Chapter One
Ironwood, Wyoming, 1876
AKNOCK SOUNDED AT the closed door, a brief hesitation followed by two firmer knocks, and finally a group of three that seemed more flourish than a signal of a man’s presence.
Regarding the door, Alice didn’t immediately rise to answer the summons. A lot could be learned from a man’s knock, and even more from his reaction to waiting a spell. From this particular man, she could tell he was unsure of his welcome, but sought to cover such worry with brashness. Then, probably to be cocky about it all, he added the last flurry. From what little she knew of her visitor, such a knock described him to a tee.
Beyond the door, and the man on the other side of it, the faint sounds of the Diamond intruded. When she’d left the floor an hour earlier, the saloon had been full of men, all seeking to win at the tables or to drown whatever troubles they reckoned they had with what was behind the bar. It sounded as if the patronage had increased in number and rowdiness, judging by the raucous cheers as someone won at dice, or maybe the roulette wheel she’d had imported from New Orleans.
Tapping her finger against her temple, Alice stared at the door. The man on the other side had arrived in Ironwood two weeks ago, disembarking from the new train and trudging through Main Street. Standing on her balcony, she’d watched as he had walked through town to arrive at the boarding house, his fine coat and fancy boots ruined by mud. An inquiry to Mrs Bartel, the owner of the boarding house, had her discovering his name and his origin, and in his short time in Ironwood, he had done little more than wander aimless around town. She had no notion as to his purpose and, when he had requested this meet with her, she’d been curious enough about discovering his purpose that she’d accepted.
From beyond the door, the dealer called for new bets and the cheers settled to indistinct murmuring.
Her visitor had waited long enough. Placing her newfangled fountain pen in its holder, Alice rose from her desk, moving the kerosene lamp lighting her paperwork to the sideboard behind her. Seth had taught her much, and among his lessons had been if a man couldn’t tell the expression on your features, he couldn’t make a fool of you.
Quickly, she checked her appearance in the mirror. The hour spent on accounts and reports had done little damage to her hair, the complicated arrangement she’d braided into the ebony strands still under ruthless control. Her gown remained unblemished, but it was difficult to see any flaw in black, especially in such uncertain light. She’d taken to wearing the shade, as was proper and right, after Seth had passed. Too soon her husband had been taken from her, but few recovered from a knife and a wicked-bad man wielding it. In those dark days following his passing, ritual had kept her grief from overwhelming her.
With the heel of her hands, she swiped at her eyes. That was over and done, and five years had passed. Grief had lessened, but the day she’d been of a mind to wear colour, she’d hesitated. If she continued to wear black, no man would forget she was Seth’s widow and, all things considered, it would make the running of a saloon that much smoother. Now, her wardrobe consisted of nothing but black: black blouses, black skirts, black dresses.
Giving her hair a final touch, she made her way across her office and, affecting the dazzling smile her momma had taught her long ago, she opened the door.
Mr Rupert T. Llewellyn—lately of San Francisco, and before that London, England—stood on the other side. He looked the same as he had upon his arrival into town, dressed in fine, fancified clothes costing more than most men in Ironwood earned in a year.
Widening her smile, she motioned he enter. “Mr Llewellyn, I’m mighty pleased you chose to visit us here at the Diamond. If you’re of a mind, I’d be delighted for you to seat yourself.”
Beaming, he grabbed her hand and pumped it mightily. “Mrs Reynolds, a capital idea, simply capital! I say, this is how the chaps here in the West do it, is it not? A lady’s hand is to be shaken, as if a man?”
The strength of his gesture had her wincing. “The greeting is not usually so effusive.”
He dropped her hand as if it had turned to lead. “I do beg your pardon, dear lady! I should never wish to harm you, and it certainly was not my intention to cause you any injury. Dear me, we are getting off to a less than promising start, are we not?”
“Don’t let it trouble you. Please, sit.” As she led him to the chair before her desk, she stretched her fingers surreptitiously. He didn’t sit, though, instead watching her with a vapid smile as she moved around the desk. In fact, he didn’t seat himself until she had done so first, lowering himself into his chair with the enthusiasm of a demented puppy.
