Chapter Seven
What a difference a day made, JD Dunn thought as he drained his mug. Thirty-six hours later the noisy, crowded, smoke-filled tap room was as silent as a grave yard. The town was quiet and the army gone. Save for the seven weary men sprawled in the chairs scattered at the edge of the bar, the saloon was devoid of customers.
The young Sheriff let his gaze fall upon the grim figure that sat opposite him. The gambler was staring, disconsolate, at the large stack of bills on the table between them. He'd watched Standish count it at least three times, and each tally seemed only to depress the Southerner more. Pushing aside one of the bundles of military script, JD made room for his empty beer mug.
"Cheer up, Ez," he said, "They only lost the one wagon, and the Major says there's sure to be another payroll shipment through next month."
"I sincerely hope it is better guarded than this one was," Ezra said glumly, "or else it will be New Year's before I realize my investment."
"Longer than that," Vin said, favoring his sore leg, as he eased himself from his chair. "Army only sends a payroll shipment every three months. –Leastwise, that was the way it worked when I was scouting for them."
The groan which this reminder elicited from the Southerner was followed by Nathan's grim satisfaction that more than bordered on gloating.
"Just goes to show you, Ezra, there ain't nothin' to be gained by cheatin' honest men out of their wages."
Ezra was still in the process of forming a suitably glib response to the healer's jibe when the deep, resonant chime of the Regulator clock sounded the closing hour. "Saved by the proverbial bell," he murmured as his colleagues reluctantly rose from their chairs, bid Inez goodnight and filed out into the darkness.
Vin, the gambler noted absently, was moving more slowly than usual. Likely, Nathan's dose of laudanum had finally worn off and he was starting to feel the full effects of his skirmish with the drunken Corporal who'd been wielding a bowie knife just a bit too enthusiastically over at Digger Dave's establishment. Larabee, however, appeared to have suffered no visible ill effects from the chair broken across his back in the same encounter. Ezra felt a small twinge of envy as the older man rose easily from his chair, donned his hat and shuffled off into the night. Likely the half bottle of whiskey Chris had consumed had helped his cause somewhat. He only wished he were that well lubricated. As it was, the dull throb of his own bruised ribs was intruding upon his consciousness. It had been careless of him, really. He doubted that trooper would ever have landed the blow if he hadn't been distracted enough to drop his right and provide the man an opening. Lord, but he hurt, and this time he had nothing to show for it. --Less than nothing, actually. Perhaps he should follow Larabee's example.
Reaching into his pocket he extracted his silver flask and uncapped it. He was preparing to pour a liberal amount into the empty glass before him when his eye fell once again upon the large stacks of military script. He hesitated, thinking better of the action. The flask itself was almost empty and the fine bottle stowed in the back of his wardrobe was rapidly draining of its contents. He was going to have to ration himself. Maude would not send him another such bottle until Christmas –if she remembered to send one at all—and his financial situation was such that he could no longer afford to drink from the bar.
He was surprised, therefore, when a bottle was suddenly placed before him with a solid, business-like thump. He looked up into the grim features and serious eyes of Buck Wilmington. There was a scrape of wood as Buck pushed back a chair and took a seat opposite him. After a moment's deliberation, Buck picked up the bottle, filled Ezra's glass and then his own.
The gambler's jade-green gaze flicked to the drink before him, and then to the man who had poured it. Picking up the glass, he held it to the lamplight and considered the amber contents. "Forbidden nectar to the parched soul," he drawled, letting his eyes wander over Wilmington's implacable features. "I am indebted."
Buck shook his head. "That ain't nothing new," he growled, picking up his glass and tossing down the drink. Ezra followed suit.
After a momen picked up the bottle and refilled both glasses. "I get the feeling, Buck, that there is something particular you wish to ask me."
Buck nodded grimly. "There is."
Ezra leaned back in his chair. "I am all ears," he said fixing Buck with his full attention.
Buck cast a wary glance about the empty taproom, ensuring that they were alone. Then he turned his gaze back to Ezra, his brown eyes dark and intent.
"What's goin' on with you and Inez?"
Ezra stared at him blankly. "I beg your pardon?"
Buck scowled irritably. "Ever since that run-in the two of you had with those soldiers Inez has been as nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rockin' chairs."
"Quite understandable, given the recent turn of events," Ezra said.
"Oh, it ain't Inez I'm havin' a problem understandin'" Buck said.
Ezra was tempted to point this out as a milestone event, but saw the dark tension in Buck's face and thought better of it.
"It's you," Buck said firmly.
"Excuse me?" Ezra said, his brows climbing towards his hairline.
"You ain't let her out of your sight all day," Buck said grimly. "Mind you, you're right careful about it, dartin' little glances at her when you don't think anyone's looking, but you ain't left this room, let alone this table since you got up this morning. If I didn't know better, I'd think you were keeping an eye on her."
