Into the Bright Unknown (The Gold Seer Trilogy #3)(31)

“I’m afraid we don’t understand your implication,” Becky says.

“That is, what I’m trying to say is, this is not the sort of establishment where we welcome women who provide services.”

My head whips back around. “What?”

Becky reaches out and taps her fingers on his hand. “Oh, sir, that’s such a relief to hear. You’ve put my heart at ease.”

“I have?” he says, thrown off-balance.

I’m torn. I need to watch the bank, but I’m equally captivated by Becky—I have no idea what she plans to say next. It never occurred to me that we’d be a problem sitting in a public parlor on a cold day.

“You have,” she says. “You see . . .” She whispers the last phrase conspiratorially, leaning forward. The proprietor bends down to listen closely.

“My dear, beloved husband,” she says, “brought our gold into San Francisco to invest it, but I’m very much afraid he’s been spending it instead. It’s one thing if he gambles a bit of it. Why, that’s natural, and any man might do the same, whether for entertainment or in hopes of increasing his stake. But if he’s been spending it elsewise . . .”

She lets the last sentence trail off like an unspoken threat. Taking notice of my attention, she jerks her head to the window, and I oblige by turning my head around again to watch the bank, trusting her to take care of the proprietor.

“And you’re certain he’s a resident of our establishment?” he says.

“Not at all,” Becky says. “But he didn’t come home last night, and one of his usual companions said he was last seen in your gambling parlor, around midnight. So I’ve come to check. You say there are no women here who might keep the gentlemen company?”

“Ah,” the proprietor says.

In his silence, I hear a different story: that any such women here are discreet enough to avoid being seen in the front parlor in the morning.

“Perhaps he had a bit too much to drink and decided to sleep it off before coming home,” Becky suggests.

“That’s entirely possible,” admits the proprietor. “If you would like to give me a name, I could check our guest ledger.”

“Absolutely not!” Becky says. “If my suspicions are unfounded, I would certainly not wish to sully the reputation of our good name.”

A short man carrying something heavy walks toward the bank. I rub a circle clean on the window with my sleeve, then realize that Becky and the proprietor are both staring. I suppose that using my sleeve to clean a window is probably ill-mannered. “I apologize,” I say, hiding my sleeve under my arm. “I thought I saw . . . him.” Him being Mr. Keys, not Becky’s imaginary husband. “But I was mistaken.”

“Have all of your guests come downstairs yet this morning?” Becky asks the proprietor.

“No, ma’am,” he says. “No, they haven’t.”

“Then we’ll just wait here until they do. Thank you for allowing us to do that. Your thoughtfulness means everything.”

I take another glimpse, just to see his jaw working, trying to figure out how he ended up giving us permission. Finally he snaps it shut and takes a moment to gather himself. “I guess that will be satisfactory,” he says thoughtfully, perhaps considering how he can sneak upstairs and warn his customers that someone’s angry wife is lying in ambush in the parlor. He turns to go, saying, “If there will be nothing else, then?”

“Oh, thank you kindly for offering,” Becky says. “It’s so dreadfully cold out. A cup of tea would be perfect. Do you want a cup of tea, dear?”

I realize she’s talking to me. “Coffee, please.”

“And sugar,” Becky says. “Lots of sugar.”

We pass the morning supplied with a side table, and restored at regular intervals with fresh tea and coffee. Becky pretends to watch the lobby, deflecting conversations with the proprietor and anyone else who comes along. I keep an eye on the bank.

Gold from last night’s winnings pokes at my mind from the rooms above our head. After the proprietor leaves to make his rounds, I feel some of it moving out of the rooms and away, disappearing without coming down the front staircase.

By early afternoon, the rain has let up. We enjoy fresh sandwiches from the kitchen, while Becky pretends to enjoy the company of the hotel’s cook. Across the street, the bank’s clerks leave in small groups for lunch, and then return. It takes hours, but eventually even Becky’s mighty composure crumbles into fidgeting as she becomes bored and restless, ready to call it quits.

But my daddy taught me how to hunt with that Hawken rifle Jim returned to me. He showed me how to hole up in a blind and wait for my quarry to come along, even if it meant staying for hours in the cold and snow. Days, if we were desperate enough.

Sitting in the parlor of a hotel, even a low establishment like this one, is so much easier than sitting in a deer blind. Nobody ever brought me fresh coffee or sandwiches in a blind.

Becky is deflecting a fresh round of questions from the afternoon manager when I finally see our target. “There he is,” I announce, rising.

Becky nearly spills her cup of tea.

“You’ve spotted the lady’s husband?” the manager asks.

“Sometimes if you can’t catch them going, you get them coming,” Becky tells him, and we rush out the door. At the corner, we pause to catch our breath.