Silver Lies Read online

  "It’s meant to be," she said with a hint of a smile. "Are you here to watch or play?"

  "What’s the limit?"

  "No limit. Quarter eagle ante."

  "I’ll watch."

  Inez continued to the kitchen for coffee. Strong to begin with, after hours on the range it was as black and impenetrable as the night sky. Her return found Doc expounding on clergy in saloons.

  "I’ve witnessed more sermons than I can number where the good man of the cloth raves about the evils of cards and the devil in drink. All from the floor of a saloon! Dilutes the message, if I may say so."

  From a chair by the stove, Reverend Sands said, "It depends, Doctor. If the point is to preach to sinners, one goes where the sinners are. And that’s rarely the church."

  "What about you?" Jed filled his pipe. "You don’t rave from the pulpit about the sins and moral weaknesses of men?"

  The reverend swirled his coffee meditatively. "My religious philosophy leans more to the adage, ‘All things in moderation.’ Where sin lies, I believe, is when we begin to see everything and everyone in absolutes. Black or white. Saved or damned. Pure or stained." He smiled at Inez. "I strive for a more balanced, rational approach to saving souls. The good Lord himself said, ‘Let your moderation be known unto all men.’ Philippians, four."

  Doc banged enthusiastically on the table with one ham-sized fist. The glasses shivered. "My philosophy exactly!"

  Evan interrupted. "Excuse me, but I’m here to play poker. Not discuss religion. Begging the reverend’s pardon."

  Inez nodded and began to shuffle.

  999

  "Last hand, gentlemen."

  "Next Saturday is the twentieth. Almost Christmas." Cooper pulled out a slim leather case and extracted a last cigar. "Will you be open on the holiday, Mrs. Stannert?"

  Inez watched Harry deal the cards. "You’ll have to find your Christmas cheer elsewhere. We’ll be closed."

  He lit his cigar. "The only saloon that will be. But I suppose you can afford it."

  "It’s a question of priorities, Mr. Cooper."

  Cooper exhaled, watching the smoke curl and disappear into the room’s haze. "And after Christmas comes the Silver Soiree."

  Evan spoke up. "I hear the guest list is exclusive. So, Cooper, you made the cut?"

  Cooper’s white teeth flashed in reply.

  The final hand played out uneventfully, with Jed the winner. The players prepared to leave. As Inez accepted Jed’s portion for the house, Cooper approached Harry, who was savoring the last of his cigar. Inez caught Cooper’s low voice: "…the last holdout?"

  Harry’s reply slid to her under the general symphony of masculine voices. "This has dragged on too long. Everyone has a price. Find out his and pay it. Otherwise—"

  "How’s that Smoot handling, Mrs. Stannert? Had an opportunity to try it on a moving target yet?" Evan’s voice drowned out the rest of Harry’s response. The merchant had wandered over, near-empty glass in hand.

  One hand still on the strongbox, Inez patted the concealed pocket in her overdress. Her Remington Number Two Pocket Revolver, Smoot’s Patent, nestled inside. "It’s my constant companion. But I’ve only wounded tin cans and bottles."

  "Cleaning it regularly?" Evan set his glass on the table.

  "Religiously."

  "Interesting term when applied to weaponry." Sands set his cup by Evan’s.

  Inez gave up trying to eavesdrop on Cooper and Harry. "Carrying a gun is a religious matter around here. Only a fool would go unarmed—" She stopped, glancing involuntarily at the reverend’s waistcoat. Below the watch chain, she saw the heavy gleam of a gun belt.

  He finished her sentence. "In Leadville. So I’ve been told." His smile didn’t hide the exhaustion on his face.

  She cocked her head. "Long day, Reverend?"

  "It was. After our talk this morning, I called on the Roses." He took a breath as if preparing to plunge into cold water. "Mrs. Stannert, would you allow me to walk you home? We could continue our conversation of this morning."

  Inez hesitated, looking into his tired eyes. Not blue. Not gray. Hard to pin down. Just like he is.

