Silver Dreams (19 page)

After washing Colorado’s red clay from her hair, Elizabeth warmed her curling tongs on the spirit heater and attempted to confine her waves into some sort of order. Finally she drew the sides up to her crown, clipped the spirals with a lace and rose hair corsage, and pulled a few strands out to frame her face.

Then she put on a modest blue gown designed for practicality when traveling. The lines were simple, with a flounce to the floor and a half bustle gathered in ruffles. Elizabeth fastened the tiny buttons down the bodice and slipped her satin shoes on her feet just as Dooley and Ross knocked on her door.

The dining room at the Teller House was a composite of society's best wearing satins and silks. Even so, the scraggly attired Dooley Blue was accepted, proving even the fanciest place catered to all types of clientele. Elizabeth relished her dinner of capon and wild rice.

When a dessert of strawberries and cream was placed before her, she glanced out the window and suddenly lost interest in eating. She recognized the confident swagger of the man coming down Eureka Street, his coach hat set well back on his head and a clean white shirt glistening in the last of the sunlight.

Elizabeth rested her chin in her hand as a wistful sigh escaped her lips. Max Cassidy was difficult and stubborn, but only a fool would say he wasn't exceedingly handsome.

She scurried to the door of the restaurant, practically colliding with Max as he walked by. Accepting no argument, she dragged him back inside. He smelled faintly of pine, and his dark hair was still damp from his bath. "You scrub up nicely, Max," Elizabeth mumbled close to his ear. "I wouldn't have thought it possible."

He gave her a crooked grin. "Almost as improbable as a compliment from you.”

"Hello, Cassidy," Ross said coolly before getting up from the table. "Dooley and I were just leaving."

"Where are you going?" Elizabeth asked.

"To a place I'm afraid a respectable girl wouldn't want to be seen. The bright lights of Main Street are calling, Liz, and I intend to see what manner of mischief they lead to."  He threw a few dollars onto the table and pressed an obligatory peck on Elizabeth's cheek. "You'll go on up to bed, won't you?  I'm sorry, sis but this isn't an outing for women." His tone indicated that he wasn't a bit sorry his little sister wouldn't be tagging along.

After he'd gone Elizabeth said, "Since when do those lights only shine for men, Max?  And who's to say I'm all that respectable?"

He leaned back and stared long and hard at her as if analyzing her last comment. "Only anyone who's known you for five minutes. But rather than let you go alone, I'll go along. Won't you allow me to escort you up town so that you may see the lights for yourself?"

"I'll not only allow it, I'll insist upon it," she said, taking her reticule from the seat next to her and wrapping the cord around her wrist.

He put his hand on her arm, preventing her from standing up. "Betsy, I've got to ask you one thing. Are we getting along at this moment?  Because if we are, I don't want to miss any of it. But if this is just a temporary truce, then I'd like to know that too, because when I'm with you, I've got to keep my wits as sharp as can be. Otherwise you might just get a step ahead of me with our challenge."

"Getting along, Max?" she said. "With a byline at stake, I hardly see how that could happen."

He grinned. "Good. You had me worried for a minute. I'm always more comfortable when I know the rules."

The Silver Spike, with the brightest lights on Main street, was where Elizabeth wanted to go. A rainbow of hues rippled through the leaded glass saloon doors and beckoned her inside. Against a backdrop of polished walnut walls and furniture, the vivid colors of the interior were dazzling.

She paused to watch poker hands played out on fields of green under balloon shaped lamp shades dripping with gold tassels. Brass sconces glittered along the walls while a brilliant crystal and silver chandelier sparkled from a tin-punched ceiling. Murals decorated each of the walls, their subjects ranging from tasteful British hunt scenes to prospectors bringing their ore down the mountains. But the painting hung behind the bar was the one that caught and held Elizabeth's attention, and she stepped up to the padded arm rest to get a closer look.

In the finest galleries in New York, she'd never seen anything quite as brazen as the trio of plump naked ladies reclined under forest oaks. Every rounded swell of their ample bodies was artfully displayed on the wall of the Silver Spike. Chubby cherubs, with male equipment at appreciative attention, fluttered their wings around their "goddesses."  They proffered gifts of wine and bread, their angelic faces and round eyes hopeful of receiving a favor in return. Elizabeth felt a blush of embarrassment imagining what that favor would be.

"Ah," Max whispered into her ear, "I see you're an art lover."

She spun around and found herself pressed against the bar, her face just inches from his. "Well, yes, of course, but I’m not sure this particular piece is to my taste."

"Rather explicit, isn't it?" he said. He sidestepped a further discussion of art interpretation by nodding toward the center of the room. "Look around, Betsy. You're not the only female here."

No, she wasn't, but women were in the minority. The others seemed at ease in the boisterous atmosphere. Two nicely dressed ladies sat at a table with escorts, and a gray-haired female, who looked as if she'd been there a while, stood boldly at the bar with her hand wrapped around a bottle.

