“Goodness. I had no idea. But you’re American?”
“Yep. I...found work up in the northwest but...” He let out a long sigh, like a child’s balloon losing air. She heard the dead dreams. “That’s all over now.” Then, he looked her straight on. “Thing is, Miz Brewster, I got a brother I long to find. Hope to earn cash for my quest. And Leadville’s a boom town. If you’ll excuse me, I best see about employment while there’s daylight left in the sky.” He rose and gave her a slight, polite bow. “I do thank you for your pleasurable conversation. Reckon I’ll see you at supper.”
A normal widow would be eager for his company, truth to tell, But she had to serve up stew and cake at Gethsemane for those in need, and Emmett would never forgive her if she shirked. “Perhaps, Mr. Sanderson. It’s included in the rent.”
His white teeth showed in a quick smile. “Bye now, Miz Brewster.”
“May your search be fruitful, Mr. Sanderson.” She meant it. A good job would keep him here a while, and she had no chance of Emmett letting her go for a long, long time.
Then, her spirits fell. Bronx Sanderson might intrigue her, but he’d never want her. No other man ever would.
Chapter Three
He all but ran from Dornfeld’s Boardinghouse. Shame heated Bronx as hard as the high, cold air sapped his breath. He needed to leave her side, had barely gagged down the tea. Pretty, yes, and smart, but another red-headed widow causing him guilt and grief? Hadn’t he had enough of both for a lifetime?
A job, a horse...but he needed a beltful of whiskey more. Not the prim tea sloshing in his belly. How had some preacher’s widow gotten him to relive just about every second of his past life? And without really preaching. He felt damned anyway.
Letting out a snarl, Bronx turned down Harrison Avenue, his teeth all but freezing in his hot face. Mount Massive overhead might remind him of Rebekah, but it was the old lady coming to mind.
Hell, of course he’d loved the old lady with his entire soul. A child’s soul, of course. As a man, he didn’t have much of one left—not with all he’d done.
Thank God Miz Edith had died before she knew what Bronx had become.
His boots swilled through a puddle that iced a warning he’d need new soles. Soles? He laughed out loud. A man passing the other way grinned and touched the brim of a derby hat. But nothing was funny. Remorse smacked him again. A new soul was just what Bronx needed. And hell, a preacher’s wife named Lila was the prettiest thing to touch his hard half-soul in a long, long time. No matter she had the hair of Rebekah; she was still loyal to her man, her true love. Hadn’t offered herself in secret adultery to a cold, hungry, homesick fool while her own man dug out his heart in the hopeless goldfields along the Frasier River.
Bronx, foolish and eager for a warm woman’s heart, hadn’t suspected a thing. Had believed Rebekah’s words of love. Colorado’s September swamped him right now, but he shivered like he’d done back then, on the dreadful Jasper day Simon Creddit had come home.
Bronx ran past a laundry and four saloons before he stumbled into one called the Board of Trade.
Not many noticed him, which was a good thing, but not many men crowded the tables, either. Then again, most were likely still digging or sweating or otherwise earning their wad. Guilt shoveled through him. He ought to be finding an occupation himself instead of lollying an afternoon away with a red-headed widow—and now, taking the edge off because of it.
The place was civilized, though. Tall, dark-paneled walls with a long horizon of mirror behind the bar.
“Take a seat, newcomer.” A somehow familiar face invited Bronx to a faro table. The voice wore a silky drawl, the hand tapped the chair next to him. “Welcome to this fine establishment.”
Bronx nodded, polite, for sometimes the impolite invited gun fighting. “Thanks but kindly. Not a gambling man,” he said, meaning it, despite eager for masculine company.
Instead of a red-headed widow.
“Well, now, sit anyway. You look like a Kentucky bourbon man, if I may be so bold. My tab is yours.”
The brown mustache and smooth-cut hair. Many a wanted poster described just this face. Oh, and Bronx had studied them all for years, since turning outlaw at fifteen. Been both proud and terrified when his own face showed up on one. Recognition niggled like fleas. Then familiarity smacked him hard as legend became life. Asa’d been right.
“John Henry Holliday. You’re John Henry Holliday.” Bronx sank to the chair, out of breath like he’d been running fast on a hot day. The deadly dentist.
“Pleased if you’d simply call me Doc. So many already do. I’m charmed to meet you, I’m sure.” Doc Holliday raised an empty hand from his belt.