Delilah's Flame (6 page)

“No.” Dinah quickly took the bag from Loo. “I’ll carry it. You have to get Delilah’s things.”

Loo smiled. She usually carried both. Having been with both Delilah and Dinah since they were small children, she knew it wasn’t like Dinah to volunteer to do anything resembling work. Not that she was normally unpleasant, it was just that Dinah was accustomed to being waited on hand and foot. Delilah indulged her. But maybe growing up was changing the spoiled little girl into a gracious young woman.

*     *     *

“Dinah, hurry.” Delilah drew in her breath as Loo tightened the laces on the bodice of a pink-and-silver costume. “We don’t want those cowboys getting any wilder because we kept them waiting.” Loo pinned the black feathers in Delilah’s hair and handed her a new black lace handkerchief to tuck into her bosom. “Ready?” she asked, turning to look at Dinah.

Dinah spun around and smiled. “Not Dinah. Bright Moon, Indian princess,” she said, leaning forward for Loo to blacken her brows with charcoal and stain her cheeks with rouge. Green eyes glowing, she blew a kiss at Delilah. “Thanks for letting me have my solo number.”

“Just remember not to get too close to the tables,” Delilah warned. “I’m sorry I’ll miss half your number, making my last costume change.”

“I know,” Dinah said, her face going expressionless for a moment. “But that’s all right.”

Five minutes later found them waiting on a set of rickety steps behind the curtains as Fat Jack stepped to the stage and shouted the house quiet.

“Gentlemen,” he bellowed. “And the rest of you. Fat Jack and the Nugget Saloon present the brightest flame in the West.” Applause, shouts, and whistles shook the room. “Delilah!”

To a thunderous greeting, Delilah hastened onstage, bowing and blowing kisses to the crowd. After a moment the noise died down and the piano player struck the chords for “Beautiful Dreamer,” Delilah’s first number. She liked starting off with a gentle song and a genteel manner. Looking for all the world like a delicate southern belle, Delilah sang her song, bringing tears to a few crusty faces, ending the number with a curtsy.

One dark and handsome face at a front table remained unmoved by Delilah’s first song. It was the closest Tabor Stanton had ever gotten to Delilah. He was amazed to see she owed none of her beauty to powder or paint. If anything, the vivid color on cheeks and lips dimmed her beauty. The skin on her shoulders was milk-white and looked soft as spun silk. He wasn’t surprised her eyes were blue or that they were clear and deep as a summer sky.

She moved like a lady. She spoke like a lady as she introduced the other members of her troupe, two tin cowboys and a girl billed as Bright Moon, probably the world’s only Indian princess with freckles and green eyes, he imagined.

Delilah narrated softly while the girl and the two men performed a dramatic enactment of an Indian girl who hurled herself off a cliff rather than be captured. The girl was good but the crowd grew restless toward the end, ready for another song by Delilah. She obliged with a high-stepping number and a medley of popular tunes.

Tabor felt heat rising in him as Delilah swirled in front of him and swished her skirts only inches out of his reach. At the point in the show where there was generally an intermission and Delilah changed to the costume for her fire dance, Fat Jack announced a new act. Bright Moon would give her first solo performance, a dance called “The Maiden and the Butterfly
”
.

The Indian girl marched onstage wrapped in a bright colored blanket, the butterfly with folded wings. Gracefully Bright Moon floated across the stage, alternately folding and unfolding her arms as if she were a butterfly fluttering her wings. Finally she stood with her back to the audience, arms out, the blanket flowing from them. Slowly Bright Moon folded to the floor, like a butterfly alighting, then suddenly sprang to her feet minus the blanket. Her arms were bare, the fringed buckskin dress barely capping her thighs.

Several men lunged toward the stage and had to be shoved back by Fat Jack’s men. Even for a saloon the costume was daringly short. Bright Moon, though, was hardly still long enough for eyes to linger on her shapely limbs. She whirled and leapt and spun, a maiden chasing a butterfly, ending her dance with a leap that culminated in an amazing split. Slowly Bright Moon wrapped herself in the blanket—the maiden again became the butterfly.