  Behind her, Harry shifted. Turning her head slightly, she could just see his profile. He appeared to be lending one ear to Cooper’s exposition and another in her direction. The chandelier lights glinted off a silver cufflink as Harry leaned over to grind out his cigar in the ashtray. She remembered his proprietary grip on her arm as he propelled her through the door of his mining office. And his words: "Next time, we’ll discuss other matters."

  She faced the reverend. "It would be a pleasure. I’ll meet you by the bar. I need a few minutes upstairs."

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  With profits in the safe, her day clothes on, and her cloak over her arm, Inez paused on the landing outside her office and examined the milling multitudes below. The scent of whiskey, stale bodies, and cheap tobacco rose with the smoky haze.

  Reverend Sands stood talking with the Exodusters, who huddled together, stoop-shouldered and underdressed for the harsh mountain winter. She wondered how long it had been since they’d had a regular meal and how many Leadville saloons and restaurants had turned them away with the curt statement "We don’t serve coloreds."

  Inez approached Abe. "Did they get something to eat?"

  "Coffee, leftover stew. Coffee was pretty thick."

  She nodded a greeting at the haggard faces. Not one nodded back. Tattered gloves and mittens—some no more than rags— gripped tin mugs.

  She turned back to Abe. "Can you close tonight without me?"

  "You’re leavin’ now?" Concern flickered over Abe’s face.

  "I have an escort." She inclined her head in Sands’ direction.

  Abe’s eyebrows collided with wrinkles of disbelief.

  She hurried on. "I’m meeting Nigel at the bank early. I can’t stay much longer tonight. I’m exhausted. Can you manage?"

  Abe gathered up the empty bowls and stacked them in the tub destined for the kitchen. "Those men, they’ve got no money, no place to stay. I told them they could sleep on the floor tonight and tomorrow. I planned on stayin’ so’s Bridgette won’t have a fit in the mornin’."

  "Ready, Mrs. Stannert?" The reverend was at her side, adjusting his hat.

  "Yes, I am. Good night, Abe. I’m glad you offered them the floor." Feeling guilty, Inez walked toward the door. The pianist, seeing her leaving, swung into "I’ll Take You Home Again, Kathleen." He’ll pay for that.

  Outside, Inez exhaled, watching her breath snake away into the light pouring from the doors closing behind her. The storm had passed. Half a moon limned ragged clouds with a cold, fierce light.

  She slid her gloved hand around the reverend’s proffered arm and they maneuvered through the crowds on State. She was aware of how her hand nestled between the reverend’s arm and his wool overcoat. It felt so solid. Safe. She wriggled her fingers experimentally. He turned his face toward her. Even though the wide hat brim cast a deep shadow, she could still see his expression. Warm. Waiting.

  "So, Reverend. Why did you leave the Golden State and come to Cloud City?"

  "Cloud City. Yes, I’ve heard Leadville called that." He glanced up at the moon breaking through racing clouds, then focused on negotiating around the brass band in front of the Board of Trade Saloon. When the trumpeting had faded behind them, he said, "Leadville’s closer to heaven than Sacramento."

  Inez sniffed. Sulfur fumes from smelters mixed with sewer stink. "It doesn’t smell much like heaven."

  Sands acknowledged her remark with a smile. "My interim term was up. Besides, Sacramento was too tame. I prefer ministering where it counts."

  "Ah yes, you like preaching to the sinners. In that case, you should be spending more time on State Street."

  "How do you know that I’m not?"

  Inez considered this as they walked up Harrison. Reverend Sands interrupted her thoughts. "I hoped we could talk about Rose. I know about the crooked assay results, abo
ut his office. When I talk with folks about him, I sense a man living two lives: straight and narrow on the top, in deep trouble beneath. You knew him. Did you see any of that?"

  Inez thought back. "He seemed more…reserved the last few months. But I can’t say for certain. Emma never said anything to me, though."

  "Any idea what might’ve been the problem?"

  "I’ve wondered myself. Perhaps a large gambling debt? He must have been desperate. I can’t imagine Joe doing what he did except out of desperation."

  The reverend was silent, as if dissecting her words. He then said, "The people who were in his office might not have found what they were looking for. The family may be in danger. That’s why I’m pushing them to leave Leadville sooner rather than later." He looked pointedly at her. "That danger could extend to you, since you’re settling his affairs. It might be safer for you to hand over this business to his lawyer or banker."

