Can’t say I blame her.
Bell over the door jingles, and for a moment, the air inside feels cooler than the street. Sunlight slants through the front windows, turning every floating speck of dust to gold. Two men idle by the firearms, quickly distracted by Alice before they catch me watching. My hand settles firm at her back. Not rough. Just there, guiding. She don’t even notice, but it ain’t for her. It’s so folks know what’s mine.
“What can I get you?” the storekeeper asks, wiping the sweat off his neck with a rag. He lingers on Alice, slow as honey dripping. Undressing her in his mind, most like. Old lech.
“Beans. Salt pork. Coffee. Smoke,” I say, flat.
Alice adds softly, “Curious if you might also have a good washboard.” Her lips curve polite, a small smile she don’t even think twice about giving. But I think twice. I think ten times. That smile belongs to me.
The keeper nods, shuffling off, but not before appraising her once more. I feel it like a burr under my skin. Summer sun beats down, and even indoors it presses at my back, sweat dampening my shirt.
Alice drifts toward a shelf, her fingers brushing tins, her cheeks pink from the July air. She lifts her hair from the back of her neck with one hand, fanning herself with the other. She don’t see what it does—how every man in this room is watching her glow against the dull heat like temptation itself.
Then I see ’em. A box o’ matches with a little lamb on the box. Little Lamb Matchsticks. I’ll be damned. I grab a box, give it a shake to catch her attention. “Little lamb,” I say.
Alice tilts her head toward it, shy as a fawn. Her mouth twitches—sweet, quick as lightning—before she tucks it away.
When the keeper lays the washboard on the table, she thanks him with that same gentle curve of her lips. It’s innocent, but my blood spikes anyway. I want iron on my hip just so I can rest my hand on it.
She pays the coin—her husband’s silver, not mine—and I’m struck by a pang of hurt pride worse than hunger. I let it pass, but the vow forms clean in my gut. Next town, she won’t be feeding us with another man’s money. I’ll win it. Or take it. Whatever it takes, she’ll eat from what I provide.
Outside, I stop her on the boardwalk, catch her wrist. My thumb presses against her pulse. “Don’t give him your smile,” I say.
Alice blinks up at me, startled. “He was only a kind old man.”
“Old men have eyes,” I answer. My voice is hard, but not cruel. “Don’t make yourself an easy mark. Don’t need folks rememberin’ your pretty face.”
Her cheeks flush deeper as she presses her lips tight, but she agrees.
I release her wrist and sling the parcels over my arm. The heat presses down heavy, but it ain’t the only thing pressing. Ain’t a dime to my name except for a room waiting for me down south and a sweet plan.
Though I weren’t planning on having company when I dreamt it up. Can’t hold up a joint with my woman in the cross fire. It’s going to need some adjusting, but nothing I can’t handle.
Near sundown, we pack our sundries into the carriage, tie off our horses at the rail behind the general store, and step off the street into a saloon. The air inside hits different—thick with tobacco smoke and the sour tang of beer. The lamplight’s dim. A piano with only half its keys hides in the corner. Men jeer, chairs scrape. A woman’s shrill laughter carries from upstairs.
Alice stiffens at my side, her skirts brushing me as she falters. The place is probably Gomorrah in her book. My hand settles at her waist, firm. Claiming. Her body don’t lean into me, but she don’t pull away neither.
We take a table in the back, far from the doors, where I can keep the whole room in view. She sits prim, folding her hands in her lap like we’re at church.
The barkeep slouches over in his stained apron, rag in hand, studying Alice slow before landing on me. “What’ll it be?”
“Whiskey,” I say. “And lemonade for my lady.”
Alice stiffens, blinking at me. The barkeep nods and shuffles off.
She leans in, her voice a quick hiss. “You order for me now?”
I tilt back in my chair, grin slow. “Reckon I do.”
“What if I wanted whiskey?”
“Like some saloon girl?”
Her cheeks turn pink, but she tips her chin up. “Perhaps. If that were my preference, you may keep your judgments to yourself.”
I hum. God I love it when she bites back. “Want me to order you a whiskey, Miss Alice?”
“No. A lemonade is fine.”
