All saloons smelled the same. Strongest were the heavy odors of sweat and smoke, leather and tobacco juice. Wafting beneath the top layer were the scents of brandied peaches, sandwich fixings, pickles, pig’s feet in brine. Then came the tang of the wood shavings and a whiff of gaslight and grease. Floating over all, seducing the senses, was the fragrance of the gods, the fruity ambrosia of liquor.
Dal stood at the bar frowning at the rows and rows of bottles lit by gaslights that burned even during the day. Tall bottles, short bottles, fat bottles, slender bottles. Bottles filled with clear, brown, amber, or golden liquids. Whatever a man was looking for, he could find it in one of those bottles. At least temporarily.
Swallowing, he looked down at the shot glass he moved in wet circles on the surface of the bar. A few of these and he wouldn’t care about losing the Roark drive.
Every day for eighteen months, he had walked into a saloon indistinguishable from this one, and he’d ordered a shot from whatever bottle gleamed brightest under the lights. He’d fingered the glass, inhaled the fragrance, imagined the burn on the back of his tongue. He’d clenched his teeth and felt the sweat on his brow. Temptation whispered, and when he didn’t listen his stomach twisted.
But he hadn’t raised the shot glass to his lips. Not in eighteen long damned months.
“You gonna drink that?” the bartender asked curiously.
“Maybe.”
Lifting his head, he gazed into the mirror along the back bar and saw his face peering back at him above a row of gleaming bottles. The Klees barbershop was offering a special this week; a tub, shave, and haircut for two bits. A good soak with lots of hot steam might be just what he needed to clear his thoughts and decide where he went from here.
“Are you Dal Frisco?”
He glanced at a Mexican kid, then looked back at the shot glass. “Who wants to know?”
“Mr. Moreland say to tell you the Roark sisters want to talk to you. Out at the ranch.”
So Connity had turned them down, too. If they were finally coming to him, then they had no one else.
Staring into the whiskey, he remembered his last drive. Before he shook off the images, the shot glass was halfway to his lips, the hot whiskey scent fuming toward his brain. Christ. It was that easy to throw away eighteen hard months. He pushed the shot glass away.
A man had to be touched in the head to undertake a cattle drive with three ignorant women, and one of them in a wheelchair. He had to be desperate for a second chance.
“Tell Luther Moreland and the Roark sisters that I’ll be there in an hour.”
Making them wait told him that he still had a little pride.
I’ll take the job. You got yourself a trail boss.”
Aside from the introductions, those were nearly the only words Dal Frisco had spoken. When Luther began to explain the conditions, Frisco had raised a hand and said, “You covered everything when we first spoke.”
A rush of relief made Freddy’s shoulders sag. The cattle drive would occur. Leaning against the horsehair sofa, she studied the one man willing to give her and her sisters a chance, remembering that she’d observed him at the cemetery on the day of Joe’s funeral.
Dal Frisco wasn’t handsome in a classical sense, but women would notice and remember his rugged good looks. He was tall, comfortable in his bones, and his gaze was cool almost to the point of insolence. He had a slow glance that set something loose in the pit of Freddy’s stomach, something hot and fluttery. Where Jack Caldwell had that oddly smooth look that many gamblers had, Frisco radiated a hard inflexibility that few women could meet without seeing a challenge.
Right now he gazed at them as if taking their measure, and it seemed to Freddy that his steady eyes lingered on her a fraction longer than on her sisters. It irritated her that she responded to his attention.
When Frisco finally spoke, his deep, almost raspy voice startled her. “Can you ride a horse?” he asked Alex, running a glance over her wheelchair.
“I used to ride,” Alex answered reluctantly, lacing her hands together. “But I’d be terrified to attempt it now. My right leg was amputated just below the knee.” When Frisco looked at the one boot on the chair’s footrest, color flooded her face.
“Could you drive the chuck wagon? Do the cooking for the outfit?”
Alex looked uncertain. “I haven’t done much cooking. We’ve always had a cook.”
“Mrs. Mills, if you can’t ride and you can’t handle the cooking, then there’s no place for you on this drive.”
“You’re very blunt,” Alex said, sharply.
“Yes, ma’am, I am. Now what’s it going to be? Are you coming or staying?”