Page 56 of The Saloon Girl's Only Shot

“No, I have enough in the pail.”

He added a chunk of wood to the fire, anticipating she’d want it hotter for cooking.

“Cecil Dudley has me blackballed.” Owen sat back to continue explaining—and complaining—to Emmett. “P.J. would only sell me a single bottle, ‘for personal use.’” Don’t tell Cecil, he’d cautioned. “Mick promised me two casks from the mercantile, then tried to renege. He relented and said I could have one after I threatened to take the mine’s business elsewhere.”

Emmett pulled his head back. “Where else are we going to get our supplies?”

“Who else is he going to sell to?” Owen charged. “Our mine is his best customer and he knows it. The whiskey he brings in is strychnine anyway. I want proper bourbon from Kentucky. I sent a letter today placing an order, but that’s likely to take weeks.” Especially with the weather and trail deteriorating.

Owen had never told Emmett he couldn’t read or write, but the way Emmett flicked a glance at Temperance’s back told him his friend suspected she’d written it for him. An understanding of Temperance’s role here was coming into his expression.

“Maybe try the forts?” Emmett suggested.

“Oh, Fort Kearny,” Temperance said. “That’s a good idea. The physician there gave my father a bottle from the commissary to help with his pain. They definitely have some. I could write to my father, actually. I’m sure he could find someone reputable in Chicago. Oh.” Her shoulders fell. “Then I’d have to tell him where I’m working. Hmm.”

“Nothing wrong with being a business assistant, is there?” Owen asked her. “That’s what you were for him.”

“It’s the nature of the business that will give him pause,” she said dryly as she came across with the pot.

Owen leaned toward the fire and used the poker to draw out the iron crane so she could hang the pot and swing it back in to dangle over the flames.

“You know Pearl was helping Mrs. Dudley brew up corn whiskey when she first got to Denver,” Emmett reminded him, dropping his shoulder against the wall again.

“That’s right.” Owen snapped his fingers at Emmett. “Damn. You’re going to have to tell Virgil she can come work for me, aren’t you?”

“Then I’m going to watch Virgil tell his wife that her sister has a career in brewing moonshine if she wants one.”

They both had a good laugh at Virgil’s expense, because God knew Marigold would have an opinion, but Temperance didn’t react beyond a blank smile as she took up the dirty cups to clean them.

Did she think they were making fun of women working in a saloon? That wasn’t why they were laughing. Virgil’s stubborn ass coming up against his headstrong wife was fun to witness, that’s all.

“I didn’t expect so much resistance from the other keepers,” Owen said. “It’s just one more saloon.”

“Were you not in the same fire brigade that I was when that saloon was set ablaze in Sutter Creek?” Emmett asked.

“That was different.” Fewer men had been finding gold while abundant labor kept pouring in. People had begun turning on one another. It had been ugly and racist and a big factor in why they’d all decided it was time to find new pastures.

Owen caught Temperance’s look of alarm.

“We’ll be fine,” he promised. “Don’t worry.”

Hell, if he couldn’t get whiskey, this wasn’t even a saloon.

After a lively evening of listening to the men rib each other over dinner, Temperance slept with Clarence on the big mattress while Owen and Emmett slept on bedrolls in the parlor.

She liked Emmett. He had a sharp sense of humor and an affable willingness to pitch in, asking Owen over breakfast, “What needs doing after the vote today?”

“Firewood,” Owen replied. “We can pick up lumber and rope for the bed on the way home.”

Temperance gave them a jar of broth from last night’s pork hocks to warm for a midday meal and took the plunge with cutting out her gown once they were gone.

She had it pinned and basted by the time the light was fading beyond the window. She had long ago drunk her own small cup of broth and began thinking of putting on a pot of beans. First, she would cut this blue satin ribbon that Owen wanted her to use for trimming?—

An aggressive pound on the door had her straightening away from the table.

She moved to peer through the window.

“Mr. Fritz,” she said when she opened the door to his frizzy-haired arrival. “Can I help you?”