“Well,” Wyatt said, standing up when Caleb reentered the saloon. “You handled that with more perception than usual.”
Caleb ignored him.
Wyatt slipped on his wool coat and bowler hat. Didn’t look much like the lawman who had cleaned out Tombstone, but anyone who crossed him knew those looks were deceiving. “Keep things quiet tonight. I need to check on my other properties.”
Caleb raised his chin in acknowledgment. Earp ran into more trouble at his other gambling halls. Caleb should know—he’d worked at both, the worst on the edge of the Stingaree district. A rougher brand of men with fewer rules and even less restraint frequented that establishment. After surviving a year, Wyatt had offered him the job here. Caleb looked over the waxed and polished wood of the bar and tables. Here in the center of the business district the glassware was finer, the clientele classier and even the brawls more refined—if that was possible. Oh, they happened—the arguments, the fights—but they started out subtle, creeping up on a body with only a look or a word before suddenly turning deadly.
Once Wyatt left, Caleb slid onto the closest bar stool. “Make it black, strong and hot,” he called loud enough for Yin Singh to hear in the kitchen. Lowering his voice, he turned to Jim. “Newspaper come yet?”
Jim reached under the counter, pulled out the most recent weekly and dropped it beside the steaming mug of coffee Yin delivered.
Caleb grunted his thanks and started to skim the front page.
“I signed for this, too. Hope it ain’t bad news.” Jim slipped a telegram on the bar.
Caleb stared at the paper. The only person who’d send him a telegram was his sister. His gut took a dive. He grabbed up the official-looking transcript. If anything had happened...
Hannah arriving in two days. Please look out for her—for me—for Stuart. Love, Rachel.
Hannah? His thoughts raced back to the last time he’d seen her—a time he’d buried deep and refused to think about.
“You look like you got the wind knocked out of your sails,” Jim said. “Someone die?”
“More like resurrected,” Caleb mumbled. It had been years since he’d seen Hannah Lansing. Five years and five hundred miles. He’d figured San Francisco was far enough away that he’d never again see her in this lifetime. That had been his plan. What was she doing coming here?
“Ghost from the past?” Jim eyed the telegram with growing interest.
Caleb crushed the paper in his fist, left his coffee untouched and slid off the stool. “Doesn’t matter. I don’t aim to find out.”
Hannah stood just inside the lobby of the Horton Grand Hotel and breathed a sigh of relief. Her heartbeat slowed to a steadier rhythm as she noted the large display of flowers on the central table. The Horton Grand Hotel appeared to be the essence of respectability—an oasis in a town of gambling halls and smaller businesses. The walk from the train station had caused her no small amount of anxiety. She wasn’t used to being so totally on her own, especially in a strange town. Halfway here, she’d seen three men on horseback racing through the main street of town, whooping and yelling and kicking up a minor dust storm. She’d known when starting her journey that this was no San Francisco, but it was a wilder town than she’d expected.
Not for the first time did she consider that her flight here may have been a bit impetuous. She hadn’t thought the trip completely through, and now those things she’d taken for granted in San Francisco—things like getting from Nob Hill to the docks, a trip usually made in a carriage with a servant accompanying her—seemed difficult and worry laden.
She had picked the Horton specifically for its location. The Florentine would have been a safer choice for a single woman, but Rachel had said Caleb worked at the saloon across the street. That would make him more accessible should she need him. She strode through the lobby past a middle-aged couple sitting in overstuffed leather chairs and placed her reticule on the ornate oak-and-brass front desk.
A short, round, gray-haired man looked up from studying the ledger. “May I help you?”
“I’d like a room.”
He surveyed the lobby behind her. “You’re alone? I’m afraid the Horton does not—”
“I’m Miss Hannah Lansing,” she said quickly before he could deny her accommodation. “And here on official business for my company.”
The clerk straightened, a small Napoleon at attention. “Of Lansing Enterprises?”
She nodded. “I’ll be attending the grand opening of the Hotel Del Coronado.”
He looked confused. “But you are staying here? Rather than there?”
It did sound suspicious. Those who’d helped finance the hotel had seaside rooms for the celebration. Grandfather hadn’t wanted to invest. It wasn’t any of this clerk’s business, but she felt she had to give him a plausible explanation. “I will be meeting with a few friends and business associates while here. It seemed simpler to stay in town rather than out on the peninsula.”
“Then, on behalf of the Horton, I am delighted you chose our hotel for your respite.” His hand hovered over the ledger before printing her name.
She relaxed somewhat. The first hurdle was behind her. She’d made it safely this far.
He swiveled the ledger so that she could sign her name, and then snapped his fingers. A tall, thin man appeared from the back room. “Jackson can show you to your room.”
“Thank you. My trunk is at the train station.”
“We’ll see to it, miss.”
She followed the porter up the staircase. On the second floor, Jackson opened the first door in the hallway. A bouquet of flowers adorned the table in the center of the room, filling the space with the scent of orchids. Along the wall, an oak buffet table held matching brass candlesticks on a delicate lace table runner. Walking to the adjoining room, she found a four-poster bed and canopy. An ornate, full-size pedestal mirror occupied one corner near the foot of the bed, and a stand with a gold-rimmed china bowl and pitcher stood in the opposite corner.
Jackson lit the gas wall sconces in both rooms before closing the drapes at the two tall windows. “I’ll be about retrieving your trunk now. Dinner is at six.”
She was hungry, but she was tired, and the thought of eating by herself in the dining room with others speculating about her aloneness was more than she wanted to endure tonight. “Thank you, but might I have my meal brought up?”
Jackson nodded and turned toward the hallway. She closed the door behind him, released a pent-up breath, whipped off her hat and tossed it onto the settee, saying a prayer of thanks that she’d not been denied a room. That would have been a setback she hadn’t considered. Thank goodness the Lansing name was known here.
She pushed a loose strand of hair back into place, securing it under her twisted bun, and then walked to the window and peeked through the drapes to look out over the town. With the descending twilight, colors were fading to shades of gray. Three tall brick buildings towered over the others—their signs indicating a bank, Marsten’s store and a gambling hall. The first two appeared closed for the day, but directly across from her hotel room, the saloon was lit up like a sparkler on the Fourth of July. Golden light and occasional raucous laughter spilled out on the boardwalk along with a light tune someone played on a piano.
Grasping the pendant of silver and abalone at her neck, Hannah searched through the fancy etched windows of the saloon. Somewhere inside Caleb went about his duties. Rachel had been curious as to why she was asking after him, and Hannah had made