Silver Lies

Copyright © 2003 by Ann Parker

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The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious and are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

Published by Poisoned Pen Press, an imprint of Sourcebooks

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Contents

Front Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Acknowledgments

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

Chapter Forty-Six

Chapter Forty-Seven

Chapter Forty-Eight

Chapter Forty-Nine

Chapter Fifty

Chapter Fifty-One

Chapter Fifty-Two

Chapter Fifty-Three

Chapter Fifty-Four

Chapter Fifty-Five

Chapter Fifty-Six

Chapter Fifty-Seven

Chapter Fifty-Eight

Chapter Fifty-Nine

Chapter Sixty

Chapter Sixty-One

Chapter Sixty-Two

Chapter Sixty-Three

Chapter Sixty-Four

Chapter Sixty-Five

Chapter Sixty-Six

Author’s Note

Back Cover

Acknowledgments

If I were to thank properly all who offered encouragement and shared their expertise, suggestions, and ideas, this acknowledgment would begin to approach the length of the book. Instead, I’ll try to be brief. For any who don’t appear here, please know I’m grateful.

First of all, my family. Bill for his love, support, and critical reader’s eye. Ian and Devyn for understanding (or at least tolerating) my mind-fades into the 19th century at the dinner table. My father, Don, and mother, Corinne, and sibs and their partners for abiding interest. Special thanks to my Colorado relatives including Walt, Bette, Dorothy (bless you for stockpiling the family history!), and Dave for his reference books, network of experts, and great homebrew.

I owe much to those who shared their time and expertise including Roger Neuscheler for historical assaying techniques; Ed Raines for mining history, maps, and assays; Roy Marcot for arming Inez appropriately; and Larry Hamby for information on guns and knife-fighting techniques. Any inaccuracies, slipups, or wild flights of fancy are mine alone.

This book would never have been if not for Leadville and its people, past and present. I’m grateful to Bob Elder for answering my many questions and for sharing his grandfather’s letters, to Hillery McCalister and the Apple Blossom innkeepers for tours of their historical abodes, and to the Honorable Neil Reynolds for sharing his expertise on historic Leadville. Thanks also to the staff at the Lake County Public Library, the National Mining Hall of Fame & Museum, and Leadville’s Historical Society, who keep the spirit of the past alive for those who seek it.

Along the Front Range, the Colorado Historical Society and Denver Public Library deserve special mention. Their historical collections provided invaluable fodder for my fiction, and their staff were always helpful and patient.

On the writerly end of things, I am indebted to Camille Minichino and Penny Warner—friends, authors, teachers—and to the every-other-Thursday-night critique group including Claire Johnson, Kay Barnhart, Carole Price, Janet Finsliver, Mike Cooper, Rena Leith, Gordon Yano, Mignon Richards, and Colleen Casey. Thanks to Jane Staehle for her quick and eagle eye, as well as to the folks down on the cubicle farm for music, musings on Milton, and moral support. Members of the Northern California chapter of Mystery Writers of America and Women Writing the West provided advice and encouragement. I also wish to acknowledge the e-communities of DorothyL, CrimeThruTime, HistRes, and Prock-research (now carmelsloop), where I’ve mostly lurked and learned.

I’m indebted to all the folks at Poisoned Pen Press who have helped bring Silver Lies to light.

And finally, to the original Inez Stannert, thank you for lending me your name.

For Walter Underwood Parker,

who set me on the road to Leadville.

And for Bill, Ian, and Devyn,

who walked every step beside me.

Prologue

If there was an arctic version of hell, Joe Rose was living it in Leadville, Colorado.

Hugging the ten-thousand-foot mark in the Rocky Mountains, Leadville in December 1879 had winter air cold enough to freeze a man’s lungs, if he wasn’t used to it.

A light, white snow, soft as angel wings, descended to the black mud of Tiger Alley in Leadville’s red-light district. The icy paste—mixed with a season’s worth of animal excrement and human garbage—had been churned up by beasts of burden, carts, and lost souls. In some spots, it lay knee deep.

At 2:30 in the morning, Tiger Alley was no place to fall down. Joe knew that as he flailed about, trying to regain his footing and his dignity. Raucous voices and honky-tonk music blasted through the saloon’s half-open back door, the door through which he’d been unceremoniously ejected moments before.

