The Damnation Affair

Maybe the Boston miss was scandalized by the lack of a man of God around here. Some of the men read from the Book, some of the women organized hymns, and that was about it. Letitia Granger often professed herself absolutely horrified and trumpeted her intention to bring a holy man from a city somewhere.

He wished her luck. As long as it wasn’t a Papist who might recognize what Jack was—what he had been.

If it is, I’ll just move on. Gabe reached to touch his hatbrim, but the hat was on the peg by the door. His boots were caked with Damnation’s yellow dust, but he had them propped on the desk anyway. There were two jail cells; one held a snoring drunk—Rob Gaiterling, who needed a bender about once a month and went crazy when he got it—and the other stood open and empty, its walls scratched with unfinished charter-symbols and finished graffiti, the iron of the doors glowing dully with imbued mancy. “Miz Tiergale.”

Daylight showed the beginning of ravages to her sweet round face, but her chin was high and her dark hair was elaborately curled under an imitation of a fashionable bonnet. He’d been seeing them more and more about town this last week, maybe in response to the schoolmarm.

An inward wince. Maybe there was a charm to get the image of Miss Barrowe, terrified and pale, breaking her pretty parasol over a walking corpse’s head, out of his brain. If one didn’t exist, maybe he should make one. He could turn in some more hours laboring over Russ’s charter-dictionaries; unfortunately, whatever black mancy Salt had been working, there was nothing in Russ’s small collection that could shed light on it.

“Morning, Sheriff.” Mercy’s shoulders were rigid, her hands clasped together as if she was six again, repeating her charter-chism. “I have business.”

No doubt. “Yes ma’am?” Was Tilson beating his girls again? Or was there a deeper trouble to add to the mess inside Gabe’s head?

He might almost welcome some more trouble, if only to keep him occupied and away from brooding over a silly nose-high Boston miss.

“I aim to visit the schoolmarm before the churching.” Mercy took a deep breath, and high color flushed her round cheeks. She was popular among the Lucky Star’s patrons, most of whom liked a woman with a little heft. “I aim to have you go with me, to keep it all respectable-like. None of the gossipies in town are like to go, and I aim to have the marm listen to what I have to say.”

That’s a lot of aimin’ you’re fixed on. “She seems the listenin’ type.” Gabe got his feet under him. “What kind of business, if I may inquire?”

“Personal business, Sheriff.” Mercy nodded once, sharply, and that was that. “Not saloon business.”

In other words, Tilson didn’t need to know. Gabe thought it over. Well, what could it hurt? Besides, there was his curiosity, which had perked its ears something awful. “Yes ma’am.”

The saloon girl’s face eased, and her earrings—bits of paste glass, with tiny charms flashing in their depths, probably to keep the dye in her hair—danced. Her eyebrows were coppery, and there was a fading set of bruises ringing her neck. She’d curled some of her hair over to hide them, but there was no hiding some things. “Much obliged, Sheriff. If you want…”

There were times when he was mighty tempted, true. “No ma’am, thank you ma’am,” he said, maybe a little too quickly. The saloon girl’s face brightened with an honest smile, and Gabe dropped his gaze as he stepped past her to rescue his hat.

Women. How could a man ever figure? He’d visited one or two of the Star’s girls, when it got to be too much. They were uncomplicated. They didn’t twist a man up inside.

And they were welcoming, too. What more did a man need?

His mood had just turned a little blacker, and Gabe scowled. He offered the girl his arm as they stepped outside, and at least she accepted.

* * *

Mercy was silent the entire way, her steps light and delicate. They kept to the back row running parallel to the main street, their only witnesses some chickens and stray dogs, as well as wet washing flapping on lines, crackling with dust-shake charms. And they reached Miss Barrowe’s trim little cottage just as the marm herself, smartly dressed in a soft peach frock that made her glow in the morning sunshine, stepped out her front door with yet another parasol, this one bearing a ruff of soft scalloped lace.

She was obviously bound for church.

His throat tightened. His face was a mask. The gate didn’t squeak, but the painting on it was a little slapdash.

Served her right.

Miss Barrowe didn’t seem surprised in the least. “Sheriff. How pleasant. Are you attending church today?”

He had to clear his windpipe before he could say “No ma’am,” with anything resembling his usual tone. “Miss Barrowe, may I present Miss Mercy Tiergale? She’s some words for you.”

“I see. How do you do?” And the marm, pretty as you please, offered her hand with a smile that, for some reason, made Gabe’s chest even tighter.

“Ma’am.” Mercy was back to flour-pale, and she shook the marm’s hand once, limply. A tense silence rose, dust whisking along the street on a brisk fresh breeze. It would be hot later. Finally, Mercy swallowed visibly. “How do.”

Miss Barrowe glanced quickly at Gabe, her expression unreadable. “Where are my manners? Do come in. May I offer you some tea? I know Mr. Gabriel prefers coffee—”

“No ma’am.” Mercy’s fingers tightened on his arm. A spate of words came out in a rush, like a flash flood up in the hills. “I aim to have you listen. We—some of the girls and me—we wants our letters. I mean, we want to do some larnin’. Book larnin’, and figures.” The saloon girl freed one hand, digging in her skirt pocket. “We can pay you. We want it all respectable-like.” A handful of rolled-together bills came up, and Gabe noticed a stain on Mercy’s gloved wrist. Looked like whiskey.

Maybe she’d needed it to brace her. He kept his mouth shut, and winced again when he thought of Tils’s likely reaction to this. And the money—often, saloon girls didn’t see actual cash. More of Mercy’s nervousness seemed downright reasonable, now.

Miss Barrowe did not even bat one sweet little eyelash. “I see. Please, Miss Tiergale, put that away and come inside. As I am engaged to teach in this town and my salary is paid by the town itself, I have no need for you to—”

“We’re saloon girls, ma’am.” Flung like a challenge. “Six of us. In the afternoons before the real drinkin’ starts, that’s when we have time.”

Miss Barrowe nodded briskly. “Then after I finish with my other pupils, I shall be glad to help you and your fellow…ladies educate yourselves. Are you quite certain you won’t come in and have some tea while we discuss this?”

“No ma’am.” Mercy’s arm came up, rigid, and she proffered the bills. “Wouldn’t want you to miss church. Do you take our money, and I’ll be on my way.”

Miss Barrowe’s glance flickered to Gabe’s face again. Her curls were expertly arranged, and that dress looked soft enough for angels to nest in. A faint breath of rosewater reached him, under the tang of cigar smoke and spilled drink, sawdust and sweat from Mercy. He was suddenly very aware that Mercy had his arm, and that Miss Barrowe might draw a conclusion or two from that.

I don’t care. But it had a hollow ring, and it was maybe the wrong time for Jack Gabriel to start lying to himself.

“I believe it might be best for Sheriff Gabriel to hold your money.” Miss Barrowe straightened slightly, her shoulders going back. A touch of lace around the neckline of her dress was incredibly distracting; he found he couldn’t look away. “You shall engage my services as a teacher for a certain length of time—a month, perhaps? Then we shall again address the question of payment, if you are satisfied with my methods and your progress.” A slight curve of her lips. “That would make every aspect of this eminently respectable, since Mr. Gabriel is a representative of the town that engaged me.”

Well, now. “Seems a right fair idea,” he offered, but neither woman appeared to pay much heed. Mercy’s lips moved slightly as she worked this around in her head, and Miss Barrowe held the