Arizona Gold (14 page)

Mr. Earp had called her into his private office earlier and told her he was going to pay her twenty-five dollars a month. Opal had nearly fainted when Kitty told her. She only made fifteen, she confided, so Mr. Earp had to have great confidence that Kitty was going to bring in lots of new customers to justify such high wages.

Jim had gone over the introduction music with her, and as soon as she heard her cue she hurried up the stairs leading to the stage.

Thick drapes of blue and yellow velvet shielded her from the audience. She could hear sounds above the music—glasses clinking loud voices intermingled with laughter.

The curtains began to open.

Kitty folded her hands beneath her bosom, fixed a smile on her face, and drew a deep breath.

She could feel the glow of the sparkling chandeliers above as a hush fell over the crowd.

She began to sing, drawn to the beauty of the melody and the sensual rhythm of the words. Pleasurable vibrations rolled over her in caressing waves. Something was being unleashed inside her, driving out all fear and making her want to open her eyes and face her audience.

The men staring up at her were mesmerized, entranced by her incredibly melodious voice. Some watched with lips parted. Others swayed in time, lost in sweet memories thought long forgotten but brought back by the sensuous balm of the song.

Kitty found herself smiling as she sang, and soon she began to walk about on the half-moon stage. She made eye contact with her patrons, as though singing to them and them alone. She gestured with her hands as if to fold them into the melody along with her.

She did not see Wyatt Earp watching from the railing upstairs, a pleased expression on his usually stony face. Nor was she aware of Jim’s moist, shining eyes, or how Opal, along with her faro players, had momentarily abandoned the game as they were drawn to the music like everyone else.

When the song ended, the applause was deafening. Jim did not allow her but a brief curtsy, however, for he went immediately into the Federal Army’s anthem. It was also received in a rousing way, and by the time she swung into the peppery stanzas of “Dixie,” everyone was up and stamping their feet and clapping their hands.

Kitty pranced and whirled and threw her arms to the sky, feeling the rhythm, the music, all the way to her bones. The crowd no longer existed for her. She was lost in a world of her own and enjoying every second. And it was only when the song ended and the curtains swished open and closed again and again that she remembered where she was…who she was.

The Singing Angel
.

Afterward, she collapsed happily in a chair in the dressing area. Her heart was pounding and her spirits were soaring. Lulamae charged in to hug her and tell her she had never heard anything so lovely. Jim was promptly there to declare he’d never seen such a reaction from an audience.

Opal, came, too, for a quick hug and promise that they would meet later to celebrate.

Then others came—all men—to vie for Kitty’s attention and favor.

One man, wearing a diamond stickpin in the lapel of his gray striped suit, introduced himself with a bow and a sweep of his top hat and then proceeded to bluntly ask her to marry him.

Another shoved him aside to do the same.

A drunk staggered in insisting that she dance with him.

And then Wyatt Earp was there to usher them out and declare that, henceforth, he would post a guard outside the door so Kitty would not be bothered with such foolishness.

Finally, she was alone with nothing to do. Jim would keep playing off and on, but she would not sing again, although before he had left her Mr. Earp had hinted they needed to think about doing two shows a night.

Not about to join the revelry in the saloon, Kitty waited until things settled down, then went back to the stage. The curtains were closed, and there was a side exit where she could slip out, unseen, and make her way to the back stairs.

Once in her room, she peeled out of the gown, scrubbed the makeup off her face, and vigorously brushed the curls from her hair.

Someone had left tea cakes, fruit, and a pitcher of milk on the table beside her bed, and she ate ravenously. With her stomach in knots earlier, she had not wanted any supper.

Afterward, she lay down and tried to sleep, but the noise from downstairs kept her from doing so. Finally she got up and padded to the window to look down on the busy street below. Despite the bustling crowds of the night and the goings-on in the saloon, Kitty was struck to realize how truly alone she was.

She absently chewed on a fingernail as she wondered why, despite the successful evening, she felt so empty. When she was with the Apaches, even as a captive, she now realized, she had felt a part of things…a part of life. The cooking and hunting and tanning had all made her feel vital, as though she belonged somewhere…to someone. Here, she was something to be stared at, ogled, and, yes, prized, if some man could rope her in for his wife.

