Lisa Plumley - The Scoundrel

Regretfully, he stood. His cigarillo’s plume of rich tobacco smoke trailed his progress across the room to join Murphy. In his wake, the dancers sighed.

Daniel offered them an apologetic over-the-shoulder glance—coupled with a smile to promise he’d make up for their disappointment later. Maybe he’d finish his ale, order a bath and invite one of the ladies to join him. Cleanliness was a virtue, after all. Or maybe that was patience. Either way, he reckoned he had things square.

He squinted at the space Murphy indicated. “You already talked to Copeland about getting the lumber from his mill?”

The barkeep nodded. “It’ll cost me plenty. But even after paying Rose and her girls, a dance show ought to make a profit.”

“Even after you factor in paying off Grace Crabtree?”

Murphy tilted his head in confusion.

“She’s bound to cause a ruckus once she hears you’ve got dance-hall ladies here,” Daniel said. “I’ve known them Crabtree girls all my life. Grace is the most trouble of the lot. She’s all het up over women’s suffrage. Other things, too.”

“That’s got nothing to do with me.”

“You’ll see. Grace is a meddler. If she decides to make this place one of her damnable ‘causes’—”

“My saloon isn’t a—”

“That’s what Ned Nickerson thought,” Daniel interrupted. “Until Grace and some of her friends chained themselves to the awning of his Book Depot and News Emporium, protesting because he didn’t have some lady author’s highfalutin book or other. In the end, Deputy Winston had to haul ’em away.”

Murphy frowned. Most likely, Daniel figured, he was imagining a passel of troublemaking females all picketing his saloon. With reason. Grace was a handful, and she knew most everyone in town. The Crabtrees in general were a bunch of original thinkers, prone to all sorts of oddball behavior. With one exception, of course.

“I could put in a good word for you with Grace’s sister,” Daniel offered. Murphy was out of his depth—whether he realized it or not. “Sarah’s the only sensible one of the lot. She’ll see that Grace ought to leave well enough alone.”

With a skeptical shake of his head, the barkeep strode the width of the corner, measuring the space available for his stage. For a moment, he was silent.

Then, “I can cope with Grace Crabtree.”

The man was deluded. “Have you never tangled with a woman before? Most of them are beyond reason.”

“I can cope with Grace Crabtree.”

Clearly, Murphy hadn’t spent much time with the fairer sex.

Daniel shrugged. “It’s your funeral.”

“No, it’s my saloon. I’ll see no one interfering with it.”

“Oh, yes, you will. Mark my words.”

One ale and two flirtatious encounters with the pouting dancers later, Daniel finished his measurements for Murphy’s stage. Although he wasn’t a carpenter by trade, he’d done his share of building, all the same. By the time he was old enough to reach for a straight razor for his peach fuzz, he’d grown a head taller than most men. Because of that, he’d learned to erect barns, raise roofs and rebuild storm-damaged houses…all while apprenticing as a blacksmith.

Now that he’d finished his plans for the stage, it had grown late. Murphy’s saloon was packed to the rafters with miners and merchants, ranchers and lumbermen. Tinny music accompanied Rose’s impromptu dance beside the piano—as did raucous cheers from the men watching. She fluttered her fan and swiveled her hips, belting out a rowdy rendition of a sentimental tune.

Comfortable at his table with dancers again on either side, Daniel smoked his second cigarillo. He tilted his head and aimed smoke rings at the fancy lanterns overhead, feeling satisfied. He had a whiskey at his elbow, a bellyful of Murphy’s tinned beans and bread, a friendly obligation fulfilled and the promise of a delectable evening’s entertainment ahead. A man’s life didn’t get much better than that.

“Daniel McCabe!” someone yelled. “McCabe?”

He glanced sideways. Several men stepped aside for a boy in a baggy suit and low hat. Daniel recognized him as the clerk from the railroad depot. He made his way through the crowd, an expression of urgency on his young face.

“Is Daniel McCabe here?”

“Over here, boy.” Lazily, Daniel indicated the one remaining chair at his table. “Why don’t you sit a spell?”

The dancers murmured their agreement. The clerk gawked at them, at their impressive bosoms, then at the empty chair. A blush rose clear from his starched collar to his eyebrows.

“No, thank you, sir. I couldn’t.”

“Sure, you could. I have one lady more than I can handle, anyway.”

The dancers tittered. They leaned his way with joint protests. Another minute and he’d forget the boy was there at all. Resolutely, Daniel focused on the clerk.

“Well?”

“Well, uh… I came to bring you a message. You’ve got a delivery down at the railroad depot.”

“A delivery? I’m not expecting anything. Are you sure it’s for me? McCabe?”

“I’m sure. We haven’t been able to determine much else about it, but we know one thing for sure. It’s for you.”

“I’ll get it tomorrow.” Daniel raised his whiskey in the clerk’s direction. “You man enough for one of these? I’ll buy you a boost for your trouble in coming down here to find me.”

“Oh, no. You’ve got to come with me. Tonight.”

A portion of Daniel’s good cheer evaporated. “I’ve got plans for tonight. Believe me, they don’t include hightailing it to the train depot.”

Inconveniently, the boy held fast. He didn’t so much as glance at the proffered glass of Old Orchard.

Daniel held out a coin instead. “Here. If you’re not a drinking man, take this to the apothecary. Get yourself one of those medicinal soda waters they sell. Maybe it’ll grow some hair on your chest.”

The clerk’s blush deepened, but he straightened his spine doggedly. “I’m afraid I’ll have to insist you come with me.”

Daniel raised his eyebrows. “You insist?”

The boy’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “Uhhh…yes, sir.”

Squinting against his cigarillo smoke, Daniel eyeballed the clerk. He was plain ruining his night—and his plans for Beatrice, the dancer to his right, too. There was something downright intriguing about that feather in her hair….

But if the boy had to “insist” one more time, he looked as if he might piss his britches. Daniel had that effect on men sometimes. He didn’t mean for it to happen. There was just something about his size, his strength…his reputation for bending steel.

He heaved a sigh, drained his whiskey, then stood. “All right. Stay here, ladies. I’ll be back before you can say ‘lickety-split.’”

He would not be back before “lickety-split.”

In fact, he’d be lucky to get back before his dancing girls pulled foot for San Francisco, Daniel realized. That much became clear the moment he stepped on the platform at the train depot and spotted the commotion there.

He surveyed the gathering crowd. At this time of night—when lanterns illuminated the platform and a dark breeze made the nearby ponderosa pines swish and creak—most people should have been abed, not at the depot. But there was a sizable crowd there, all the same. Ambling nearer in the clerk’s wake, Daniel cocked his head toward the mysterious thumps and muffled swear words he heard. Some kind of scuffling reached him next.

“C’mere, you little hooligan!” the stationmaster said, grabbing for something Daniel couldn’t see.

Whatever it was, it managed to duck away. Several women squealed. The whole group surged backward in a clatter of boot heels and ladies’ button-ups.