Breathless(23)

Once signatures were attached in the appropriate places, Rhine folded the document and placed it in his inner coat pocket. He handed her the bank draft.

“Thanks,” she said. “Nice doing business with you.”

“Same here.”

“Now, wait just a minute,” Gerber protested. “What about my fee?”

“Send me a bill if you want,” she said, “but do it quickly. I’ll be leaving town the day after the funeral.”

“Are you going to join your husband in St. Louis?” Rhine asked.

“No, but you can tell him that’s where I was headed when he comes back and finds me gone.”

Kent’s jaw dropped.

Rhine stared.

She smiled coldly. “Been trying to get away from him and this place for years. Now”—she waved the draft—“I can. I’ll see you tonight at the wake, gentlemen.”

A stunned Kent followed Rhine back outside to where their tethered mounts waited.

“Interesting woman,” Kent quipped.

“That’s one way of describing her,” Rhine responded.

“Will the deed hold up?”

“I’ve never known her to be dishonest.”

“Can it be challenged because of your race?”

Rhine shrugged. “Anything is possible, I suppose, but she has no other kin, and the land will be rolled into the company my brother, Drew, and I founded, which is based in San Francisco. My interests are hidden.”

They mounted and headed back to the main part of town.

Kent asked, “Do you know a place where I can buy a couple of shirts, but not have to put any money in the coffers of that ass Day?”

Rhine laughed. “Sure do.”

The store owned by a short German immigrant named Krause had just what Kent needed. After purchasing the shirts, he spied a dark gray Stetson on display that seemed to call his name. The price was dear but it was a hat he’d be able to wear to fancy occasions for years to come as long as he took good care of it, so he counted out the money for it, too, and he and Rhine left the store.

On the ride back, Kent asked, “Did you question Blanchard’s hands about their plans?”

“I spoke with the two older men. He left them a fair amount of money in his will and they’ll be leaving to enjoy it elsewhere. The other two weren’t around.”

“So, I may have to hire all new depending on whether the others stay?”

“Looks that way.”

Kent wasn’t sure whether he was disappointed or not, but at least the men he hired would be his men and there’d be no divided loyalties.





Chapter Six




Upstairs in what had been Blanchard’s bedroom, Kent eyed the sorry cards in his hands and fought to keep his disgust from showing. Across the table, Rhine smiled. Kent sighed. He hated playing poker with Rhine mainly because that smile meant he either had the best cards in the house or a handful of nothing like Kent, but there was no way of telling which. The other two players, rancher Howard Lane and Cal Grissom, the hotel’s horse wrangler, had already tossed in their hands. That left Kent and Rhine. Kent assessed Rhine, hoping to find any flaw in the ivory face that might give away what he actually held, but it was the same elusive flaw Kent had been searching for unsuccessfully since he began playing poker with Rhine at the age of fifteen back in Virginia City. Cursing inwardly, Kent threw his hand in, too. Grinning, Rhine showed his humble pair of threes and slid the large stack of chips over to the small mountain already in place in front of him.

“I hate you, old man,” Kent groused, chuckling.

“Rich old man, to you,” Rhine countered, and the other men in the smoke-filled room laughed.

Kent pushed back his chair. “I’m leaving before you take my new Stetson.”

“Smart man.” Rhine then called out, “Next!”

Hoping the new pigeons fared better than he had, Rhine left the room to get some food.

Kent had been to a host of wakes in his time. Many were solemn and others so raucous the only thing missing were nymphes du pavé. Blanchard’s was somewhere in between. There was plenty of good food, lots of drink, and a houseful of men and women talking, laughing, and raising glasses to the man inside the wooden coffin resting on sawhorses by the window in the front parlor.

The noise grew louder as he descended the stairs. There seemed to be even more people squeezed into the house than when they arrived if that was possible. He was searching the crowd for Portia when Regan appeared at his side.

“If you’re looking for my sister, she’s outside with Eddy and the other married hens.”

“How’d you know I was looking for Portia?”

“Who else would it be?”

He studied her amidst the press of bodies, the buzz of voices, and the occasional loud cackle of laughter.

“Just be patient with her,” Regan advised. “Being raised the way we were has left her somewhat mixed-up inside.”

“And what about you?” he asked gently.

“I’m mixed up, too, but I’m not afraid of myself the way Portia is sometimes.”

Her honesty made him go still. “Thank you for the advice.”

She shrugged. “You’re welcome. I told her you’re going to make her garters catch fire. She’s choosing not to believe me.”