He rested the rolled-up tarpaper on a shoulder that found itself aching and headed for the boardinghouse on Fourth for a hot bath. Sweat still ran down his spine, even in the cold, but ah, it felt good, working. Earning an honest wage. He missed those days cutting through the unspoiled wilderness between the Montana and the Dominion of Canada. Before Bulldog had tempted him with horse thieving when he busted a thumb and got put off his crew.
Against the sky, gray clouds rounded like goose breasts. Reminded him again of the last, righteous Christmas dinner before Tulsa took off. Bronx looked up, tried to see beyond clouds. Forgive me.
He missed riding hard dawn to dark with the vigilantes. After Rebekah.
Before Pinkertons and Mounted Police every place.
Forgive her.
His spine wiggled with other than heat and cold. Lila. Another red-headed widow.
For a brief space of time, to catch his breath and his thoughts, he paused by the window of Sands and Pelton Clothing, stared at a long female coat that would make her hair shine like the sunset sky.
But there was a Pinkerton wandering Leadville now. Doc Holliday knew about such things. It might be time. To leave with Doc Holliday as invited, or saddle up Chadwell and ride off into the wind. Head to California, maybe.
As was wiser. Finding his way by himself rather than tie himself down with a famed gunfighter. Look how Bulldog had brought him down.
****
After Bronx gussied up in the hip tub, he climbed into the woolen trousers and clean white shirt Miz Frieda had kindly ironed up. And downstairs, he was surprised on seeing Lila at the big dining room table. Alone. Her purple dress did something to the brown of her eyes, deepened them like wine somehow, instead of whiskey like he’d thought at first. His breath caught, and his fingers itched to unravel the artistic coil of her red hair.
“Good evening, Mr. Sanderson.” She smiled, shy, but he read the hurry in her movements.
“’Evening, Miz Lila.” He sat next to her. “How’s Miz Malina?”
“I left her sleeping fine. Mr. Tibbett stopped by Gethsemane so I could come home and grab a quick supper. He’ll be there should she have needs. Miss Frieda set up for me early. Have some stew. I’ll be heading back to Gethsemane in a moment.”
“With me.”
“Of course. If you eat quickly.” A pretty pink danced across her face. “Miss Frieda has made a healthful broth for Malina.”
“’Course you know Miz Frieda’s a nurse. Should Miz Malina need further attention.”
“I do know Miss Frieda has medical knowledge, for sure. I can also see to...Dr. Newell. He’s a kind man.”
Bronx knew what that meant. It means this Doc Newell didn’t mind visiting upon those who didn’t quite measure up. “Or Doc Holliday. I can stop in the Board of Trade and get him. Not far from Gethsemane.”
Lila nodded, and a lock of her hair trickled down her shoulder. He longed to touch it, but buttered a piece of bread, instead. “Doc Holliday has indeed been kind. Both he and Malina seem people of mystery. Somehow the same. Perhaps that’s why he takes the time.”
“I reckon most everybody has secrets.”
At his words, Lila started so she dropped her fork. His eyes narrowed even though he loved seeing her face. What was she hiding? What did she fear?
Could he help in any way? Or... He swallowed hard. Did she know he was hiding something? Did she know he was afraid?
Or somehow, was she like him…a danger, or in danger, if the truth was told?
“Are you all right, Miz Lila?”
“Yes, of course. Em-I mean, I never like to pry. What one chooses to share should come from the heart.” Her smile was big, rich, her return to comportment quick and real. “I believe we’re friends enough, now. Please, do call me Lila.”
“Only if you halt the Mr. Sanderson. I am Bronx, through and through.”
His throat tightened even though he didn’t want it to. Because he’d been Shandy Brinks for years, and not all that long ago.
“Well then, Bronx, you mentioned a job and staying here a while.”
“Yep. Such is my plan. I find Asa a companionable supervisor, and I would like to earn an honest wad.”
Her laugh hung on the air like a bell. “An honest wad, Bronx? I hope there is no other kind.”
Without saying a word and feeling too much, Bronx dipped into a bowl of stew. The color of the brown mush wasn’t at all appealing, but maybe it was just his mood. Everybody had secrets, she’d said. Doc Holliday and Malina were two of the same. Folks with mysteries afoot, and unanswered questions.
Just like him.
Him. No match for the proper widow of a preacher man so courageous he would have gone on Crusade and conquered castles.
Lila’s laughter died. “I suppose when you get some money stashed, you’ll head on down the mountains.”
“Likely.” He busied himself with a cup of coffee, because she had used the word honest, and Bronx Sanderson didn’t want to be anything else. “Like to find my brother someday. Somehow.”
Miss Frieda bustled in just then, with a milk pail.
“Here’s the broth, ready for your...guest at Gethsemane.” She said, her mouth prim but tone kind. “Pleased to see you eating my supper. I dislike my lodgers staying elsewhere. A waste of your good rent money.”