Miss Czernin's Bodyguard
.Excerpt).
Chapter 1
If you've seen one saloon you've seen them all.
Tables made from barrel tops, and chairs made sturdy enough to kill a man. Many are scuffed up in suggestive fashions, and that one in the corner, if I'm not mistaken, has some poor bastard's tooth still stuck in it.
I'm in the back, the place lowlit to the point of being unlit. Bars of greasy sunlight filter in, highlighting the motes wafting lazily in the sluggish air, already choked with the smoke from cheap cigars and cigarettes. They save the oil lamps for night time – it's only 1:12 in the afternoon right now, according to my pocket watch. My slender fingers cradle it like a priceless, beloved thing because it is – my grandfather gave it to me. He raised me alone, like a son.
Thing is, I'm a girl.
Didn't matter to him, and doesn't matter to me now. I pass well enough as a man, wearing jeans and chaps, a dusty linen shirt, wraps beneath that, a leather vest, and a wide-brimmed hat. My features are fine but weathered, and with my hair shaggy short and red, and what with the lack of makeup and finery, none of the other gentlemen of this establishment, or any other, suspect.
Suits me fine. It's miserable being a woman out here. The year's 1876 and the place is Shaw Town, Minnesota. Lake Superior can be seen on a good day, if you climb up a bare tree. There are wilder parts of the west, I'm sure, but this place is rough enough. Just like the saloon, here. There are no smooth edges on anything or anyone. Not even granddad's watch, what with its dents, and the little crack in the glass face.
I tuck it back into my pocket, the chain tarnished but still solid enough to keep me from losing it. My hands are chapped and dry, having worked long days and nights out on the prairie. The cattle I helped guide in are where they ought to be – loaded onto a train car and destined for auction. I got my pay, and I, like all the other fellas hired for the job, are blowing too much of it here.
Doesn't matter. Granddad's dead and the homestead got repossessed. Couldn't do nothin' about it, so I left, taking what I could before the bankmen came. Since then I've been sayin' I'm a young man, some ten years my junior. It explains away a lot of things, like the lack of stubble without access to a proper shave. I look at the callouses on my fingers and palm even as a stray line of sunlight glitters across the top of my table.
The small, clean glass of whiskey looks like a beautiful jewel, and I caress it, my eyes half-lidded as I admire it. I've always admired fine things. Most I can't afford. It's an affliction that clever, sticky fingers can help ease from time to time. My vest, worn and comfortable, creaks as I slouch in my chair, the dust on my forearm, bare from the rolled-up sleeve, barely hides the thick dusting of freckles that makes my fair hide a touch darker.
My light blue eyes move over to look at the door from beneath the brim of my black hat, my face half hidden in shadow. I can't much help how my mouth, expressive and wide and chap-lipped, curls into a slow smile as the working girls file in. That's a bit of finery I can't have, as you might understand. It's no good, giving fuel to rumors and all. On cattle drives, the fellas all agree one mouth is as good as another, and I'm the giving sort only. But when I'm back in civilized places, I long for the soft curves of a woman, and it frustrates me sweetly that I don't dare take it.
Still, the women that come in are trailed by another figure. She's no harlot – her dress is too fine, and it's designed for travel. She couldn't possibly live here; the other gents in here wouldn't be staring at her like hungry dogs if she did. The woman herself looks irritated, staring down a few of the men even as she clutches her purse in her velvet gloves. They're made of a blue, deeply dyed velvet that scintillates like a hummingbird's feathers.
She's asking the bartender for information, her back to the rest of the room. She's not paying attention, and I toss back my drink, knowing I'm going to need the numbness in a minute. Things slow down in my awareness, the dust motes hanging in the air like tiny angels as I rise up from my chair, grabbing my long, dusty black coat. This I slip around my shoulders, my arms sliding through the sleeves as my boots cross over the gnarl-boarded floors. I'm closing the distance between my table and the lady, seeing how a few of the men are getting up from their tables with a hungry look.
