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“I don’t think he cared.”
“When you get on your feet, we’ll have a talk with Sheriff Howard. This Nash needs to be found.”
“I agree.” And when he was, she wanted to be the one wielding the bull whip.
“Enough questions. I don’t want to tire you out. I need to get back downstairs. I’ll bring your food up directly.”
“Thank you.” She watched him depart. A saloon! Good Lord.
Rhine entered the kitchen. Jim Dade was not only his business partner but the Union’s cook as well. He’d learned his trade at a fancy hotel in Saugatuck, New York. Like many men in Virginia City, he’d come west hoping to make his fortune in the mines, but on his first day underground he was so overcome by the terror of being in a confined space, he never returned. It was Rhine’s gain because the man cooked like a god.
“She was robbed.”
Jim looked up. “The little lady upstairs?”
“Yes.” Rhine related the story.
“And he was posing as a priest? This Nash sounds like someone I’d like to meet.”
“Agreed. I’d like to teach him the error of his ways. What a bastard.” Like Eddy, he doubted that was the man’s true name. “She says she’s hungry. Can you make her some eggs?”
“Sure. Just give me a few minutes.”
Rhine left Jim to do his magic and stepped into the loud, raucous confines of the saloon. The place was filled with the usual evening crowd. Miners were at the bar unwinding after their shifts belowground, day laborers were drinking and playing dominos at a table to his left, and throughout the room various card games were in progress. He moved among the men, sharing greetings and laughter, listening to the latest rumors about everything from new mine strikes to who might run for mayor in the next election, and buying drinks for those who’d had a particularly bad day. Rhine genuinely liked his clientele and they liked him. The Union, a typical western saloon, was atypical, too, in that it led the competition when it came to the quality of the food served. No other place offered better cuts of meat or stocked a wider or finer variety of spirits. He and Jim recently installed a new gaslighting system that didn’t fill the air with the noxious fumes usually associated with the old system, and the Union was the only saloon to have it. The Union was also the only saloon in the city that welcomed Colored people. Although he’d made it known that his doors were open to everyone, the Whites refused to patronize the Union because he didn’t discriminate. It stuck in their craws like fish bones that such modern elegance would be offered to a race of people they deemed beneath them, but he didn’t care because bigotry was the only reason that kept them from partaking of the elegance as well.
Kenton Randolph, Doc Randolph’s eighteen-year-old son, was the Union bartender. “Things seem to be going well tonight,” Rhine said.
“Yep. Everyone’s behaving themselves, so far, even Ethan Miller.”
Rhine turned his attention to the only white face in the room. The blond-haired Miller, twenty-two-year-old son of wealthy mine owner Crane Miller, was playing poker at a table by the window on the far side of the room. Because of his rowdy reputation, only a few saloons in the city allowed him entrance. He also had a penchant for cheating at cards, which accounted for his slightly crooked nose, broken in a fight with an old miner a few years back. He tended to behave at the Union. “Keep an eye on him.”
“Will do.”
Rhine returned to the kitchen. Her food was ready.
Carrying the tray, Rhine entered the room. Eddy sat up slowly, giving him the impression that he’d awakened her, and he was instantly contrite. “I didn’t know you were sleeping. My apology. I can take this back.”
She dragged herself up to a sitting position. “No. Please. I didn’t know I’d fallen asleep.”
“Are you sure?”
She gave him a nod.
He walked over. “Where do you want this?”
She eyed the tray with its covered dishes. “Here on my lap, I suppose.”
He handed it to her and she gingerly set it atop her blanket-covered thighs.
“I’m sorry for taking over your bed, and your clothing.”
“Don’t worry about it. Getting you better is the only concern.”
“You’ve been very kind. Once I get back on my feet, I’d like to repay you in some way. I can scrub your floors or launder the shirts you’ve let me borrow. I’m also a very good cook. Maybe I can make your favorite sweet. Do you have one?”
Rhine wondered what was wrong with him. When he first entered the room, the sight of her looking all newly awakened and soft in his shirt played havoc with his insides. He was supposed to be taking care of her, not wanting to slip beneath the blanket and explore her sleep-warmed ebony skin. “Uhm, no. Not really.” She was a beauty, and not even the near fatal trek through the desert that left her wan and weak and her hair an unruly mess could hide it. He reminded himself again that he already had a beautiful woman in his life.
“I’ve never met anyone who didn’t have a sweet tooth, Mr.Fontaine.”
