Page 2 of The Prospector's Only Prospect
Oh, these infernal bloomers.
Marigold sent a dismissive smile toward the men. “I’m waiting for someone.”
“Who?”
“Mr. Virgil Gardner.” She didn’t know what she would do if she had missed catching him. She didn’t have money for a boarding house.
“You’re his bride?” A series of grimaces and skeptical brows rippled across their faces. It was a collectiveYeeshthat wasn’t the least bit encouraging.
Before she could say,Not exactly, she heard her status as his bride being relayed over one shoulder to another, down the line. Men even stepped out to look.
“Her?” More brows wrinkled as they stared unabashedly. “Huh.”
The man closest to the mail window rapped on the glass and called through it, pointing. “That’s her. That’s Gardner’s bride.”
The mail window screeched open. The clerk who’d closed the door on her poked his head out.
“You’rePearl Martin?” He frowned at her bedraggled appearance. “He said you’d send a letter to tell him when you would arrive.” He snapped his fingers at the men. “A dollar to fetch Gardner. His wagon’s at Pollock’s, but try the saloons.”
“I’ll do it.” A less-than-spry man of sixty-odd years took off in a hitching trot.
Marigold opened her mouth to correct their assumption that she was Pearl but shut it again, saving her breath for the man who had written,I enclose a prepaid ticket on the Express. You’ll find me to be a fair, respectful man to all but liars, cheats, and thieves.
…
“Do you drink out of your own barrels?” Virgil Gardner asked Cecil Dudley, keeper of the Dudley Saloon.
“It’s not what your men are drinking. It’s how much,” Cecil insisted, mustache quivering uncertainly.
“The hell it is.” Virgil leaned his arm on the bar top. Like the floor, the surface was gummy as a sugar birch in spring, but he ignored it and dipped his chin to level Cecil one of his most intimidating stares. “I know the difference between a hangover from too much whiskey and gut rot from moonshine. I don’t care how you turn a profit, Ceese, unless it interferes with howIturn a profit. If you poison my men again, you and I will talk further.” Virgil found it best to be vague with his threats. It kept him from having to follow through on things he didn’t really want to do.
As perspiration broke out on Cecil’s brow, someone burst into the saloon, calling out, “Is Virgil Gardner here?”
Virgil slowly turned his head, keeping one eye on Cecil. Fear had its uses, but it made men do stupid things.
“I’m here, Skip.” He recognized the old-timer as one of the men who had worked for them in Quail’s Creek between prospecting his own claims.
“She’shere.” Skip took a few limping paces toward him.
She? There could only be oneshelooking for him.
“Miss Martin?”
Skip nodded proudly, as if he’d been the one to arrange her arrival himself.
Well, wasn’t that as convenient as rain after planting? Virgil had written that he came to Denver City every second Wednesday for supplies, but he had thought she would write to tell him when to expect her, not just show up. It would seem that Pearl Martin was as “cheerfully accommodating” as she’d promised. That boded well for their future.
Virgil sniffed the whiskey Cecil had poured him from the bottle labeled Real Kentucky Bourbon before he knocked it back. He hissed out the burn.
“That’s what I want you to serve my men when they come in, not whatever you and the missus cook up in the shed.”
“We’re still getting the hang of it,” Cecil muttered, sniffing the bottle.
Virgil dropped his foot off the rail and shifted to see his reflection in the cloudy glass behind the bar. He smoothed his hair and resettled his hat on his head. There wasn’t anything he could do about the puckered scar down the left side of his face. It put some people off, but it came in handy when he wanted to make a saloonkeeper shit his britches, so he didn’t mind living with it.
He’d warned his future wife about it in his letter so she wouldn’t be too shocked by the sight of him, but he wished he had a fresh haircut to make a better impression.
Cecil had the sense to keep his hands where Virgil could see them, but he sounded constipated when he said, “How do I know if a man is working for you?”
