Connie Brockway Read online

  Katie opened her mouth to reply, but Venice plunged ahead. “Within a month, I was a sensation. Unfortunately it isn’t the first time stories had been written about me. But it was the straw that broke the proverbial camel’s back. At the moment, my father can’t buy a vote.”

  “I sorta doubt that,” Katie said dryly.

  “There is one thing, Miss Jones, that money cannot buy: the good opinion of the middle classes.”

  “Honey, don’t I know it,” Katie said feelingly. “But why are you telling me all this?”

  “Why? Because I want you to feel sorry for me and grant me this favor,” Venice answered ingenuously. “I have come out here hoping to put to rights the muddle in which my uncle has left the town. That’s where you come in. I want you to tell me everything you know about Salvage. Everything.”

  “That’s it? You just wanta talk?” Katie asked.

  “Yes, talk and share my Pullman car, of course. Would you please consent to traveling the rest of the way to Salvage with me?”

  Katie’s grin in response to the porter’s horrified gasp was instantaneous.

  “Miss Leiland, please, you don’t want to have the likes—” the porter stammered.

  “Why, sure I will, Miss Leiland,” Katie cut in.

  “Wonderful! That is, if there is no Mr. Jones?”

  “Oh, somewhere out there” —Katie motioned vaguely toward the north— “there is. But it ain’t likely he’s fool enough to show his face anywhere near me. That is, not if he ‘spects to keep it whole,” Katie said calmly, smiling at Venice’s astonished expression. She didn’t elaborate.

  “Ahem. Yes. Indeed. My coach is just over here.” Venice took Katie’s arm, gently pulling her toward a Pullman car a few yards away. The porter leaped forward to open the brass-fitted door.

  “And please, call me Venice, Miss Jones.”

  Katie lifted the hem of her green skirt and trod directly on the foot of the suddenly attentive porter, flashing him her own brand of dazzling smile as she swept past him into the coach. “Sure, Venice honey, anything you say.”

  The Salvage Ladies’ Conviviality League—which included every decent woman in town, a grand total of nine—waited on the crowded, sagging depot platform. Like a line of soldiers awaiting inspection by an exacting commander, they stood grimly resolved to do their duty Backs straight, eyes forward, they clutched their hand-tatted drawstring purses, cotton gloves hiding work-roughened hands, calico bonnets shielding noses from the intense mountain sun.

  They were here to give Miss Venice Leiland the sort of reception a lady of her position demanded. After all, her family’s philanthropic foundation supported the fragile artery on which Salvage’s life depended, the Leiland-Hawkness Spur Line.

  At the opposite end of the platform stood another group of women, in every respect as committed to conviviality as their sisters. Just a more tangible form of it.

  Like a bizarre species of poultry, twenty-odd hurdy-gurdy gals roosted on the depot’s fence rails in red satins and striped crepes, their hair twisted about like cunningly placed rats, their faces powdered and painted. They sounded like birds too, their constant clucking interspersed with an occasional shriek of raucous laughter. Most of them were there to see the lady who’d won the Gold Dust on a pair of aces: Katie Jones.

  In between these two factions, spilling out into the streets behind the depot, stood the rest of Salvage, more or less. Three hundred and some men: miners, barflies, adventurers, outfitters, and prospectors. They milled uncertainly between the two groups of women, unwilling to align themselves too firmly with one or the other. Any perceived desertion and either bunch could make a man’s life a living hell.

  But damned if any man-jack of them was going to miss the arrival of two of the most celebrated women in Salvage’s short history: the new saloon owner, Cayuse Katie Jones, and Miss Venice Leiland who, the stories went, was wild as the wind, pretty as a mountain laurel, and smart as a whip.

  It was the last metaphor that had Tim Gilpin, the Salvage Clarion’s editor, concerned. The problem was he liked living in Salvage.

  Though it had been over a decade since Tim had heeded Greely’s call and “gone west,” he still maintained a few ties to the New York City newsroom where he’d apprenticed. He knew a great deal about the beautiful Miss Leiland, the most important being that Venice wasn’t the fluttery-gibbet the newspapers loved to make her out to be.

