Mercury's Rise (Silver Rush 04) (17 page)
She regarded him, thinking that there was more than a tinge of distaste in his mentions of the doctor. “Mr. Lewis said you came to Manitou to take the waters for consumption.”
“Stuff and nonsense.” He managed to sound irritated and amused at the same time. “A little fable he likes to trot out to encourage and comfort the tourists and invalids. I don’t know why he insists on saying that. There are many who have improved during their stay here, without having to resort to tall tales.”
Inez thought back to Harmony’s comment that her husband was considering investing. Too, there was Mrs. Pace’s statement that not all was as it seemed at Mountain Springs House.
Slowly, as if approaching a half-wild animal, she said, “So, you are saying the hotel has a solid future. But you are also saying don’t trust Lewis. You’re even suggesting I not trust the doctor. However, you seem to indicate I should trust you.”
“That is correct.” There was a studied indifference to his tone, a “take it or leave it” air.
Looking for a way to pierce the artifice and see the truth in him, she said, “So, why did you really leave England? A second son seeking adventure or a lothario breaking one too many hearts?”
She meant to shock him. To see if she could freeze the shifting mercurial façades he kept pulling up before her.
Something tightened in his demeanor, and for a moment she glimpsed anger, flickering like a dark flame. “Oh, I didn’t break her heart. She broke mine. Utterly. I could have turned to the law, I suppose. Sued for divorce, thrown my family into total shame and humiliation.” He drew hard on the cigarette before exhaling and releasing another long plume. Finally he said, “I caught her
in flagrante delicto
, and even had my pistol in my hand. I could have saved myself much grief by pulling the trigger and ending it all.”
Leadville
After leaving her lawyer’s office, Inez set out for Evan’s Mercantile. Striding down the Harrison Avenue boardwalk toward Chestnut Street, Inez clutched her parasol in a furious fist, as tight as if she had Mark’s neck instead of the handle in her grip.
One of the fringed tips of her open parasol brushed against the top hat of a passing gentleman. He caught the tumbling topper with an exclamation of annoyance before it hit the dirt and tobacco-juice-splattered boards.
“My apologies,” said Inez unapologetically.
Coming to the corner of Harrison and Chestnut, she closed the parasol, hoisted her hems an added inch, stepped nimbly off the boards and into the street. Parasol at the ready, she started to run the gauntlet of Harrison’s wide rutted street, dodging wagons, carts, horses, scattered bits of dried or steaming manure, and other pedestrians. As she whacked the rump of a too-slow burro with her parasol so she could lunge through the moving gap between two ore carts, Inez was glad that the streets were at least dry and not knee-deep in mud and offal. Of course, there was always the danger of twisting an ankle and going down—a dangerous prospect and all too real, especially for those unused to navigating the busy thoroughfares of Leadville.
Safely on the other side, she used her closed parasol as a cane to steady herself on the steep stairs up to the boardwalk level of Chestnut. After tapping the parasol on the boards to loosen the burro dust that clung to it, she walked a half-block before making a hard left into Evan’s Mercantile or, as it announced on its windows, “Leadville’s Lead Purveyor of Fine Goods, Firearms, and General Merchandise—Anywhere.”
She’d often thought, on entering the store, that the “Anywhere” might be a tad over the top, but she was not about to correct the grammar of one of the most steadfast and loyal players at her Saturday night poker games.
Bob Evan himself was behind a counter in the dry goods section, talking to one of the earnest young clerks who seemed to come and go with the Leadville seasons: here in the brilliant summers, gone in the brutal winters. Inez heard Evan say, “When Mrs. Warner returns, tell her of course we can obtain the Valenciennes lace she is looking for. Never send her to another store. We can always get what the customers want. Especially now that we have the railway to town, it’s a simple matter of…” Evan broke off his earnest dissertation when Inez laid her parasol on the countertop, and his square face broke into a smile.
“Mrs. Stannert! What a pleasure to see you.” He adjusted his wire-rim glasses and turned his full attention to her. The silent clerk took advantage of the storeowner’s change in focus and slipped away to help a woman dithering among the bolts of calico.
