Page 17 of The Saloon Girl's Only Shot

“Don’t follow me. Go home.” She bent to give his flank a tap.

He only looked hopefully at her purse as it swung off her arm, as if it held a treat for him.

“For heaven’s sake. I’m not walking you back there.” Not for another lambasting by Mrs. Pincher.

As she glanced back to gauge the distance, however, her gaze was caught by the handful of men lingering outside the Express office. They were obviously hoping to send something on the next stagecoach.

She still had the original letter from Mr. Gardner! It could withstand another trip in a mail bag. She would scrawl a note on it and forward it to her father, telling him she needed him to come here by any means possible, so they could collect the money that had been promised. All she needed was a pencil.

With fresh purpose in her step, she walked into the first business she came across, a butcher. It was not the best option since the counter was covered in blood stains, but they hadn’t done much business yet today so the stains were dry.

Clarence tried to follow her in. She shut the door against him.

“Would you be so kind as to allow me the use of a pencil?” she asked as a bearded, heavyset man left the deer carcass he was skinning.

He picked up the pencil near his scale and sharpened it with the knife he still held. Then he took a few scraps of offal out to Clarence and gave him some pats while Temperance scrawled her note.

Papa,

The mining company insists you be the one to collect any draws on account. If you are able to talk your way onto any conveyance at all, I’m told the mining company will honor the agreement once you are here.

Was that an exaggeration? Perhaps, but she desperately wanted him to be here.

Had she just tapped this filthy pencil against her lips? Yech!

If you have funds to send me, that would help enormously as I’m in arrears at the boarding house.

With all my love, your daughter,

Temperance

“Thank you.” She made a point of handing the pencil directly to the proprietor when he came back in. The last thing she needed was to be labeled a thief.

Despite the buzzing flies and the mingled scent of copper and carrion and fresh sawdust to soak up the blood, she was tempted to spend her postage coins on a stick of dried venison.

She made herself turn away and trek across to the stage office where she took her place in the queue. Clarence brightened spirits as he moved up and down the line for pats and scrubs of his ears.

When she arrived at the window, she started to hand over her letter to Papa only for the post master to say, “Goodrich? You have something.”

“I do?”

She looked to the one she had planned to send. Suddenly, she was King Solomon, faced with an impossible choice.

“Who is it from?” she asked as he came back from his sorting slots.

He consulted the back. “Mr. Reginald Goodrich in Fort Kearney.”

Her blood zinged into her fingers and toes.

“I’ll pay for that one and send this one later.” She handed over her quarter and tucked both letters into her purse.

She hurried around the block where she knew there to be a bench out of the wind.

She passed a pair of boots along the way that poked out from between a pair of buildings. Clarence went to investigate whether they belonged to a man who was alive and sleeping off heavy drink or dead to the world in a more literal sense. One boot twitched, so that was a good sign.

As she sat, Temperance took a moment to bask in the relief of being off her feet. Every muscle in her body ached and her stomach growled a reminder that it was empty. She could have fallen asleep right there, but she mustered her courage and unfolded her father’s letter.

His messy scrawl was worse than it had ever been, but she was well practiced in deciphering his handwriting and abbreviations.

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