Ezra cast Buck an irritated glance. "I do believe Mr. Wilmington, that you are the only man I know capable of letting your libido lead you to such ridiculous reasoning. Inez is perfectly capable of taking care of herself. She hardly needs looking after."
"She needed it the other night," Buck reminded him.
The gambler shrugged. "An exceptional incident," he allowed. "Anyone can occasionally find themselves embroiled in circumstances beyond their own capabilities –including you or me. Vin and I simply lent a hand."
"Funny," Buck said. "It ain't Vin's name bein' bandied about. It's you an Inez." The big man shifted slightly in his chair. "That ain't what Ike Deavers said today." His dark brown eyes drilled into Ezra. "Some fool kid came in earlier today, talkin' big about Inez. You know what Ike said?"
Ezra shook his head.
"He called her Standish's woman," Buck growled, "an' told him what you did to the last feller that messed with her. It shut the kid down quick enough," Buck paused, "but it makes me wonder. If that's what's flappin' out of Ike's jaws then God only knows what the rest of the town is sayin'."
Ezra snorted. "Idle gossip," he said dismissively. "Leave it alone and it will pass soon enough."
"Will it?" Buck challenged. "Folks didn't say much when McAllister's boys half skinned you with that horsewhip and Inez took you in here to look after you. After all, this was your ma's saloon and Inez works for Maude. It made sense in a way. But then you got better, and you didn't bother goin' back to your rooms at the boarding house, and folks have started to wonder."
"They shouldn't," Ezra said shortly. "That old crone Rafferty rented out my usual room during my infirmity. I still say Travis should have taken more of an issue with her, seeing as how she violated the terms of our civic peacekeeping contract."
Buck was not so easily deflected from his topic of conversation. "Yeah, well you ain't been lookin' for new lodgings, either."
Ezra scowled and prepared to rise from the table. "Really, Buck, it's been a long day and I am afraid I see little point in wasting my time on the ridiculous musings of fallow minds."
Buck's hand shot out and gripped his arm, forcing him back into his chair. "Is it?" he demanded.
Ezra sighed and removed Buck's hand from his sleeve. "It is," he assured him tiredly, "though by now I hardly expect you to take my word for it. Unfortunately, since most idle gossip is unsubstantiated, I fear there is little I can offer you in the way of proof except my word."
Buck looked at him for a long moment. "I gotta admit," he said at last. "Inez ain't exactly your type."
Ezra stared at him blankly. "My type?" he said, not entirely certain what Buck was referring to.
Buck nodded. "You don't generally go for strong women, like as not they remind you too much of Maude, and we all know it don't take much for you to git a belly full of her." Buck said dryly.
He gave the Southerner a long, considering stare. "You ain't all that fond of proper ladies, either. Oh, you can put up a good act for a while, but in the end, they make you uncomfortable. --Come to that, you like the working girls well enough, but you generally consider them beneath you." Buck shook his head. "Naw, you generally tend to go for the innocents, like that poor little Chinese gal you won in that tile game a few months back. You like the lost ones, the poor and the helpless. They're like the kids, they get around that phony shell of yours and wrap you around their finger."
Ezra felt the slow flush of anger beginning to creep up the back of his neck, but restrained it with effort as he pushed back his chair. "Since you appear to have satisfied yourself with this rather convoluted and juvenile logic," he said stiffly, "I do believe I shall take my leave and bid you a good night, Mr. Wilmington."
Buck watched him as he collected the neat stacks of army script and began shoving them into his frock coat until the pockets bulged. No doubt about it, Buck thought. Ezra was riled. He only got all stiff and formal like that when he was feelin' prickly. The question was, which part had riled him? --The observations about Inez, or about his relations with women in general? Likely it was the latter, Buck decided. Ez could put on a mighty good poker face when it came to womenfolk, but it only lasted about so long.
It had occurred to Buck on more than one occasion that if a gal ever close enough to the gambler to scrape away that thin veneer of polished manners and Southern gentility, she'd find old Ez' shaking in his boots. He suspected that deep down, Standish was really quite bashful about women. No big surprise, really. Most men were –especially out here in the west, where womenfolk could be scarce and encounters with them few and far between. Still, he wondered if Ezra had ever really been close with a woman. Somehow, he doubted it. From what he could see, Ezra wasn't much of one for lettin' anybody get too close and frankly from what Buck could tell, Ezra wasn't as much of a hand with the fairer sex as he made himself out to be. Mary Travis had his number from the day he hit town, and it had only taken that widow woman on the wagon train about a day and a half to read him like a cheap dime novel. –And if that was the case, Buck thought, then what the hell was he worrying about? Inez had been here almost a year, and she was as sharp woman as he'd ever seen. By now she'd seen Ez in all of his colors. She wouldn't be fooled by his shenanigans.