“Good morning—oh my, it’s afternoon, isn’t it—Mr. Evan. I’m here to replace my pocket pistol. Alas, it didn’t survive the house fire, and I’ve been slow about getting a new one.” She glanced toward the gun case, which was a judicious distance from the fabrics and laces portion of the store.
Evan came from behind the counter. “I heard about the fire. I’m glad that you managed to escape. Anything you need to start anew, let me know. I’ll provide a first-rate discount on house goods.”
She murmured her thanks as they walked to the firearms portion of the store.
Evan continued, “I said the same to Mr. Stannert when he came by this morning and bought that little Smooth Number Three. In fact, he just returned it not an hour ago, saying you had something else in mind.” He referenced Mark as neutrally as if he were discussing the expected arrival of a wagonload of flour.
Inez stopped by the gun case, and gripped the wood-bound edge of the glass top, attempting to tamp down her irritation at Mark and reply in equally neutral tones. “I’d prefer the model I had before—Remington Number Two, Smoot’s Patent.”
Evan slipped behind the case saying, “Certainly, if that’s what you want. But the Smoot Number Three is a beaut, chambered for .38 caliber. Thought you’d like the pearl grip on the one I sold to Mr. Stannert. Anyhow, there’s also the Smoot Number Four. I have a dandy specimen, if you’re interested.”
Inez held up her gloved hand, fingers spread wide to stop his enthusiastic patter. “I want a Smoot Number Two, as close to my original as possible. For sentimental reasons, you understand.”
“Oh sure, sure.” His head bobbed, and he smoothed his brown hair absently, running his hand over the top of his head as he turned his back to the case and looked at the shelves.
“Here we go.” He reached high and retrieved a small hard-leather case. He set it on the glass top and opened it, remarking, “I guess this was just waiting for you, Mrs. Stannert. Took it from a fellow who needed the money for a ticket out of town. Guess he thought he’d come to Leadville and become a bonanza king just picking the silver up off the ground. Told him he was way too late, that most of the mining district was all staked out and he ought to test his luck elsewhere.”
Her heart gladdened at the sight of the pocket pistol, sister to the one that had been lost in the flames. She extracted the gun from its resting place, pulled out the cylinder pin, and removed the cylinder to examine the chambers and the barrel.
Evan leaned one elbow on the counter. “Clean as a whistle. No rust or corrosion. She was well taken care of, Mrs. Stannert.”
Inez nodded her approval and placed the revolver back in its red-velvet lined case.
“Excellent. I’ll take her and a box of the appropriate cartridges, please.”
As Evan set the box of bullets beside the leather case, Inez opened her purse asking, “How much will that be?”
“Oh, no problem. I’ll put it on Mr. Stannert’s line of credit.”
Hand frozen in the purse, she fixed him with an iron gaze. “What?”
Evan retreated a step, bumping into the shelves. “Oh. Well. When Mr. Stannert came in and we talked about the fire and all, and how he wants to rebuild. We discussed it, and like I told you, I’ll give you a first-rate discount on goods and so on. So, of course, he wanted to have a line of credit sufficient to…Well, the saloon is going gangbusters, I know he’s quite impressed with how you and Mr. Jackson handled all the business while he was gone…”
She withdrew her money purse and smacked it on the glass. “I’ll pay cash.”
He looked startled, and a bit shocked, as if she’d offered to do a dance on the gun cabinet. “Really, Mrs. Stannert, that’s not necessary.”
“Then I would like to start a line of credit that is separate from Mr. Stannert’s.”
Evan glanced left and right, as if seeking an escape. “Well, this is most irregular.” He finally looked at her, a bit piteously, and said, “It can be arranged. Where should I send the bill?”
“Send it to me at the Silver Queen Saloon.” She swept gun and cartridges into the sizable purse. “Will you still be attending the Saturday poker games, Mr. Evan?”
