Quicksilver Passion (2 page)

In the state of Colorado today, there is a beautiful, snow-capped mountain with an unusual name. It is probably the only mountain in the world named for a saloon girl.

How this came about is the most beloved and enduring legend of the Rockies. The girl, if she ever lived, is gone these hundred years. But the tale endures, like the mountain itself, because of those who are idealistic enough to believe that true love sees with the heart and is meant to last forever. . . .

The boom town of Buckskin Joe,
Colorado Territory,
March 1861

There were only two kinds of women in the W est: the kind men married and the other kind. Not that it mattered because Silver hated men . . . and she had good reason.

Just like that big bruiser standing in the street below, gawking up at her in the growing twilight. Men.
She leaned against the windowsill, toying with her expensive jewelry, and listened to the laughter and music drifting up the stairs.
Now that she owned this big saloon, she was safe and would never again be at any man’s mercy.

She watched the wide-shouldered hombre while readjusting the scarlet plume in her pale blond hair. Dark and too rugged to be handsome; a ’breed, maybe, because he wore his hair cut like a white man. There he stood with his pack burro in the hustle and bustle of the muddy street. Another poor fool looking to get rich in the Rockies.

Come in and spend that gold dust at my bar, fella,
she thought with cold contempt,
but you can’t buy me. I recognize that hunger in your eyes. No man will ever hurt me or put his hands on me again.

It was almost time for her act and it pleased her to do it. Silver went to her dressing table to dab on a light scent of wild flowers, then turned toward a mirror to admire the tight, revealing scarlet dress and all the glittering gold and gems she wore.

Her ornate room sparkled with mirrors. The walls were covered with them. She checked the heavy eye makeup around her pale aqua eyes and her lip rouge again.
A flawless face,
Ma had said.
Your face will make your fortune, but your beauty won’t last forever.

The thought troubled her and she looked twice to make sure there were no wrinkles, no lines. But then she was not yet twenty and already rich. She still had her beauty and owned the biggest saloon in town. What else could a woman want?

Cherokee paused with a weary sigh in the middle of the muddy street, unsure where to find the livery stable to leave his burro. After the trip from Mosquito Gulch, he felt much older than his thirty years tonight. Cherokee felt someone watching him and looked up. The most beautiful girl he had ever seen stood looking down at him. The light behind her silhouetted the ripe body and the hair pale as newly minted silver dollars.

By damn! He wanted her. Without thinking, he ran his tongue over his lower lip, watching her full breasts swell in the top of the low-cut red dress when she breathed. Yep, he wanted her. But the pleasure of a woman would have to wait until he saw to the comfort of his animal, even though Cherokee ached with weariness himself.

After months up on the claim, snowed in with his two partners, Cherokee needed a woman bad. Tomorrow he’d get the burro shod, buy his supplies, and get back to work. But tonight he’d buy that girl . . . if she’d take a ’breed. If she turned him down, he’d offer a little extra. All white women were whores, even the ones who pretended to be high-class ladies. The memory made him wince.

He looked down the street, saw the livery stable sign, and glanced back up. The girl had disappeared from the window. Had he only imagined her? What was a beauty like that doing out here in the wilderness anyhow?

Many saloons and bordellos lined the bustling streets of this boom town. He made a mental note of this place so he could find it again; Silver’s Nugget Saloon. With his mind still on the mysterious pale blonde, Cherokee Evans hurried toward the livery stable.

Fifteen minutes later, he pushed through the swinging doors, elbowing his way through the noisy crowd of men. The place swirled with music and laughter. Cherokee took a deep breath of smoke and cheap perfume, then made his way to the ornate bar.
Coffee. With cream, if you’ve got any.”

The short bartender had a face like five miles of bad road and gorilla-like shoulders and arms, unusual for a man with gray in his hair. He paused in wiping a glass and stared back at Cherokee.
I must not have heard you right, sport. This ain’t no cafe. And cream? You must have been eatin’ loco weed.”

He owed the man no explanation of why he no longer drank.
Coffee,” Cherokee drawled in a louder voice.
I know you got some; I smell it.”

The men on each side of him turned and looked him up and down. The bartender hesitated.
I keep a pot on all the time for the boss, who don’t drink neither.”

Then I’ll have some out of the owner’s pot.”

The bartender looked as if he might argue, then shrugged and got out a dainty china cup and saucer, set it before Cherokee, and poured the coffee.
There you go, sport. No cream, though. Never let it be said that Silver wouldn’t give a customer what he wanted.”

Does that include women?” Cherokee sipped the drink, ignoring the curious looks and nudgings up and down the bar as other men noticed. He must not let himself get pulled into a fight. That wasn’t his top priority tonight.

Sure, we got women,” the bartender nodded,
even though the boss would just as soon not deal in that. Pick you out one from what’s available.”