Just as one of them grabs for her hair, and another grabs for her purse, I slide into the space, my back shoving up against hers. I stand about a head taller than she does, so when I feel her stiffen, and she nearly wheels around, ready to curse me out no doubt, she'll be doing it to my shoulder. That is, until she hears the click of revolvers getting cocked. Aimed, of course, at my chest.
“Come on, fellas” I croon, lifting my hands up slowly and grinning wryly. “Let's be civil and reasonable in this generously appointed...” I might have gotten more out, until one of their friends socks me in the jaw.
I should have seen that coming. For a second I see stars and stumble back until my spine hits the edge of the bar. Good, she's slipped out. Now, well, I just have to keep myself together, which starts with placing my hat back on my head. Now, I'm not real great in bar fights, but the scales are tipped a little in my favor when I grab a thick, heavy bottle of gin and crack it into the first man's skull. The impact is a chunk of sound, but the glass doesn't break, filled and stoppered up with booze. So I club it at the next guy, hitting his hand and knocking his gun aside. I can hear the weapon clatter away under a table some yards away.
No point in diving after it; I have my own, after all.
While the first lout lays unconscious on the floor and the second cradles his hand, the third is looking down the barrel of my colt, my lips pulled into a grin, even as the split in my lip bleeds down over my chin. The hammer is thumbed back with a heavy click, and I narrow my eyes, shaking my head as the guy seethes and nearly reaches for a weapon.
Just at that point, I feel the muzzle of a shotgun pressed into my back.
My eyes widen, and I slowly lift up the revolver, uncocking it and pointing it skyward. “Hey, now... just having a conversation” I wheedle, but it's no good. In seconds I'm landing out on the gritty, hard-packed dirt by the front steps of the saloon. Annoying how unfair that is, but I'm not in much of a position to argue. Not with a mouth full of spit, blood, and dust.
A sore, aching look around doesn't turn up any trace of the fine woman in blue velvet, and I suppose that's just as well. Good thing she got away. Right now all I want is a hot bath, a meal, and some ice for my face. The gun is tucked back into its holster on my hip, and I tug my coat around myself, keeping away the flurry of snowflakes rolling down the main street.
The inn down the lane is a fine establishment, but not so fine that I can't stay there. Dusty, well-spoken cattle hands are as welcome as anyone else, and our money's just as good. I wait in the lobby at the reception, a little corner with a desk made of fine, richly dyed wood and paper on the walls with red and cream striping. This isn't the sort of place where fights happen; there are no scuffs or teeth in the furniture. A young, harried kid, maybe a teen, runs up, still dusty from an outside chore, and quickly sets me up with a room and a key and a worn dinner menu if I should care for a hot meal. I tell him I most certainly will, put in a request to have my things fetched from the local post office, and head up directly to my quarters.
Once I get inside I just take a moment and sigh. The paint is fresh and clean, a warm shade of cream. Lovely, dark carpeting lines the floor to quiet my steps, and that same candy-striped paper lines the walls. A small hearth is tucked into the corner, with enough kindling and dry logs to make it cozy tonight. It's chilly enough, but I'm so used to it that I don't bother with the fire just yet. A paper from this morning is set on the side table, and I slide my fingers across the thick, finely-printed paper.
I hardly want to sit or lie down on anything, afraid I'll sully it with all the dust. Normally I don't splurge on a place so fine, but what with the length and duress of the drive, I feel the keen desire to be kind to myself. By the time the deskboy, who's also the bellhop it seems, arrives with my things, I'm leaning by the window, leafing through the paper and catching up on current affairs.
“Your bags, Sir. Just the two, correct?” asks the young man, out of breath like he'd run the whole way.
I nod, and gesture towards the corner of the room. He carries them over and sets them down with care, and that earns him a good tip, which I slide into his hand as I shake it. “Get yourself something nice while you get me some ice, huh?”