She thought of Virginia and the farm and Jabe, Loweezy, and Roscoe—the only friends she’d ever had.

And she thought of the horses, how she had loved working with them.

It was the kind of life she yearned for, longed for—not singing in a saloon, even if she had been well received.

Suddenly it dawned on her that she was trapped. With no other way to support herself, she had to be grateful for the opportunity at hand.

But if she could find the gold strike
…

“Impossible,” she said out loud and turned from the window and went back to bed.

The only way she might ever find it would be if she had Whitebear’s half of the map. But he was not going to give it to her any more than she would hand over hers to him.

“So be it,” she muttered sleepily, covering her head with the pillow to shut out all the noise.

“I’ll just have to content myself with being the Singing Angel,” she whispered…knowing she never would.

Chapter Thirteen

It was late afternoon, and Ryder was about to make his first attempt to find Kitty Parrish in busy, crowded Tombstone.

He had arrived early that morning and taken a room at a boardinghouse. Weary, he had slept most of the day, knowing the town did not come alive till late afternoon anyway.

Bathed and dressed, he scratched irritably at his beard. The itching was why he had never liked having one and tried to shave every day. It was necessary, however, that he change his appearance drastically. He was also assuming a new identity, for there was no way he could introduce himself to Kitty Parrish by the same last name as her uncle’s partner.

So he had taken the name Sam Bodine. With a double holster strapped around his waist, he would present himself as a drifter…a hired gun. That way, most folks would steer clear of him, which was what he wanted. He did not need, or want, friends or camaraderie. He had one reason for being in town—to seduce Kitty Parrish and get her to turn over her half of the map. Everything else was a waste of time.

He felt no guilt or shame over his purpose. His people came first, and they needed gold to survive across the border without having to steal. He wanted no trouble with the Mexicans.

He had spent the past three weeks working as an army scout in Texas. He needed the money, as well as the time to grow his beard.

He hoped his quest would not take long. Already it was midsummer, and he wanted to get his people out of the mountains before autumn. They needed time to settle in before winter. In the spring, they could start their gardens and, hopefully, start herds of cattle, but food had to be found and stored for the harsh months ahead.

So it was important he move fast, for too much time had already been wasted.

He supposed it was arrogant to assume he could maneuver Kitty Parrish into his bed and charm her into handing over the map, but the fact was, he knew how to pleasure a woman.

Katrina Stevens had taught him well
.

She was the daughter of one of the high-ranking officers at Fort Bowie. It had been built to fend off Indian attacks at a place called Apache Pass, through which the Butterfield Stagecoach line carried mail and passengers from Missouri to California. Ryder had gone there, passing as white and working as stable help to spy for the Apache leader, Geronimo, who was leading raids on both sides of the border.

At first, Ryder naively thought Katrina hung around the stables because she liked horses and was always coaxing one of the soldiers to take her for a ride. Because of all the Indian trouble, she was not, of course, allowed to go outside the fort without an escort and then could not go far.

When Katrina began to pay attention to him, he was too taken by her to notice the smirks from the soldiers. And, since they dared not speak disrespectfully of an officer’s daughter, Ryder had no way of knowing that she was a spicy little vixen who enjoyed a good tumble in bed as well as any man, and he was merely a new conquest.

She asked him to take her riding, and he eagerly agreed. There was a creek within the boundaries she was allowed to go, and she directed him to a private hideaway among some boulders. To his surprise—and delight—she promptly stripped and proceeded to show him an ecstasy unlike anything he had ever known before.

Katrina’s desire was insatiable, and she showed him a hundred ways to try and satisfy it.

Inexperienced and naive when it came to women—back then, anyway—Ryder stupidly thought what he felt for Katrina could only be love.

Little did he realize such thoughts were birthed in his loins—not his heart.

He could look back now and see where he went a bit crazy that summer. He forgot all about spying. In fact, he shirked his chores to be with Katrina any time she wanted him.

And all the while the soldiers were laughing behind his back.

Ryder was completely bewitched, and when Katrina began talking about how she was going back East in the fall, he felt his heart begin to crack. She hated the West, and so did her mother. Her father had put in for a transfer, and it was hoped by the end of summer he would have it.

The thought of her leaving drove him crazy, and one day, after a torrid session of lovemaking, he asked her to marry him.

