Dora Fitzpatrick was not going to close the saloon. He’d make damn sure of it, no matter what he had to do.

“You want me to do what?” Chance blinked the sleep from his eyes, sat up in bed and pulled the sheet up over his bare torso. Dawn’s light streamed through the lace-curtained windows. He’d forgotten to draw the shades.

Dora stood outside the cracked door of his room, key in hand, her eyes averted. “I’d like you to pack your things.” She shot him a quick glance, her gray eyes widening at his state of undress. “I knocked, but you didn’t answer.” She started to close the door.

He threw off the covers and leaped from the bed. He caught the edge of the door before it closed. “Uh, hang on a second. What’s this about?”

She braced herself, her posture straightening, her chin tipped high, her hand white-knuckled on the doorknob. Their gazes locked through the two inches of open door. She was perfectly aware that he was bare-assed, but refused to let it show in her expression.