Lynna Banning Read Online Free PDF Page B

uplifted shoe down with a resounding thump and stepped off the walk into the street. With one hand she hitched her skirt up out of the dust and with the other tilted the parasol against the slanting sunlight. Head up, shoulders squared, she headed straight for the Red Fox.
    The piano player’s spirited rendition of “The Girl I Left Behind Me” broke off the instant Jessamyn stepped past the swinging doors.
    “Goshamighty,” a hushed male voice spoke into the silence. “A lady!”
    Jessamyn lowered her parasol and gazed about the dim room. The place reeked of cigar smoke. The pungent scent of beer and strong spirits reminded her of the brewery a block from the Boston Herald office.
    She moved with care among the rough wooden tables clustered with card players and cowhands with tanned faces and sweat-stained hats. Ignoring the hostile faces turning in her direction, she advanced to the polished oak bar.
    The bartender, a pudgy, red-faced man with a soiled towel tucked in his belt, regarded her in silence for a full minute. Finally he signaled the piano player to resume and stepped toward her. He swiped the grimy cloth across the counter.
    “Don’t allow women in here, miss.”
    Jessamyn quailed at his tone. Summoning her courage, she straightened her back and spoke over the noise of the piano. “Oh, yes, you do. The sheriff told me about your fancy ladies-—that is the term? They are women, are they not?”
    The bartender coughed. “Well, ma’am,” he began in a strangled voice, “women, maybe, but not—”
    Jessamyn looked him straight in the eye. “Then just think of me as a customer. Not as a woman.”
    “Kinda hard to do, seein’ as how you’re all fit out with them ladyfied duds.”
    What did he say? Oh, he meant her clothes. Good heavens, didn’t anyone out here speak understandable English? Working to keep her voice calm, she replied, “Then shall I remove them?”
    The man’s eyes popped. “No indeed, ma’am! I got enough trouble with Sheriff Kearney as it is. Now you just git along outta here. This ain’t no place—”
    “Hold up there, Charlie,” a gentle, slightly raspy voice interrupted.
    Jessamyn turned to face a stocky, muscular-looking man with limp, sun-lightened brown hair and skin tanned to the color of coffee diluted with a dollop of cream. Keen brown eyes looked steadily into hers from under the drooping brim of a shapeless brown felt hat.
    “You refusin’ service to the lady?”
    “Shore am, Jeremiah. An’ no deputy’s gonna tell me differ’nt.”
    The deputy lifted the shotgun he carried. “Well, now,” he said without raising his voice. “Law says it’s illegal to steal horses.” He clunked the gun down onto the bar top. “Also illegal to serve rotgut whiskey or—” he cast an eye about the room, glanced from the stairs to the bartender and back again “—run a sportin’ house.”
    He leaned both arms on the bar and laced his blunt fingers together. Jessamyn watched the back of one hand graze his gun stock.
    “Dammit to hell, Jeremiah. Why don’t you mind yer own business.” The bartender slapped down his rag and swore again under his breath.
    “Law is my business, Charlie. Now, I suggest you give the lady what she asked for.”
    “Oh, hell’s bells. First it’s serve that Indian-loving sheriff,then it’s serve his Johnny Reb of a deputy and now it’s serve the lady. Dammit, back in Abilene—”
    Jeremiah unlaced his fingers.
    Charlie snatched up the bar rag. “Okay, Jeremiah. Okay.” He glanced at Jessamyn. “Just tell me what you want, ma’am, and then git.”
    “I’d like a bottle of alcohol. Whiskey, I mean.”
    Charlie’s thinning eyebrows rose. “Gawd, ma’am, a whole bottle?”
    “Maybe two bottles. Big ones.”
    The bartender gave her an odd look, dipped behind the counter, then straightened with a single quart of Child’s Whiskey in his meaty hand. “One bottle. Should last a little lady like you more’n a year. Mebbe