Love Finds You in Tombstone, Arizona (19 page)

Nellie gave a small squeal of excitement and stepped forward, extending her hands. “Yer the young woman Mr. King mentioned might be wantin’ a job. Oh, my. Yer lovely, and I’d be most pleased if you’d join us. And it’s Nellie, not Miss Cashman, if ya please.” She gripped Christy’s hands in her own. “Is that why you’ve come to me, darlin’?”

“Well…” Christy’s head swam from the onslaught of words headed in a different direction than she’d expected. She hadn’t thought of the job when she’d come. The only thing on her mind had been saving Sara before something worse befell her. “I’m sorry. Mr. King?” She shook her head. “I don’t know anyone by that name. I was hoping to see Nevada.”

“King is his last name, dearie. James King. You didn’t know?” The blue eyes peered intently at her.

“No.” Something worrisome niggled at Christy’s memory, but she pushed it aside for later inspection. “He introduced himself as Nevada, nothing more. It’s important I speak to him if he’s in and it’s not too late.” Sudden shame sent a flood of warmth to her cheeks as she realized she’d not expressed appreciation for the job offer. “And please forgive me for my thoughtlessness. I’d like to come another time and talk with you about accepting the job, if I may.”

“Certainly, I’d love that. Now, let me see if Nevada is in his room.” She bustled away, disappearing down a hallway on the right side of the entrance.

A few minutes later the woman reappeared with Nevada walking behind her. Nellie stepped aside and allowed him to pass, then excused herself and turned back the way she’d come.

Nevada didn’t appear as though he’d been sleeping, but he rubbed his jaw and eyed Christy speculatively. “I’m surprised to see you here. You told me last time we spoke you didn’t want to quit working at the saloon.”

Christy gripped her hands in front of her waist. “I’m considering taking the job, but I came to see you, not Miss Cashman. It’s about Sara,” she blurted out.

His expression didn’t change. “Can’t say I’m too surprised. Something happen over at the Oriental?”

Christy’s heart dropped to her stomach. She hadn’t thought this through before coming. How could she tell a virtual stranger that a young woman they both barely knew was with child? That wasn’t something a lady discussed with a man. Of course, she’d never claimed to be anyone special, and this situation demanded a different response than what society might expect. “Sara told me tonight she’s in a family way…and it’s possible the baby is Joshua’s.”

Nevada’s jaw clenched. “Ah-huh. Does Townsley know?”

“I don’t think so. I’m the first person she’s told, but she’s been sick in the mornings and wasn’t feeling well when I left this evening.”

“So it won’t be long before he guesses.”

“Yes.”

Silence fell over the room as they stared at each other for several long heartbeats. Nevada was the first to break it. “What do you want to do?”

“I hoped you might help me get her out. I don’t know how Townsley will react to her quitting, and she may need an escort.”

Nevada leaned his hip against the doorjamb and crossed his arms. “Any idea where she’ll go when she leaves?”

Christy bit her lip. “I haven’t thought that far. My mother’s house is tiny, and I’ve been bunking on the sofa, but I’ll sleep on the floor if need be.”

“There might be another solution.” He gestured down the hall. “Take the job you were offered and move your family here.”

“Here?” She frowned, not understanding why he’d suggest such a thing. “We have a home. But if Miss Cashman would consider allowing Sara to stay for a short time…”

“From what I’ve seen of Nellie, she’s more than generous to those in need, and I’m guessing she’d welcome Sara. I’ll be happy to ask her tomorrow.” A warm smile reached his eyes and he clasped her hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. “Partners?”

A surge of blood leapt to Christy’s cheeks and her fingers tingled. “I’m sorry?” She slowly withdrew her hand, amazed to discover a feeling of loss when she’d done so.

A spark of amusement glinted in his gaze, and a deep chuckle rolled out. “Don’t worry, I’m not asking you to rob a stage with me. I meant partners in breaking Sara out of the Oriental Saloon as soon as you think she’s willing to leave.”