Shouts rattled the glasses at the bar. The men whooped and yelled things polite ears shouldn’t hear. For the first time Bright Moon seemed aware of the ruckus she’d started. Looking a bit pale and confused, she made a quick bow. Before she could exit, one man who’d had more than his share of whiskey actually made it onto the stage and snatched Bright Moon’s blanket from her shoulders.

“Got me a squaw!” he shouted, seizing Bright Moon’s arm before Todd could get at him. The man jerked Bright Moon into his arms, whacked her on the butt, then kissed her sloppily on the mouth. She shrieked in horror. Todd flung an arm around the drunken cowboy’s neck and threw him roughly from the stage.

Delilah, returning just as Dinah’s number ended, called to Loo before reaching the stage. “Drat!” she said. “I missed the whole thing. I couldn’t find the black garters anywhere. Dinah said she put them in my bag. I had to keep the pink ones on.” She stopped short, seeing what was taking place onstage. “Oh!” she cried. “Sweet Jesus! Loo! What is she doing? That costume!”

Delilah was one step away from rushing onstage to rescue Dinah, but Seth beat her to it. Holding Dinah’s shoulders, he led the trembling girl down the steps while Todd hauled an angry and disappointed patron out of the saloon.

“Dinah! Dinah! Are you all right?” Dinah sobbed that she was. “Oh, Dinah! How could you do this?” Delilah cried, getting an even more shocking look at Dinah’s shortened costume. “You’re nearly naked!”

“Don’t say anything else. Not now,” Dinah whimpered, shivering beneath the blanket Loo put around her. “I want Seth to take me to my room.”

“Go with her, Loo. Stay with her,” Delilah pleaded.

“I will. Do your number,” Loo said coolly, putting her arms around Dinah. “I’ll take care of her.”

Shaken, Delilah made her way to the stage while Fat Jack introduced the fire dance she’d made famous. She was still dazed when Todd lit the ends of the two batons she used and as Fat Jack gave an order for the lights to be dimmed. She went through her dance without being aware her feet moved to the fast tempo of the piano music. Fortunately the act was so familiar it came automatically. Without a missed move, Delilah twirled the flaming batons, the silver in her costume reflecting the fire.

Unlike Bright Moon’s dance, Delilah’s brought awe and silence. She moved with such speed, tossing the batons, catching them, spinning around the stage, that nothing seemed visible but the flashing flames. When her pace showed and she tossed the batons to someone in the wings, only a murmur sounded from the crowd. Several seconds passed before the hypnotic spell of the fire dance was broken and the men shouted for Delilah’s song.

She’ll wrap her arms around you and whisper somethings,

You’ll think sweet Delilah has made you her king.

She’ll hold you, she’ll kiss you, she’ll drive you insane,

You’ll want to get burned in Delilah’s flames.

No more genteel lady, Tabor thought. She’d become the naughty, bawdy woman every man in the saloon wanted for at least one night. What was the real woman like? he wondered. The British accent was real, he was sure of that. Where did a woman like Delilah come from? And where did she go when her tour was over? He’d sure like to find out. He hoped he got the chance.

When it’s all over and she’s left you alone,

You’ll find sweet Delilah has all that you own.

So if you choose to love her you’ve no right to complain,

You’ve had your warning, stranger, of Delilah’s flames.

A heavyset man wearing a star on his chest edged his way through the tables and passed a slip of paper to Delilah’s man before the song was over.

You’ll want to get burned in Delilah’s flames.

Easing a black handkerchief from her bosom, Delilah sang the last words of the chorus and gave the handkerchief a toss. When the owner of the local dry goods store caught it and yelled his sentiments to her, Delilah eased her hand toward her pocket and the handle of the silver mirror. The white metal felt cold as a chunk of ice. She let it go. For once, for the only time ever, she ended her performance without reflecting the mirror’s light on a man in the audience. But tonight, worried as she was about Dinah, she knew she couldn’t manage the phony smiles and gay banter expected of her. Instead of singling out a man for company, she waved and blew kisses. The crowd roared and she thanked them with bows and more kisses then said a goodnight.

“Damm it!” Tabor Stanton swore softly. More bad luck. No mirror. No chances. Maybe this time he would settle for one of the saloon girls. He headed for the bar with half the other men in the place and found a spot where he could rest his elbows and drink.

