Leaden Skies Read online

  Leaden Skies

  Leaden Skies

  Written by Ann Parker

  www.annparker.net

  Poisoned Pen Press

  Copyright © 2009 by Ann Parker

  First Edition 2009

  Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 2008937744

  ISBN-10 Print: 1-59058-577-1

  ISBN-13 eBook: 978-1-6159-5147-5

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in, or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.

  Poisoned Pen Press

  6962 E. First Ave., Ste. 103

  Scottsdale, AZ 85251

  www.poisonedpenpress.com

  [email protected]

  Dedication

  In memoriam

  Donald L. Parker

  1921–2006

  and

  Corinne C. Parker

  1924–2006

  Requiescant in pace

  Acknowledgments

  Well, where to start. At the beginning, of course, and that means family. Bill, Ian, and Devyn, it’s only with your love and understanding that I manage to move from the first word of the first draft to the final word of the polished story. To all my sibs and relatives in Colorado and elsewhere, thanks for being there, cheering me on, giving me places to stay, people to talk to, and the warmth and laughs that are part of being a tribe.

  And there are friends, as well, whose support ranks right up there with family. I owe particular and special thanks to Camille Minichino (aka Margaret Grace) and Dick Rufer, who invited me to “stake a claim” in their guest bedroom for several “writer’s retreat” weekends. Those retreats helped me blast through to THE END. Thanks, Camille, for your friendship and brainstorming (and chocolate!) through the years, and Dick, for your humor and excellent 24/7 technical advice and support.

  Experts who lowered me a ladder when I dug holes too deep to climb out of include Dr. Doug Lyle, M.D., Janice Fox from the Lake County Public Library, Kathleen Antrim, Dani Greer, Colleen Casey, and the librarians at my local Livermore Public Library. I’m also indebted to the Colorado Historical Society and the Denver Public Library for their wonderful resources and staff. I want to thank Katie Walter, who, years ago, got me thinking about fire insurance maps, map makers, and striders as a possible anchor for a story, and Mary Reed and Eric Mayer who showered me with mapping/surveying links, information, and encouragement. A tip of the hat goes to the awesome yahoo groups for Women Writing the West, carmelsloop, BIW, Weapons_Info….I’m sure I’m missing some, but believe me, I am grateful for all the helping hands folks have offered in the real and virtual worlds. Any and all errors are mine.

  Thanks to my critiquers who kept me from wandering too far afield, doubling back, and/or getting lost in the wilderness of words: Camille Minichino, Penny Warner, Kathleen Antrim, Colleen Casey, Mike Cooper, Margaret Dumas, Janet Finsilver, Dani Greer (and her virtual red pen!), Claire Johnson, Rena Leith, Staci McLaughlin, Corinne Davis, Carole Price, Gordon Yano, and Janice Fox. And a special thanks to Jane Staehle for thorough ARC proofing.

  The people of Leadville deserve special mention and their very own paragraph. I’m forever indebted to Bob and Carol Elder, who shared George Elder’s letters with me; Hillery and Bruce McAllister, who showed me around Western Hardware’s basement; and Herald Democrat editor Marcia Martinek, who toured me through the newspaper’s collection of old presses. Carol Hill and the folks of The Book Mine, and Nancy McCain and staff of Lake County Public Library deserve a special round of applause. Also, a special thank you goes to Paul Copper, who spent a good chunk of an evening a couple of years ago talking with me about Leadville’s mythical tunnels (which existed once, everyone agrees) and times “long past.”

  To Kate Reed, my webmistress, thank you for keeping me anchored in cyberspace.?

  To the real Jim Kavanagh, you finally get to “cash in” on a role in this book. Thanks for being so patient.

  Last but far from least, the Silver Queen Saloon would not have seen the light of day once (much less three times, so far) if not for the amazing folks at Poisoned Pen Press: the extraordinary editor (TEE) Barbara Peters, publisher Rob Rosenwald, associate publisher Jessica Tribble, and all the other Press-ers—Marilyn, Nan, Geetha, Annette, and my cover designer Marsha. Thank you, all, for making my dream come true.

  Map

  Map created by Michael Greer

  Contents

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Map

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Author’s Note

  More from this Author

  Contact Us

  Chapter One

  “And lead us not into temptation,but deliver us from evil…”

  —Matthew 6:13

  July 22, 1880

  When the summer storm arrived late that afternoon, it was hailed as a blessing. Damp splots the size of half-eagle gold coins pocked hats and shawls, sent small dust explosions puffing up from dirt streets ground to dust beneath boots and wagon wheels, and tempted small children to stand with faces upturned, tongues thrust out to catch the drops.

  Many who lined Leadville’s overheated streets, hoping for a glimpse of Ulysses S. Grant arriving for his five-day visit, had been there since sunrise. They welcomed the rain, the cool wind that accompanied it. But after the thunder passed and the drenching continued, hour after hour, the thousands packing the avenues began to curse the clouds and their liquid gift.

