Madigan's devilish wink and white smile flashed before her once more. Then, she thought of Amos Wells' austere countenance and shuddered at the very idea of him coming near her that way. What was wrong with her? Her father was right. Rory was completely wrong for her. But surely, Amos could not be right.
“Well, Rebekah? How do you feel about Amos' suit?” he pressed when she sat rigidly in front of him, not meeting his eyes. He had anticipated that this would not be easy.
“I suppose there's no harm in conversing with him over Sunday dinner,” she capitulated glumly. Possibly, being nice to Amos Wells for a while would cool Dorcas' wrath over her latest escapade. And most of all, she did not want to hurt her father any more than she already had.
* * * *
Virginia City
A short, voluptuous whore in a gaudy yellow satin dress and black fishnet tights sat on Rory's lap, running her fingers through his hair as he took a swallow of forty rod that burned all the way down. Her rouged cheeks and carmined lips gave color to the otherwise pale complexion of a woman who saw little more sunlight than did her miner patrons. Brittle yellow hair hung in banana curls that fell over her bare shoulders. He touched one, then dropped the dry, frizzy clump.
“Whatzamatter, Irish? You don' like Sadie no more?” She hiccuped drunkenly, planting a wet kiss against his neck. “I brung ya luck at faro.”
Rory had won a sizable pot at the rigged table before losing it between there and the bar, which was the establishment's plan. He knew it. Just as he knew in a sudden rush of drunken honesty that he had picked Sadie because she was a blonde like Rebekah Sinclair. But Rebekah's soft, silky skin and hair, her innocent charm and humor, were sadly lacking in the mining camp girl. If Rebekah could see him in the wild and raucous Comstock, she would be appalled.
The Howling Wilderness was typical of the saloons lining C Street, a bustling thoroughfare set between the steep, barren mountains under which men gouged out the biggest fortune in history. They worked in blistering heat in a labyrinth of tunnels containing as much timber as it took to build the city of Chicago. Virginia City was big and sprawling and ugly, a festering sore above and below the ground, where life was cheap and death as easily come by as bad whiskey and worse women.
A typical crowd tromped about on the sawdust-covered saloon floor—garishly dressed Jezebels danced and drank with red-faced Welsh and Cornish miners, while hard-eyed Mexican pistoleros diced. Fancy Eastern lawyers with the stink of larcenous litigation on them played poker. Crude Pikes from the hills of Missouri and Arkansas, their Bowie knives gleaming and ready, spat lobs of brown tobacco in the general direction of gummy, fly-covered cuspidors.
A fight erupted in one corner of the saloon between a Chilean miner and an Italian grocer, but the piano player continued his discordant plinking. No one paid any mind to a scuffle unless shots rang out. Roulette wheels clacked, while bluff and hearty Saxon cattle buyers raised their beer steins. A small, swarthy French Canadian sat in one corner paring long, dirt-encrusted nails with a gleaming stiletto, his solemn gray eyes as old as the volcanic mountains in which the mother lode lay.
Rory was in his element, raw and uncivilized, where foreigners outnumbered Americans. How different this desolate hellhole was from the lush verdancy of the Truckee Valley, only a few dozen miles away as the crow flew. Fleetingly, he wished he could be as free as a bird to fly away from the sounds of curses and breaking glass, the cloying smell of Sadie's cheap perfume.
“Dreams, boyo, only dreams,” he muttered beneath his breath, ignoring the scarlet poppy who was expecting him to take her upstairs at the end of the night. The
“Well, Rebekah? How do you feel about Amos' suit?” he pressed when she sat rigidly in front of him, not meeting his eyes. He had anticipated that this would not be easy.
“I suppose there's no harm in conversing with him over Sunday dinner,” she capitulated glumly. Possibly, being nice to Amos Wells for a while would cool Dorcas' wrath over her latest escapade. And most of all, she did not want to hurt her father any more than she already had.
* * * *
Virginia City
A short, voluptuous whore in a gaudy yellow satin dress and black fishnet tights sat on Rory's lap, running her fingers through his hair as he took a swallow of forty rod that burned all the way down. Her rouged cheeks and carmined lips gave color to the otherwise pale complexion of a woman who saw little more sunlight than did her miner patrons. Brittle yellow hair hung in banana curls that fell over her bare shoulders. He touched one, then dropped the dry, frizzy clump.
“Whatzamatter, Irish? You don' like Sadie no more?” She hiccuped drunkenly, planting a wet kiss against his neck. “I brung ya luck at faro.”
Rory had won a sizable pot at the rigged table before losing it between there and the bar, which was the establishment's plan. He knew it. Just as he knew in a sudden rush of drunken honesty that he had picked Sadie because she was a blonde like Rebekah Sinclair. But Rebekah's soft, silky skin and hair, her innocent charm and humor, were sadly lacking in the mining camp girl. If Rebekah could see him in the wild and raucous Comstock, she would be appalled.
The Howling Wilderness was typical of the saloons lining C Street, a bustling thoroughfare set between the steep, barren mountains under which men gouged out the biggest fortune in history. They worked in blistering heat in a labyrinth of tunnels containing as much timber as it took to build the city of Chicago. Virginia City was big and sprawling and ugly, a festering sore above and below the ground, where life was cheap and death as easily come by as bad whiskey and worse women.
A typical crowd tromped about on the sawdust-covered saloon floor—garishly dressed Jezebels danced and drank with red-faced Welsh and Cornish miners, while hard-eyed Mexican pistoleros diced. Fancy Eastern lawyers with the stink of larcenous litigation on them played poker. Crude Pikes from the hills of Missouri and Arkansas, their Bowie knives gleaming and ready, spat lobs of brown tobacco in the general direction of gummy, fly-covered cuspidors.
A fight erupted in one corner of the saloon between a Chilean miner and an Italian grocer, but the piano player continued his discordant plinking. No one paid any mind to a scuffle unless shots rang out. Roulette wheels clacked, while bluff and hearty Saxon cattle buyers raised their beer steins. A small, swarthy French Canadian sat in one corner paring long, dirt-encrusted nails with a gleaming stiletto, his solemn gray eyes as old as the volcanic mountains in which the mother lode lay.
Rory was in his element, raw and uncivilized, where foreigners outnumbered Americans. How different this desolate hellhole was from the lush verdancy of the Truckee Valley, only a few dozen miles away as the crow flew. Fleetingly, he wished he could be as free as a bird to fly away from the sounds of curses and breaking glass, the cloying smell of Sadie's cheap perfume.
“Dreams, boyo, only dreams,” he muttered beneath his breath, ignoring the scarlet poppy who was expecting him to take her upstairs at the end of the night. The
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