Page 35 of The Saloon Girl's Only Shot

“It’s over.” Owen held his own pistol dangling from his hand, but stepped across to steal Sureshot’s out of his holster.

“Hey,” Sureshot said in a strangled noise of protest.

“You can have it back when you give me Virgil’s twenty dollars,” Owen told him. “You know you owe it to him.”

“It’s true.” The man who spoke wore a bushy moustache and a red kerchief tight at his neck. “I was in Quail’s Creek when it happened.”

“Thanks, Sandro.” Owen nodded at him. “Now everyone go back to your drinks.” Owen holstered Sureshot’s pistol, kept his own in his hand, and picked up Temperance’s tray to offer it to her. “Nice aim.”

“Thank you.” She blushed, smiling shakily, thankful that the hubbub seemed to be over. She set the tray on the bar, striving to get her pulse back to normal. “I can’t recall if I ordered drinks, Mr. Fritz. Do you remember?”

Mr. Fritz was glowering and still holding his long gun braced on his hip.

“Get the hell out of my saloon,” he said. “And don’t come back.”

Chapter 10

“Me?” Temperance touched between her breasts, expression stunned.

Owen was surprised too. He was also still twitching with aggression after getting into a scuffle and nearly having to shoot a man. That sort of tension always had him blurting out the worst things, trying to defuse a situation with humor.

“You seem to have a gift for making people never want to see you again. This is the second time today.”

“And whose fault is that?” she cried, glaring at him with all the frustrated animosity that typically greeted his poorly-timed jokes. “I didn’t cause this brawl. He did.” She told Fritz while pointing at Owen.

Owen wasn’t spending much attention on Fritz, too busy sweeping the room with an unflinching glance, making sure everyone understood he was still armed, watching for anyone making a sudden move.

Sureshot had lost his bluster. He was slouched on a stool. His friend stood beside him, still rubbing the dent of Owen’s knuckles out of his jaw. The rest of the men were looking down, searching for any coins that hadn’t already been found. A few were shoving elbows at each other, unhappy with whatever amount they’d managed to recover. Owen had lost his stake before he left the table so he didn’t claim any of it.

“That’s another reason I don’t want you here,” Fritz was saying to Temperance. “You’re rude to my best customer.”

“I’m your best?” Owen echoed. “Shit. That’s quite an honor, Fritz. Worth a free drink, I’d think.”

Fritz ignored him, too bent on taking out his riled temper on Temperance.

“You’ve been nothing but trouble since you walked in here, getting this one birthing babies out of my best gal.” He nodded at Jane who had approached the bar with her tray and a wary expression.

“I didn’t get Mavis pregnant, did I?” Temperance cried.

“It’s your fault she’s leaving, though, Ain’t it?”

“She’s leaving because she had a baby. Is this any place to raise a child?” She waved wildly at the men still collecting the crates they used as chairs and setting them upright. One spit into a bucket while another let out a loud belch.

Owen might have mentioned that he was actually the one who had arranged Mavis’s departure, but Cornelius, an old-timer at the end of the bar, piped up, “And she’s drinking cold tea while charging for bourbon. That’s what that fella said.” He pointed at Sureshot.

“And why would that be, Mr. Fritz?” Temperance charged, standing tall and glaring at the saloon keeper.

It was an old trick that Owen had seen in California. Men wanted a woman to drink with them, but if she wanted to keep her senses, she drank tea. Most drunks were none the wiser. Fritz must have put her up to it.

“Probably because your real name is Temperance,” Fritz said as though it was the crime of the decade. “I knew right when I heard that, that you don’t belong here.”

“Your name’s not even Rose?” the toothless Cornelius lamented. “That ain’t right, lying about your name.”

“For God’s sake. Do you honestly believe that man’s name is Sureshot?” Temperance pointed.

“No, it ain’t right,” Fritz agreed. “So you git now. I don’t want you living here or coming back here to interfere with my Jane, either. You’re bad luck.”

Owen loved nothing better than theatrics over nothing, but the shaken way Temperance drew a breath made his chest tighten.