He scraped back his own chair and rose from the table. Ezra was collecting the last of the army bills and stuffing them into his upturned hat. Buck sighed and hooked his fingers into his belt loops.
"Look, Ez, I didn't mean to put a burr under your blanket," he began, "but Inez is a good woman."
"I am aware of that," Ezra said brusquely.
Buck swore softly. "Aw, hell, I'm just sayin' what with all that happened, the way the two of you were actin' and Ike flappin' his jaws…" the big man shrugged. "I just didn't want folks getting' the wrong idea is all."
Ezra shot him a piercing look. "And you assume I do?"
Buck threw up his hands. "Now I ain't sayin' that!"
The gambler expelled an irritated and slightly dangerous breath. "Then pray tell, Mr. Wilmington, just what are you saying?"
Buck raked a hand through his hair, then reached for his own hat and jammed it on his head. He drew in a sharp breath and exhaled it slowly as he struggled to collect both wits and temper. "What I'm sayin, is be careful. Inez is a strong woman, but she ain't tough like your ma. She had enough grief out of life before she came here, an' she don't need any more."
Reaching down, Buck picked up the glass on the table before him and tossed down the last of the whiskey. He swallowed and made a small noise in the back of his throat, shaking off the burn like a dog shedding water, then set the glass down hard on the green baize surface of the table.
"What I'm tellin' ya," Buck said hoarsely. "—Is to be mighty careful with that woman, 'cause if I find out you've caused her grief? --I'll snap your scrawny neck like a Lucifer stick." Without another word, the big man wheeled and strode out of the saloon, disappearing into the night.
"Oh Good Lord," Ezra sighed, watching him go. If there had been a worse conclusion to a more miserable day of what had to be a most miserable week, he was hard pressed to recall it. It only served to prove the fickle whims of Lady Luck. Not two nights past he had sat at this very table gathering together his winnings from what had been a most profitable evening. Now he was once again on the verge of indigence.
And where in Lucifer's parched damnation had Buck gotten such a ridiculous notion into his head? –From Ike Deavers, obviously. But still, had he really paid Inez that much undue attention?
Well…yes, he supposed that he had. What was it Buck had said? You like the innocents, the lost ones, the poor and the vulnerable. There was a fragment of truth in that. There was something in those waif-like souls that called to him. The raging cynic within him concluded that it was likely because they were too naïve to recognize him for what he really was. But there was another part –a part of him that had once been that innocent, that vulnerable—that whispered it was something more. It was the desire to protect those sweet and fragile souls from those men who would take advantage of them. –Men like himself.
Inez, however, was far from an innocent, and though she was of humble origins, 'vulnerable' was not a word that immediately leapt to mind when contemplating the spirited Mexican woman. Except that she had been vulnerable, he thought uneasily, remembering that night and the way she had clung to him, trembling in his arms. Then there was yesterday, when that table full of soldiers had challenged her. He'd seen that she'd been ready to bolt. It was that, more than anything that had prompted him to intervene.
Some silent bit of intuition had told him that if she'd backed down then and fled, she'd never again have the fortitude to return. He hadn't wanted that. Inez had become a fixture of this haven in which he had ensconced himself. She was a more than competent bar maid and an excellent cook. She knew his tastes and his habits, as she did all of her regular customers. Furthermore, she had become a flash of bright color and amusement in this frequently drab little world. He enjoyed watching her dance among the customers, alternating her brilliant smiles with a slicing, deadly wit and an occasionally flashing hand that had put more men than Ike Deavers on the floor. No, he did not care to see her retreat from this place. He had become… accustomed to her presence.
The irony of this struck him hard when her soft voice drifted across room, causing him a rather undignified start.
"I suppose he means well."
He schooled his features into a rather bland expression as he turned to face her, his mind racing with possibilities, desperately wondering just how much of Buck's veiled warning she had heard. Something in her remote gaze told him it had been more than enough and certainly more than he was comfortable with.
"Does it bother you?" he asked, taking care to keep his tone casual.
She tilted her head, considering him for a long moment. "Does what bother me?"
He repressed a small scowl. "I fear that Buck may not be alone in the ridiculous conclusion he has arrived upon. No doubt Ike has done more than his share to fan the flames. Will it bother you what people say?"
She shook her head. "It cannot be worse than what they must already think," she said, and offered him a weary smile. "You and I know the truth," she said practically, and flicked a brief glance heavenward. "And Dios," she added. "His is the only opinion that matters, I think."
It was not the most comforting thought, Ezra reflected. The Almighty's opinion of him could hardly be better than that of his fellow citizens.
Wiping her hands on the soft length of linen draped over her shoulder, she moved slowly across the room towards him, stopping beside Buck's cooling chair. She indicated the bottle Buck had left. "Are you finished with that?"