At first, she had seemed stunned, then she began chattering about how he must be crazy to think she would live in the West. And hadn’t he been listening all the times she had expressed her desire to go back East?

He had quickly assured her he understood how she felt and was willing to move there to make their home.

So many times Ryder had thought back on that day and given thanks he had kept his mouth shut and not told her of his mixed blood and how difficult it had been for him to make the decision to leave his mother and his people and live forever in the white man’s world. Had they married, he would have told her in time, but he figured his proposal was a big enough surprise for the time being.

As it turned out, he was the one surprised, for when he kept pressing her to say yes, arguing down all her reasons against marriage, she had finally, bluntly, told him that when she did wed, it would be to someone wealthy. He was nothing but a poor stable hand and would never be able to support her in the way she wanted.

He had dared hope that in time he could break down her resolve, still foolishly thinking she loved him, but, as it turned out, he was not to be with her again. She refused to have anything else to do with him and, the very next day, shunned him to ride with another soldier.

Fool that he was, he had continued to pine, until a sergeant drew him aside and said it was time he wised up. Katrina Stevens was a hot-blooded little whore, the sergeant confided, and had bedded half the cavalry. Her father was as blind to her immorality as Ryder had been.

It took a while, but he got over it, ultimately deciding the experience was not totally wasted. After all, he had learned how to give a woman the greatest sensual pleasures possible, and the knowledge had served him well, for the rewards had been great.

Now he hoped the erudition of it all would work for him in a different way.

He heard the sound of the dinner bell and went downstairs. By the time he got to the dining room, the other six boarders were ahead of him. Already they had heaped their plates with food, and elbows were flying as they eagerly forked it into their mouths.

He squeezed in at the end of the bench. Reaching for the last piece of chicken on the platter, he wondered if Cora Lucas, the owner, would bring more.

Breezing in with a plate of biscuits, Cora, a pudgy, no-nonsense widow, saw the disappointed look on his face and knew what he was thinking. “You’d better learn to be on time, mister,” she snapped. “I feed, but I don’t fatten, and what food is on the table when I ring that bell is all there is. If you’re late, you’re out of luck.”

Ryder shot a glance at the plates around him, which were filled to overflowing. Probably the others had waited in the hall for the bell, then stampeded like cattle spooked by thunder. Now he had another reason for wanting to finish his business in Tombstone and be on his way, because he would sooner starve than fight for his food.

The men ate noisily, not talking or slowing until they had wiped their plates clean with a last bite of biscuit. Only then did they seem to relax and talk among themselves as they waited for Cora to serve dessert.

“What’s your business in town?” the potbellied man next to Ryder asked. “The name’s Wister Nichols, by the way.”

The others turned to stare with interest.

Ryder took them all to be prospectors, in from their digs to buy supplies, maybe get a bath and a shave, and then wallow in whiskey and women before heading back to the mountains.

He was finishing up the peas he had managed to rake from the bottom of the bowl and did not look up as he said quietly, coldly, “I don’t have any yet. But my guns are available for the right price.”

Suddenly he had a few more inches of space on the bench, as the man, along with those seated beyond him, shrank back.

His meaning was clear. He was a hired gun and would kill for a price.

Ryder thought for a second they were all going to bolt for the door, but just then Cora came in with a big apple pie and set it on the table. They could not resist and once more dove right in, only this time there was an ample portion left for Ryder.

The men began to talk among themselves once more. Ryder was only half-listening. Then Wister said something that caught his attention. He was in a hurry, he said, to get to the Oriental Saloon so he could get a good seat for the first performance. The Oriental was where Opal worked, which meant Kitty Parrish might be close by.

“Is that li’l gal as good as they say?” someone asked Wister. “I didn’t get by there last night. I got tied up in a poker game, ’cause I was winnin’ for a change.”

“Yeah, what’s she like?” another wanted to know. “I ain’t much on sittin’ around listenin’ to singin’. I’d rather get a gal and dance.”

“Oh, she dances,” Wister told them, “but up on the stage. She don’t mingle with the customers, and Mr. Earp has a guard posted so nobody can get to her.”

“What is it they call her?”

“The Singin’ Angel, and she dresses up like one, too. The other night she was even wearin’ paper wings, painted gold, and the crowd loved that.”

