Irene’s song finished, and she curtsied to the audience as softy as an ostrich feather drifting to the floor. The men went wild, cheering and stomping their feet. Gold nuggets flew through the air. Irene gathered them up with a gracious smile, her eyes judging the worth of every one as she did so.
“Gentleman.” The caller crossed the stage once Irene had gathered her loot and departed. “Time to take your partners for a long, dreamy, juicy waltz.”
The benches were pushed to the sides of the room and men rushed forward, clutching the tickets that they’d bought for one dollar each. They thrust their ticket at a girl, the orchestra struck up, and the lucky men took their partner through a few hurried dance steps. Exactly one minute later, the music stopped, mid-note, as the onedollar dance came to an end. The girls dragged their man off to the bar so he could have the opportunity to buy a drink, whether he wanted one or not. The bartender then handed the girl a disk that she’d trade at the end of the night for her twenty-five cent share of the profits. The girls stuck their disks into the top of their stockings. This would carry on until six o’clock in the morning. By then, the more popular girls could scarcely walk for the weight encumbering their legs.
When Irene stepped onto the dance floor, her smile bright and her arms held out to her sides in invitation, a rush of men threatened to sweep her away.
“Gentlemen, gentlemen, please.” Fiona moved graciously through the crowd. “Behave yourselves. The night has only just begun. There’s plenty of time for everyone to enjoy a dance.”
Respectfully, the men stood back. Too bad, Sterling thought, women couldn’t join the NWMP: with Fiona MacGillivray on the force, no one would dare to put a foot out of place. He pushed aside the picture of thick black hair tucked into the pointed hat and lush curves straining the seams of the red coat.
Irene favoured Jack Ireland with a gracious nod and a flirtatious smile. The reporter slipped his arms around his prize’s ample form. She touched the back of his shoulders, and they moved into the dance.
Ray Walker growled low in his throat. “Hadn’t you better be getting back to the bar, Ray?”
Fiona glared at him.
Graham Donohue planted himself directly in front of the dancing couple.
Ireland shifted Irene to guide her around the obstacle. Donohue stepped with them. They might have been a dancing trio. Ireland stopped. Irene twisted her head to see what was going on behind her. Fiona crossed the floor, pushing men and dance hall girls out of her way. One by one the couples on the floor drifted to a halt. The orchestra, knowing that no one was paying them any attention, stopped playing.
“If you’ll excuse us, partner,” Ireland said, his common man accent back in place. “Lady Irenee and me are havin’ ourselves a dance.”
“You’re in my territory, Ireland.” Donohue’s words were slurred. He leaned forward, trying to loom over the fractionally shorter older man. Ireland laughed without mirth and turned to Irene. “Fellow needs to learn that a newspaperman ain’t got a territory. In our business, it’s winner take all.” His eyes dropped to the scooped neck of Irene’s dress, leaving the onlookers in no doubt as to what the winner of this contest intended to claim.
Irene giggled, wiggled her hips, and attempted to flutter her stubby eyelashes.
An old-timer guffawed. “Ain’t that the truth, boy. And not just in the newspaper business, either.”
Ireland extended his arms to his dance partner.
Donohue took a swing at him.
He was an experienced fighter, had at least twenty years advantage, maybe more, on the reporter from San Francisco, and Ireland’s attention was distracted for the moment by the simpering Irene. But drink slowed Donohue down. Ireland saw the blow coming and, given a chance to play for the audience, pushed Irene out of the way, although she was in absolutely no danger, before pulling his head to one side so that the punch glanced off his cheek.
Irene staggered into the arms of a gambler who always dressed as if he were about to do immediate battle against the Plains Indians. Graham swung to deliver another, more accurate punch.
The room erupted.
“Twenty dollars on the old fellow,” someone yelled from deep inside the crowd of observers.
Coins, bills, nuggets and bags of gold dust flashed in answer. Men rushed in from the bar and the gambling hall to join the fun. They jostled for position, both to watch the fight and to lay bets.
Fiona MacGillivray pushed men out of the way and screamed directly into Donohue’s face in a most unladylike manner, spittle flying everywhere. “You’re banned, Graham. Out of here. Now!”
Ray Walker tried to force his way through the press of men and women to reach Irene. She smiled up at the man who’d caught her, realized that all eyes were on her and, with a light moan, sank into a swoon. Holding the fainting beauty in his arms, the lucky man called for brandy, room to breathe, and a doctor. He attempted to drag Irene out of the crush to safety, but not ready to leave the centre of attention quite yet, she smiled up at him, and with another moan and a shudder, which had all the men leaning forward, she courageously attempted to gather her strength.
“Ray,” Fiona said sharply, her eyes cold and dark. “Forget Irene and get Graham out of here.” Walker looked at Irene, and he looked at his business partner. Indecision tore at his life-battered face.
Sterling grabbed Graham’s wrist. “You’re under arrest, Mr. Donohue.”
“What?” Graham spat, twisting in the constable’s professional grip. “That goddamned bastard comes into my town, and you arrest me. What the hell for?”
“For the use of vile language, for one thing,” Sterling said. “But mainly for attacking a man thirty years older than you with no provocation in the full sight of a hundred men and several ladies.”
“Well, not quite thirty,” Ireland said, straightening his tie and smiling at the people around him. “There, there, fellow. Allow me to help the lady.” He eased Irene away from Ray, who had taken her from her rescuer. “My dear, shall we finish our dance?”
Donohue spluttered; Walker looked as if he were about to take a swing at Ireland himself.
“Ray,” Fiona snapped. “There’ll be a rush on the bar any minute now. You’d best get in there. And if you lot don’t start playing,” she shouted to the orchestra, “I’ll dock your pay. Dances begin again. One minute, starting now.” For a woman of such delicate, gently-brought-up appearance, Fiona MacGillivray could put on a voice like a sailor in the British Navy when she had a mind to. The orchestra launched directly into the middle of their tune, and the men grabbed their partners. At least forty seconds of dancing before the trouble started, then a minute or two spent standing with their girl, arm about waist if lucky, and another minute of dancing. For some of these men, who’d abandoned all in pursuit of gold, this was the only bit of good fortune they’d had in months. Ray Walker returned to his bar with a grumble, a nasty glance at Fiona, a longing look at Irene, and an angry grimace at Ireland. Sterling escorted Donohue out the door.
The man might have been drunk, and his protests were loud and effusive, but he knew better than to resist arrest.
“Fiona, Light of the Land of the Midnight Sun, you can’t do this to me. Tell this fine, upstanding Man-of-the Law to let me go.”
Fiona walked with them to the door. “The next time you set foot in my place, Graham Donohue, be on your knees.” Her black eyes burned like chips of coal consumed by a single red spark, deep inside. “You’ve cost me ten minutes of prime dancing time.” She looked at Sterling. “Throw