On his feet at last, Joe reached for his pocket handkerchief to wipe the filth from his face. His fingers touched the slime coating his favorite waistcoat. Damn! He tried to scrub the mud off the silver and gold threads. Ruined! The word reverberated in his head, and Joe pictured it all again. The dealer raking in his last gold eagle across the waxed cloth of the faro table, the bouncer closing in on him to haul him away.

I’m ruined, Joe whispered. Money, gone. Reputation gone as well, thanks to Harry. He owes me, Joe thought. We had a deal, we shook on it. I risked my neck meeting my side of the bargain, and he backs out.

As if through a haze, Joe remembered the curses he’d screamed at Harry just hours before, the cold, dismissive look on Harry’s face, and, most frightening of all, Harry’s silence. Panic welled up, bitter and black, in Joe’s throat.

There was no future for him in Leadville. For him, his wife Emma, or their son. Joe closed his eyes in anguish. An image of Emma, her face pale and serious, rose before him. He spoke as if to a ghost: I did it for you. Even as he said the words, he realized they weren’t entirely true. He’d tried to protect her, true, but his troubles had really started when he tried to be someone he wasn’t. Someone who’d gamble a fortune on a hunch at the poker table or a promising claim. Now, with the last of his five thousand dollars gone, any hope of making that elusive fortune in silver had disappeared. Worse, he could see no way of extracting himself from the mess he’d created.

The only money he had left was a fifty-dollar bill he dared not gamble. It all whirled around in his brain: his debts, the fifty, Emma, the deal gone bad between him and Harry, Denver.…The bleakness of his situation penetrated his whiskey-induced fog. How will I ever explain to Emma? he said to the night. His hand automatically strayed to the waistcoat pocket where he kept the pocketwatch she’d given him six years ago on their wedding day.

It was gone.

Heart sinking, he searched his trouser pockets frantically and tried to strike a deal with God: Just let me find the watch. I’ll go straight home, tell Emma everything. I’ll use that damn banknote to buy three stagecoach tickets and we’ll start over with a clean slate. I swear I’ll never touch cards or another glass of whiskey.

The lack of moonlight made it difficult to see in the alley. Crouching, Joe scrabbled through the frigid muck. His fingers felt, then closed on a familiar metallic disk. He clutched the watch to his chest in relief and thought, now I can go home. Everything will work out.

A slight vibration in the ground. A soft whuff, barely heard.

Something was behind him.

Joe sprang to his feet and turned to see a monstrous dark shape. Too tall for a man. Joe heard a jangle of bit and bridle, an equine snort. The shape moved, became a horse and rider. The rider urged the mount forward. Straight toward Joe.

Hey! Joe shouted, trying to get out of the way. The horse jerked its head up with a snort and pranced backward. It unexpectedly lunged forward as the rider applied the whip. Joe stumbled to one side. Mud sucked at his boots, slowing his escape. The horse’s bulk slammed into him, knocking the breath out of his body and nearly toppling him backward. The rider pulled up short with a vicious rein. Breathing hard and cursing, Joe grabbed a stirrup leather, staying well to the side to avoid being stepped on. He peered up, trying to discern the rider.

The voice that floated down to him was filled with menace.

Well, well, if it isn’t Joe Rose.

Fear crawled over Joe, freezing the sweat on his back, choking the curses in his throat. Oh Jesus, he thought. Not here. Not now. He couldn’t force his thoughts any further, couldn’t frame a reply.

Words poured over him with increased fury. Looks like Lady Luck’s deserted you for good this time. Are you short on silver again? Greenbacks? Or are you cheating at cards now?

The rider leaned over, seized the dangling fob, and yanked. The pocketwatch flew from Joe’s grip, a comet streaking beyond his reach.

Joe let go of the stirrup leather and made a futile grab, desperate to recapture the watch. The rider shifted athwart the saddle, away from Joe. The next instant, a booted foot smashed into Joe’s face, sending bright daggers of pain streaking through his vision.