He nods, tucking the coins into his vest pocket as he jogs back out of the room. A deep basin tub is tucked into the corner opposite the hearth, and I notice that plumbing fixtures branch out from the wall. A small sink stands nearby, and in self-conscious wonder I turn the faucet, chuckling as warm water trickles from the tap.
“Mercy... such finery,” I whisper. It's not that plumbing is beyond my experience – I've just been on the trail for weeks, making do with a canteen and whatever icy stream I can get to.
The boy comes back with a small bucket and some ice, like I'm going to be pushing a bottle of wine into it to chill. Still, I thank him, and he reminds me that supper will be ready in four hours' time before he slips out again. Sweet thing.
I flip the lock, and only then do I take my hat off and hang it up on the rack. My coat is hung up too, and I wince as the dust from both trickle down to the fine carpeting. Maybe they have a laundry service. Not that it much matters. No point in being all shiny and new if I'm going to be out on the trail again in a week. If I'm lucky. No point in worrying about that now, as I've got money enough to last.
The bath water is summoned, hot and steaming, and it gushes into the basin. While the tub fills, I pull the curtains closed and get a fire going. It's crackling and popping nicely by the time the basin is nearly full, and I'm so ready for the exquisite feeling of sinking into it that I slowly pull off my worn, brown boots, making myself wait - teasing myself and forcing myself to be patient. I've always had a problem with rash action, or so granddad always said. First one boot, then the next. Then the vest.
I'm nearly pulling the linen shirt over my head when I hear the hiss of paper sliding over the carpeting near the door. The sound startles me, and I pull the shirt down quick, not wanting anyone to see the bandages. I frown, and notice a small parchment envelope with handwriting on it. I wait and listen, but all I hear are the sound of heels on the flooring of the hallway, walking back towards the stairs.
Before opening the envelope, I set it down on the bed and move over to the bath, turning off the taps. I sink my hand into the hot water, wincing at the burn and biting at my lower lip. It hurts of course, but the throb of heat is almost foreign in light of my recent run ins with frostbite and the like. My skin is a light pink when I pull my hand out again, letting it drip back into the water for a time as I crouch there, in awe of the steam, the heat, and the sensation of being scalded. If a letter didn't wait me on the bed, I might not move for some time.
Instead, I lift back up to my bare feet, using a soft towel to dry my hand before I pluck up the envelope once more. The color of the paper is a deeper cream than the walls, the stock of a finer quality than the newspaper or even the notepaper left on the writing desk. When I glance that way, I notice envelopes of similar make and size, but not quite the same, and I hum thoughtfully to myself.
The envelope is sealed, and the writing on the front, in an elegant hand, says, “To the resident of room 213.” As that is, indeed, my room, I pull my utility knife from my belt. The blade, always sharp and clean, is worked into the tiny gap at the corner, and I slide along the top slowly, perversely enjoying the delicate destruction of something so fine. I'm not sure what that says about me, but there you are.
Within is a folded up note, written on the hotel stationary. The writing is the same hand as on the envelope, and reads:
​
Dear Sir,
I laud your valiant efforts in the saloon, and I apologize for having dashed out without assuring your safety or thanking you. Please do me the honor of forgiving me this insult by letting me buy dinner for the both of us, at 7 o'clock tonight. I eagerly await your appearance in the dining room.
- Someone truly grateful
I let my eyes slide over the note a few times, imagining the hand that wrote it. In the light of the saloon I hadn't made much out, aside from the fact that she was beautiful and wore blue velvet. To think that the hands within those gloves had penned this makes me breathe out slowly, and I imagine what else those fingers might do. My cheeks flush slightly, and I sigh, setting the letter and envelope aside on the bed as I continue to undress.
I have quite a few hours before I'm expected downstairs for supper, but I must attend to my bath and grooming now if I want to be punctual. It's best not to keep a lovely lady waiting, after all.