  Not only had she graduated magna cum laude from Vassar, but it was also rumored she’d administered the trusts for a few of the Leiland Foundation’s smaller programs. Yup, even if no one else took the little lady’s credentials seriously, Tim Gilpin did. He lifted a stubby, ink-stained finger and gnawed nervously at the nail.

  He was in the process of starting on another fingernail when he heard his name being shouted. Standing on the balls of his feet, Tim craned his neck to see who’d hailed him. Anton and Harry Grundy, owners of the local mercantile, were lounging against the far wall, with big grins on their faces, a couple of ladybirds plastered against their respective sides.

  “Timmy! Tim-im-mee!” hooted skinny, red-haired Harry, lifting a bottle and waving it around his head.

  With a sigh, Tim elbowed his way through the crowd. He knew Harry would keep up that insistent hollering until Tim acknowledged him.

  “Hello, Harry,” Tim said. “Anton.”

  Anton, strong as a bull, half as smart, and twice as belligerent when drunk, squinted blearily from behind the buxom woman he held.

  Neither of these two lads was especially long on brains, but because of their awe-inspiring sloth, it was hard to tell just how scarce of wits they really were. If they’d had any ambition at all, they would have been two of the wealthiest men in the territory. As it was, they were still plenty rich.

  A few months after coming out West to seek their fortunes, they’d shown up on the porch of their uncle Zeb Grundy’s mercantile. They were broke, drunk, and unrepentant. Zeb, who hadn’t seen his only living relatives in years, took one look at his heirs, clutched his heart, and called for a pen. He was dead before he could change his will.

  Four months later, the spur line opened. Within two years, Anton and Harry, the least likely to succeed couple of no-goods in the territory, were very rich men indeed.

  “Which woman you come to get an eyeful of, Tim?” Harry asked with a wink and a leer.

  “Son, you might just be looking at the end of the line when you fill your eyes with the likes of Miss Venice Leiland,” Tim answered dolefully

  “What d’ya mean?” demanded Anton.

  Tim clapped Anton on the back. “Wise up, Anton. The only reason Salvage exists at all is because for some reason a rich old man has decided something is waiting to be discovered in these mountains.”

  Harry smirked, drawing deeply on the bottle he lifted to his mouth. “He’s been looking fer them ancient skeletons of his fer years now.”

  “Seven years. Seven years during which time Milton has been keeping open the spur line that supplies Salvage with the freight that makes this little town rich.” Tim looked to see if his words were having any impact on the pair. Anton was blissfully slobbering over his liquor bottle and Harry was busily trying to peer down the front of his friend’s dress.

  Tim cleared his throat. “Now, his niece, Miss Venice Leiland, one of the Leiland Foundation’s junior trustees, is arriving. It’s time to ask yourself a question, lads. Do you think Milt’s gonna find bones in them thar hills?”

  “ ‘Course not,” scoffed Anton. “Old Milty woulda found ‘em by now if they’d been there to find.”

  “Exactly. Milt’s already said he’s pulling out next year unless he finds something worth sticking around for. Tell me, gentlemen, what do you think Miss Leiland is doing here?”

  Anton and Harry stared blankly at him.

  Tim sighed. “Let’s put it this way. If you grubstaked a mine for seven years and finally went to see what the damned thing had got you and you found out the answe
r was a big fat nothing, what would you do?”

  “Close down!” Anton and Harry yelled simultaneously, grinning hugely, certain they’d guessed the correct answer.

  “Exactly.” Tim took one look at their self-congratulatory smiles and shook his head, turning and walking back through the crowd.

  The Grundy brothers’ grins stayed in place for a full minute. They collapsed at roughly the same instant as comprehension slowly took root.

  Harry pushed himself off the wall and grabbed Anton by the shirt collar, hauling him upright. “Come on, boy, we got plans to make.”

  “What kinda plans?” Anton asked.

  “I don’t know yet, but we better make ‘em quick.”