Joe cried out and fell backward, breaking through a thin icy crust into the scum below. Blood, warm and wet, poured from his battered nose and bathed his lips and chin. The pain loosened his tongue at last. He struggled to raise himself, searching purchase in the slime. Wait! I was coming to see you. He tried to sound assured, sincere. But all he heard in his trembling voice was desperation and fear. I…I’ve got what you want. All of it. The shipment arrived today. About the other business, the chemistry was wrong, but it’s straight now.

You liar. You double-crossing son of a bitch. Your next drink is with the Devil! The whip hissed through the air.

Joe flinched, raised a hand, anticipating the cut of the lash across his palm. Instead, he heard—but didn’t feel—the smack of lash on flesh.

The horse brayed and reared. For a moment, Joe saw mount and rider looming over him, an enormous shadow against night-dark clouds. The whip fell again. The horse pawed the air, then leaped forward with a grunt. Joe recoiled in terror. He heard, then felt a bone-crunching snap. And screamed.

His leg.

Intolerable pain engulfed him like a black avalanche. He tried to grab something, roll away. His fingers closed on ooze and shattered ice.

The horse reared again, fighting rein and whip. Hooves plunged down, flashing past Joe’s face, crushing his ribs with a sound like dry wood splintering.

Joe’s last scream was muffled by mud and honky-tonk music.

And the piano played on.

Chapter One

Sweet Jesus, Inez Stannert muttered, surveying the ruins of her drinking establishment. Looks like the North and South settled their differences right here on the floor.

Inez stood at the rear of the Silver Queen Saloon, hands on her hips. She eyed the splintered remains of what had once been a twenty-foot mirror gracing the mahogany backbar. Shards of glass lay about the sawdust like so many stars fallen to earth. She sighed. Her stays pinched beneath her green cashmere dress, a reminder not to inhale too deeply. A new mirror would run a thousand dollars. Freighting fees, another five hundred. At least.

Inez shook her head and turned her attention to the rest of the room. Busted chairs mixed it up with overturned tables. Her husband’s favorite lithograph, a depiction of boxing champions Heenan and Sayers, bare-knuckled fists raised and ready, lay ripped and crumpled in one corner. The gilt frame looked as if it had been used to batter someone’s head. Cold December air swept through the saloon’s wide-open front door, doing little to alleviate the stale smell of tobacco and the heavy scent of whiskey, brandy, and beer leaking from broken bottles. She thought of the imported Scotch whisky, soaking the floorboards, worth its weight in gold. And groaned.

Abe Jackson, dark and silent as a shadow, emerged from the kitchen with two porcelain mugs of steaming coffee and stood beside Inez. They began walking the length of the room, wordlessly examining the damage. When they reached the front door, Abe handed Inez a mug and closed the door on the early morning light, extinguishing the stars on the floor.

Looks worse than five hours ago, he ventured, scratching one end of his coarse black mustache.

Inez twisted the two rings on her finger—one gold, one silver—while she did a quick mental calculation. We’ve lost several hundred in liquor alone, never mind the furniture. As for the mirror, it’ll be spring before we can afford to order another from Chicago. Unless the house gets lucky at the poker table.

Turning away from the door, the two walked toward the staircase, passing a dusty upright piano. Inez lifted her long skirts to climb the steps. Let’s go to the office and you can tell me what happened.

On the second floor, Inez unlocked a door and the two entered a sitting room flooded with light from a large, west-facing window. A fire in the pot-bellied stove battled the cold, while a rag rug captured what warmth the winter sun offered.

Inez waved one hand at a calico cat dozing on a russet-colored horsehair couch. Shoo. Go chase those rats I heard in the storeroom last night. Earn your keep, you lazy thing. The cat scooted under the couch, tail flicking.

Inez sipped her coffee before balancing the steaming mug on a stack of payables. She sat, banged up the rolltop to her desk, and pulled out a ledger. The window beside the desk overlooked the false-fronted saloons, dancing halls, and brothels of State Street to the distant snow-covered peaks of Massive and Elbert.

Abe sank onto the couch, knees cracking as he stretched his long legs. The calico, sensing a friendly and familiar lap, leaped to the sofa. Abe picked her up, his fingers disappearing in the thick winter coat.

Inez hooked half-glasses over her ears and opened the ledger. Let’s hear the story. Was it the liquor? The cards? Or some combination?

