“I—well, yes, I do. Someone was supposed to meet me at the train station, but he failed to show up, and now...”
Rita propped her hands on her ample hips. “Who was it?”
“Caleb Arness.”
The waitress’s face changed. “Arness, huh?” She studied Clarissa for a full minute. “He a relation of some sort?”
“Well, no. Not yet, anyway. We were to be mar—”
“Aw, honey, I’ve heard tall tales in my time, but this one takes the cake. Take my advice and clear out of town as fast as you can go.”
Clarissa stared at her. “I beg your pardon?”
At that moment Emily let out a cry of delight. “Look, Mama, it’s Mister Cowboy!”
* * *
Gray spotted them right off. Miss Seaforth was talking to Rita, and Emily was waving her ice-cream spoon at him. He took the empty chair. “Coffee, Rita. And add some brandy, would ya? Been dry for a month.”
“Sure, Gray. How was the drive?”
“Long. Miserable. Profitable, but I sure earned every penny.”
He turned his attention to Emily. “Had enough ice cream?”
The red curls bounced as she shook her head. “Nope. I’m never, never gonna have enough ice cream. It’s the bestest thing in the whole world, next to Christmas.”
Rita brought his coffee and he downed two large gulps that made his eyes water.
“Rich enough for you?” Rita asked with a grin.
He nodded, swallowed hard and gave her a thumbs-up. She chuckled all the way back to the kitchen.
“Mama won’t let me play with Sammy Wolf,” Emily complained.
“Greywolf,” Miss Seaforth corrected. “I am sure Mr. Greywolf is busy.”
Gray set his cup on the saucer. “I had the desk clerk take your suitcase up to your room, Miss Seaforth.”
“Thank you, Mr. Harris.”
“Uh, now that you’re here, maybe you should give some thought to a few things.”
“Oh? What things?”
“Well, for starters, whether you’re gonna stay or not.”
“Why, of course I am staying. Caleb—”
“Might not show up.” Gray downed another swallow of his ninety-proof coffee. “Might be he’s, uh, tied up somewhere on, um, business.”
“Perhaps. Nevertheless, I am sure he will come soon.”
He smothered a snort. She wasn’t sure of any damn thing. Clarissa Seaforth was a good bluffer, but the expression in those green eyes gave her away. Uncertainty warred with fear and something else he couldn’t pin down. Pride, maybe.
“Listen, Miss Seaforth, like I said, you might start thinkin’ what to do if Arness doesn’t show up.” Actually, if he was in her skin, he would be thinking what to do if he did show up. Run the other direction, he hoped.
“Emily,” she said suddenly. “Are you finished with your ice cream?”
The girl nodded. “Yes, Mama, but—”
“Then we must excuse ourselves and retire to our hotel room. Good afternoon, Mr. Harris.”
He watched the slim, graceful woman until she disappeared through the doorway, then chugged down the rest of his coffee just as Rita appeared at his elbow. “Want some more?”
“Want some? Yeah. Gonna have some? No. Gotta ride out to the Bar H while I can still mount a horse.”
* * *
By morning Clarissa knew she was in real trouble. Her meager funds would soon dwindle, and with a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach, she acknowledged that the situation called for extraordinary measures. After breakfast she left Emily in the care of the kindly waitress and began canvassing up one side of the dusty street and down the other, looking for employment.
The dressmaker smiled but shook her head. The barbershop, the sheriff’s office and the blacksmith had no use for a female. That left the bank and the Golden Partridge saloon, and she soon found that the bank wouldn’t hire a woman, either.
Very well. She straightened her spine and stepped off the sidewalk. For the first time in her life she would walk into a saloon.
Inside the Golden Partridge it was dim and smoky, and even at this hour of the morning it smelled of something pungent. Tobacco, she guessed. And spirits. She halted just inside the swinging batwing doors to get her bearings, and in that instant a pall of silence descended. Even the piano player’s music dribbled to a stop.
“Excuse me, ma’am,” the bartender called out. “Ladies aren’t allowed in here.”
She clenched her fingers around the reticule holding the last of her money—two dollars. “I...I assumed that to be the case, sir. I was wondering if you...that is, would you have any employment available?”
The bartender’s meaty hand swiped back and forth across the expanse of mahogany countertop. “Not for a lady, no.”
“For what, then?”
The man paused to size her up. “Well, I dunno. Can you sing?”
Some hours later, Clarissa marched up and down in front of the big two-story brown house on lower Willow Street for a good ten minutes before she could work up the courage to open the gate. “Go on down to Serena’s place,” the bartender had instructed. “Ask her for a dress—something not too flashy but—” the man actually blushed! “—real female-lookin’.”
She had never been within a mile of such a place! Her knees felt wobbly, but she stuffed down her misgivings, walked up the steps and stood trembling on the wide front porch of Serena’s house. Before she could ring the bell, the door swung inward and a tall, gray-haired woman in a lacy black wrapper peered out at her.
“Miss Serena?”
The woman gave a short nod. “Whaddya want, honey? A job?”
“Well, yes, in a way. Tom, the bartender at the Golden Partridge, said I should ask you for an appropriate dress for—”
“Did he, now? Appropriate for what?”
“For singing. He gave me a job singing at the saloon tonight, but...I have nothing to wear. He said my travel dress wouldn’t be quite right.”
Serena eyed her travel suit. “Got a good eye, does Tom. Well, now, dearie, you just come right on in and we’ll see what we can do.”
“Thank you kindly, Miss—”
“Just Serena. Well, come on, honey! No need to be shy.” She closed the door with a soft click. “Mary?” she called over her shoulder. “Mary, come on down here. Got a dove that ain’t soiled yet, and she needs yer help.”
A slim girl with very blond ringlets appeared in the parlor. She was clad in something with fluffy pink feathers around the shoulders and a slit up one side. She smelled of something over-sweet, lily-of-the-valley, perhaps.
“Mary, take Miss—what’s yer name, dearie?”
“Seaforth. Clarissa Seaforth.”
“Tom sent her over from the saloon,” Serena explained. “Mary, take Miss Seaforth upstairs and find somethin’ with some sass to it. She’s gonna sing at the Golden Partridge.”