“You just make it worse for me, don’t you?”
“How’s that?”
“Because I want you in a way I’ve never wanted a man.” She laughed at herself. “So, who’s the bigger fool? You, or me?”
Doc took her hand, coming to a decision. “If you’re willing, come. We’re locking the surgery and going home. We’re going to lock the door and draw the blinds. You and I are going to spend the day together, in bed, and out of it. And some way we’re going to figure a way through this.”
Her smile displaced the scars as she pulled his head down. “I’m going to do something I’ve never done with any man.”
“What’s that?”
“This.” She placed her lips on his, kissing him with depth and feeling.
86
June 20, 1867
Sarah stared up at the tall, two-story red-brick building. Unlike its fellows, which were cramped wall to wall, the house stood on two lots, leaving it freestanding. Some of the window frames needed paint. From what she could see, the roof looked good. Bay windows stuck out on either side of the porch-covered entry. The door had a glass window and a big brass knocker.
Behind her, traffic passed to and fro on the street.
“One hell of a house,” O’Reilly said beside her. “’Twas a bit of a mess inside, but I’ve had word from Heatley that he had it cleaned. Still, there’s no tellin’ what we’ll find when we go in.”
Sarah glanced sidelong at him. “Well, Pat. Let’s see.”
He handed her a key, doffing his homburg and bowing. “Yer pleasure, Mrs. Anderson.”
Sarah glanced back at the brougham that had brought them; her trunks were strapped on the back. To the driver, she said, “If you would place the luggage inside the door, I would appreciate it.”
“Ma’am,” the driver replied, touching his hat brim.
Sarah climbed the dressed-stone steps, O’Reilly a half step behind. She inserted the key and opened the door. To her surprise the air smelled of soap and wax. The foyer sported hangers and benches. Doors opened on either side into two spacious parlors, each lit by the bay windows.
“Spruce floors,” O’Reilly called positively as he stepped into the eastern parlor.
Sarah followed, her heart lifting at the engraved and fitted woodwork, the marble fireplace. “Not the sort of construction I’d have anticipated in a mining camp.”
“’Tis said Phillipa hired wagon wrights for the trim work.”
She fingered a couple of scars in the wood. “Parmelee didn’t care for it well, did he?”
“He’s not a mon to take care of things, lassie. Apparently he caught word that George and I were after ’im. There’s not been hide nor hair of him seen.” O’Reilly glanced around. “We’ll have men to stand guard for the toime being in case he comes back.”
She laid her fingers on the shoulder bag she carried, feeling the Colt’s hard outline. “It is inevitable, you know.”
“Eventually”—O’Reilly turned serious eyes on hers—“ye’ll have to broker yer own arrangements with Heatley, Ed Chase, and the rest. A word of advice. I’d not mention George t’ Big Ed. There’s bad blood there. Smart as ye are, ’twon’t be a challenge.”
She passed the stairway in the rear and walked into the bar, finding four tables and—a rarity—matching chairs. A large mirror hung behind the bar. Some stock had been left, but she supposed that Heatley would have taken most of the quality drink.
The kitchen was in the rear, the stove satisfactory to begin with, but when the trails opened, she would have to order a larger one. Looking out back, she found a trash-filled small yard open to the alley and a four-hole privy. Room to expand the kitchen?
Opposite the bar was a paneled room with lamp sconces. Dining room? It sat right off the kitchen with a door leading to the other parlor.
Walking into the west parlor, she found it covered with velveteen wallpaper. Scars on the floor showed where a piano had been moved out.
“It’s better than I imagined, Sarah,” O’Reilly said, turning as he took in the room.
“Let’s see what’s upstairs.” She led the way, hiking up her dress as she climbed the steps. The two front bedrooms with bay windows were slightly larger. She immediately chose the one on the east. No doubt it had been that bastard Parmelee’s, but the wallpaper was a brighter light blue. Aggie could have the one across the hall.
The girls’ rooms lined the hall, six of them, perhaps eight by ten, with small windows. In the rear was a washroom with a pitcher stand, sink, and drain. The hall was carpeted; dark pine wainscoting rose halfway to the ceiling.
“What do you think?” O’Reilly stuck his thumbs into his waistband.
“I think once it’s furnished, I can make it pay. Come on. I’ll buy you a drink in the bar.”
She led the way, almost enjoying the sound of O’Reilly’s heavy boots clumping on the stairs behind her.
He pulled up a chair as she slipped behind the bar, found two glasses without spots, and studied the selection. Overlooked in the back was a bottle with a real label. She pulled the cork, sniffed, and decided it might actually be Kentucky whiskey.
Pouring, she set the bottle on the table, and seated herself opposite Pat. “Well, here it is.” She waved around. “My life’s dream come true. As a girl I prayed I’d be in charge of a beautiful two-story brick house with expensive furnishings in the city. That I would orchestrate fine parties and gala events. I would be in charge of servants, dress in splendid clothes.” She paused, smiled. “And then I damned myself: I promised God I’d do anything to get it.”
She shook her head, lifting the whiskey and sipping. It was real Kentucky whiskey.
O’Reilly took a hesitant drink, ran it over his tongue, and took a bigger one. “Why’d ye do it, Sarah?”
“Do it? Dream of a big fancy house and—”
“George Nichols. Four days ye spent up t’ yer cabin