Abe scratched the cat between her half-closed eyes while she worked her claws on his pant leg. I think folks were spoilin’ for a fight last night. Take Joe Rose, bustin’ up your Saturday night game and callin’ Harry Gallagher a liar to his face. Seems cussin’ out his best client wouldn’t be in Joe’s best interests. Especially Harry, bein’ that he and the other silver barons run the town. But Joe’d calmed down by the time he set up Harrison.

Inez peered over the top of her glasses. Could he walk?

He made a mighty attempt to stagger in a straight line.

Inez nodded once, a quill pen balanced between her long fingers. Joe knows the house rules. No married men gambling. No drunks served a drink. He failed on both counts. I hope he was sober enough to appreciate the favor you did him, walking him away from Harry.

Abe’s deep brown eyes creased briefly.

The cat wiggled, turning over to present a belly for rubbing. Abe obliged. We probably should’ve closed for the night after you shut down the game. Anyhow, about an hour after you went home, the second fight broke out. I was in the storeroom and didn’t see it. Useless was tendin’ bar. He says Chet Donnelly was arguin’ over a claim with the twins Zed and Zeke. Chet heaved one of them into the mirror and the place exploded. By the time we hauled everyone out into the street, the damage was done. I told Chet he’d be payin’ for a new mirror. Probably won’t remember, though.

Inez slammed down the rolltop. The cat bolted under the couch. Damn Chet Donnelly! There’s too many men like him in this town. Someone looks at them cross-eyed and they start swinging!

Abe coaxed the cat out and settled her on his lap again. Yep. Just like some women I know. Act first, think later.

Inez faced him, opening hands in mock defeat. Point taken. Your game, Abe. You always know when to play the winning card. She glanced at the grandfather clock by the door. I’ll be late for church! Not a good impression to make on the new reverend. She hurried to the door, pulling her winter cloak off a nearby hook.

Well, now, he’s only there ’til June, isn’t that what you told me? What do you care what he thinks?

She adjusted her hat in the mirror by the door. He’s the interim minister, true, but I’d like to start off on the right foot. Who knows? Maybe he plays cards or takes a nip now and again. She winked at Abe’s reflection in the mirror.

If he’s gettin’ paid what most preachers do, he’s not playin’ any high-stakes games. Unless he’s got stock in some high-flyin’ mine like the Denver City or Silver Mountain. He sauntered out after her. Besides, you walk in late, everyone can admire your Sunday-go-to-meetin’ outfit.

Oh, they gawk anyway, Inez grumbled. They believe all the business women on State Street work on their backs.

She stopped and glanced apologetically at Abe. Perhaps the new reverend will say a few words on the virtues of holding one’s temper. See you after supper, Abe. And thank you for handling the trouble last night.

What are partners for? Gotta back each other up, if San Francisco’s ever gonna be more’n a dream.

For a moment, Inez could almost hear her husband, Mark: Inez, meet Abe Jackson. Ablest Negro soldier in the Union Army. I should know, I ended up at the business end of his rifle back in ’65. Only man I ever met who can best me in a straight game of poker. Abe— Mark’s hands had been warm on her shoulders. Meet Mrs. Mark Stannert. Inez and I outran her family and got hitched a week ago while you were lollygagging up north. Pretty sudden, I know, but that’s how love is. Besides, she’ll be an asset to our partnership. Inez plays piano like no one you’ve ever heard. Mozart from the heart. If we can teach her to play poker like she does music, we’ll retire to San Francisco before the decade’s out! Mark’s laugh echoed in her memory.

It’s been nearly ten years since that promise. And nearly eight months since Mark disappeared.

We’re not in California yet, she said. And the decade’s almost gone. As is Mark. Her bitter words hovered in the air.

There are many things that can happen to a man in these mountains. Things that’d keep him from coming back. Abe’s voice was gentle. Mark loved you and the young’un, Inez. It wasn’t his nature to pick up and leave.

Well, he’s long gone in any case. She started down the stairs again.

Inez. Abe held up two wrapped candies. Joey Rose’ll be expecting these. Don’t break the boy’s heart.

The candies sailed through the air, landed in her outstretched hand, and disappeared into her pocket. I won’t disappoint him. And I’ll inquire from Emma about Joe. He most likely won’t be at church, given his inebriated condition last night. I do wonder what’s going on between him and Harry.

