Page 3 of The Prospector's Only Prospect
“If he’s paying with our promissory notes, that’s a good indication, isn’t it? Anyone who lies about working for me will have me to tangle with. Doyouthink anyone is stupid enough to do that?”
“No,” Cecil said glumly.
Exactly. The few who did lived to regret it. Or died before he could settle with them, which was why Virgil preferred to threaten consequences rather than have to live with them—in some cases literally.
“S’pose you should have one on the house,” Cecil said in a conciliatory tone as he topped up Virgil’s glass. “Seein’ as you’re gettin’ hitched. Best wishes to you. May your love be true.”
The handful of men in the saloon tapped their glasses, then raised them in a cheer.
Virgil winced. Toasting to hislovemade him feel self-conscious and foolish.
“She’s here to mother my children. We’re not in love.” He glowered at the group of them until they shrank in their seats.
“What’s wrong with being in love?” a young man asked his companion in an undertone. “I want a sweetie to love me. Don’t you?”
“That is nineteen talking, knucklehead.” Virgil shouldn’t have given the kid any mind, but he’d been that young and stupid once. He wished someone had warned him how it would turn out. “What you think is love is that snake between your legs, looking for a burrow. Keep your heart to yourself, or the woman you give it to will stomp all over it.”
Virgil shot his whiskey, buttoned his coat, and walked out to meet his bride.
Chapter Two
Marigold couldn’t walk away. Mr. Gardner had been sent for.
She would have loved to be left alone, but the men waiting in line for their letters kept asking her for news from the east.
“You bring any papers with you?”
“What’s Mr. Lincoln saying these days?”
Given how her uncle’s political views had landed her where she stood, feet whimpering and bites itching, Marigold refused to discuss anything from the recent Topeka papers. Out of desperation, purely so they’d quit badgering her, she began to tell a tale from a recent issue of theEmporia.
“Speak up!” someone called out.
She gritted her teeth and shifted so she faced more of them, then continued in a louder voice. “After exchanging blows with his father, the young man ran away from home. He wound up shucking oysters in Chicago. A few weeks in, he met a girl selling cherries. Her mother didn’t approve of him, but he assured her that he came from a well-to-do family.”
“But he didn’t,” one of the men argued. “Not anymore. His father wouldn’t have him back. I struck my father, and I’m not welcome home again. That’s what happens.”
“He was his father’s only son,” Marigold said. “Once they married, he and his wife were welcomed back with open arms.”Try reconciling, she encouraged with a small smile. “Her mother forgave the young woman after she wrote a letter to express her remorse on marrying without her permission. Perhaps you could try the same.”
“I can’t write,” he admitted.
She almost opened her mouth to offer to teach him, but someone else called out, “What kind of cherries? Red or yellow?”
“No such thing as yellow cherries,” another man scoffed.
“Are too.”
A shoving match ensued.
Dear Pearl,Marigold continued in her imaginary letter to her sister. I’m starting to wish I didn’t make it out of the house that grim night.
“Red cherries!” Marigold stated firmly. “The young lady’s lips were stained by the juice when he kissed her. That’s how her mother discovered their affair.”
That settled them down. Dare she finish the story and tell how the new bride ran off with another man, leaving the shucking hero in a fever of angst?
Her neck prickled. She realized her words weren’t the cause of the men’s sudden quiet. Their gazes had shifted past her. They all stood taller, and their expressions grew attentive. Wary. The boardwalk creaked under a heavy step that came up behind her.
“Miss Martin.” His deep, authoritative voice sent a tingle into her lower back.
