Читать книгу A Western Christmas Homecoming - Lynna Banning, Kathryn Albright - Страница 17

When they reached Silver City they reined up on the hill overlooking the canvas structures and flimsy-looking buildings of the town spread below them. “It’s a mining camp, like I told you,” Rand said. “Looks kinda impermanent.”

“It looks like a sea of gray canvas.” Alice pointed to a large green-gray canvas structure with a white-painted wooden cross over the entrance. “Even the church is a tent!”

Rand turned to her. “Are you ready for this?”

“Yes, I am ready.” Her heart thumped under her plaid shirt as she followed Rand’s bay, guiding her mare down to Silver City. The narrow road into what passed for a town was oozy with thick mud that squished under their horses’ hooves.

They picked their way down the tent-clogged street until they reached the two-story red-painted Excelsior Hotel, which, thank God, was made of wood. But red? Such a bold color for a hotel!

Next door to the hotel was another wooden building, the Golden Nugget saloon. That seemed strange in a town named for its silver mine. There must be other wooden buildings, but all she could see were tents and more tents. Big ones. Little ones. Some more ragged than others.

Oh, poor Dottie. Could her sister really have been happy here in this temporary-looking place?

The desk clerk at the hotel, a bent gray-haired man with thick spectacles and a wrinkled shirt that had once been white, flipped open the register and stood poised with his pen.

“Name?” he said in a weary voice.

“George Oliver.”

“This your wife, Mr. Oliver?”

Rand turned to her. “This is Miss Lolly Maguire.”

“Separate rooms, then,” the clerk muttered.

Rand laid his hand across the register. “One room. Miss Maguire is a well-known entertainer, and I work as her bodyguard. Where she goes, I go.”

The clerk’s salt-and-pepper eyebrows waggled. “Even to her hotel room?”

“Our hotel room,” Rand said evenly. “Like I said, Miss Maguire doesn’t go anywhere without her bodyguard. Where she goes—”

“I go,” the clerk finished. “Oh, well.” He sighed. “It’s not the first time two crazy people came through town.”

“We’re not going ‘through’ town. Miss Maguire is staying. As am I.”

The graying eyebrows lowered into a frown. “That’ll be two dollars a night, Mister Oliver. In advance.”

Rand slapped a fistful of silver dollars onto the counter, and the clerk pounced on them. “Let’s see, now...” He counted them with his forefinger and slid them off into his palm. “That’ll get you five nights at the Excelsior.”

“Six,” Rand challenged. “You miscounted.”

There was a long minute during which no one spoke. Finally the clerk heaved another sigh. “All right, six nights.” He snatched a key from the row of hooks on the wall behind him and laid it in Rand’s outstretched palm. “Second floor, third door on your left. Number seven.”

The small room overlooked the street below and beyond that was a view of the hills surrounding the town. Two narrow beds were shoved together against one wall, and a tall oak armoire and a white-painted chest of drawers sat against the other. Rand started to stow the saddlebags in the armoire, but Alice stopped him.

“Wait. I want my saloon girl dress.”

“Now?”

“Yes, now. I need to hang it up. And I will need a bath before...before I make my debut.”

Rand went back downstairs to order her bath, and while he was gone Alice watched the goings-on in the street below. Horses. Wagons. Filthy-looking miners covered with white dust slogged through the mud. Only one or two women. And no children. The town felt raw. Unfinished.

But it was certainly busy. Seething would be a more accurate term. Everyone looked like they were in a hurry, even on this scorching October day, and they all walked with their heads down, as if thinking intently about something.

Rand returned ten minutes later, along with a Mexican man lugging a metal bathtub and two giggling girls who dumped in bucket after bucket of steaming water. When they were finished, they left folded towels and a bar of sweet-smelling soap beside the tub.

Alice eyed the tub of steaming water and then noticed that Rand was eyeing it, too. “Isn’t there something you need to do, Rand? Visit the barbershop or the sheriff or something?”

“Nope. I’m staying right here. Like I said, I’m not letting you out of my sight.”

“Well, I hardly think—”

“Alice, don’t think. My orders are to protect you and find your sister’s killer, and that’s exactly what I’m going to do. The killer could be anybody, so I’m sticking close.”

“But, Rand, I want to take a bath!”

“Good idea. I’ll turn my back.”

She gave him a long look, then studied the steaming tub that beckoned. This was highly improper, sharing a room with Rand, and now... She gulped. Now she would be taking a bath with him standing right there? This was the most scandalous thing she’d ever done in her life!

But instinctively she knew he wouldn’t be talked out of staying, so she shrugged, shook out the petticoat and the corset and lacy camisole she’d brought in her saddlebag and hung them up to air with her red dress. Then, with a surreptitious glance at Rand she began to unbutton her denim riding skirt.

“Rand?”

“Yeah?”

“I am waiting for you to turn around.”

“Oh. Yeah.” He pivoted toward the window and stood with his back to her.

Rand didn’t watch her, exactly. But he could sure hear her. Every little splash and sigh set his imagination on fire, and finally he cracked. He half turned away from the window, and out of the corner of his eye he caught a glimpse of the bathtub. And her.

Big mistake. Big damn mistake.

By the time she finished smoothing that cake of soap all over her skin he was rock-hard. Miss Lolly-Alice was changing his mind about everything—librarians, Pinkerton assignments, even celibacy. When she reached for a towel to dry herself off, he knew he had to escape.

“Alice,” he said, his voice hoarse. “I’m going to talk to the sheriff after all. Don’t let anyone in, even someone who wants to take away the bathtub.”