Abe turned to lock the office door. Didn’t Harry say anything?

She continued down to the ruined room below. Harry said, ‘He’s drunk.’ Nothing we didn’t already know. But I’ll tell you this. If looks could kill, Joe Rose’d be a dead man.

Chapter Two

Once downstairs, Inez passed by the wrecked card room, its oil lamps silent and dark, and entered the clattering furor of the kitchen. Bending over a cooking stove of enormous proportions, a sturdy figure in a long gray dress busied herself among the sounds and smells of breakfast.

Good morning, Bridgette. Thank you for offering to help out today.

Bridgette stopped stirring a massive iron pot of beans to beam at her employer. No trouble at all, ma’am. Gives me a jump on the week’s cooking, it does.

And how was Mass this morning?

Father Briggs was in rare form, truly.

Hmmm. Inez lifted an eyebrow. Sober, for a change.

Bridgette wiped the sweat from her round face with the hem of her white apron. Now, that sounds like blasphemy, indeed! It’s a miracle that he stays on at all. A wickeder place than Leadville I haven’t seen in my forty years, and I’ve been laundering and cooking since Sutter’s Mill. Now, didn’t I hear that Leadville’s evils were just too much for your minister… Reverend Johnson, wasn’t it?

Johnstone. And it wasn’t the evils of Leadville. It was the winters.

Well. She turned her attention back to the stove. I hear your new reverend cuts a fine figure. The school-ma’ams are all a-twitter over him. He’s unattached, they say.

How do you know all this? He only arrived Tuesday.

Bridgette clunked the cover back on the iron pot and attacked a skillet of sausages. I read the papers. And I hear things, I do.

Inez shook her head. I’m in awe, Bridgette. And not just of your culinary skills. I hope your information travels one way. In, not out.

Oh, ma’am. No need to worry about me blathering about who comes, who goes, and who says what. I couldn’t keep my five boys in shoes and shirts if it weren’t for you. Why, with the prices in this town, I couldn’t take in enough laundry to pay for a tent! Not with the mister gone down the shaft of the New Discovery and on to a better place.

Her eyes misted for a moment, then cleared. She pointed her long-handled fork at Inez. Along with you. And I want a report back as to whether the good Reverend J. B. Sands is as fine a gentleman as all are saying. She smiled, her anticipation not at all marred by a missing left incisor.

After locking the front door behind her, Inez walked to the corner and turned up Harrison Avenue. She pushed against a surging, restless tide of humanity, ninety-nine percent of it men. Even at this early hour, most were turning down State Street, searching for entertainment and liquor to numb the ever-present cold, lingering homesickness, and the pangs of silver fever. Long accustomed to the peculiar glitter of hope mixed with despair that branded nearly every face in the silver boom town, Inez lost herself in private ruminations even as her feet automatically adjusted their pace to the uneven elevations of Harrison’s boardwalks.

Sunday. A day of rest, when the saloon was closed. She and Abe had stood together on that, united against Mark’s initial enthusiasm to keep the establishment open around the clock, seven days a week.

She remembered when Mark had won the saloon from a Denver fellow with piggish eyes. During a break, and before the poker game in which he’d staked all their savings—hers, Mark’s, and Abe’s—against the business, Mark had pulled her aside.

Now darlin’, he’d murmured into her ear. I know when he’s bluffing and when he’s holding a good hand. I’m just waitin’ for the right play. You remember that assayer, Joe Rose? He says this place is the next silver bonanza, the biggest yet. I figure we’ll settle into business with this saloon and mine the miners. We’ll celebrate tonight, sweet lady! He’d kissed her hard, winked, and returned to the table, leaving her mouth tingling.

Mark had parted that fellow from his property, smooth and neat. Later that night, he’d twirled her in a wild polka across the empty saloon floor. Afterward…ah yes. Celebrate they did.

Oh Mark. Why did you leave? Without a word?

The steeple of the small white church beckoned. Shaking off the memories like she shook the mud and ice from the hem of her dress, Inez mounted the church stairs. She slipped into place next to Joey and Emma Rose and smiled at Joey. The five-year-old was already losing the battle against the urge to wiggle and kick at the pew in front of him.

