Page 35

Kiss of Death

Monday was the slowest night of the week.

When it rained, it was worse. With the door to her balcony open, Charlotte listened to the steady patter of raindrops.

She loved the rain, but even more so the fresh smelling air that followed, and how, even if for only a while, it washed away the dust kicked up by the incessant horse and wagon traffic on the street.

There was a downside to everything, though. Like the heat and humidity, it caused her hair to double in volume.

While seated at her dressing table, attempting to tame the unruly frizzy mess, the door burst open and Fenton entered without bothering to knock. Unusually rumpled with the dark shadow of a beard on his jaw, he looked exhausted, his one-week trip having stretched into two.

He collapsed into her tufted blue velvet chair with a groan. “Damn, I’m beat. Mosey your fine ass into the other room and fetch me a glass of whiskey and a cigar.”

Although partners, he treated her like the hired help. But she wasn’t in the mood to argue with him and did as he asked, getting a slap on her ass as she passed him for her trouble.

“Wait,” he called, stopping her at the door. “Before I pass out from exhaustion and forget, I brought you something.”

He reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a stack of envelopes tied with twine, and tossed them onto the low table in front of him.

She stared at them, puzzled. “The post? Who would write to me here?”

“Don’t know. Didn’t open them,” he sighed, as he leaned back, stretched out his long legs, and closed his eyes. “All this time, I thought you didn’t have a last name. Now I find out you had two. And how did you get from Rowena to Charlotte?”

“What?” she gasped, rushing to the table and picking up the stack. The letter on top was from Elise, the others addressed to Mrs. Rowena Eldridge Dunn of St. Louis, Missouri.

A wave of dizziness washed over her as the past and present collided. She glanced at Fen, hoping he was out cold, but his gaze, sharp as a hawk’s, was fixed on her.

“What, uh, makes you think I’m this Rowena Dunn?” she stammered, her voice tight with apprehension.

“No sense pretending,” he admonished. “I went through St. Louis on my way back and dropped by Elise’s place. That’s where I got those.” He nodded to the stack of correspondence in her hands. “She said a man inquired about you after we left then those letters started arriving.”

“What man?”

“Barton, Burton, something with a B,” he said, waving his hand dismissively. “She didn’t remember, but he was an investigator working for someone back east. You got trouble you haven’t told me about?”

Frowning, she shook her head. “Not that I know of.” Any trouble she had was in St. Louis. “What did he want?”

Fen wasn’t known for patience, especially when tired. “Damn it, woman!” he snapped. “Enough questions. Open the damn things and see for yourself.”

Afraid of what they contained, she preferred to wait to open them until she was alone. With timely intervention, a loud crash followed by shouts arose from downstairs.

“At the rate they break glasses around here, we’ll be in the poorhouse by Christmas,” Fen grumbled, closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose as if fighting a headache. “When I was coming up, Bert Olsen staggered in full as a tick already. I knew he’d be trouble tonight.”

With trembling fingers, Charlotte tucked the letters in the top drawer of her dresser for later. “I banned Bert from the second floor ages ago. He’s a mean drunk and always spoiling for a fight.”

“Looks like he’s found one,” he said tiredly. “I need to ban him for life.”

“You’ve said that before. What has stopped you?” she replied, relieved he seemed to have forgotten the mystery of Rowena Dunn.

His hand fell away and, when his eyes met hers, he looked done in. “Because he’s one of the few who runs a tab but pays it on time. With the others, it’s like pulling teeth. I’ll go take care of it.”

Except for his hand, which went to the back of his neck and squeezed, Fen didn’t move. He carried his tension in his shoulders. When they got tight and his neck ached, he usually asked her to rub it for him, but he appeared too tired, even for that.

“You’ve had a long trip. I know you’re exhausted,” she said softly. “Stay here and rest while I have a word with him.”

His head came up instantly. “No, you won’t. Any words will come from me, but I appreciate the offer.”

“You think I can’t handle the likes of Bert Olsen?” she asked huffily.

“What are you going to do about it? He’s got a foot on you and weighs double, at least.”

“I’ll bring one of your pistols and let it talk for me.”

Her bravado must have breathed a second wind into him because he doubled over with laughter.

She crossed her arms over her chest and waited for his amusement to pass. “What may I ask is so funny?” she inquired when he showed no sign of stopping.

“You are,” he hooted. “Remember our shooting lessons? You couldn’t hit the fabled broadside of a barn while standing five feet away from it.”

“It was just one lesson, and I wasn’t that bad,” she insisted, fighting the urge to smack him.

“Oh, yes, you were,” he sputtered. “You were aiming at tin cans on a fence, but your first shot hit the side of Jeb Pearcy’s feed wagon twenty yards away.

The men who had gathered to watch scattered like a bunch of squawking chickens as they ran for cover.

After I picked you up from the dirt and dusted you off, your next shot almost hit the mule attached to the wagon.

That ornery old mule didn’t hurry to get out when his stable caught fire, but he actually galloped when you shot at him that night.

” Fenton laughed so hard tears tracked down his face.

“I’ll never forget red-faced Jeb and his jiggling potbelly trying to run it down, gasping every breath as he consigned it, and you, to the devil. ”

This sent him into greater peals of laughter.

“Are you about done?” she inquired in a tight voice, not appreciating his humor at her expense. When he didn’t answer and kept chortling, she stalked toward him and pulled one of his pistols out of its holster.

That sobered him quickly. Before she could storm out, he caught her and plucked the gun from her hand. “What have I said about shooting? You don’t draw unless you intend to shoot, and you don’t shoot unless you intend to kill.”

“Who says I’m not or that I won’t?”

“I do. You’re a lousy shot, Charlotte, which is dangerous in a crowded saloon.”

“Tell that to Prue’s attacker,” she reminded him with a sniff.

“What were you aiming at?” he challenged. “And be truthful.”

“The dirt at his feet,” she admitted.

Fen sighed, running a hand over his face. “You got lucky that night.”

“Maybe we should resume my lessons. Why did we stop?”

“My nerves couldn’t take it,” he replied, as solemn as a priest.

“I would have improved,” she insisted. “As it stands, I’m part owner of a saloon in a rough only half-civilized town and can’t be trusted to handle a drunk.”

“You have me to protect you.”

“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 comes to 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.”