“By God.” Billy chuckled to himself. “That was some doings!”
Hard to admit, but he hadn’t had that much fun for a coon’s age. Reaching down, he felt the thick stash of cash he’d wadded into his shirt for safekeeping. Good enough for a road stake, and Parmelee wouldn’t be asking any stupid damn questions about Billy Hancock’s money.
“All right, Win, you old fog, that ought to just about do us, don’t you think?”
Riding with Win was almost like old times, but different. Billy had always been able to trust Danny. Win was different, unnerving in ways. The man took pains to hide it, but couldn’t quite corral his belief that he was Billy’s better. Behind it all, Parmelee was driven, possessed of a plumb cruel streak. He just plain hated this whore he called the Goddess, and he downright loathed George Nichols.
But most irksome of all, Billy knew he was being played. That behind Win’s smiles and assurances of friendship, the son of a bitch was figuring to set Billy up for George’s murder. That somehow he’d be left holding the bag.
“Yep,” Billy told the night. “But we’ll see who’s playing who, Win.”
117
June 15, 1868
Doc stopped beside one of the freshly planted trees that lined Grant Street. Denver had its own committee dedicated to the planting of trees; they’d popped up along all the major streets. He stared up at the two-story brick behemoth of a house.
The design, with two round towers, one on either side, had reportedly come from New York. The big corner lot on Grant Street and Colfax Avenue originally had been purchased by a young man whose father owned a prosperous foundry in Cleveland. The young man—expecting to open a Denver branch of the family business—had begun construction on the great house, only to relocate to Cheyenne upon notice that the railroad would be routed to the north.
Sarah had been able to pick it up for a song, and even now workmen were still finishing the interior. What Sarah would do with the fifteen-room monstrosity—let alone how she’d maintain it—was anyone’s guess.
Some of the windows were still boarded over, awaiting the arrival of beveled-glass panes that would eventually overlook the street. The yard was dirt, though to Doc’s eye, it had plenty of promise for a fine garden.
Doc shifted his grip on his medical bag and nodded to Pat O’Reilly’s driver where he waited out front on the phaeton’s seat. So, Pat was here. Doc always felt uncomfortable in the man’s presence, knowing that he’d been one of Aggie’s regulars. And how did one act casually with a man known to have paid handsomely to bed one’s sister on multiple occasions?
Ah, the tangled webs we spin!
Skipping up the stairs, Doc knocked at the pine-plank door, having heard that an engraved-oak specimen was somewhere between St. Louis and Cheyenne.
Sarah opened the door, smiling as she ushered him in. In the foyer he divested himself of his hat and coat, glancing around. The stairs in the back still lacked a handrail. Sawdust seemed to be everywhere.
“Philip, welcome. It’s good to see you.” Sarah stepped close and kissed him on the cheek. “Come. Pat’s already here.”
She led Doc through what would be the parlor and to a dining room off the kitchen. A south-facing bay window provided plenty of light. The back wall would be a built-in hutch, to be filled with plates, cups, and porcelain. The drawers were for flatware, napkins, and the like. Everything remained unfinished—including the utilitarian table and mismatched chairs where Pat waited.
The Irishman stood, taking Doc’s hand, and crying, “Ah, Doctor, a good day t’ ye. And I hope yer doing roight foine.”
“Pat, good to see you.”
“Can I get you a drink, Philip?” Sarah asked, offering a bottle. “Sherry. Just the thing for an early afternoon.”
“A small glass,” he told her, setting the bag on the table.
Pat gave it an askance inspection. “Expecting trouble, are ye, Doc?”
“Showing off.” He unbuckled the strap. “I’d forgotten I’d ordered them, it’s taken so long.” He lifted his prize.
“That doesn’t look so frightening,” O’Reilly decided as he took the small glass rod. “What is it?”
“The new Allbut-patent medical thermometer. Just six inches! I’d used thermometers at medical school. Big things, over a foot long. But look how small and compact. Imagine, a thermometer that small!”
Sarah set his glass of sherry before him. “But Philip, whatever is it good for?”
“Accurately diagnosing and measuring a patient’s fever, dear sister. And look at this.” He lifted out his true delight.
“Now, that scares the bejeezus outta me.” Pat made a face.
“It’s called the binaural stethoscope.”
Sarah pulled up a chair, staring at the thing. “What on earth would you ever use it for?”
“Auscultation,” Doc told her. “Isn’t that apparent? It’s such an improvement over the old monaural tubes.” At her blank look he said, “I can listen for irregularities in heartbeat, hear the lungs as they breathe. It will make the detection and treatment of pneumonia so much faster.”
Pat nodded. “Now that, Doc, is worth something. I lost nigh on thirty men to pneumonia last winter alone.”
For long minutes, they listened to each other’s hearts, Sarah and Pat absolutely enchanted. All three of them were within a degree of 98 degrees Fahrenheit.
“And you think it will change medicine?” Pat marveled. “It’s not jist amusement?”
“It will,” Doc promised.
Sarah tossed back her sherry and refilled her glass. “The reason I asked you here, Philip, is to discuss a different kind of payoff. How are we doing, Pat?”
He gave her a saucy wink. “Closing the deal, lassie.”
“What deal is this?” Doc asked.
Sarah’s smile was triumphant. “You remember the company we set up after I sold the Angel’s Lair? I need your signature on some Hancock and Hancock documents. We’re selling our interests in a mining venture. Just speculation.”
“A mine? Sarah, what do you or I know about mining?”
“Aboot as much as I know aboot med’cine,” Pat told him. “But laddie, moines are my particular charm. ’Tis called the Piute Lode, about