  "I can take care of myself," she said with some asperity.

  Sands laughed. "Mrs. Stannert, you remind me of someone."

  Sands slowed his gait, then stopped under the gaslight on the corner of Park Street. Without Harrison’s sheltering buildings, the west wind whistled upslope across the Arkansas Valley and tugged at their overcoats.

  Looking down the unlit street toward the white, distant peaks of Elbert and Massive, Sands tapped his gloved fingers on the buttons of his black overcoat before reaching a decision. He opened his coat, pulled out his pocketwatch, and flipped the casing open, angling it for Inez to see. An ambrotype fitted inside the cover showed a young boy and a girl on the edge of womanhood. The fair-haired boy had some baby softness lingering in his face, but the determined mouth sang of Reverend Sands. The girl looked like a younger, feminine counterpoint to the man standing by Inez.

  "My sister and me. Soon after this was taken, our parents died of consumption."

  Inez swallowed past the sudden lump in her throat. "I’m sorry to hear. What happened to you and your sister?"

  Sands caressed the ghostly image with his thumb. "Judith and I were shuffled from relative to relative. Judith was all I had. Mother and father to me for all those years."

  "Is she in California?"

  He closed the watch with a click and tucked it back inside his waistcoat pocket. "Judith died during the War."

  The ache in her throat grew. Sands rebuttoned his coat and gently refolded her hand back over his arm. "It all happened a long time ago. The point is, you remind me of her. No one told her what to do. Not even me."

  They turned away from the light and started down Park.

  In front of her house, Sands stopped. "There’s something else."

  He fished through his coat pockets and extracted a square, formal envelope. "I wondered if you might accompany me to this." He fumbled with the envelope, then pulled out the enclosure.

  Inez ran a gloved fingertip over the embossed lettering and tipped the invitation to the moonlight. She read aloud, "Your presence is requested on Saturday, December 27, nine o’clock in the evening—" She stopped. "You have an invitation to the Silver Soiree?"

  He watched her waver between temptation and caution.

  "I’d be honored if you’d say yes, Mrs. Stannert. You could consider yourself a guide of sorts. Point out the illustrious folks of Leadville, explain some of the town’s history. I hear there’s going to be fine food, music, champagne from France, dancing—"

  "French champagne? I doubt that. At the most, it might be from California, dressed up to look imported."

  The mischievous smile of a five-year-old boy crossed his face. "Only one way to find out."

  He opened his hands up and away from his sides, the gesture of an unarmed man. "I’ll be the most proper of escorts. A perfect gentleman."

  She laughed in spite of herself. "Very well, Reverend. Since you seem in need of a ‘guide’ and promise to be on your best behavior. So you don’t mind being seen in the company of a saloonkeeper?"

  He grinned back and dropped his hands. "No more than you mind being seen in the company of a minister."

  As Inez unlocked her front door, she hesitated. "Reverend, one question. Does it snow in Sacramento?"

  "Almost never. Why?"

  Inez thought of the sled she and Abe had picked out for Joey for Christmas, wrapped and waiting in her back room. "I just wondered."

  As she opened her door, Sands touched his hat. "Thank you for allowing me to accompany you home. I hope we might do this again soon."

  "Yes. Well, good night." She shut the door softly and stood in the dark, thinking.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  By morning, the clouds had returned in force. A gray ceiling pressed down on the town and obscured the mountains. Hurrying to the bank, Inez noticed that people and objects cast no shadows. Like paper dolls.

  The flat lighting made everything appear dirtier than usual: the raw, peeling lumber of hastily constructed buildings, the garbage encased in the snowbanks between boardwalk and street, the grimy creases on passing faces.

  The bank looked staid and East Coast in its brick solidity. The brass knob turned in her hand, and she walked into the dim bank foyer. Light spilled from Nigel’s office behind the two teller cages. Her boots echoed on the plank floors.

  "Nigel?"

  Inez thought she heard a cough, a muffled response. Striding with more certainty, she skirted the teller area, pushed open the assistant bank manager’s door, and entered.

  "I’m sorry, Nigel, I detest being late."