“Oh. Of course.” She raised her palm to her hot cheeks and turned away, trying to quell her rapid breathing. “I’ll talk to her at work tomorrow.” She half-turned toward him again. “You can stop by if you’d like, and I’ll try to speak to you. But if not, I’ll get word to you at the blacksmith shop.”

“All right. Good night…Christy.”

She hurried out the door, her emotions doing battle with the feelings evoked by the way Nevada said her name. The warmth of his touch and caring in his voice almost drew her back. But Ma and Josh would be worried, and there was no time to dally. She’d done what she’d come for and enlisted his help.

James.
How strange he went by
Nevada
instead of his given name. What had Nellie called him?
James King.
What a nice name.

She stepped off the boardwalk and hurried across Toughnut Street toward her mother’s small home. Then it hit her. No wonder his name was familiar. The telegram sent by Logan’s cousin announcing he’d been shot had pointed at a man named King as the shooter. All this time Nevada claimed he’d been set up by the outlaws robbing the stage and pretended to care about Sara, when he’d been a gunfighter. She’d promised herself she’d never be duped by a man again and look what happened. He couldn’t lie himself out of this one, no sir. No matter what her step-father had been, he didn’t deserve to be gunned down in cold blood.

Nevada strode down the boardwalk late the following afternoon, intent on seeing Christy if he had to fight his way through a line of bodyguards. Holding her hand for even a brief moment last night had reawakened a longing for companionship he’d thought long dead. Not since the carefree days spent with his fiancée years ago had he been stirred in such a way.

He dodged a fast-moving team pulling an empty wagon and nearly collided with a man. A quick sidestep and he avoided plowing into him, but not before he got a glimpse of the shadowed face—Jake, the leader of the outlaws who’d robbed the stage. Nevada pivoted to watch the man as he moseyed across the street and entered the Golden Eagle Brewery, one of the swankiest saloons in town. He wavered for only a moment, casting a look at the Oriental Saloon on the corner across the street from the Golden Eagle. His business with Christy would have to wait a little longer.

Pulling open the heavy, solid-wood door, Nevada stepped inside the smoke-filled room, allowing his eyes to adjust to the dim light. Billiard balls clicked off to his immediate left and he glanced at the players, scanning their faces for the man called Jake. He turned his attention to the right, at the tables lined up against the brocade-covered wall where men sat eating and playing cards, but again, no one looked familiar. At the far end a raised stage with a heavy curtain covered most of the width of the room. Not much chance Jake would’ve headed that direction.

His gaze took in the most likely spot, the bar lining the wall to the far left. The shelves were stocked with every type of alcohol imaginable, and Nevada was certain most came with a hefty price. These miners and gamblers didn’t stint on their liquor.

He walked to the end of the bar and surveyed the length, taking time to examine the features of each man standing or sitting in front of the counter. Not one was the man who’d robbed the coach. A glance revealed a door near the far end of the stage, probably leading into an office. Nevada’s eyes narrowed and he took a step toward it, then paused. What was he going to do—ram his way in and demand to know what Jake was up to? Like as not, he’d end up with a bellyful of lead if he tried. No, the best thing to do was wait and hope he’d run across the man again. One thing was certain—the outlaw knew men of influence and had been walking around since arriving in town a few days ago without being caught.

The bartender sauntered down the bar to where he stood. “Hey, mister, what’ll it be?” He plucked a glass from under the edge of the counter and thumped it on the smooth surface.

For the first time Nevada truly took in the drinking area lined with men lounging on stools or leaning against the gleaming wood surface. The magnitude and beauty of the carved bar amazed him, and he’d been in many a saloon in the West. Dark cherrywood spanned over half the length of the room, and much of the back piece was mirrored. The scrollwork around the mirrors looked to be hand carved, and a glass-fronted cabinet was built on either side of the centerpiece. Cut glass chandeliers hung from the ceiling, and gas flames worked to illuminate the long room.