Cora came with a bowl of cream for the pie. Hearing the topic of conversation, she sneered. “Oh, she ain’t all that good. My man-friend, Boozer, heard her the other night, and all he could talk about was bow pretty she is. Didn’t say nothin’ about her voice. And I tell you one thing—Wyatt Earp better look out, or what he brought in to draw customers is gonna blow up in his face, ’cause everybody’s goin’ to be in front of the stage instead of gathering around the bar or gambling tables.”

“Well, she don’t perform
all
the time,” Wister said huffily. “Just twice a night. There’s plenty of time for gamblin’ in between.”

Ryder did not care about a stage show and asked, “Does the Oriental still have the best faro in town?”

Wister said, “I wouldn’t know, mister. Faro ain’t my game.”

Ryder glanced up and down the table. “Anybody know anything about the faro game over there? I heard they had a woman dealer who’s the best around. Can’t recall the name,” he added, not wanting to appear too knowledgeable.

“You’re talking about Opal Grimes,” a man at the far end volunteered. “And she’s pretty good, I reckon.”

That was all Ryder wanted to hear. He had ridden by her shanty on his way into town. Children had been playing outside, and when he saw a strange woman call them in, he knew for sure that Opal had moved elsewhere. It was a bad sign, and he had worried ever since that she might have left town and taken Kitty with her. After all, Kitty would probably have had no one else to turn to. But now he could relax. Opal was around, so maybe Kitty would not be far away.

He wished he could just come right out and ask about her, but there was always the chance she had not made it to Tombstone. She might have been so unnerved by her experience that she turned tail and headed back east. However, if she were in town, he did not want to draw attention to himself by making inquiries. So he had decided to locate Opal and go from there.

After supper, he headed straight to the Oriental. The faro game had not started up, so he had a drink at the bar.

A half hour passed, and he noticed how the place was starting to get crowded. Men were pushing into the rows of chairs lined up in front of the stage, and Ryder asked the bartender what was going on.

The bartender displayed a gold front tooth as he grinned to say, “You must be real new in town, mister, if you ain’t heard of the Singing Angel. She really packs in the customers. I’ll bet if you walk up and down the street, the other saloons will look closed down, ’cause everybody piles in here when it’s time for her to perform.”

“What makes her so special?”

“Well, for one thing, she’s a damn pretty little gal, but she’s got a way of making you think she’s singing right to you and nobody else. She got the name Singing Angel, by the way, on account of how she sings to men in the street when they’re dyin’, and they think she’s an angel come down from heaven to serenade ’em home.”

“Oh, Morton, you got shit for brains,” the man standing next to Ryder sneered. “She only done that once. You make it sound like every time she hears gunfire she runs out to see if anybody’s shot and dyin’ so she can sing to ’em. Hell, if that was so, she wouldn’t have no voice left.

“Undertaker buried two this morning,” he said to Ryder with a polite tip of his hat. “May they rest in peace.”

Ryder downed the rest of his drink. He did not care about singing angels, or gunfights, or any other damn thing that went on in Tombstone. All he wanted was to find Kitty Parrish as fast as possible.

The bartender refilled his glass and went on down the bar to other customers.

Ryder took his drink and went back to the gaming room, which was still empty. It had become obvious that until the so-called Singing Angel performed, not much else would be going on.

Glancing about, he did a quick double take as Opal came down the backstairs. She looked stern, as usual, in a conservative gown of deep blue taffeta, the lace collar nearly brushing her chin.

“Evenin’, Miss Opal,” a man walking by called to her as she descended. “You’re early. Guess you can’t sleep as late now that you’re livin’ up there.”

“Yeah,” Opal confirmed, “but it’s a hell of a lot better than staying awake worrying an Apache is gonna sneak in and slit my throat.”

Ryder knew then that his visit as Whitebear was the reason she had moved out of the shanty.

Opal started by him, then paused to rake him with curious eyes. “I haven’t seen you around before. You waiting to play, cowboy?”

“Maybe.” He took a lazy sip of his drink. She started on by, and he casually asked, “Did I hear you say something about Apaches?”

“You sure as hell did. One slipped in on me where I used to live and held a knife to my throat. Scared the grits out of me, it did. But it won’t happen again. Not with old Ben up there keeping an eye on things. Mr. Earp don’t let nobody upstairs that don’t have business up there.”