Inez struggled to angle around a mother with a perambulator, only to be grabbed by a familiar hand.

"Whoa, Inez. Didn't you see me?" Sands swung into her line of vision. A string of firecrackers rattled in the street, sounding like rapid rifle fire.

At the sight of his face, she felt something inside her explode with an intensity of gunpowder.

"Oh I saw you. Most definitely. At the picnic." She tried to pull away, but he held tight.

"You came to the picnic?" His eyes searched her face under the street lamps. "I didn't see you."

"I could tell. And neither did Miss Snow."

He frowned.

"I saw you both. Together. Out," she gestured with her free hand, "in the woods."

Understanding dawned. "You think that Birdie and I...." He pulled her closer. "What did you see?"

She pulled back, aware of the whinnying of panicked horses in the street. Aware of the reverend's body close to hers. "Enough. Enough to know that you didn't keep your side of our bargain."

He grabbed her by both shoulders with a sudden violence that stopped her cold. "You're taking this out of context, Inez."

"Tell me about this so-called context."

He paused. "I can't go into that."

"Oh? Afraid of betraying a confidence? A confession?"

"Inez. It wasn't what it appeared to be."

"You're trying to play me for a fool," she shouted. "I won't have it!"

A hole opened in the crowd ahead of her. She ripped away from Sands and darted through.

She'd rounded the corner onto Fourth and was nearly home before he caught up with her.

"I've no time to deal with your foolishness, Inez." He sounded as if he was struggling to contain his anger. "I came tonight to tell you, I'm leaving town-"

She stopped mid-stride.

"-for a couple of weeks," he finished.

"When?"

"Tomorrow."

"Why?"

He sighed and looked up at the cloudless night sky, p.r.i.c.ked with stars, the moon bright enough to cast shadows. His expression was grim. Exasperated. "I can't go into that."

She studied him, his strained posture. "This isn't church business."

"No." Irritation whipped through the word. Then his voice softened, became almost pleading. "Inez, trust me. Don't pursue this."

"Not church." She contemplated other possibilities. Jed's remark, less than an hour before, surfaced. "This has to do with Preston Holt, or General Palmer, the railroad, or...."

Something awful reared inside her. A certainty not of her liking twisted tight as a noose around her neck. "Is Mr. Snow involved in this?"

"Drop it, Inez."

She took a step backward. "Tell me this: Is Miss Snow party to your mysterious excursion?"

"I'll not play Twenty Questions with you." His eyes pinned her, warning. "We don't have much time together. In a few hours, I've got to pack, get ready to leave."

She sneered. "Don't forget the French envelopes. They'll come in handy, I imagine."

The shock on his face was immediately swallowed by anger. "d.a.m.n it, Inez! Birdie isn't that sort of girl."

"And I am?"

She broke away and ran the last few steps to her house. As she struggled to put the key to the lock Sands appeared beside her. "Inez, look at me."

She set the key to the lock and turned it. He stopped her. "Look at me."

She looked straight into his eyes. Everything in that silvered light was either black or white. With the wide brim of his hat casting a dark shadow over most of his face, she couldn't see anything beyond the furious set of his jaw.

Yet his words, when he spoke, were shatteringly gentle. "Who are you so angry at, Inez? Is it just me?"

She pushed the door open. Swung around to block his entrance. "Don't even think about inviting yourself in."

She began to close the door.

He stayed the door with one hand. "Don't shut the door on me, Inez." The words were pleading, but the tone carried a threat.

She contemplated that hand for a moment. Long fingers, square clean nails. Strong, capable. She remembered the first time he'd come to her, searching for information about a murdered man. She'd hesitated, looked first at his hand-the hand of a physical man, unsettling in a supposedly spiritual leader-and then his eyes. She'd let him into her house, and later, into her heart and her bed. She remembered all the slow savoring pleasure his hands, mouth, and body brought to her.

He must have sensed her wavering. He leaned forward, his hold on the door relaxing. "We've got to talk. Let me in. Let me explain."

A wild anger, all out of proportion, erupted within Inez. With a violence that surprised even her, she slammed the door.

Sands s.n.a.t.c.hed his hand away, barely escaping crushed fingers.

Inez locked the door, then, remembering that he had a key, drew the bolt. She leaned her forehead against the wood, willing her blood to slow its ferocious pounding through her temples.

An echo of the reverend's words sprang from her past: "Darlin', darlin', let me in. We've got to talk. Let me explain, Inez." And she'd stand behind the hotel door, shaking with anger and betrayal, as Mark pleaded on the other side. Straight from some woman's bed, her perfume still lingering in his hair.

She pressed the flat of her palms to her eyes. He's not Mark. He's not Mark.

The quiet was overwhelming. She'd expected to hear a key in the lock, a pounding on the door.

She rubbed her eyes hard. Then cautiously opened the door.

The porch was empty.

He was gone.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE.

The fact that the Silver Queen was able to make a hefty deposit in the bank on Monday did nothing to improve Inez's foul mood. Nor did Abe's p.r.o.nouncement that the thespians would perform Friday afternoons at the saloon in addition to Sundays for at least three weeks.