  Damp crawled up trouser pants and wicked up the hems of long skirts and petticoats. Drops trickled off hat brims to wilt celluloid and lace collars and chill the backs of necks. Streets, which had produced clouds of dust mere hours ago despite the best efforts of “squirt wagons,” now flowed mud.

  “He’s coming. Just left Malta.”

  The whisper moved through the crowds like a gathering wind. Ears strained to hear the faintest of train whistles over the murmur of voices, the snort of horses, the shouted directions of those preparing the parade route from the point of disembarkment to the hotel where “Unconditional Surrender” Grant and his party would stay.

  Still, not everyone’s attention focused on the impending arrival. In the red-light district of Leadville’s State Street, rain conferred anonymity while darkness stilled the voice of conscience. Behind the heavy damask curtains of
a three-story brick fortress on the corner of State and Pine, another world beckoned.

  Mapmaker Cecil Farnesworth tipped his head back to examine the front of the substantial building. Rain dripped off the brim of his hat, mingling with the drops that fell from the sky and slapped his face. With a long intake of breath, Cecil stepped up on the porch, out of the rain. He removed his hat and, clutching it over his heart like a shield, knocked on the door of the whorehouse.

  Chapter Two

  Cecil was sure that, by stepping foot inside the house of prostitution on State Street, he had consigned his soul to purgatory, or worse.

  Forgiveness, he feared, would be very long in coming.

  Right then, though, it didn’t matter. He’d come back to see her, the woman with the dark eyes who reminded him of Rachel. He wasn’t going to do anything…sinful. He just wanted to talk to her. Hear her voice. See if she sounded like Rachel.

  But the visit wasn’t going the way he’d pictured it.

  After surrendering his hat and heavily soaked overcoat to the silent doorman, he’d allowed himself to be escorted into the drawing room by the woman called Molly. She was all sharp angles—nose, chin, elbows, and wrists. Jutting collarbones created a topographical ridge above a flat, freckled expanse bordered by lace. Not to his taste.

  There was no sign of Miss Flo, the woman who ran the place. Flo, as he remembered her, was pleasant, blond, soft, and warm. At least, she’d felt soft and warm, the last time he’d been around. At that preliminary visit, she’d greeted him as if he were an old friend, even before he’d introduced himself and his purpose. She hadn’t turned him away as he’d feared she would, but had hugged his arm close to her side, said “Call me Miss Flo, honey,” and shown him around the upper floors while keeping up a cheerful line of chatter. He remembered that she’d worn a green dress of silky fabric with fancy trimmings on the back and a low neckline. A diamond necklace—at least, he thought they might be diamonds—had glittered in the light of coal oil lamps throwing back the shadows of the early summer evening. Everything she wore looked expensive. And she’d been so kind. He couldn’t remember the last time a woman had not treated him with the most neutral courtesy or, worse, with disdain.

  Now, here he was, days later, sitting in the parlor room.

  He’d refused the champagne, but been talked into buying a single, high-priced glass of wine. (Another sin he would never have the courage to confess. He’d not touched anything stronger than the weakest of beers in his entire forty-two years of life.) Cecil looked around at the room’s appointments. Thick rugs, inlaid wood ceiling, crystal chandelier, silver candlesticks, rich velvet curtains, burnished piano. He wondered, briefly, how it was possible to make enough money at…well, this kind of business…to afford such things. Too, there were the dresses that most of the women wore, all sewn from luxurious materials that shimmered in the candlelight as they shifted and moved about. And he remembered Miss Flo’s diamond necklace…maybe it was a gift from an admirer?

  He would never have been able to buy that sort of thing for his Rachel on his salary from the Johnson Map Company. Even if events had proceeded to the point where such expensive items were a necessity.

  With an inward cringe, he remembered his last walk with Rachel that spring day. Their last day together. How he’d felt as they walked along, side by side, Rachel chattering about her sister’s upcoming nuptials. He’d felt young again—she always made him feel that way, his Rachel did—and that life, like the season, was full of possibilities and hope for the future. And then, when he’d asked her hand in marriage, granted, somewhat on impulse and without asking her father for his blessings first, how she had stopped in her tracks. Turned to him, strands of shining black hair escaped from her bonnet and lying along her cheekbones, blue eyes wide, beloved face slack-jawed. Not, it had finally dawned on him, with hoped-for happiness, but with an emotion that looked more like shock. A look, he thought in retrospect, which might have even been tinged with repulsion.

  That afternoon now seemed so far away. Like Rachel. Half a year and hundreds of miles away from Leadville, Colorado.

  Thinking of Rachel, he almost left the brothel right then.

  Still, he remained seated in the parlor room, the only man there among—he counted quickly—six women. The horsehair in the sofa pricked through his trousers into the backs of his legs, much as the memory of Rachel’s face had pricked his conscience as he’d hesitated on the boardwalk in the rain before summoning enough courage to knock on the door.

  But this visit was definitely not proceeding as he’d hoped.

