As they shook hands, Mr. Saunders beamed. “You know, it didn’t surprise me when I heard you became a reporter.”
“Why’s that?” Mark asked.
“You wrote a heck of a paper on the devastating effects gold rushes have had on some people, especially the Indians and the Chinese. It was more like an exposé than a report. And I knew you had real talent putting your thoughts into words.”
So, his former history teacher had remembered his work. Mark couldn’t help a soaring sense of pride in a ten-page paper he’d thrown out years ago. “I’ll admit full responsibility for the paper, sir. But not the spitwads. I can’t remember anyone in my class doing something so tacky and disrespectful.”
“Well, I can. Sometimes I’d go home and find one stuck in my hair.” Mr. Saunders chuckled. “Would you like a private tour of the museum? Or do you want to wander around on your own?”
“Juliet may want to wander, but I’d like the tour. I have some questions I’d like to ask you about the Queen of Hearts.”
“I’ll tag along, too,” Juliet said, holding the sleeping baby in the crook of her arm. “It’s always so interesting when you share those tidbits of Thunder Canyon history.”
“Great.” Mr. Saunders took them through the museum, stopping at each roped off section. They saw a typical parlor, the replicated interior of a one-room pioneer home and a fancy bedroom suite made out of mahogany, complete with a heavy, four-poster bed, matching bureaus, chairs and a vanity. A velvet patchwork quilt covered the mattress.
“This bedroom set was donated by the Douglas family,” Ben said. “Notice the fine workmanship, the detail in the pineapple finials.”
“It’s beautiful.” Juliet stroked the grain of the wood.
“This furniture belonged to Amos and Catherine Douglas,” the older man added. “And it once graced a guestroom at the Lazy D.”
Mark paused, not ready to move on. “Speaking of Amos Douglas, how did he really acquire the Queen of Hearts?”
“Well,” Ben said. “There are several legends, none of which has been proven. Most people believe Amos won the property in a poker game from a prospector with a drinking problem.”
“And what about you?”
Ben smiled. “I favor the story about him winning it from a renegade outlaw.”
That one was new to Mark. “Which outlaw?”
“A redheaded fellow folks claimed was as crazy as a patchwork quilt.” Ben chuckled. “Of course, in this day and age, we’d probably say he suffered from posttraumatic stress syndrome, caused by cruelties of the Civil War.”
Mark’s interest piqued. “Tell me about him.”
“Crazy Red Phelps was once a Confederate soldier who fought alongside the Rafferty brothers, a couple of natural born hell-raisers who didn’t care whether the war was over or not. They formed a ragtag outfit of renegade soldiers and vigilantes, but that didn’t last long. They soon moved on to robbing trains and banks in Colorado.”
“I’ve heard of the Rafferty gang,” Juliet said. “They weren’t as big or well known as Frank and Jesse James or the Daltons, but they did their share of robbing and killing.”
“That’s right.” Ben tugged at the waistband of his slacks. “Crazy Red and Bobby Joe Rafferty, the head of the gang, fell for the same woman, a widow named Sally McKenzie who ran a stage stop about fifty miles outside of Denver. The fight over the woman created some bad blood between the two, and a shoot-out resulted.”
“Who won?”
“Sally, if you ask me.” Ben chuckled. “When Crazy Red shot Billy Joe between the eyes, she pulled out her shotgun and blasted Crazy Red in the shoulder, then ran him off. He went on to pull a few armed robberies by himself and eventually ended up in Thunder Canyon, looking for gold and a piece of the action.”
“And you think Crazy Red got a hold of the Queen of Hearts?” Mark asked.
“An old newspaper quoted Crazy Red as claiming the mine rightfully belonged to him. And that he meant to have it, one way or another.”
“And you believe the claim of a thief who’d been dubbed with the nickname of Crazy?”
“Nope. But he was the kind of man who might have stolen the deed.” Ben slipped his hands into the pockets of his gray dress slacks. “And that could explain why Caleb Douglas can’t find it.”
Before Mark could respond, the telephone rang.
“Excuse me,” Ben said. “I need to answer that.”
Juliet, who held Marissa with one arm, tugged at Mark’s shirtsleeve, a habit that always amazed him. Why didn’t she just grab his hand or touch him?
“I want to show you something.” She led him to the small room with the Shady Lady display and pointed to a tall case that held a mannequin wearing a faded red satin dress with a scooped neckline and trimmed with black lace. “That dress belonged to Lily Divine, the original owner of the Shady Lady saloon.”
Several ropes of fake pearls looped around the mannequin’s neck, and a big black ostrich feather adorned the fake hair.
“I like the black fan the mannequin is holding,” Juliet added. “See the workmanship? It’s edged with chantilly lace and a purled braid.”
She sure knew her history of ladies doodads.
“And look at that.” Juliet nodded at the display case, where several colored bottles and a powder puff sat among other personal items once used by the notorious lady. “See the tortoise shell comb with a gold floral design and studded with rhinestones? Isn’t that pretty?”
“I guess so, but I think those black garters are more interesting.” Mark nodded toward the mannequin, who held up the hem of her red skirt, revealing red and black petticoats and a black silk garter with a gilt buckle and roses made out of ribbons. “The Shady Lady must have been one sexy woman.”
Juliet swatted at him, grazing his arm and making him yearn for more of her touch. When she laughed, the lilt of her voice settled over him like fingers on an angel’s harp. “You would find her undergarments intriguing.”
“You’re right about that. I don’t know why she didn’t wear those garters in the portrait that’s hanging over the bar at The Hitching Post.”
Juliet smiled impishly. “She probably knew the men would find her more appealing with that bedroom smile and only that gauzy thing draped over her.”
Mark slid her a crooked grin. “Not me. I’m a black garter man.”
Juliet arched a brow, brown eyes glimmering.
Was she making note of that tidbit of information?
He hoped so, then admonished himself for allowing his thoughts to drift in a sexual direction. For cripes sake, she’d just had a baby. And even if she hadn’t, they were just friends.
“You know,” Juliet said, “Lily Divine was an enterprising woman in her day. And I find her fascinating.”
“Me, too,” Mark said. Because she ran a whorehouse and a saloon, profiting from a man’s lust. “But why do you find her so interesting?”
“Mr. Saunders told me that she was considered a troublemaker in her day. But I think that’s probably because she was involved in the fight for women’s suffrage.”
“Well, that makes sense. I’m sure she had an interest in women’s rights, especially since she was a businesswoman. After all, she owned the hotel, as well as the saloon. And then there was that private business she