The remaining few women, as anyone could plainly tell, were employees of the Silver Spike. Elizabeth had read about the attire of dance hall girls, and marveled at black mesh stockings winding up shapely calves. The ladies’ full skirts swished over crinoline undergarments and ended at their knees. Above the waists, stiff bodices molded to each girl's chest, showing an indecent amount of cleavage. The men not playing games of chance were very attentive to the ladies of the Silver Spike.

One of those men was Ross Sheridan, and the woman whose shoulder now supported his draped arm was the most exotic creature Elizabeth had ever seen.

"Come on, Betsy," Max said. "There's an empty table. Let's sit down before your eyes pop out of your head."

“Look at that woman with Ross," she said. "Did you ever see that shade of pink in a dress before? And her hair, it's black as a raven's wing. Do you think she's a gypsy?"

Max pulled out Elizabeth's chair. "I couldn't say about that. She’s a pretty lass, that’s for sure."

Elizabeth sat down. "I think she's absolutely stunning."

Max grinned. "Well, then, you haven't been to the Tarreytown Pub in Dublin, have you, Betsy? It's smack in the middle of the foundry district, and if you'd been there, you'd have seen dozens of such lovely ladies, especially at quitting time. I've known my own dad to take a fancy to one or two of them and disappear for a few hours."

Elizabeth hated to admit the Bohemian woman on Ross's arm was a prostitute, but she was not naive enough to believe otherwise. Besides, she knew Ross's propensity for such females. What bothered her most was the uncomfortable feeling she had when Max indicated he'd been around them as well.

"And how about you, Max?" she asked, wary of his answer. "Did you ever take a fancy to any of the ladies?"

"Only in my mind's eye, Betsy. I was much too shy. Never could make my mouth work toward what my brain was thinking."

She didn't believe him. Another excuse might have worked for her, but Max Cassidy shy? Not the man she knew.

"Lizzie, what the devil are you doing here?"

Elizabeth whirled around to stare into the blurry eyes of her brother, who now had his arm firmly around the waist of his companion. She was pressed close to him, their shoulders touching and her hip fitted snugly against his.

"Hello, Ross," Elizabeth said with an unwavering gaze. "Is there any reason I shouldn't be here?"

He started to speak, but the woman beside him gave a playful jab to his chest. "Of course not, honey," she said. Her voice was as low and melodious as a morning dove. "This isn't New York City. This is the west, and we gals can do what we pretty please."

Inspired by the speech, Elizabeth placed her hands flat on the table, thrust her shoulders back and sat straight. "Good, because this is just where I please to be."

"But Lizzie, you can't..."

"In fact, I think I'd like a drink."

"You can't drink here," Ross said. "They only serve hard liquor, not sherry."

"No matter. I think I'll have a..." she looked to the woman in pink for help.

"...whiskey, honey. Or bourbon or gin. That's about all there is."

"Whiskey it is then. Max?"

He shrugged. "Whatever the lady wants. Two over here," he called to the bartender. "Straight up, Betsy?"

"Why, of course, straight away, Max. Why wait?"

What then passed between Max and Ross could only be called the first commiserative glance Elizabeth had ever seen between the two, though she couldn't begin to understand what they suddenly had in common. "Ross, aren't you going to introduce me to your friend?"

He gave in with a sigh of resignation. "Lizzie, this is Miss Ramona Redbud. Ramona, my sister, Elizabeth."

Miss Redbud did the most remarkable thing. She thrust her hand out to Elizabeth just like a man would do, and when Elizabeth offered hers, it was pumped up and down like the woman was priming it to spout water. And glittering on three of Ramona's long fingers were gold nuggets the size of thumbnails.

When Elizabeth finally raised her eyes from the rings, she noted the fascinating coloration of the woman's face. Her lips, which might really have been thin, were outlined beyond their natural shape with the brightest red paint. Her cheeks, which might really have been rather puffy, were made to look narrower with deep coral swipes across taut white skin. And her eyes, while they might have been small and narrow, glittered under heavy lids painted with indigo hues ranging from lavender to near vermillion.

Elizabeth considered her own imperfections - her too-small nose, and too-full lips, and thought how wonderful it must be to alter what God had blundered.

She absently picked up the glass set before her and took a long swallow of the amber liquid. It fired her cheeks with a burst of heat and burned all the way down her throat, bringing stinging tears to her eyes. Struggling to keep the substance from coming back up, Elizabeth looked at Ramona Redbud who drank her liquor as though it were lemonade. Elizabeth’s second swallow was easier, and she even managed to speak afterwards. "Won't you join us, Ramona?" she said.

"Sure, honey," Ramona said. She pulled Ross onto a chair and sat on his lap.

"Where are you from, Miss Redbud?"