  The woman with hair and eyes like Rachel, the woman who, incongruously enough, glowed with purity and youth just like his Rachel, sat on the Turkish couch in the corner, twirling a strand of dark hair around one finger. She, like the rest, was dressed up fancy, not wearing the loose garment he’d glimpsed her in when Miss Flo had taken him around the upper stories and he’d made his notes and measurements.

  She was watching him.

  As were all the women in the room.

  The girl with the gray teeth sat across from him. She stared hardest of all. Her face was not unpleasant, structurally speaking. But, she’s so young, he thought. Younger than Rachel’s almost eighteen years. Too young to be here. Full-bodied, she wore a purple, satiny sort of dressing gown dotted with what might be flowers and butterflies. He wasn’t certain about this, as he was trying hard not to stare back at her. She looked as if she hadn’t had time to dress properly before Molly brought him into the room. The top three closures of her gown—complicated corded oblong buttons of a vaguely Oriental nature—were undone. White skin teased him through the deep open V as she leaned forward to refill his glass.

  The woman’s dark, musky scent washed over him, as she remarked, “Another drink, another dollar, Mister Mapmaker. It’s Angelica wine, all the way from California. My favorite too, ’cause it’s so sweet.”

  He had to stop drinking so quickly, he hadn’t realized he’d drained the first glass.

  The red painted lips parted in a smile. He had an even better view of those teeth as she said, “Guess everyone else’s off, hoping to catch a look-see at the first train t’ town and Mister Grant. ’Cept for you. Flo’s still out there, drumming up business for us all. Did she send you here, Mister Mapmaker? What’s your name, anyhow? We can’t just keep calling you Mister Mapmaker.”

  He couldn’t remember her name, although she’d told him when she’d handed him the wine glass a few minutes ago. After all, it wasn’t her he wanted to talk to. But here she sat, simpering and smiling, the tip of her tongue darting out to touch her upper lip.

  Her smile didn’t reach her eyes. The way she stared at him made him feel like a rabbit trapped by a hungry cougar.

  He cleared his throat and sat up straight, reminding himself that he was taller by a head and a half, much, much older, and had masculine strength on his side. There was nothing to fear. What could she, a mere slip of a girl, do to him, after all?

  “I’m a surveyor, not a mapmaker, actually,” said Cecil, gripping the wine stem tighter and wondering why he’d listened to the demon that had urged him to turn off the sidewalk to enter this house of ill repute. “I’m in town surveying buildings for the Johnson Map Company. Identifying features of interest to insurers. Type of frame, floor, roof. Pipes.” He realized that he was babbling, but the words kept coming. “The number of stories. Placement of doors, windows, the size of the rooms.”

  He glanced at the Rachel-like girl to see if she was listening. Her wonderful eyes were half-closed, as if lulled by his voice. “It’s important,” he cleared his throat, “important for the insurers to have all the details. So as surveyors, or striders as we’re sometimes called, we’re tasked to make a thorough examination.”

  “That so.” The slash of a smile widened. Those gray teeth seemed to take up her whole face. Her sly eyes, a muddy brown color, slid to the other women lounging about the room, sending a
message he couldn’t interpret. “You want to examine this?”

  She tugged the half-unbuttoned wrapper aside, exposing one breast.

  A wave of tittering flooded the room. Heat rushed up, strangled his breathing, and mottled his face. He shrank back against the sofa. The breast seemed to stare at him. Eye of the Devil.

  Her wicked grin broadened. She closed the robe, looped a single button, then set one slipper-shod foot on the ottoman between them. “With the proper coin, you can inspect all you want. Of course, if you’re looking for a fire, I’m supposin’ you’ll be wanting to take a poke in the cellar.”

  She hiked her skirt hem above her knee, providing enough of a view for him to realize she wore nothing underneath. Nothing, that is, but garters holding up red-and-gold embroidered stockings.

  The skirt dropped. “The peep show was free. You want to measure the cellar with your rod, mapmaker, it’ll cost. How much depends on whether you’re using the front door or the back.”

  She thinks I want to…

  Cecil’s hand twitched. Wine spilled on his lap in a cold amber splash. He jumped to his feet, setting down the half-empty wine glass with an unsteady hand. “You’ve misunderstood my intentions. I, I just wanted to talk.”

  The woman shrieked with laughter. Most of the others snickered or belatedly hid smiles behind ornate fans. All but the one with Rachel’s eyes, who just watched, stone-faced, twirling her hair.

  Cecil fled the parlor, pushed past the doorman, who made no attempt to stop him, and stumbled out, crashing full-on into a waterproof-swathed figure mounting the front stairs. The person’s gloved hand shot out and clutched his arm.

  “Watch where you’re going!” The sharpness in the feminine voice softened in shocked recognition. “Mr. Farnesworth? Is that you?”

  He looked up, aghast, at Miss Flo, her concerned face outlined inside the loose hood. The parlor house madam’s rain-slicked coat blew open in a gust of wind, revealing a sparkly ensemble of patriotic red, white, and blue.