  Katie settled back in the deep, tufted velvet settee and popped another candy into her mouth. For perhaps the hundredth time, she cast an appreciative glance around Venice’s private coach. “I been in a couple of real fine houses in my day but this has ‘em all beat.” Venice smiled as she watched Katie’s gaze tally up the red velvet curtains at the windows, the oriental carpets on the floor, the polished walnut sideboard by the wall, and the embroidered curtains hiding the bed at the far end.

  “Nice. Real nice,” she said.

  “Thank you,” Venice said politely.

  “Yup, you got it all: money, looks, and brains. Lots of brains. Who’d a guessed that underneath that dainty little face was a natural born con artist.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I seen how you handled the engineer . . . and any other man what stumbles into your strike range. And you know what you’re about, too. Last time you turned a man into a moon-faced idiot, you winked at me! Hell,” Katie said, popping another chocolate into her mouth. “I oughta be paying for the honor of watching you in action. And I myself ain’t no stranger to twisting men round my little finger!”

  Venice nodded. “Mr. Jones.”

  “Him and others,” Katie said vaguely.

  “You and Mr. Jones had a fight?”

  “Nope. No fight. You can’t fight someone that ain’t there. He and me, we just split up. Years ago.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. Shouldn’t have got married to begin with. Oil and water, honey.” She snorted derisively. “But that’s what true love’ll get you every time. How ‘bout you? You married?”

  “No. Not yet.”

  “Hey!” Katie straightened, flushing beneath her powder. “I’m sorry. You probably got some beau you’re all googoo-eyed in love with.”

  Venice smiled and moved to a cherry vanity beside a window. “No. I’m not in love with anyone. My opinion of love is very similar to your own.”

  She lifted back the heavy embroidered drapes and gazed outside. “Tell me, Miss Jones, how can I gain the people’s goodwill?”

  Katie shrugged. “I don’t know. I’d say build a church, but that seems a bit like suggesting the cat be let in the barn. I know! Throw a party. Everyone loves a party.”

  “I like parties, too.”

  “Sure,” said Katie. “Make a big announcement. Be real ‘howdy-boys’ friendly”

  “I can see why people choose to live here. It’s lovely,” Venice said, taking a last look at the panoramic view before seating herself in front of the vanity mirror and brushing her hair.

  “Don’t you have a maid or something to do that?” asked Katie.

  “No. I had more than my share of maids when I was a child.” Venice paused. “None of them stayed very long.”

  The old feeling of being left behind, like a piece of shabby clothing that was just too much trouble to bother packing, swelled inside Venice. With it rose unbidden the image of a thin lad with solemn brown eyes and a worried, angry expression. Even he’d left. Even after he’d promised not to. She gave her hair a vicious tug with the hairbrush, willing herself to let the past go.

  The coach door swung open and the crowd at the Salvage train depot surged forward, eager to see the celebrated Miss Venice Leiland. But everyone stopped like befuddled sheep when two ladies instead of one descended the short flight of steps. There was no way to tell which one was Venice Leiland.

  Both wore bright, feminine dresses. Both had on hats. The younger, brunette one was a bit more disheveled looking. Her inky locks fell in a tangle of tight ringlets down her back while the blonde woman’s saucy curls tickled her round, ruddy cheeks. Both were pretty; the slight, pale-skinned gal perhaps more delicate, but the blonde was very womanly with soft curves and pink skin.

  The blonde lady came down the steps first, leaving the darker one to stand at the top of the stairs. Miss Leiland would exit first, wouldn’t she? The crowd milled uncertainly.

  The small, dark-haired woman took a step forward. A hush fell over the mob. In a husky, rich voice she called out, “Howdy, Salvage! How would you like a party?”

  Howdy? No further evidence was required. As one, the Salvage Ladies’ Conviviality League swarmed forward to encompass the very lovely, very blonde “Miss Leiland.”

  Chapter 2

  Two days later, Venice sat in the Pay Dirt Saloon, perched in front of a plate of coagulating, lard-fried eggs. Drumming her fingers on the table, she stared at Tim Gilpin.

  “Your mother died when you were . . . ?” the editor asked.

  “A child.”