He nodded. "Unless you have changed your position on paper currency, I fear that I am."
Inez quirked one ebony brow. "Que?"
He gestured to the piles of army bills stacked upon the table. "This is all I have, Inez. I cannot pay."
She considered the bills for a long moment. "It is true what Señor Vin said? That the Army will not send another pay wagon for so long?"
"I wouldn't doubt it," Ezra said morosely.
"But some day you will get your money back," she said.
"Eventually," he agreed, though he suspected that it was going to be a rather long 'eventually.' The government was infamous for its lack of ready cash and coin. During the war, both the Union and the Confederacy had been hard pressed to feed, clothe and supply their men, let alone pay them. In the years since, a great deal of the Western expansion had been fostered by veteran soldiers laying claim to the military land warrants the United States Government had paid them with in lieu of year's back wages owed. No, Vin was right. Between the Apaches and the faithful inefficiencies of the military bureaucracy, he might have a very long wait indeed.
"You will still have your pay from the Judge," Inez said.
"Deposited in the bank at the end of the month," Ezra sighed. "Alas, we are at the beginning of the month, not the end of it. I fear it is going to be a long, dry August."
The complexities of the lifestyle he had chosen required him to be a keen observer of both situations and people, and so he did not miss the fleeting expression that chased across her features. What was it exactly? Concern? Worry? It belatedly occurred to him that had he spent just a little less time observing his cards and his marks and a little more observing this woman who regularly poured his drinks and brought his meals, he might have had some idea of how to interpret it. Instead, he found himself in the rather unnerving position of uncertainty as her dark gaze traveled over his face, rendering some silent, unknown judgment. After a moment, her eyes dropped to the table, her fingers released their grip on the bottle and stretched out to fan the bills.
"You did this because of me, because I was afraid of them." It was not a question, but rather a flat statement of certainty, and it had the unnerving effect of stopping the protest half formed upon his tongue.
Her dark eyes flashed to his, steady and knowing and he felt the small trickle of sweat beading at the back of his neck. He drew in a small breath, ran the tip of his tongue along his lower lip and carefully delivered the lie.
"I did it for the money, Inez."
She smiled faintly, acknowledging the pale truth in his words with a small nod. "Of course," she agreed mildly. "You do nothing without profit, and there was a chance to make money here, but that was all it was – a chance." She tilted her head, considering him carefully. "And for a gambler, Señor, you leave as little to chance as any man I have ever known."
She picked up the bottle of whiskey and poured a small measure into Buck's empty glass and then his own. He eyed the glass with the same chagrin he had felt when Buck had been pouring.
"Inez—"
She brushed off his protest with a small wave of her fingers. "Buck paid for the whole bottle," she said. "You might as well finish it."
She pushed the glass towards him, her movements slow and deliberate. "And no matter what you say, I owe you a debt –for last night and today. Gracias, Señor."
He returned the expression with a gentle twitch of his lips. "De nada, Señorita."
Ezra glanced around the room taking in the dirty glasses, the pushed back chairs and the general disarray of the barroom. For the second time in as many nights the wispy fingers of guilt plucked at him. There was at least another hour's worth of work her for her he knew. The chairs must be put up, the floor swept and glasses washed. He could see the weariness that radiated from her body and understood her fatigue. The last few days had been hard ones, not just for them, but the entire town. He supposed that he could retire to his chamber at the top of the stairs and sink his aching body into the blissful down of his feather mattress, but he would gain an easy sleep, not while the small sounds of scraping chairs and clinking glasses filtered up through the floorboards from the room below. Mother was right, he thought dryly. He was becoming soft, lying about this fallow little backwater. Not just soft hearted, but soft-headed to boot. A year or even six months ago, he'd never have given more than a passing thought to the trials of domesticity. Still, he couldn't seem to stop the words as they rolled off his tongue.
"It's late," he observed, managing at least to keep his tone neutral and relatively uninterested. "do you require some assistance in closing up? --Another case or two of beer hauled down to the spring perhaps?"
She let her gaze follow his around the abandoned room and let her smile broaden. After a moment, she shook her head, slow and decisive.
"You know," she said slowly, picking up her glass of whiskey, "Someone asked me just the other day if I had never heard of mañana. He said things always look different then. I am thinking maybe I should try it."
Ezra looked at her for a moment as if he were not quite sure he had heard correctly. "A bold move," he murmured, picking up his own drink. "Are you certain you are up to the challenge?"
She cast one last look about the untidy barroom, then plucked the linen dishtowel from her shoulder and cast it down on to the table. "Si," she said decisively, "Mañana. It will keep until then."
Raising his glass, he tapped it against hers in a small salute.
"Mañana," he echoed. "I'll drink to that."