Preacher sat at a table nearby to keep an eye on Beaumont and watch out for any trouble that might come their way. He had a mug of beer that he sipped from time to time. During the evening, a number of people approached Beaumont’s table, but they were only interested in saying hello and currying favor with a rich, powerful man. Beaumont sat back like a king holding court and received them. Mrs. Hobson preened at his side.
They had been there about an hour when Cleve strolled into the place. Preacher saw the gambler come in the door. Cleve’s gaze swept over the room. His eyes paused just for a second as they passed over Preacher, and then Cleve continued looking around the room as if he hadn’t even noticed the mountain man.
In that brief second, though, Preacher had seen a flash of satisfaction in Cleve’s eyes. The day had gone well, at least from the gambler’s point of view.
Cleve found an empty seat at one of the poker tables and soon was engrossed in the game. Preacher wanted to talk to him, but he didn’t see any way of doing so without running the risk of provoking Beaumont’s suspicions.
After a while, Beaumont emptied the last of the brandy from the bottle that had been brought to him when he arrived. Preacher saw that and got to his feet.
“Need another, boss?” he asked.
“One of the girls can bring it,” Beaumont replied offhandedly.
“They look like they’re all busy,” Preacher said. “No need to wait. I’ll fetch it.”
He went to the bar, which was crowded and busy. While he stood there waiting to ask one of the bartenders for another bottle of brandy, Cleve folded his hand and stood up, saying, “I believe I’ll take a break, gentlemen.” The gambler gathered up his winnings and ambled over to the bar, where he stood next to Preacher.
“Everything went well,” Cleve said under his breath, quietly enough so that no one could hear except Preacher. “Good work, my friend.”
“I got to talk to you.”
“Not here. Not in front of Beaumont. Later, when he goes to Jessie’s.”
“He ain’t said anything about goin’ to Jessie’s.”
A smirk tugged at Cleve’s mouth. “Trust me. He’ll pay the place a visit later.”
Preacher didn’t know about that, but Cleve seemed to know what he was talking about. The bartender came up then, so they couldn’t talk any more. Preacher asked for another bottle of Beaumont’s special brandy, and the bartender handed it over without hesitation. Preacher took the bottle back to Beaumont’s table.
Luella Hobson was already drunk, Preacher saw. He wasn’t quite sure why Beaumont continued to ply her with liquor. She was already at the point where she would do anything he wanted her to. She probably would have, even without the brandy, just to keep him interested in her.
He understood Beaumont’s motives a little better once the carriage reached Luella’s house a hour later. Beaumont called from inside the vehicle, “Give me a hand here, Jim.”
The poor woman was as drunk as she could be, Preacher saw as he helped Beaumont lift her from the carriage. “Take her inside,” Beaumont ordered. “I’m in no mood for her usual games tonight.”
“That’s why you kept pourin’ that brandy down her throat?”
Beaumont’s face hardened. “Why I do things is none of your business.”
“Yeah, you’re right,” Preacher said. “Sorry, boss.” He got an arm around Luella’s waist and helped her make her unsteady way up the walk.
“Gonna . . . gonna make you so happy, Shad,” she mumbled. “You’ll see . . . do anything you want . . . you can have me . . . any way you like.”
She leaned heavily against him so that her breasts rubbed on his arm. Preacher gritted his teeth. He had never cared for drunken, sloppy women.
“I ain’t Mr. Beaumont,” he told her as they reached the door. “You go on inside, Mrs. Hobson, and get some sleep. You need it.”
She was going to be sick as a dog come morning, no matter what she did now, Preacher knew. Damn, but he hated this place! He needed to be back in the mountains, where folks didn’t carry on like this, and if you had enemies, you fought them out in the open.
“You got a housekeeper?” he asked.
“Housekeeper? What do you need . . . a housekeeper for?”
Preacher knew he wasn’t going to be able to get a straight answer out of her. He pounded on the door instead of trying to ask her anything else. After a few minutes, someone jerked open the door, and a heavy-set black woman carrying a lantern peered out.
“What in heaven’s name—Oh, lawsy mercy, what’s wrong with Miz Hobson?”
“She’s had too much to drink,” Preacher said. “You work for her?”
“Reckon you could say that, since her husband done bought me five years ago afore he died.”
Preacher practically shoved Luella into the slave’s arms. “Well, you know how to look after her, then. Good night.”
“Wait just a minute! Is that Mr. Beaumont’s carriage I see parked there in the road?”
“Yeah.”
“You tell him he ought to leave poor Miz Luella alone. She just a poor, lonely woman since her husband up and died, and he takin’ advantage o’ her.”
