Preacher's Fire

“I don’t know,” Preacher said. “That fella Brutus might not take kindly to it if I was to show up again.”

“Brutus will take kindly to what he’s told to take kindly to. And everyone there needs to get used to seeing you around, since I visit the place frequently myself and you’re going to be with me in the future.”

Preacher shrugged. “All right. Sounds good. I’m obliged to you.”

The driver had gotten down from the seat to open the carriage door, but Beaumont paused before climbing into the vehicle.

“We’re going to have to get you some better clothes,” he said to Preacher. “Something more suited to your position. And we’re definitely going to have to get rid of that hat.”

Preacher grinned. “Fine by me, boss. I never did like it.”

Beaumont nodded toward the driver’s seat. “Climb up there with Lorenzo. You can get acquainted with him on the drive over to Jessie’s.”

Preacher nodded. He wasn’t surprised by the order. Beaumont had sat and drank with him in the saloon, but that was when he was still thanking Preacher for saving his life. Now that Preacher was working for him—was, in effect, one of Beaumont’s servants—there had been a subtle shift in the man’s attitude. There would always be a certain divide between them now.

That was all right with Preacher. He sure as hell hadn’t come to St. Louis to make friends with the son of a bitch, he thought.

He swung up onto the driver’s seat while Beaumont got into the carriage. Lorenzo closed the door and climbed up beside Preacher. As the wizened old black man took up the reins, Preacher said, “So you’re Lorenzo.”

“Hmmph,” Lorenzo sniffed.

“Jim Donnelly,” Preacher introduced himself. “I’m gonna be workin’ for the boss, too. Or are you a slave?”

“I’m a freedman,” the driver said proudly, reminding Preacher of Brutus. “Mr. Beaumont, he don’t keep no slaves. Says it ain’t fittin’.” He paused. “If’n you ask me, he knows that you can own a man just as good with wages as you can with a whip.”

Preacher knew exactly what Lorenzo meant.

The air was sticky this close to the river, but at least it was a little cooler than it had been earlier in the day. The ride up to Jessie’s Place helped clear Preacher’s head. He was still a little fuzzy from the brandy when the carriage rolled up to the house, but he felt better than when they’d left Dupree’s.

When Lorenzo brought the carriage to a stop, Preacher said, “I’ll get the door.”

“The hell you will! I don’t know what your job is, boy, but anything to do with this here carriage is my responsibility. You just get out’n my way.”

Grinning, Preacher said, “Fine with me.” He jumped down from the box and stepped back to give Lorenzo room.

Beaumont climbed down from the carriage and motioned for Preacher to follow him. As they went up the walk, Beaumont said, “You never made it inside yesterday, did you?”

“Nope. The front door was as far as I got.”

Beaumont grinned. “Then you’re in for a treat, Jim. This is the finest sporting house west of Chicago.”

Someone must have been watching from inside, because the door swung open before they even reached the porch. A big man stepped out, and in the light from inside, Preacher recognized him as Brutus.

“Mr. Beaumont!” Brutus greeted them. “It’s good to see you, as always, sir.” He turned toward Preacher. “And this is—” Brutus recognized him and stared at him in surprise. “You again!”

“Yes, I believe you and Jim here have met,” Beaumont said with an amused tone in his voice. “Jim works for me now, Brutus, so you’ll be seeing a lot of him.”

“Is that so?” Brutus said, then went on hurriedly and not too sincerely, “Well, that’s just fine. You know, Mr. Beaumont, that any fella you say is all right is always welcome here.”

“That goes without saying,” Beaumont responded. “Is the parlor empty?”

“Uh, no, sir, there are several gentlemen in there right now, makin’ up their minds—”

“Then empty it.” Beaumont gave the order in a curt tone that allowed for no argument. “Empty it of customers, anyway. The girls stay. And tell Miss Jessie that I’m here.”

“Yes, sir, right away. If you and . . .” Brutus’s jaw visibly tightened. “If you and this gentleman want to wait in the sittin’ room, I’ll be right back when they’re ready for you in the parlor.”

“That’s fine.”

Brutus ushered them into a small room furnished with a divan and two comfortable armchairs. There was an unlit stone fireplace on one wall. Everything in the room, even the smallest item, looked like it would cost more than he made in a year of fur trapping, Preacher thought.

Beaumont motioned for Preacher to have a seat, then indicated a tasseled bellpull on the wall. “Do you want me to have someone bring us something to drink?”

“Not on my account,” Preacher said. “I’m still a mite dizzy from all that brandy,” he added, even though he really wasn’t.

“I understand. With the treat you have awaiting you, you don’t want your faculties to be impaired. You want to enjoy this experience to the fullest.”

Preacher managed to put a smile on his face. “Yeah, I reckon.”

He’d been able to dodge the issue back at Dupree’s when he’d refused Beaumont’s offer to have that blond