Nevada took a half step back and raised his hand. “Nothing for me. Just looking for a friend. I’ll be moseying along.” Another glance down the length didn’t reveal the man he sought, and he turned to go.

A gruff voice behind him spoke barely loud enough for him to hear. “You lookin’ for the gent that slipped into the boss’s office a few minutes ago?”

Nevada turned slowly, facing the man. His low-brimmed hat almost obscured his eyes, but the light from the room revealed prominent cheekbones and a strong chin. “Who wants to know?”

“Someone who might want to see the feller in question gets his due. That is, unless you’re a friend of his.”

“Might be, might not. What’s he to you?”

The man leaned close and dropped his voice low enough so Nevada strained to hear over the noise in the saloon.
“Not
a friend if you get my meanin’, but I won’t say nothin’ more till I know where you stand.”

“You’ve shown your hand, so I’ll lay down mine. He’s of particular interest to me owing to a slight problem we had a couple of months ago.”

The man jerked his head toward a table and headed that direction, pulling out a chair and dropping onto it. “Name is Tom Parks.”

Nevada gave a nod of acknowledgment and extended his hand. “Nevada King.”

A knowing light entered Tom’s eyes, and he leaned forward, shaking his hand. “Late of Albuquerque?”

“Yes, although I don’t plan on spreading it around.”

“I heard about the shooting and knew Logan. The world didn’t lose much when he cashed in his chips.”

Nevada’s gut wrenched. The last thing he wanted was to discuss a man he’d been forced to kill. “I didn’t know him before he called me out. But you didn’t haul me over here to talk about Logan Malone. What’s your game where Jake’s concerned?”

“Jake?” Tom slapped his leg and chuckled. “So that’s the name he’s goin’ by in this burg, huh? I know him as Charlie Danvers, come up the trail from New Mexico, and before that, Old Mexico.”

A scantily clad barmaid approached their table, a grin pasted on her painted face. “What can I get for you fellas?”

Tom quirked an eyebrow at Nevada, but he raised a hand. “Nothing for me, thanks. You go ahead, Tom.”

He placed his order and turned back to the table. “I need you to answer one question before I say anything more. Are you the law?”

Nevada nearly choked on a laugh. “Good night, man. I shot a man in Albuquerque and you ask if I’m the law?”

Tom grinned. “Never know these days. Look at Bat Masterson, Wyatt, and Virgil Earp. All of them been in shootin’ scrapes, and they’ve all been lawmen of one sort or another. So you’re denyin’ it, then?”

“I am. My beef with Danvers is personal.”

“Good enough. Would it have anything to do with a certain Wells Fargo shipment disappearing from the stage awhile back?”

Nevada leaned back in his chair. “What makes you ask?”

“Just a hunch. You said somethin’ happened between you and him a couple of months ago. A stage got hit around that time and four armed bandits confiscated a shipment of gold. Danvers has been known to hit Wells Fargo shipments and always works with one or two other men, but rarely three. He don’t much like to share.” He squinted at Nevada for several seconds. “But somehow you don’t look the type to be in on that job.”

“I wasn’t. What’s this all about?”

“I got a reason to hunt Danvers I don’t care to share yet, but I’d like to see him pay for what he’s done. Figured if you’re half the man I think you to be, you might like to throw in together.”

Nevada looked Tom Parks over more closely, liking what he saw. His hat sat back on his forehead and dark, blue-gray eyes met his squarely. He appeared to be close to Nevada’s age, probably nearing thirty, and no trace of dissipation had touched the square jaw and clear skin. Tom might have been a cowboy, a rancher, or some other type of hard-working businessman, but he was no gambler, drunk, or miner. Something in his gut told Nevada to trust him. “You got a plan?”

Tom shook his head, his dismay apparent. “Not yet. I hit town a couple of days ago and been scoutin’ around, hopin’ to find Danvers. Now that I have, I’ll wait and see what develops.”

“He’s trying to put together another job. I overheard him talking to a man in the Oriental Saloon not long ago.”

“Any idea what it might be?”

“No, but I hope to find out.”

