“Either way,” she said, motioning to the man beside him, “I already explained to Mr.Bridges that I don’t know where his slave is. If he’s allowed to bring a slave into California, then he should be responsible for his whereabouts.”
Rodney glanced toward the restaurant. “He said you wouldn’t let him look through your hotel.”
“Mr.Bridges is a stranger to me and one who refused to obey my basic rules.” She pointed again to the sign beside the counter, toward the clearly stated rule against smoking.
“I will search with him,” Rodney said.
“Do you have a warrant?”
Rodney’s eyes narrowed. “Do I need one?”
“Stephan and I searched every floor and found nothing, but Mr.Bridges is welcome to search as long as you stay with him.” She pointed toward the man’s hand. “And as long as he leaves his cigar outside.”
When Mr.Bridges continued clinging to the cigar, irritation flooded Rodney’s face. The sheriff had only been in Sacramento City for a few months. He was a fair man under the obligation to keep law and order in a town that didn’t value either. He didn’t have time for insolence.
Mr.Bridges held up his cigar. “There’s no law in California against smoking.”
“Miss Labrie is entitled to enforce the rules of her establishment.”
“And I’m entitled to my cigar.”
Rodney shoved his hat back on his head. “If your cigar is more important than your slave, so be it. I’ve got plenty of other things to do.”
Mr.Bridges eyed him for a moment, as if he wasn’t sure whether the sheriff was serious. He must have determined that Rodney was in earnest because he stepped back outside, returning seconds later empty handed. She didn’t know what he did with the cigar. Hopefully he didn’t hide it someplace that would set the town on fire.
Rodney removed his hat again, and the two men stepped through the archway at the right of the room, into the restaurant. Then she heard them walking up the stairs, heard the scraping of furniture on the floor overhead, the stomping of their boots.
There were eighteen people staying in the Golden right now. Hopefully they wouldn’t harass any of the guests as they looked for Micah.
Any other time, she would have protested a search—for the sake of her guests—but she didn’t want Rodney to think she was hiding anything from him. And the longer it took them to look through her establishment, the more time Stephan had to hide the boy. Perhaps it would take Mr.Bridges a few hours before he relented.
Outside her window, the sky was completely black now. The walkways were still filled with men, most of them heading to the saloons or gambling halls two streets over. Some were just in Sacramento City for a few days or weeks. Others had stayed long enough to become citizens of the town. She knew almost everyone who’d decided to call this place home.
As she waited for Rodney and Mr.Bridges, she escorted customers back into the dining room and checked two miners into vacant rooms. They’d spent months, the men said, in a wet tent in the Mother Lode. They quickly agreed to her list of rules—payment due before they occupied a room, extinguishing all lanterns before they left, no spitting on the floor, no gambling, at least one bath per week at the local bathhouse, no hard liquor, no prostitution, and no smoking cigars anywhere inside the hotel. They paid twenty dollars each to reserve a room for a week, and with the keys at her side, she took the miners upstairs.
When she stepped back into the corridor, she looked for Mr.Bridges and Rodney, but she didn’t see either man. Perhaps they were up on the third floor now.
Each time she escorted another customer into the dining room, Fanny flashed her a panicked look, but even if she felt overwhelmed, Fanny was handling the flood of customers perfectly fine on her own.
Isabelle was sitting at her desk, writing an order for more wine, when the sheriff and Mr.Bridges appeared back in the lobby. Rodney looked annoyed, Mr.Bridges livid.
Mr.Bridges leaned onto the counter. “Where did he go?”
She flashed Rodney a look, eyebrows raised as if the man in front of her might be crazy. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Where’s my slave?”
“Did you search the entire hotel?” she asked, equally annoyed at his interruption.
Rodney stepped up to the counter, drumming his fingers on the wood. “Two people claim they saw a colored boy run into your lobby. They never saw him leave.”
She glanced around the lobby. “I’m not hiding a boy here.”
“You said that your steward helped you search.”
Isabelle pasted a smile on her face, much less welcoming this time. “He looked upstairs.”
“I’d like to speak to him,” Rodney said.
