Page 32 of The Saloon Girl's Only Shot

“So did I. You’re actually very bad at keeping me in line. We’ve known each other a week, and you’ve already implicated me in rustling.” He waved at the dog. “Is that why Mrs. Dudley gave you the boot? She learned you were wanted? What’s the reward, by the way? I may be interested.”

“You’re complicit. You kept the dog,” she pointed out. “As for Dudley’s, I don’t want to tell you why I was thrown out.”

“No?”

She made a noise of oppression and folded her arms. Her eyes rolled skyward and her mouth pursed in amused self-deprecation.

“Tell me,” he coaxed, instantly captivated.

“I went upstairs to avoid all those drunken men and fell asleep. She caught me the next morning.”

“You didn’t even leave the building? That’s why I couldn’t find you? I thought you’d been kidnapped.” He’d been worried.

“Merely napping.”

He winced at the pun, trying to decide if he was furious or entertained. “What a ridiculous thing to do. Tell me you dreamed of me, at least.”

“You are the reason I was there at all. You refused to hire me.” She waved a maddened hand at him.

“I’ll take that as a yes. And now you’ve reminded me where I’m going and why.” He would hire her, if he got what he wanted from this next meeting. “We’ll finish talking later.”

She huffed out a sigh, but said, “Thank you. For this.” She lifted the skimpy weight of her carpetbag.

“No trouble.” He hadn’t done it to put her in his debt, but hoped it obliged her enough to be at the saloon when he got there, because the more he thought about his new plan, the more pleased he was with it.

They went their separate ways and, ten minutes later, he entered the Clerk and Recorder’s Office for the town company.

“Not you again,” Elmer groused. He was bleary-eyed and smelled like the inside of a rotting whiskey barrel. “What do you want this time?”

“Which building sites have yet to be claimed?”

“For a homestead?” Elmer pushed to his feet and walked to a wall where a large map was pinned. He started pointing out the landmarks to help Owen orient himself. “That’s north. There’s Cherry Creek and the corral. This is where we are right now. You can see all of these are still available.” He waved toward the outskirts of town.

“Those are too far out. I want something closer to the bridge.” Foot traffic. Definitely here in Denver. “Not too close to the water.” Tom always cautioned about spring floods. “What’s this one? Isn’t that the undertaking parlor? He died, didn’t he? What happened to him? I mean, who buries the undertaker?”

“The undertaker from Auraria looked after him.” Elmer spoke as though it was obvious.

“Oh.” That was a dull answer. Owen folded his arms and rocked back on his heels. “Do you think the Auraria undertaker was responsible for his death? Did he kill off his competition?” That was an interesting rumor to start.

“No.” Elmer scowled at Owen’s dark humor.

Owen bit back a smirk, surprised Elmer had a line he wouldn’t cross.

“Who do I talk to about buying it?” Owen was warming to the location. “Did he have family?”

“No.” Elmer’s gaze slid back to the map. He grew downright cagey. “No, he didn’t have any next of kin, so the town company absorbed that parcel back into its inventory.”

“Did it,” Owen snorted. It must be very helpful to have a probate judge for a father.

“Mmm.” Elmer did a very credible job of pretending he was both innocent and grieving the misfortune of someone who had no one else to grieve for him. “It’s very valuable, given its location. How much were you thinking to spend?”

“Probably the amount we added to Madame Beauville’s books last night.”

“Oh, come on, Owen.” Elmer turned on him. “The land is worth more than that, and it’s already got a building on it!”

“Which you were already paid for once, when the undertaker bought it.”

“But it has a building now. And a wagon house. You have all of this to work with.” He waved wildly at the outskirts of the map. “What do you want a funeral parlor for anyway? Are you taking up grave digging?”