"They're willin' and we're able," said Abe. "That bein' the case, we're gonna ride this train to the end of the track."

The only upside that Inez could see was that the sudden influx of fluid a.s.sets allowed her to strike a deal with Mr. Braun as well as order carpets of Axminster and Moquette velvet, in antic.i.p.ation of good times ahead.

Not that she had time to idle and cogitate over rug patterns and possible new furniture for the upstairs gaming room. Perhaps because of the Silver Queen's heightened visibility, due again, as Abe kept reminding her, to the Fairplays, the saloon was busier throughout the week in general.

Inez and Abe decided to enlist Bridgette's oldest son, Michael, to help with the crowds during the Fairplay events. Bridgette expressed mixed feelings about her eldest spending more time at the saloon. "The extra money will be handy. But that means it'll be more of Mrs. Fairplay this, Mrs. Fairplay that, at the supper table. And after the costume she wore last time. Well."

Inez found herself pouring more than the usual dose of liquor into her coffee. The levels in the bottles she kept aside for her personal consumption dropped at an alarming velocity.

Tuesday afternoon, the city marshal stopped by for his customary drink "on the house," and told Inez that Weston had been released that morning. "That fella-" He tapped the side of his head. "Something's not right. Seemed better once the Fourth of July ruckus subsided. Talked to Doc. There's not much to be done." He shrugged. "It's a free country. Man can do what he wants, long as he doesn't make a public nuisance of himself."

Inez decided to make certain that her pocket pistol was close by at all times after that.

On Wednesday, Jed's newspaper printed another inflammatory article about the Rio Grande, this one on the sabotage allegedly suffered by the railroad. "A 'reliable source' told me that rockslide was no accident. That explosion blew up a couple of cars full of construction supplies," said Jed, sliding the issue toward Inez and Abe. "Spikes, fishplates, bolts and such went flying. Seems like the railroad's having trouble putting the kibosh on things."

"You're lucky McMurtrie and Snow aren't putting the kibosh on you," said Inez, pulling the paper over to read it.

"The real news comes out this weekend," said Jed.

Inez looked up and caught Jed examining himself in the backbar mirror, straightening his tie, which looked brand new.

"And what news would that be?"

Jed glanced around before replying. Even though no one was nearby, he leaned in toward her and whispered, "Grant's arrival date."

"And when's that?"

"July twentieth or thereabouts, according to Doc. But mum's the word until Sat.u.r.day." He straightened up, gave the tie a last tug, then asked, eyes still on his reflection, "Say, where's Reverend Sands these days? Usually I b.u.mp into him sometime during the week. Spreading the word to nonbelievers in the Ten Mile District or Kokomo?"

She pulled back. "I've no idea," she replied tersely.

Jed was now adjusting his hat-a bowler black as ink and apparently new, since it hadn't seen enough Leadville dust to soften it to gray. "When he shows up, tell him I'm looking for him."

Thursday night, after Sol walked her home, she prowled around her small home, feeling hemmed in. The sound of her shoes, striking the floorboards, echoed and rattled in her head. She sat to play the piano, but nothing came. Her timing was off. She hit the wrong keys. There seemed an emptiness to the room, to the house, that music had no magic to fill. Finally, as the clock ticked toward three in the morning, she surrendered, took the brandy from the sideboard with her to bed, and after several gla.s.ses in quick succession, fell into a stupor of a sleep.

Inez awakened a few hours later with the sunrise, feeling not altogether of this world. She dressed and dragged herself into the saloon for breakfast. Bridgette, who was in a flurry of flour, pie crusts, and canned peaches, left off to fuss over Inez and fix her an omelet plain with bread, b.u.t.ter, and fried potatoes. "And black coffee for you, ma'am." Bridgette whisked the eggsh.e.l.ls off the surface of the potent brew and handed her a cup.

Abe arrived just as the wagons from Gaw's Brewery rolled up with the beer delivery. "It's gonna be another bang-up day, Mrs. Stannert," he said, checking off the order as the delivery crew brought the barrels in.

The thunderous sound of hundred-pound kegs on the plank floor proved too much for her aching head. "I'll be upstairs, looking over the books and correspondence. Let me know when the Fairplays arrive."

Inez fled to the comparative quiet of her office, pausing first to look in on the new gaming room. The walls and ceiling were finished, along with the trim. The sanded and waxed floors awaited rugs, the new chandelier was in place. The room smelled of sawdust and wax. Good! We'll have the table and other important furniture in place in time for the railroad and Grant's arrival.

Once in her office, she settled in her chair, pulled out William's photo, set it before her, and opened the ledger. She reached for a quill pen, then hesitated, hand hovering by the pigeonhole holding Eli Carter's letters. Inez pulled them out, closed the ledger and set it aside. Feeling a bit like a spy, she unwrapped and untied the bundled letters. A few old, faded newspaper clippings fell out, which she put aside for later. After ascertaining the oldest letters were on top, she hooked her reading gla.s.ses over her ears and began to read.