  At first, she thought maybe he was taking a short nap, head down on the desk by the loan papers. Weary, perhaps, from waiting or from too long an evening sampling the nighttime entertainments of Leadville.

  Then, she saw—

  A slow red river, soaking the blotter, oozing across the cherrywood desk, dripping to the carpet.

  Comprehension, then horror gripped her, shook her bones. She took two quick steps forward. Stopped, suddenly realizing there was too much blood for hope. She turned—

  A gloved hand from behind grabbed her throat, cutting off her breath. Yanked off-balance, she slammed backward into her assailant.

  Panic washed over her. Labored breathing filled her ears.

  Inez jabbed with an elbow, connecting with a coat-padded body. She stamped her boot heel on an unseen foot as she attempted to twist away.

  The grip on her neck grew tighter.

  "Bitch!"

  The whispered word overflowed with rage and something close to triumph.

  Black spots danced before her eyes. Her anger and fear rose on a last resolve: NO!

  Her hands grabbed one of the fingers at her neck, bending it back. The grip loosened. A hiss of pain erupted in her ear as she gasped for breath.

  The body pressed to hers shifted.

  Sudden pain split her head like a scream. Her vision exploded into black, streaked with white fireworks. The streaks receded like an express train at night, carrying her away.

  The light winked out.

  999

  A black sound in her head would not stop. Ugly buzzing

  filled her body with pain.

  The buzz separated into voices. The voices into words.

  One voice, filled with alarm: "The blood!"

  Another voice, calm, almost matter-of-fact: "Head wounds bleed a lot."

  Familiar.

  "Are you certain she’s not dead?"

  The voices dissolved in a roar. She was swallowed, turning around in sound, more nauseated with each revolution.

  She resurfaced.

  "Does she know about—"

  "No!" The familiar voice was sharp. Then slow and tired. "I don’t know what she knows."

  What I know?

  "Shouldn’t we remove—"

  "Leave it."

  Leave?

  "She’s moving!"

  A warm hand enclosed her throat. She gasped. Ammonia vapors assaulted her. Coughing painfully, Inez opened watering eyes on an unsteady image of wood-beamed ceil
ings. She grabbed at the hand and tried to roll away but was hopelessly tangled in her long cloak and skirts.

  The hand withdrew.

  "Easy, easy, Mrs. Stannert."

  Two faces met, crown to crown, in her narrow view of the ceiling. One belonged to bank manager Morris Cooke, his round countenance like a worried cherub unprepared to welcome her to Heaven. He held a small bottle of smelling salts.

  The other belonged to Reverend Sands. Relief flooded his face. He flexed his ungloved fingers and glanced at Cooke. "There’s a definite pulse. You can cap those salts."

  She grabbed Cooke’s arm, tried to speak. All that came out was a croak. "Nigel!"

  Cooke’s dismay increased visibly. He glanced at Sands as his shaking hands tried to cap the small vial.

  Inez tried to sit up.

  "Easy." The reverend applied gentle pressure to her shoulder to keep her down. Her head pillowed onto something soft. The distant buzzing sharpened and grew. The ceiling wavered, shading to gray. She moaned. Coughed. Pain spiked her throat.

  Reverend Sands turned to the bank manager. "Get Doc. And the marshal."

  Cooke nodded, then looked at Inez. His eyes reflected panic. "Please lie still, Mrs. Stannert."

  After he’d left, Inez tried again to sit up. Sands made as if to stop her.

  "No! I must see!" she croaked. The words sent agony shooting up her neck.

  Sands settled back on his heels.

  She struggled to sit amid a tangle of cloak, skirts, and petticoats. Then she saw what held her clothes.

  A knife skewered a dead rat through her skirts into the floor.

  Her stomach twisted. She grabbed a handful of wool and yanked. The fabric parted around the sharp blade like butter.

  Free to move, she barely had time to turn away before retching on the carpet.

  Reverend Sands waited until she was done. Then, he said gently, "A blow to the head can do that."

  He offered her two crumpled handkerchiefs. Both streaked with blood.

  Inez gingerly touched the back of her head. She looked at the wet glove, then down at her splattered dress. So much blood.