Joey. She opened her hand, revealing the candies. Joey’s twitching stilled. One when the sermon starts. The second when it’s done. Deal?

With his dark blue eyes and slicked-down black hair, Joey looked like a miniature version of his father. Deal, Auntie Inez. He snuggled between the two women, muffled by their wool cloaks.

Inez took advantage of the general buzz to lean over Joey. Emma?

Emma Rose turned to Inez. The freckles across her nose stood out against her pale skin. Her red hair, wound up under a black velvet hat, still managed to wisp about her face, framing eyes close to tears.

Emma? Inez leaned over a fraction further, keeping her voice low. What’s wrong? Are you feeling ill?

Emma turned to gaze straight ahead, her gloved hands clasping the small prayerbook in her lap.

Inez persisted. Is Joe all right?

Emma’s hands twisted around the book, burrowing into the folds of her Sunday dress. He didn’t come home last night. She faltered. He’s never done this before.

Inez frowned.

As Reverend Sands strode to the pulpit amid anticipatory murmurs from the congregation, Inez heard a rustle of petticoats and felt a faint pressure to her right. Susan Carothers sank next to her, panting.

Hello, Inez, she whispered, tucking a strand of shiny black hair behind her ear. Sunday morning sittings are always a mistake. It takes forever to pose the clients and expose the plates.

Susan pulled her prayerbook out of her reticule and straightened her crooked hat, eyes darting around the church before settling on the man at the front. Have you met Reverend Sands yet? He has the nicest smile. I was part of the welcoming committee that took him to tea at the Clairmont on Wednesday. She leaned sideways, gaze still fixed forward, and softened her voice another notch. He’s handsome, don’t you think? I’m glad he doesn’t have one of those ugly soup-strainer mustaches that all the men wear.

Shhh! Susan, later, please. After the service. Inez scrutinized the reverend, standing at ease and waiting for the arpeggio of murmurs to die.

Her first impression was not of a man focused on the ethereal or spiritual side of life. Far from being an attenuated, pale cleric, Reverend Sands appeared physically fit and well acquainted with long days in the sun. He rather reminded her of the circuit riders who would snowshoe in sixty miles to preach to the lost in Leadville.

Other than that, Reverend Sands struck her as fairly ordinary looking: medium height, mid-thirties, light brown hair, clean-shaven face, a faint but pleasant smile. A mien designed to blend into the crowds. Nothing about him would have caused Inez to glance at him twice if he’d strolled through the Silver Queen’s doors. Nothing, that is, until he spoke.

Let’s all stand. Reverend Sands’ voice rolled over her. Warm, almost sensual in its invitation. And turn to hymn sixty-three.

Something about his timbre reminded Inez of butter spread on one of Bridgette’s just-baked biscuits. She stood, shaking off the spell of his voice. I should have had something besides coffee for breakfast.

Emma opened the hymn book but didn’t sing. Joey shuffled, but not too much, obviously mindful of the promised treat. Inez’s attention shifted from the music to the Roses.

Where’s Joe?

…a pleasure to join your community, even if only for six months. The reverend’s intimate tone surrounded her, brought her back to the church. At the earliest opportunity, I hope to become acquainted with each and every one of you.

Ha! Susan nodded toward a woman with hennaed hair coiled beneath an extravagant hat. I bet Catherine DuBois would love to have him drop in for a ‘cup of tea.’ When did she take up religion anyway?

Shhh.

Sure enough, the owner of the Crystal Belle Saloon and Leadville’s leading parlor house sat with two of her soiled doves in the front pew, as bold as you please.

Inez twisted a little to her right. Ah yes. And there was Harry Gallagher with his diamond stick pin and impeccably tailored frock coat, looking rich as a banker and friendly as the Devil himself. His glacial blue eyes froze on Inez, then slid back to the pulpit.

…As our Lord says in chapter eighteen of the book of Matthew, ‘If a man have a hundred sheep, and one of them be gone astray, doth he not leave the ninety and nine, and goeth into the mountains, and seeketh that which is gone astray?’

Joey wiggled a bit. Inez fished out one candy and surreptitiously handed it to him, saving the second for later. A small crinkling sound of paper, and Joey sat still, one cheek bulging like a squirrel with a nut.

