“Well, war must do wretched things to a man.”
“Yes.” Lila agreed but didn’t mention the many kinds of wars and battles that went on each and every day. Her locket watch pounded louder than she remembered, and she caught it in her hand to read the time. “Merciful goodness, I must rush away. