Page 10 of The Saloon Girl's Only Shot

Temperance walked around to the closed-in lean-to attached to the side of the building and knocked on the door.

Mavis, the other girl who worked in the saloon, poked her head out. She was plump with mousy hair, a pale complexion, and a large birthmark on the side of her neck.

“Oh,” she said with disappointment. “I thought you might be someone else. What time is it?”

“Coming up to eleven or so?”

“Mr. Fritz will be looking for his breakfast. I’ll do it.” She said over her shoulder. “Temperance is here.” She nodded at Temperance as she stepped outside. “Go on in.”

“Thanks.” Temperance stepped inside and closed the door to hold in the little heat being thrown off by the very small wood stove that Jane said they had to rise in the night to stoke.

“Have I offended her?” Temperance asked in an undertone. “I brought coffee to replace what you gave me yesterday, but I don’t think she likes me.” She set down the quarter ounce of ground beans in the empty can she’d been given by the mercantile to carry it.

“She likes to keep to herself.” Jane was mending by the little light that penetrated the greased paper that covered their only window. She stood and set her sewing on her chair. “But I could use a cup, thank you.”

Jane had a squarish face, and her eye color was nearly as black as her hair. Her skin was a rich dark brown that set off the golden-grass yellow of her simple gown. Her voice seemed to hold a laugh inside of it, which had endeared her to Temperance from the moment they’d met, brightening the otherwise grim days when they’d briefly traveled together on the trail.

That had been a month ago. Temperance had only caught up to Jane yesterday, quite by chance, in what she had thought was the first sign that her luck was turning, but after what had happened with Owen Stames today, she could only assume it continued to suffer from chronic anemia.

“I’ll just be a moment.” Jane took the coffee and a small pot out the door with her.

Temperance lowered onto the empty chair, tired enough to wonder exactly how rude it would be to climb into one of those beds.

The tiny room held only the pair of bunks, each with a crate nailed to the end of it for the women’s personal things. There was a very small table with two chairs, a washstand, and the stove, which the women couldn’t even use to warm water. Mr. Fritz let them cook in his kitchen provided they took turns cooking for him.

The women had done what they could to make their humble room cozy, though. There was a rag mat on the floor, and they had tacked scraps of newspaper sketches to the walls. A hodge-podge of gray and blue and yellow squares of cotton were sewn together for a curtain.

Defeat struck with a hard pang of homesickness in the middle of Temperance’s chest. She had been so sure she would be making her own home by now, but no.

Marry you? I would never marry a woman who lies with a man outside of marriage.

But it was you. You turned me into a fornicator.

The betrayal, the profound humiliation, of Dewey’s hypocrisy and rejection still made her want to die of ignominy. She had been so stupid. So easily swayed by his fawning and her own curiosity. She had thought marrying a man whom her stepmother admired would finally earn her Adelaide’s respect.

Instead, Temperance had lost her self-respect and was racked with guilt. Guilt over being lured into an affair. Guilt over misjudging Dewey. Guilt over disgracing her family, and guilt over talking her father into making this journey.

Papa had planned to wait until Temperance was safely married. When everything with Dewey had come to light, and Adelaide had insisted Temperance leave their house, Temperance had drawn Papa’s attention to the letters from Mr. Gardner, insisting, he let her accompany him.

It had all been arranged very quickly and on the thinnest of budgets, so the rest of the family would have what they needed during Papa’s absence. Her own privations hadn’t mattered to Temperance. She’d been secure in the knowledge that her and Papa’s needs would be met upon arrival.

Then, in the middle of the trail, Papa had suffered a spell of some sort and fell from his horse.

Thankfully, Jane and the Vetchlers had come upon them within a few hours. They had carried him in their wagon as far as Fort Kearney.

Jane had been born free but had no opportunities in the south. She had heard there were good paying jobs for women out west, so she had traveled with the Vetchlers, who were coming to homestead. Jane was paying her way by helping with the Vetchler’s children and cooking for them. Her mother had been a midwife, so she knew herbs and basic nursing. She’d done what she could to make Papa’s three days in the wagon as comfortable as possible.

Mrs. Vetchler had been put out by all of it. Once in Fort Kearney, she had insisted Temperance pay for Papa’s conveyance, even though Temperance had helped Jane with the cooking and the children, trying to make up for imposing on them. Temperance had already paid Jane what they could afford to spare, for taking such good care of Papa, and had a feeling that was why Mrs. Vetchler was so livid. Feeling pressured, Temperance had handed over a few coins.

Thankfully, Papa had recovered his wits by then, but he’d broken his arm and ankle. The physician at Fort Kearny set his bones and wrapped his injuries for yet another pretty penny.

By the time Papa was able to limp around a little, Jane and the Vetchlers had long moved on. No one else came through with a wagon, but Temperance had been allowed to ride alongside the stage to Denver. Papa had insisted she travel ahead and meet with the mining company to collect a draw on the money they’d been promised, so he could catch the stage and meet her.

That had not gone to plan. At all.

“Here we are.” Jane returned with the steaming pot and poured the coffee into cups. “What brings you out so early?”

“Checking for a letter from Papa. Thank you.” She took the tin cup and wished she’d kept her gloves on.

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