The service ended not a moment too soon for Joey. Greet your neighbors! concluded Reverend Sands, gathering his notes. Joey grabbed Inez’s skirts in a hug, then wiggled past her to join a gaggle of children heading outside.

Emma, following Joey with her eyes, frowned. Is that the marshal?

Lounging by the door, Marshal Bart Hollis scanned the crowd, his jaws working rhythmically on a plug of tobacco. A thin man with the look of a hungry rattlesnake, he hunched his shoulders as if expecting a bird of prey to grab him by his collar and haul him away. His gaze snagged on Inez, and he began elbowing his way through the congregation, a tin star winking on his sheepskin vest.

Inez watched his approach with growing unease. What’s he doing here? Hollis probably hasn’t been in a place of worship since he was a babe in arms.

Miz Rose? He looked the three women over, stroking his drooping tobacco-stained mustache.

Emma took a half step forward, dread on her face.

Ma’am, I’ve got bad news.

Emma clutched Inez’s arm. Does this have to do with my husband?

Marshal Hollis sent a stream of tobacco juice angling under the pew, just missing Inez’s skirts.

Well, mebbe. He paused. At least, we’re thinkin’ it’s him.

Inez put a steadying hand over Emma’s. Emma whispered, Something’s happened. Has he been arrested? Is he hurt?

Marshal Hollis cleared his throat. Ma’am. I don’t rightly know how to say this, but, about an hour ago, we got word about this body.

Emma closed her eyes.

Findin’ a deceased fella or two ain’t anything rare after Saturday nights. He floundered. But this one, we think he’s, uh, your husband, ma’am. It’s a little hard to tell.

Joe. Emma’s knees buckled.

Inez helped her sit in the pew.

Marshal Hollis belatedly removed his battered Stetson. Right sorry, Miz Rose. If you’d come along with me, he’s in Tiger Alley. He shifted his narrow eyes, pinning Inez. Mebbe Miz Stannert here can tell us what he’s doin’ propped up behind her saloon, the Silver Queen.

Chapter Three

Disbelief flooded through Inez. That’s impossible! How dare you insinuate—

Deputy. The reverend escaped from a knot of schoolteachers. I’m Reverend Sands, the new minister of this church. Until June, that is. I don’t believe we’ve met. Is something amiss?

Marshal! snapped Hollis. Marshal Bart Hollis. And I got a heap a trouble, but it’s none of your funeral. He stopped, his face squeezing in several degrees further.

Inez turned to Susan. Take Joey. I’ll go with Emma.

Susan swiped at her eyes with her wadded-up gloves. Marshal, I hope you’re wrong. She moved quickly out the door, calling, Joey! Your mother says you can visit my studio. Come, I’ll show you how the camera works.

What’s this about? Reverend Sands’ voice took on an edge.

Reverend. A moment, please. Inez moved to one side, motioning him over. She spoke softly, with emphasis. I’m Mrs. Stannert, a friend of the Roses. This entire business is probably a ghastly misunderstanding and doesn’t bear repeating. Given that you’re new to town, it might be best if I deal with this…problem. If we need your assistance, I will send word to you within the hour. Where are you staying?

Reverend Sands seemed to weigh the question before answering. I’ve a room at the Clairmont.

Harry’s hotel. Inez suppressed an involuntary shudder. Within the hour then, Reverend Sands.

Very well, Mrs. Stannert. His voice was level, the warm quality that had infused the service, gone.

Inez guided Emma outside. The sky, so brilliant blue two hours earlier, now pressed down a soft, doleful gray. The temperature had plummeted, bringing biting cold.

Now, Emma, it’s most likely a mistake. Inez pulled up Emma’s fur-lined hood, as if the red-haired woman were a child. With the marshal so new in town, I doubt he’s ever met Joe.

Hollis bristled as he gingerly stepped up and down Harrison’s multi-level boardwalks. Been here almost three weeks, feels like three years. Your cook, what’s ’er name, says it looks like Joe Rose.

Marshal. Inez’s voice was venomous. Bridgette is a wonderful cook, a dedicated mother, and an honest woman. But I don’t think she could pick out her own parents from ten feet away. Her eyes are worse than a mole’s above ground.

The trio maneuvered down the