Debra Brown - Rocky Mountain Marriage

Dora drew a breath and opened the box. What she saw inside confused her.

The box was carefully lined in newsprint and contained only two items: a tortoiseshell comb that looked oddly familiar to her and a tintype portrait she instantly recognized as her father.

There was no money.

“I’ m sorry to inform you all that the Royal Flush is closed.” Dora stood in the middle of the stage at the far end of the saloon and gazed out at a sea of faces, all turned in her direction. Apparently her years of oration in the classroom transferred quite effectively to other, less scholarly settings.

The employees looked at her in confusion. The customers, on the other hand, appeared delighted and immediately rearranged their chairs to face her. With a shock she realized they mistook her announcement for the opening of a performance. After all, it was Friday evening, it was a saloon, and she was standing on the stage.

She tried a different approach. “May I have your attention, please?”

A man at the bar whistled. The customers laughed.

She ignored them and continued. “My name is Eudora Fitzpatrick. I’m William Fitz— I mean, Wild Bill’s, um, daughter.”

The crowd cheered. More men whistled, and some even raised their glasses to her. Tom, the piano player, whom she’d asked to stop playing a few moments ago, started up again. Delilah whispered something into the bartender’s ear, then rushed to gather up her girls.

Chance Wellesley reluctantly let one of them slide off his lap. She felt a brief moment of victory when he put down his hand of cards. He was the only customer, however, who did. The rest of them returned to their gaming.

“The saloon is closed!” Though she shouted, her voice failed to carry over the music and the chatter, which had returned to its customary, earsplitting volume.

Delilah shrugged at her, then shooed the girls back to work. Jim lined up a half-dozen shot glasses along the bar, then winked at her as he filled them in one easy motion. She noticed he didn’t spill a drop. Rowdy, whom she’d asked to stand by the front entrance and lock the outer doors once all the customers had gone, looked to her for direction.

What was she going to do if the employees refused to stop working and the customers refused to stop gambling, drinking and engaging in the unmentionable goings-on upstairs?

After the shock of discovering her father’s safety deposit box contained no cash and nothing of any value, except for the tintype that for sentimental reasons was valuable to her, Dora had spent an hour conversing with John Gardner. He’d confirmed Chance Wellesley’s proclamation.

Her father had died owing substantial sums of money to nearly every business in Last Call, in addition to being three months behind on his interest payment to the bank. Foreclosure was imminent. John Gardner was accountable to his investors, and while he’d kindly offered to review and possibly renegotiate the loan, it would do no good as she had no way of paying it. The only solution was to sell off the property, which Mr. Gardner had advised, as soon as a buyer could be located. He’d generously offered to ask around for her.

“What’s this all about?” The voice came from behind her. It was one she recognized—and loathed.

She turned just as Chance parted the red velvet curtains draping the stage, grabbed her arm and pulled her into the darkness.

“Let me go!” How did he get back there without her seeing him? Not a moment ago he’d been sitting with his boots propped up on a card table, flirting with Delilah’s girls.

“I will when you start talking sense.” He maneuvered her toward the back of the stage, where she was relieved to see an open door leading to the softly lit hallway running the length of the first floor.

A minute later she was seated at the table in the kitchen, and he was making them a pot of strong coffee, rattling around the cupboards as if he owned the place and not her.

“What’s all this nonsense about closing the place? You didn’t say anything about that this afternoon.”

Her afternoon had been spent avoiding his questions. He’d been waiting for her outside the bank when she’d finally emerged. She’d wrapped the tintype and the tortoiseshell comb carefully in the newsprint that had lined her father’s safety deposit box and had stuffed the package into her reticule. The obvious bulge had captured Chance’s attention.

“It was Gardner’s idea, wasn’t it?”

“To close the saloon? It most certainly was not.”

She didn’t like lying, but she refused to be cowed by a gambler. Her affairs were not his concern. John had, in fact, suggested closing the Royal Flush. Dora had agreed on principle. He’d also offered to assist her in inventorying and selling off anything that might be of value, using the profits to keep the interest payments up on the mortgage until the property sold.

“If you must know,” she said, committed to her falsehood, “John advises keeping the saloon open until the ranch sells.”

“So it’s John, now.”

An odd feeling fluttered inside her. The stab of jealousy that flashed in his eyes lasted only for a heartbeat.

“It’s my own idea to close the saloon. I’ve told you.”

“Close it?” Delilah burst into the kitchen, her flounces and feather boas following in her wake like a whole other wardrobe.

Jim the bartender and Tom the piano player were right behind her. They all jammed into the kitchen. A few of Delilah’s girls poked their heads into the doorway.

“That’s what I thought I heard out there,” Jim said, “but I couldn’t rightly believe my ears.”

“Believe them,” she said, and stood.

Chance offered her a cup of coffee, but she ignored it. Delilah took it and slugged it down.

“The ranch is for sale. In the meantime, I’m closing the saloon, selling off the garish furnishings and artwork, especially that indecent painting above the bar, and reopening the house as an establishment I know something about.”

“And that would be…?” Chance eyed her.

“A school.”

Delilah’s mouth dropped open. Jim’s eyes bugged. The piano player gawked at her, and the girls crowded into the doorway all started talking at once. Chance merely snorted as if she’d lost her mind.

“There isn’t a school in Last Call.” She’d confirmed that fact with John Gardner. “I plan to open one. Here.”

She intended to approach the town council the first thing Monday morning to see about funding. Children were playing in the streets, for pity’s sake. They ought to be in school.

“You can’t close the Flush, Miss Eudora.” The piano player looked as if he were going to cry. “You just can’t.”

“Why not?”

They all looked at each other. She had the oddest feeling they were keeping something from her, something important. Her father’s words echoed in her mind.

Rest assured, your financial future is secure. I’ve left you something at the ranch.

When she’d first read her father’s last letter to her, she’d been stunned by the prospect of an inheritance, but that wasn’t the reason she’d come to Last Call. Besides, the empty safety deposit box had cured her of any wishful thinking. What her father had left her with was not a fortune but a financial nightmare.

“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.