Chapter Three
SWINGING HIS CANE, RUPERT crossed the threshold of Bartel’s Boarding.
Men strode along the boardwalk, garb dusted with coal grit or covered in fur pelts, their boots coated in the ever-present mud of Ironwood’s Main Street. A few ladies—a very few ladies—dressed in serviceable clothes passed by, gripping their baskets tight. On the street itself, teamsters struggled with horses, while the newspaperman nailed the latest newssheet to the wall of the press office. Fur traders set up their wares in front of the livery, though the finer of the pelts would find their way to the more prosperous market of Cheyenne. The ring of a blacksmith’s hammer punctuated the fray, and the cries of suppliers selling their wares added to the cacophony.
With a grin and a tap of his hat, Rupert set his cane to the boardwalk and entered the frenzy of a morning in Ironwood.
He had no firm plans for the morning, merely treating himself to a bit of a wander about town. Much could be gleaned from a wander, especially if he made it so he accidentally bumped into those who he wished to discover more about.
Across the way, a woman garbed all in black strode along the boardwalk. Her step was quick and sure, and she ignored any who glanced her way. As she approached the telegraph office, she moderated her brisk pace and, once she reached its door, she turned sharply and disappeared inside.
A smile tugged at him. Well, just as he was wondering what he should do with his morning, providence had delivered.
It would not do to follow her into the office too soon, however. Situating himself comfortably on the wall opposite, he regarded the office. Bringing his pocket watch from its home, he opened the device and pretended to consult the face. He knew perfectly well it was eighteen after ten, but he needed some excuse to be idly leaning on the wall. When he’d deemed enough time had passed, he closed the pocket watch with a snap, crossed the street, and entered the telegraph office.
The first thing he saw was Mrs Reynolds’s slim back. Standing at the counter, she had laid a paper before the telegraph master, or at least, where the telegraph master should be standing. Currently, his counter was unoccupied, and by the tap of Mrs Reynolds’s foot, it had been some time since he’d stood there.
Laying his hands over the pommel of his cane, he considered her back. She really was an intriguing puzzle. Her hair was gathered into a complicated arrangement under her hat, loops and swirls and what not, and as black as her gown. Actually, with the way it shone in the dim light, it looked like the Bagillt coal he’d mined as a child, and later had shovelled onto the ships in Cardiff. The stuff had embedded in his clothes and burrowed under his fingernails, blocking his nose and clogging his lungs until all his world was covered in a fine layer of black. As if there again, he heard the deep rumble through the mountain, and the frantic cries of the miners as they shoved toward the too-small opening, earth caving around them—
Shaking himself, he pushed unwanted memories aside. He was in Ironwood, Wyoming, an adult of means and some influence, not an unwanted bastard in Wales, shovelling coal as his uncles had before him.
The telegraph master finally emerged from the back of his office and, wiping his hands, he approached the counter. “Much obliged for your patience, Mrs Reynolds.”
The widow Reynolds regarded him levelly. “The telegram needs to be sent precisely as written, Devlin.”
Delmar Devlin, postmaster general and telegraph master of Ironwood, Wyoming—or so he told to anyone with half an ear to listen—appeared perturbed, as if sour Mrs Reynolds hadn’t kowtowed to his poor apology. He held up the paper. “Is this here a ‘a’ or an ‘e’?”
Mrs Reynolds’s gaze remained level. “It’s an ‘a’.”
From his vantage, Rupert could clearly see the letter indicated was indeed an “a”. It seemed Delmar Devlin, postmaster general and telegraph master of Ironwood, Wyoming, was a petty sort of man. Colour Rupert shocked. He never would have guessed a man so willing to aggrandise himself would do such a thing.
Mrs Reynolds, it seemed, was used to such behaviour, if the way she took it in stride was any indication. “The telegram will be sent today?”
“Yes, ma’am. Almost like it’s my job, ma’am.”
Rupert could almost hear her bite her tongue. Quite clearly, he could picture her eyes, a pale amber-brown under finely arched brows, and the steady way she would look at a man. She would let it be known she wasn’t much impressed by the jibes, but she would not return in kind. Instead, he had no doubt she would later vent her annoyance to the ruby-haired lass who stood at her side in the saloon. But now, there was business to be contracted and she was clearly a woman who understood business.
Devlin jotted something on a piece of paper. “The Spectacular’s coming up.”
Mrs Reynolds made a non-committal sound.
“Next week, if my reckoning’s right.”
Again, a similar sound.
“My nephew’s coming up from Barwell for it.”
This time, she made no response.
“Yep, he enjoys the Spectacular, he surely does. Might be he could bring more friends with him, if he knew what to tempt them with. I’m sure you’d be wanting the patronage of respectable folk from Barwell. If you told me what was in store, I could relay it to him, and I would even do it as a favour. To you.”
Mrs Reynolds’s shoulders tensed.
Rupert’s jaw dropped. Truly, the man was astounding.
Silence fell in the telegraph office. Some of the smugness fell from Devlin’s expression and he shifted his weight, clearly discomforted being the focus of Mrs Reynolds’s gaze.
Finally, she spoke. “Thank you for the offer, Mr Devlin, however, each Spectacular is unique, as you know. I would be remiss to my performers, my crew, and all the members of the Diamond staff if I were to disclose one of the Spectacular’s drawcards, even to a gentleman such as yourself who clearly has my best interests at heart.”