An hour and a half later, she stopped, and rubbed her eyes. Only two envelopes, their contents untouched, remained. The letters were all scripted in tiny, neat handwriting that took up every bit of the thin white paper. All of the letters began, "Dearest Husband," making, if anything, the sense of snooping even stronger. The letters were clearly one side of an ongoing conversation between Eli and his wife, Lillian.

Early letters were full of reports on daily life in the small Missouri town. How she really didn't miss the farm now, and how it was nice to have help nearby, what with Eli so far away. Lillian shortened names to mere initials, a shorthand that saved s.p.a.ce and that Eli no doubt interpreted with ease, but which left Inez wandering lost in a forest of symbols. Mr. and Mrs. W had invited her for supper on Tuesday. Mr. D was so helpful with taking her letters to the post office on his way to the schoolhouse. How glad she was that Mr. H lived next door now, he had been such help in fixing the leak in the roof. How Mr. K was selling his land, no choice really, and leaving town for good. Repeated a.s.surances that she was well. How she was anxiously awaiting the time when she could join Eli in Leadville. How she missed him so much and cherished the memory of his last visit home to Missouri, five months previous. That the child within her, their first, was growing, "Praise be to G.o.d."

One letter that caught her attention in particular appeared to be one side of a tense exchange about "that horrible gun." Lillian's words made Inez sit straighter, a p.r.i.c.kle of premonition going up her spine.

"Dearest Husband," that letter began, just as the rest.

Please, no need for your many exclamation points and underlinings of the last letter. I know how you feel about this dreadful weapon and would not sell it without your consent. I've always known, from the time you explained its origin to me, how it is a part of your past, the past that has molded your very soul. I do not want bickering about it to divide us, like the War that divided your family and mine for so long, the War whose memories take you into your black moods and away from me. But I'll tell you true: I can hardly abide it in the house. I wish it were gone, out of my sight. When Mr. D brought your latest letter from the post office, I had him take it down from its place above the mantel and put it away in its case, for I could not bear to touch it, much less look on it. Every time my gaze crossed it, I thought of the young man, whose body was scarce cold when you took it from him. A trophy of the War, a sharpshooter's rifle, you told me, made for the killing of men. If you refuse to let me sell it now, I only hope that, when I arrive in Leadville hence, with our baby, our future, our hope, our joy, that I will be able to convince you to put the past behind and this weapon with it. With my love always, Lillian.

After that, Lillian's letters became briefer, darker. She feared the smallpox sweeping their town would find her. "But I keep myself apart, as much as possible. Our good neighbors have been kind enough to bring me what I need, so that I can avoid the contagion. Mr. D has been a G.o.dsend, helping me and others as well."

Then, the neighbors. "Mrs. H and the boy have been stricken down and are in a bad way. I pray for them both."

Finally, the last two letters. The one on top was addressed in a different hand. Dread and a sense of the inevitable weighted Inez's shoulders. She told herself that it was a story done, that nothing could be done to change its already completed course, for Eli or Lillian.

Inez drained the dregs of her cold coffee, steeled herself, and pulled the letter from the envelope. The pressure of pen on paper was light and the script small and tight, making the words difficult to render. She put her reading gla.s.ses on again and squinted to make them out.

After a brief salutation, it continued, "It's my duty and sorrow to inform you that your wife contracted the pox and pa.s.sed this last week."

Inez pulled off her gla.s.ses and closed her eyes. She could imagine the pit of anguish and despair that must have opened beneath Eli, reading the news in a stranger's hand, far from home, far from all that had transpired. Unable to say a final goodbye, to close her eyes, kiss her cheek, even cold, one last time. And the unborn baby....

She took a deep breath. Opened her eyes, replaced the gla.s.ses, and scanned the rest hurriedly, rushing past the extended condolences. The word "Colorado" flashed past. She returned to the sentence, hunting down its context.

Please advise if I can a.s.sist in the selling of your property, shipping of household goods, etc. I may even act as delivery agent myself as I, having heard much of Colorado and her opportunities, have quit my post as schoolmaster and will be heading that way along with fellow travelers, your neighbors, who also are coming West for her opportunities.

The handwriting, which had become more hurried and tiny as the letter progressed, was nearly unreadable at the signature line. A "B" started the first name and a "D" started the last. But the rest was undecipherable.

The schoolmaster, this Mr. D., he came here? Is here still? She folded the letter and stacked it on top of the others. Perhaps he brought the Sharps to Leadville. And Eli, perhaps as a last gesture of respect to his wife, because he was sick of it all...the War, its lingering effects...sold the gun to Evan. Next time I'm in Evan's store, I'll have a word with him about this.

The last letter rested on the blotter before her. She picked up the envelope and knew immediately that it was different. There was no address. Something thick was enclosed, not paper, but something bulkier. And the envelope was sealed. Inez stared at it, loath to violate its confidentiality, but knowing she'd not put it aside unopened. The letter opener slid through the envelope easily, then snagged partway through on the contents. Inez forced it to the end, tearing a ragged rip in the envelope, reached inside and pulled out a length of loosely woven cloth-red, white, and blue.

I've seen this before.