O’Reilly spoke first, quoting, “‘Oh, wonder! How many goodly creatures are there here. How beauteous womankind is. O brave new world. That has such people in it.’”
Sarah couldn’t help herself. “‘’Tis new to thee.’” She smiled. “But you make a poor Miranda.”
The black-haired man, as if not to be outdone, stated, “‘Is she the goddess that hath served us and brought us together?’”
“The goddess, aye,” O’Reilly agreed, his voice slightly awed. “And tell me, lassie, where has the lovely Miss Aggie been keeping ye that we’ve not the joy of yer previous acquaintance?”
Bret spoke firmly. “In the kitchen, gentlemen. Doing the accounts. May I present my wife, Mrs. Sarah Anderson. And I do stress the missus for a reason. Her employment here is strictly of the nonsporting sort.”
Both O’Reilly and the dark-and-dangerous one immediately stood, O’Reilly beating his fellow to take her hand and bow. “My distinct pleasure, Mrs. Anderson. Patrick O’Reilly at your service, ma’am.”
“The pleasure, I assure you, is mine, Mr. O’Reilly. I’ve heard a great deal about you from Aggie and my husband.”
“Alas, madam, I do hope they didn’t speak the truth about me, or I’m desolate.”
“They speak quite highly, sir.”
“George Nichols, ma’am,” the dark and handsome one said as he took her hand and kissed it. “Also at your service, though at the moment that service seems to be limited to losing hand after hand to your husband.”
“My pleasure to meet you, Mr. Nichols.” She took her hand back, oddly uneasy at his continued predatory inspection. Some primal instinct made her wish for her pistol, so long relegated to a place under the bed.
“Sarah?” Bret asked. “Is there a problem?”
“I’m so sorry to interrupt. Aggie has taken ill.” She clasped her hands before her. “She has asked me to see to your needs. Can I get you anything?”
Nichols reseated himself, glancing at his fellows. “I might find a plate of oysters suddenly to my liking.”
“George, you really are a cadger,” O’Reilly said as he seated himself. Looking up at Sarah, he added, “Indeed, Mrs. Anderson, do bring George a plate of oysters. Low as he is, he no doubt needs all the help he can get.”
“Coffee?” Bret suggested, the quirking of his lips she recognized as embarrassment.
“Yes, gentlemen.”
Retreating to the hallway where the music was louder, she closed the door and frowned, then made her way to the kitchen.
Aggie was back, leaning against the door frame, her bodice unbuttoned, looking hot as she panted, eyes closed. “How are they?”
“Oddly literate. I was greeted with a quote from Shakespeare’s Tempest. O’Reilly—”
“‘O brave new world’?”
“That’s it.”
“He says that any time a new girl comes into the place. I hope Bret didn’t shoot him.”
“Bret was fine. Only asked for a cup of coffee. But after calling me a goddess, Mr. Nichols asked for a plate of oysters. Some interplay I didn’t understand.” She stepped past Aggie and into the pantry to reach down a tin.
“Bret didn’t shoot him?”
“No. Why are you stuck on this?”
“Pat no doubt had a witty comeback?”
“Something about George needing all the help he can get. That’s when Bret seemed embarrassed.”
Aggie took a deep breath, seeming to be on the verge of agony. “You must have made quite the impression. Oysters? One of the reasons we sell them here? Men think that by eating them, they’ll put a little more oak in their peckers.”
“Oh, dear God.”
Aggie smiled, fought her stomach, and added, “Don’t worry, girl. Take George his oysters. If he’s thinking along those lines, my guess is before morning, he’s going to spend some time with Theresa. I’ll have Mick raise her rate another five dollars tonight.”
“Why Theresa?”
“Of the two blondes here, she’s the one who looks the most like you.”
Sarah had a queasy feeling in the pit of her stomach as she cut open the can and spilled the oysters into a china bowl. “How on earth am I going to set these on the table next to Mr. Nichols? I’ll be burning red from embarrassment.”
Aggie gulped air, hand still to her stomach. “Oh, you’ll do fine. Just set them down, and give Bret a big old saucy wink as you do. And if you want to rub it in, tuck your blouse a little tighter into your skirt so that magnificent bust of yours stretches the fabric as you do.”
“Aggie!”
“Think of it as strategy. A way to help Bret and our take. Tall and blond, built the way you are? You are a goddess. That slight sheen of perspiration and smelling the way you do? Neither O’Reilly nor Nichols is going to have his mind on the cards.”
75
December 25, 1866
Billy cried out, sweating, fear running like water in his veins. His body seemed to burn as he backed away, terrified, from the hellish apparition.
“Hey, wake up!”
Billy jerked his eyes open to darkness. Instinctively reached for his pistol. Only to have an ironlike grip fasten on his wrist. Where the hell was he?
He struggled, his assailant pressing down on top of him. He threw himself sideways; they rolled off the bed and slammed to the floor. Panic gave him strength, the banshee presence holding him only adding to his terror.
“Billy! Damn it, it’s Danny! Wake up!”
Danny? He stopped struggling, panting in cold air.
“That’s it,” Danny’s voice soothed. “Now, I’m gonna let loose of you. Don’t you go grabbing for no gun now, you hear?”
“Danny?” He blinked in the darkness, the floor hard and cold beneath him.
“Yes, Danny, you fool.”
Billy felt the grip loosen, the weight lifting. He lay panting as Danny’s dark form stood and backed away.
“Where the hell are we?”
“Planter’s House Hotel. Denver City. You remember?”
Billy felt the fear drain away, sweat cooling in the cold. The terrible images from his nightmare slowly faded, his heart beginning to slow.
“Son of a bitch,” he whispered, and sat up.
Danny walked over to the door. Opened it a crack and looked out. “Well, at least there
