Page 64 of Charlotte's Reckoning
“You’re not always here, Fen. Where does that leave me except vulnerable?”
In Laramie, on Sixth Street, fists flew routinely as did bullets, especially on the first floor of their saloon on a Friday and Saturday night. He knew that as well as she did, but she said no more, staring up at him, waiting for him to see her point.
He stared back at her grimly then nodded. She thought he was giving in, but he re-holstered his gun and headed for the door, ordering, “Wait here.”
When he returned a few minutes later, he carried his side-by-side, double-barrel shotgun and surprised her by holding it out to her. “It’s loaded with buckshot. All you have to do is get close and you’ll hit something. If you’re prepared to send old Bert to his maker, or whoever else is shooting the shit out of our business, have at it.”
She reached out and grabbed the barrel, but he didn’t release it. “Remember what I told you.”
As she stared into his unwavering gray eyes, she realized she couldn’t do it. She didn’t have the nerve to pull the trigger and end a man’s life. And forget about the barn. She couldn’t hit the side of an outhouse from inside.
Another shot and more screaming rang out from downstairs.
She dropped her hand and stepped back. “You better handle it.”
“That’s what I thought.” He kissed her forehead then shouldered past her.
“Be careful,” she called, as the ruckus downstairs grew louder.
Fen stopped at the door and gave her a tired but still-disarming grin. “Although you deny it like a champion, you care about me.”
“Of course, I care about you. We’ve known each other for a long time and have been through a lot together, in bad times, and not-so-bad times.” She stopped short of admitting any of it was good, although there had been a few fleeting moments. “You’re loud, vulgar, and can be as mean as a snake when crossed. On a personal level, you’re a faithless bastard who will screw anything in a skirt—”
“How is being loud and vulgar not personal?” he interjected, clearly offended.
“Despite all of that,” she continued as if he hadn’t interrupted, “you’ve always upheld the deal we made, and you have earned my trust when it comesto the Red Eye. I depend on you to manage this place, and I would miss you if you weren’t here. So, try not to get dead, all right?”
“See. You love me,” he declared. “I’ve known it all along.”
She rolled her eyes. “I love you about as much as a boil on my backside.”
“So, you say. But, Lottie, my love, it’s like that poet Shakespeare you’re always quoting. I think you’re bullshitting me a little too much.”
“That’s not how it goes. And stop calling me Lottie. It makes me sound like a chubby, pimply-faced schoolgirl. And other than just now, I really didn’t lodge any type of protest.”
“Let’s not quibble over the details. You’ve got the book learning, but I’ve got the street smarts, and I know the look of love in a woman’s eyes.”
This was most likely true because he’d been with so many. She didn’t say that, however.
Footsteps pounding up the stairs drew their attention. Lilah, who was serving drinks tonight, appeared in the doorway, flushed and winded. She exclaimed in a frantic cry, “Things are getting out of control, Mr. Sneed. You better get down there.”
“I’m on my way,” he replied, but he didn’t follow her out. “Don’t fret, sweetheart. I plan to be around driving you mad for a long time, same as always. And my first order of business when I return is to coax you back to my bed.”
Before she could lampoon his hopes, again—he’d been threatening that for a decade—he started down the stairs and into the melee below.
Charlotte leaned against the doorjamb and sighed. Fen could pour on the charm when he wanted to. He could make her laugh and was so very handsome, and she’d never had complaints about his stamina. Every few months, his persistent assault on her defenses came close to wearing her down, but she never forgot Elise’s warning to guard her heart.
After checking her hair in the mirror and reapplying a subtle hint of rouge to her cheeks and lips, she was out the door. It was time to make her rounds and pair up her idle ladies with hesitant men. Sometimes all it took to get them to climb the stairs was a little nudge of encouragement from her or a no-pressure introduction. Her girls usually took it from there.
As she descended the steps, she immediately noticed both the nonstop banging of the piano and the usual low drone of conversation were absent. Halfway down, she heard Fen say in an ominous tone, “You don’t want to do that. Drop your gun.”
With a jolt, Charlotte halted and peered over the rail. The tension in the room was oppressive to the point she found it hard to breathe, but it wasn’t because of a standoff between Fenton and Bert Olsen. It was a different mandressed all in black with a battered black bowler hat. His back was to her as he and Fen faced one another in the center of the room with guns drawn.
“I want my money, Sneed, and I’m tired of asking,” the man in black warned before he leaned to the side and spat a stream of tobacco not into a spittoon but directly onto the floor. His actions both disgusting and patently disrespectful.
Fenton didn’t so much as flinch. “Mr. Winslow took issue with your dealing.”
“It was a clean deal, and he lost fair and square. Though you’ll have to accept my word on it, seeing as how he’s dead.”