“Good enough. Where you bunkin’?”

“At the Russ House.”

“All right.” Tom stood and stuck out his hand. “I’ll look you up if I hear anything. Keep your ear to the ground, and I’ll do the same. I’m at the San Jose Lodging House, corner of Fremont and Fifth.”

Nevada shook the proffered hand and turned to go. Time to see Christy and hopefully help her get Sara out of that miserable place she called home.

Christy paused in front of Ma’s house. A lamp glowing in the living area revealed an empty room. She was thankful no one was up and awaiting her return. Joshua grew better by the day but still spent much of his time in bed, and lately Ma’s cough had eased a bit. How long that would last Christy couldn’t say, but at the moment she didn’t require constant care.

Christy pushed open the door—she didn’t care for this place. It was too close to the mines and only a stone’s throw from the red-light district. Not that she didn’t hurt for the women who lived there, especially those who’d hit tough times and were forced to ply their trade from their homes. But the occasional shrieking laughter, drunken men’s voices, and the chug of the engines at the mine often kept her awake at night far past the time she should be asleep. She’d never understood how she’d managed to avoid the trap so many of these women found themselves in, but now she realized God had been involved.

Too bad she hadn’t gotten a chance to speak to Sara, but she admitted to a certain relief at not being needed late tonight. Apparently Townsley had promised work to a friend and put the man on the roulette wheel halfway through her shift.

Her thoughts drifted back to Sara. If only she had a way of reaching more of these girls—helping them to see there were other options than contracting diseases and dying of pneumonia or consumption in the dirty hovels they called home. But in reality, what choice did they have? She’d heard horrible stories over the years of men selling their wives into prostitution when they thought it would make them big money, and other girls lured by the promise of riches, only to discover the empty, hollow life they’d attained. An occasional woman chose this life and often went on to become a madam, but most grew hard or died young.

Christy knew how difficult it was for these women to gain any kind of respectability. If Alexia and Justin hadn’t championed her in Last Chance, and if Miss Alice hadn’t given her a job, she’d probably have left town as an outcast and pariah. What hope did a young woman ever have of finding a job to support her aside from the only one she knew? A few girls accepted marriage proposals and found a new life, but from Christy’s experience, that could almost be as dangerous as working in a saloon. Most of the men who’d proposed to her over the years were hard-working, but a girl couldn’t know what life she was headed for until after she’d arrived.

A footstep from the direction of her mother’s room woke her from her thoughts. Ma stood in the doorway holding an oil lamp. Her pallor stood in sharp contrast to the darkness behind her and almost matched the pale nightgown she wore. She stared at Christy, then swayed on her feet.

Christy rushed across the living area and took the lamp before it toppled to the floor, setting it on the nearby table. She placed her arm around her mother and led her toward the sofa, helping her to sit. “Why are you out of bed? Are you feeling ill again?”

Ma covered her mouth with the back of her hand and bent low over her lap. A long cough shook her body, and she struggled to get her breath.

Christy loosened her hold and headed for the kitchen. “I’ll get some water.”

“No.” Ma’s sharp tone brought her to a halt. “I’m all right now. I need to talk to you.”

“Can’t it wait till morning? You need to get in bed.”

When Ma shook her head, Christy settled herself next to her mother.

“No.” Ma looked even older than she had this morning, if that were possible. Deep creases ran along her cheeks and carved gouges in her forehead. “That banker came again today.” She nearly spat the words. “We have to be out in a week.”

“What?” Disbelief coursed through Christy. “But I made a payment right after I started working.”

“It’s not enough. He said we’re too far behind, and he has a cash buyer for the place. Unless we can come up with the same amount his buyer is offering, we can’t stay past week’s end.”

“Does he know you’re ill and Joshua was shot?” Disbelief was quickly changing to despair. She’d worked so hard to keep this from happening. Why had she thought, moments ago, she had answers for anyone else?

“He don’t care. Said there’s lots of hurtin’ and sick people in Tombstone, and it’s none of his business to look out for them all.”