  “And yet, even though your father is one of the country’s most sought-after bachelors, your mother’s memory has kept him from remar—”

  “Mr. Gilpin,” Venice said, cutting him off, “enough. I have answered nearly every one of your questions. I have done this fully cognizant that my words may not be printed in context, and will undoubtedly be altered to foster whatever ridiculous notion about me you wish to convey. I have been subjected to the press’s tender mercies before. I have spoken to you as a favor and now I expect you to return it. Where are my uncle’s records of the Leiland Foundation account?”

  Tim squirmed. Once little Miss Vassar here got wind of how much cash her ditsy old uncle had wasted searching these God-forbidden mountains— not to mention all the freight that had been shipped up free of charge on the spur line. She’d be sure to pull her family’s cash outta Salvage faster than a dog pulls his head outta a skunk’s hole. And everyone in Salvage knew it.

  “It isn’t as if anyone has any desire to actively hinder your attempts to ascertain the Leiland Foundation’s financial involvement in Salvage, Miss Leiland,” he said reproachfully.

  She braced her slender arms on the table, leaning even farther forward so that their noses were separated by a mere hand’s width. “You’ll excuse me if I evince something less than confidence in your assurances, Mr. Gilpin,” she purred, “but since arriving in this place two days ago, I have been repeatedly hindered. First, I find my uncle’s home occupied by a skunk who, at your sheriff’s gentle eviction—I believe he threw some empty liquor bottles at it—left behind a decidedly olfactory memento, making the house completely uninhabitable. Next, when I seek lodging, I find that the dear, ‘convivial’ ladies of town haven’t a single bed to spare and the only solution anyone can think of is to ship me back to Denver. Only the ‘notorious’ Miss Katie Jones is willing to provide me accommodations.”

  “She’s got plenty of rooms,” Tim muttered. “Or, leastwise, beds.”

  Venice ignored him. “And now, now Mr. Gilpin, I find not one soul—and here, Mr. Gilpin, I make an enormous leap of faith in ascribing souls to beings barely on a nodding acquaintance with soap—not one soul in town has the vaguest notion of where my uncle has gone, where his records are, or even where the Leiland account is held!”

  The editor looked miserable but no closer to giving her information than before. Venice took a deep breath and modified her tactics. “Mr. Gilpin, I have never had such a hard time prying loose information.” Venice smiled, tilting her head at the angle that usually made men respond to her as though she were some adorable lap dog in need of spoiling. From the next table, she heard something clatter to the floor.

  She lowere
d her lids, fluttering her lashes. The person at the next table begged the Lord for mercy. The editor looked glassy-eyed.

  Venice suddenly felt herself flush. Lately her own ridiculous posturing had grown more and more repugnant to her.

  Deliberately closing her fist around the lapel of Tim’s jacket, she pulled him forward, surprising herself with the strength her ire lent her. “Why is everyone being so difficult?” she exploded. “I’ve tried to be civil. I thought a er, fandango? would be a nice way to introduce myself. Only to find I am being boycotted by your Convivial Ladies for inviting ‘undesirable elements’ like Miss Cayuse Katie Jones to the party.

  “Not that I care, Mr. Gilpin.” She blinked her eyes dry. She refused to cry. “Not that I care,” she repeated forcefully. “But it seems to me a prodigiously self-destructive thing to do. Though coming from a population of people who actually have chosen to live in this malodorous, festering hellhole, one can hardly be surprised.”

  “Honey,” Tim whispered in an awed voice, “you’ve got a fancier line of patter than a French whore has underwear.”

  Venice’s eyes grew round. Tim’s hand shot up and clamped over his mouth. Above the broad gag of his palm, he stared mortified at Venice. For a full thirty seconds, they sat frozen. And then she laughed, a full-throated, infectious sound.

  “I know,” she admitted through her laughter. “It’s a terrible habit. Happens every time I get upset. I just mouth the grandest damnations I can think of. Nothing but a spoiled brat having a tantrum. At least,” she said, and her smile grew gentle, “that’s what a boy I once knew claimed.”

  “I didn’t mean it as a criticism,” Tim hurried to assure her. “You have a lovely flair for editorial expression.”

  Venice laughed again. “I don’t like newspapermen very much, Mr. Gilpin, so don’t try buttering me up. I’m the one who’ll do the buttering around here.”