“The bathwater is still warm, Rand. Wouldn’t you like to use it? It will be cold when you get back.”

“A cold bath will suit me just fine.” If he was honest with himself, a cold bath was exactly what he needed.

He sidled past the tub, locked the door behind him and headed out onto the street to find Sheriff Lipscomb.

Silver City had exactly seven wooden structures. In addition to the Excelsior Hotel and the Golden Nugget saloon, there was the Silver City National Bank, the Coleman’s Assay Office, the run-down livery stable, the tiny sheriff’s office, which looked like a made-over chicken coop, and a large, well-maintained stamp mill, where mined rocks were smashed into bits to extract the silver. Everything else, two mercantiles, a dressmaker, a barber shop, a bathhouse and four eating establishments, one of which served nothing but pie, conducted business in tents. Even the physician-coroner and the funeral parlor did business in tents. One stiff wind would flatten the entire town.

Rand found the sheriff’s office, lifted the tent flap and stepped over the threshold. The fleshy lawman sat with his boots propped up on a desk littered with Wanted posters, sipping from a glass of what looked suspiciously like whiskey. That, Rand thought with annoyance, might explain why the murder investigation had stalled.

“Sheriff Lipscomb?”

“Yep, that’s me. Who’s askin’?”

“Rand Logan. I wired you ten days ago.”

“Oh, yeah? Sorry, don’t recall that.”

“Randell Logan,” Rand clarified. “United States Marshal.”

The sheriff shot to his feet, scattering posters all over the floor of the tent. “Oh, yessir, Marshal Logan, now I remember. You’re investigatin’ Miss Dorothy’s murder.”

“I am, yes. Do you have any new information to report?”

“Uh...cain’t say that I have, no. Talkin’ to those miners is like conversin’ with a clammed-up clamshell.”

“Has the coroner made a report?”

“Nope.”

“Have any witnesses come forward?”

“Nope.”

“You hear any rumors or scuttlebutt around town about the killing?”

“Nope.”

Rand gritted his teeth. Looked like miners weren’t the only closed-up clams in this town. “Sheriff Lipscomb, would you care to accompany me to visit the coroner?”

“You mean now?”

Rand nodded. “Now.”

The sheriff set his whiskey on an uncluttered corner of his desk. “Well, shore, Marshal. Doc Arnold’s a friend of mine. His office is just around the corner on Jasmine Street.”

Jasmine Street smelled like rotting garbage, not like anything remotely floral, but Dr. Arnold’s office smelled better, like antiseptic.

Sheriff Lipscomb barged into the coroner’s tent. “Doc, this here is Marshal Randell Logan.”

Rand shook the man’s hastily extended hand. “Dr. Harvey Arnold,” the physician muttered. The sheriff plopped onto a canvas folding chair and ran two fingers through his thinning hair.

“Jeremiah,” the physician intoned, “you want a drink?”

“What? Uh...no, thanks, Harve. I’m on duty.”

For a split second a look of confusion crossed Dr. Arnold’s lined face, and Rand nodded in comprehension. During the day Sheriff Lipscomb drank. A lot. Rand clenched his teeth so hard his jaw hurt. That might explain why Dorothy Coleman’s killer hadn’t been apprehended; the sheriff was probably drunk by noon. Sheriffs were elected. How did this man ever get voted into office?

He cleared his throat. “Gentlemen, I am investigating the death of Dorothy Coleman.”

Dr. Arnold jerked. “Oh, yes, I remember. Murder, as I recall. Gunshot.”

“You recover any bullets from her body?”

“I dug one out of her back,” the physician said in an almost inaudible voice. “The other one was embedded too deep in her brain to retrieve without...you know, damaging her looks.”

“Are you saying she was shot twice? Once in the back and once in the temple?”

Doc Arnold nodded and turned to a tall cabinet in the corner. He scrabbled through three file drawers and finally dropped a bit of metal into Rand’s hand. A thirty-two-caliber bullet, Rand noted.

“Any other injuries on her body?”

The physician exhaled heavily. “Other than a slight abrasion on one elbow, Miss Dorothy looked as pretty as she always did.” His voice died away, and he dropped his eyes to study the stack of medical reports on his desk.

The doctor was behind in his paperwork, Rand noted. He also noted how inappropriate the physician’s observation was.

“Was a funeral held?”

“Oh, sure, Marshal Logan,” Dr. Arnold assured him. “Half the population of Silver City turned out, all of ’em crying and carrying on like it was the end of the world. Miss Dorothy’s buried up on the hill, behind the stamp mill.”

“Is that the town cemetery?”

“Not exactly,” Sheriff Lipscomb said. “But Miss Dorothy was awful partial to the Lady Luck mine, and that’s as close as we could get to dig her grave.”

Rand nodded. “If either of you think of anything else that might help the investigation, you’ll find me at the hotel. I’m registered as George Oliver, for reasons that should be obvious.”

The sheriff and Dr. Arnold exchanged a puzzled look. “Pinkerton sent you, isn’t that right?” the sheriff asked.

“Yes, that’s right. But I’m working this case undercover.”

Both men looked at each other and nodded, and Rand took his leave. “Gentlemen, stay in touch.”

He headed back to the hotel with a sinking feeling in his gut. The sheriff liked whiskey. The coroner was almost obscene in his admiration for Alice’s sister, Dorothy Coleman. And if either one of them knew anything of significance, they weren’t saying. This investigation was going to be uphill all the way.