She let her gaze run over him. He was strange, this one. Manners she appreciated, but those he displayed were beyond what was proper and right. The last time a man had waited for her to seat herself, she’d been fifteen years younger and on the other side of the country, in a dance hall in Chicago. However, it hadn’t been courtesy for her, but because the man in question wished to impress her momma, and somehow thought being polite to her momma’s fourteen-year-old daughter would do the trick.
Rupert T. Llewellyn wasn’t all that different from that fancy-man. He also wore clothes too loud and too bright—his waistcoat wasmustard, for chrissakes—and he appeared to have poured an entire tin of hair oil onto the gleaming black strands of his hair. She’d never seen such a fancy mane in all her years in Ironwood. His clothing and demeanour were better suited to citified places, rather than this young frontier town she called her home. Even his skin wasn’t fit for Ironwood, pale and fine under the wavering light of the kerosene lamps. Lucky for him the height of summer was past them, otherwise he’d burn to a cinder five minutes after stepping out Mrs Bartel’s boarding house door.
Up close, he was handsome—extremely handsome. Dark hair, dark eyes, and even features, while his body was tall, taller than her, and well-shaped besides. He appeared to have not an ounce of fat upon him, but fancy-men’s clothes were designed to hide the flaws nature gave. In any event, he were a pampered handsome, one owing a debt to fine living. It had been so long since she’d seen a man of his ilk, she could barely imagine any but a rougher sort.
She returned her gaze to his. During her perusal, dark eyes regarded her with not a spark of intelligence. Well, if he were a fool, then it was certain it wouldn’t take much to fool him should it be required. “Mr Llewellyn, it’s a pleasure to have you step into the Diamond Saloon and Theatre. We’ve been sorely lacking your patronage since you’ve arrived in Ironwood, and we’re mighty delighted you’ve made your way to our door.”
Those dark eyes brightened, and still didn’t display a lick of smarts. “My dear lady, please do not castigate yourself so! I’ve been here but a fortnight, and have found myself most occupied with other concerns. Now those are past, I can devote myself to pleasure as was surely ever intended.” His face fell. “Oh! A fortnight is two weeks. Damn me and my English words. I’m in the Great American West, I must recall to speak in the vernacular!”
Her smile didn’t waver, though her patience surely did. She knew what a fortnight was. She’d read them books from England, the ones Mrs Cutter sold in her general store. “Is that so, Mr Llewellyn? In any event, I’m glad you’ve chosen tonight to grace us. Can I procure you a beverage? A whiskey, maybe?”
“No, I thank you. Must have my wits about me, don’t you know.” Eyes still lit with that dim-witted gleam, he leant forward. “You see, I wish to purchase your saloon.”
A roaring started in her head. He said something else, but it must be she’d lost her hearing because she couldn’t understand a goddamn word he said.
“I beg your pardon?” she finally managed.
Befuddlement didn’t detract from the handsomeness of his features. In fact, it made him more attractive, and wasn’t that just a kick in the pants? “Oh, I was speaking too fast? Six weeks on the ship, and then another fortnig—my apologies,two weeks—to take the train across this great wide land of yours, sometimes I forget my damnable accent.” He laughed, and delight made him evenmoreattractive. “I suppose now it’sourgreat land!”
She attempted to arrange her features in a pleasant smile, as if he hadn’t just struck an unexpected blow, and God knows if she were successful. “Reckon it might be I heard you wrong regarding this here saloon. Would be a kindness if you could repeat your words, just so as I don’t misconstrue your meaning.”
“Oh, of course, my dear, of course! You see, I have a burning desire tobecomea part of your glorious West—beg pardon,ourglorious West—and to that end, I do believe I shall purchase myself a small part of it. I should be a fine saloon owner, do you not agree?”
No. She heartilydidn’tagree. He sat there in his perfectly tailored dove-grey trousers, his fancy maroon coat with its mustard—mustard—waistcoat, and he wanted to buyhersaloon? Was he cracked? He’d never make it in Ironwood, he was too…too...English.