“Oh, sure. Nothing has changed.” His tone indicated that he didn’t think that was the case at all, but before she could challenge him further, he hurried on. “Mr. Stannert told me that the Saturday games would continue. I was glad to hear that, Mrs. Stannert. I look forward to them, you know. I am a fellow of habit. He explained that he’d be running a game on Fridays, extending special invitation to out-of-towners. I told him I thought it was an excellent idea.”
“You did, did you.” She could hardly speak around her mounting anger.
“Well, sure. With the trains bringing folks up on Fridays, makes sense to get ’em when their pockets are full.” He chuckled. “Gives them the weekend to repent of their sins, so to speak. But oh yes, you can count on me for Saturday evenings, Mrs. Stannert.”
She smiled through gritted teeth. “So pleased I can count on you, Mr. Evan. Thank you for providing me with replacement firepower.”
She exited the store and stood in the blinding late July sunlight, wavering a bit.
Mark was against a divorce. He had re-established a line of credit at Evan’s. He was starting an “exclusive” game for out-of-towners on Fridays. He planned to rebuild the house.
Her
house.
Her feet began walking of their own accord. If her skirts were looser, she’d have broken into a run. As it was, she remembered nothing of the trip from Evan’s store on Chestnut to the lot that held the charred remains of her home on Fourth Street.
Blessedly, there was no one there. Inez stepped up on the creaking fire-blackened wood of the front porch, and waded into the ashes and charred, melted, broken remains of her life. At the spot where she estimated baby William’s room had been, she sank to her knees, oblivious of the soiling to her skirts. She pulled up half-consumed pieces of wood and plaster, and found a shard of decorated wood from William’s cradle, varnish blistered, wood discolored, the ornate bit of design that lined the headboard barely visible. Tears fell onto the piece of molding, where they vanished, soaking into the porous, heat-seared wood.
“Inez.” Susan Carothers’ voice sounded soft and urgent behind her. A gloved hand settled on her shoulder, and Inez heard the soft crackle of burnt debris as Susan circled around to kneel before her. “Mr. Evan came to my studio and said I should find you. He was concerned. We guessed you might be here. Tell me what you need. I’ll do whatever I can.”
Unable to speak, Inez reached up and gripped Susan’s hand. Motionless, they knelt among the ashes together, holding hands.
“I need,” Inez finally said, “to see my son. I will be meeting him and my sister in Manitou, in less than two weeks.” She looked at Susan. “Will you come with me?”
Epperley’s bitterness at betrayal mixed with her own memories. Inez eased back in her chair and studied the manager of the Mountain Springs House with a closer eye.
Epperley averted his face, as if to avoid her scrutiny, and ground out the cigarette in one of the shells of lemon rind. Inez noted the hunched set in his shoulders, the sudden tightness in his jaw, and the slight tremor in the hand that snuffed the cigarette. He might as well have shouted out his regret at having been so glib as to have inadvertently spilled so much to her.
A muffled rap at the window caused them both to jump. Epperley looked up, and his face smoothed into a welcoming smile. “It’s your sister, Mrs. DuChamps, and her son.”
Inez resisted the impulse to blurt, “
My
son.” Instead, she turned toward the window. Sure enough, Harmony was smiling on the other side, William’s hand clutched in hers.
William— washed, brushed, dressed afresh, and presumably fed and rested—peered about the veranda. One chubby finger shot out, pointing at a nearby rocking chair. Inez could just discern the opening and closing wings of a butterfly resting on the back of the rocker. The nanny, Lily, stood behind Harmony, arms crossed, a sullen glower under her white cap. Harmony gave the window one more little tap and pointed to the door, eyebrows raised. Inez nodded and gestured for her to come inside.
“Here she comes. The little boy—your nephew?—has quite a bit of the devil in him.” Epperley absently straightened his cuffs, touched his collar and tie. “I can see the family resemblance. He has your eyes, Mrs. Stannert.”
Another fashionably dressed young woman, promenading past the window with two young boys in tow, stopped, shaded her eyes with a hand and leaned to see past the window’s reflection. A wide, dimpled smile spread across her face, and turned the young matron into a slip of a girl.