Just behind the curtains Delilah read the note from Peregrine, then hurriedly sent Todd to find the marshal. When he joined her backstage, Delilah placed her hands on his forearm. “You have something to tell me, Marshal?”

Peregrine wagged his head but just stood staring dumbfounded for a few seconds at Delilah in her silver-and-black costume. When she pressed his arm, he remembered what he had to say.

“That fellow Stanton you asked about. That’s him at the end of the bar. Tall fellow in the black shirt. Registered at the hotel this afternoon. Been staying with an old prospector at a shack out in the hills. Reckon that’s why I didn’t know nothing about him.”

Delilah’s heart lurched like it always did when she saw one of those men.
Stanton
. The only one who had shown a trace of regret that night. Only it hadn’t been enough to make him defy his friends and help her father. No. Stanton was no better than the others. He’d ridden away too, and never looked back.

“Thank you, Marshal,” she said, forcing her voice to be calm. “I’m sure my friend will appreciate having her message delivered to Mr. Stanton.”

“Always at your service, Miss Delilah.” Peregrine smiled. He could afford to. Abigail Fisk had made her report to his wife, but Martha had been too interested in hearing all about the famous Delilah to give him a tongue-lashing.

Delilah paused in thought for a moment, glad she’d foregone the mirror stunt and hadn’t tied herself up to chat with a stranger all night. Still there was the fact she had devised no plan for Stanton. She knew almost nothing about him. Acting without every detail planned was unlike her. Maybe she felt a little reckless because of what Dinah had done and wanted to speed things along. Maybe she was angry and it seemed to her at that moment that Stanton represented all the bad things that haunted her dreams. She made a hasty if regrettable decision. Threading her way through the room, she approached the bar.

Tabor saw her coming and marveled that the raucous crowd of men turned suddenly gentlemanly as Delilah walked by. Hats were tipped, niceties were uttered, paths were made for Delilah to pass through. Like every other man, he watched her, as elegant a woman as he’d ever seen. She had her mind set on something. He wondered what. When she singled him out at the bar and extended a hand, he was amazed.

“Mr. Stanton,” Delilah said in a sugar-coated voice. “I’ve looked forward to meeting you.”

“Delilah.” The deep voice held strength and confidence and just a hint of self-satisfaction. He raised her hand to his lips, an act that seemed totally unnatural in a California saloon and from a man wearing two Colt revolvers strapped to his sides.

Her heart thumped queerly when his lips touched her skin. Under other circumstances she would have been pleased by his chivalry. Not since she’d been in Europe had a man kissed her hand. Stanton did it with the proper savoir faire. Though she had never felt anything but hatred and disgust for the men on her list, Stanton wasn’t at all what she’d expected. Tall, lean, and passably handsome, he was a good twenty years younger than Newell and the others. She placed him at about thirty.

For a moment she was taken aback. At the time of the attack he could only have been about sixteen. Of course he might be a few years older than he looked. In any event, he would have been nearly grown at the time in question. Younger men had taken up guns and turned to killing.

His having been only a boy at the time might explain why tracing him had proved difficult. She had remembered the names Newell and Stanton. Since Hoke Newell later became well-known, he had been easy to find; so had Ackley and Hoage, and even the Penn brothers. Those four had remained friends of Newell’s. Stanton was the exception. Apparently he hadn’t kept in contact with the others over the years. She was glad; otherwise he might have heard of their troubles and become suspicious.

Smiling, Delilah invited Tabor to a table and asked Fat Jack to send over the bottle of French wine she’d had delivered to the bar. One thing she had never been able to master was drinking the horrible whiskey these places served. While she waited, she gave Tabor, seated beside her, an analytical look. Rugged, he had a trace of arrogance only half-hidden in the gray eyes. That at least didn’t surprise her. His hair was black, a bit too long. Did that mean he couldn’t afford the price of a haircut? At least he was clean and smelled...rather nice.

The barkeep came and poured her wine. She eyed her companion more discreetly now: worn boots, gray cord pants, a black shirt and leather vest. The gunbelt and ivory-handled guns were probably the most expensive items of his attire. He didn’t look as if he’d fared as well financially as his former companions. She saw a ray of hope. If Stanton had become just a drifter or cowhand, concocting a quick plan would be easy. She could be done with Tabor Stanton before she left Yuba City.