Page 12 of The Saloon Girl's Only Shot

Cecil clapped a clean glass in front of Owen and poured from a bottle he kept on a shelf above the rest.

Owen wasn’t wholly convinced that Cecil’s fancy bottle contained anything more than the coffin varnish sitting in the plain bottle at the end of the counter. Whiskey makers shipped their product in casks and gave proprietors labeled bottles for convenient serving, but Owen knew for a fact that not everyone filled their Real Kentucky Bourbon bottles with real Kentucky bourbon.

Cecil kept up appearances, however, by using his other bottle for the rest of the men at the bar, when Owen nodded that he should pour drinks for them.

Generosity was expected from a man in Owen’s position, one who eked pay from his dirt. Treating others was also a good reminder there were guaranteed wages in Quail’s Creek when these men tired of working their own claims.

Whatever the glasses contained, the shots were appreciated. Owen got a string of nods.

He shot his own and hissed out his breath, rolling his wrist for another while the burn was still settling in his gut.

“What keeps you in town?” Cecil asked as he topped him up.

“I want to open a saloon,” he replied.

“That’s a good one, Owen.” Cecil saluted him with the bottle before moving away to fill more glasses.

Irritated at the continued disbelief, Owen turned to view Dudley’s operation.

Every time he entered a saloon, he considered whether he should offer to buy into it. He had figured out back in California that pulling gold out of the ground was only the first step. You needed a place to put it. The forty-niners hadn’t got rich by leaving their nuggets in a bank. They’d used them to open the stores that outfitted the hopeful, and saloons to comfort the discouraged.

Saloons, Owen had observed, mined the dust from men’s pockets without anyone breaking a sweat. The weather didn’t impact business, either. When it was fine, men ambled in to slake a thirst. When it was blustery, they hurried through the door.

Owning a business would give Owen a fallback when the gold played out, which he and his partners were aware could happen anytime. They’d seen it in California more often than they could count.

Buying into an established saloon would be the easiest way, but Owen had yet to find a proprietor he’d want to be in partnership with. Cecil wasn’t blatantly dishonest, not that Owen knew of, but he cut corners by making his own tarantula juice, same as most saloonkeepers did. And even though The Dudley was the best in town, with an upper floor that Cecil planned to turn into rooms he could rent, it was still plain as a mud fence.

Owen wanted something like he’d seen in Sacramento—the kind of saloon he’d only peeked into because he couldn’t afford to drink there. He didn’t want to take money from men who couldn’t afford to give it up. He wanted the rich ones who talked up their business ventures, so he’d know where to gamble his money next.

“Mr. Stames,” Temperance greeted stiffly as she came to stand beside him, probably because it was the only open space at the bar. She set down her tin tray and a handful of coins. “Two beer and a whiskey, please, Mr. Dudley.”

And then there were girls. Owen was of two minds whether to hire any. They certainly brought in business. There were three times as many men in here tonight as last night. Word had got round that a pretty, new, unmarried woman was serving and being sociable.

There was an unsavory side to it, though. While she stood with her back to the room, oblivious, Owen stared down more than one drunk who was leering at her.

“How are you this evening, Rose? Or is it Miss Goodrich?” He was goading her a little, perhaps unwisely, but he wasn’t known for being subtle.

“No need to stand on formality, Mr. Stames.” She turned to face him, and he noticed she had two buttons open at her throat. “Not when you’ve already called me a liar to my face.”

Definitely unwise.

“Perhaps it was a misunderstanding. Is Cecil Dudley your father? Because you appear to work for him.” He was fighting the temptation to ogle her chest, but her lips were equally nice to look at.

“And who is responsible for that?” she asked sweetly.

“I don’t know.” He had completely forgotten what they were talking about. “Why don’t I buy you a drink and you can tell me?”

“I’m entertaining the gentlemen at the card table. Perhaps another time.” She picked up her tray and sashayed away.

Cecil sent her a disapproving look, but Owen caught his eye and shook his head to indicate he wasn’t offended. On the contrary, he was more beguiled than he’d ever been by a woman.

Why? Much as sex could be a delicious pastime, he didn’t cat around nearly as much as people imagined he did. He knew where babies came from, and he didn’t want any. He’d also seen enough disease in the army to know he didn’t want any of that, either.

No, he knew all too well the dangerous side of dalliance and the profound consequences that came of them, so he was damned cautious when it came to sex.

Flirting never caused any harm, though. He didn’t understand—sometimes literally—the fascination some had with heavy topics of conversation. He much preferred banter and small talk. The world overflowed with injustice and heartbreak. Trying to fix any of it was like trying to keep the moon from rising. He would take a tall story or a teacup drama any day. Hell, he would stir them up if he couldn’t find one, not that anyone appreciated him for it.

Temperance hadn’t. She was punishing him by sitting over there acting as though ol’ Beckett, who Owen knew from experience had breath like a dragon, was the most eligible bachelor she’d ever met.

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