Page 8 of The Saloon Girl's Only Shot

“But your father isn’t here.”

“Yes, but he will be,” she insisted. “And I need to pay my rent until he arrives.”

“I see what you’re saying.” He nodded.

“Thank you.” She let out a fresh breath of relief.

“That isn’t the deal Virgil struck, though.” Owen adjusted his hat on his head.

“It is.” She wanted to stomp her foot. “He offered my father a contract.” She strained to speak calmly and firmly, the way she would if one of her younger brothers needed straightening out. “He says here,” she retrieved the letter, “that he will provide accommodation and meals for the duration of his stay, plus suitable compensation for the report.”

“To your father,” he clarified without so much as glancing at the letter. He was giving her the same dispassionate look she gave the grocer when he tried to sell her fish that reeked because it had turned. He was listening politely, but nothing she said would induce him to buy. She could tell.

Panic began seeping into her blood and stalling the air in her lungs.

“I help my father,” she pressed on, hearing the distress thinning her voice. “I ensure we have a comfortable place to stay and compile his notes.”

“I’ll bet you’ll ensure you’re comfortable,” he said with a snort of irony.

“What are you suggesting?” She dropped her arm, so the letter rustled against her skirt. “That this is all a ruse? You’re accusing a complete stranger of being crooked?” She leaned forward and hissed, “Is this because we met in a saloon last night?”

“That does give me cause to wonder.” He scratched the side of his nose. “People do what they have to here. Maybe you came across a misdirected letter and thought, ‘What the heck? I’ll see if I can turn this into something.’”

“I don’t know if I’m insulted or flattered,” she said with undisguised sarcasm, because she was definitely insulted. “Who in their right mind would come all this way on the possibility of a successful flimflam?” She waved the letter.

“Everyone?” He turned to call toward the queue, “Who here has been swindled in some way since they arrived in Denver?”

Every hand went up.

“Claiming there’s gold here is the biggest lie of all,” one man said glumly. Heads nodded, and there was a murmur of agreement.

“For heaven’s sake!” she cried.

“I have errands to finish.” Owen waggled his letters in a salute. “But I will definitely see you tonight.” He winked at her as he sauntered away.

Chapter 3

Owen caught up to the company wagon outside the mercantile where one of his partners, Stoney, was loading a sack of potatoes. Stoney was a man of six feet four with shoulders broad as an ox but was the type to nurse a wounded bird back to health, if he found one.

“I was starting to think I was leaving without you,” Stoney said.

“You are.” Owen tucked the mail under the bench with the sewing machine that Virgil’s wife Marigold had ordered with her wedding money.

“¿Qué? No. Por qué?” Stoney led him inside to the rest of the provisions going back to Quail’s Creek.

“Camp can spare me,” Owen insisted, picking up the stacked cases of tinned peaches to follow him outside again. “The bunkhouse is finished, and the creeks are starting to freeze. I’m going to see about opening a saloon.” And see a saloon girl, but Stoney didn’t need to hear about that.

Stoney released a “pfft” of skepticism.

A prickle of annoyance accosted Owen. No one ever took him seriously when he talked about opening a saloon, which was probably his own fault. He deliberately cultivated an air of irresponsibleness. That way no one relied on him. He liked a simple life.

He had to wonder, however, if his partners questioned whether he could do it. That felt less good. He knew running a business took focus and smarts. He didn’t have much of either. When it came to running the mining company, his role was to keep up morale among the men they hired. He left the bureaucracy to Virgil and the others.

Owen couldn’t expect his friends to manage his share of the profits, though. Invest in the mill with me, Emmett, one of the other partners, had said more than once. Virgil had opinions on what Owen should do with his takings, too, but Owen had to secure his own future. He’d had years to think on what he’d do if he ever had a pot of gold. He had concluded that a saloon was his best option.

“What happens at break up?” Stoney asked as they shouldered another load.

“I don’t know yet.” Owen didn’t have all the answers but understood he would be needed in camp come spring, to help with panning and chipping and digging, “But if I’m going to do this, I need to do it now, before I’m knee-deep in the freshet.”

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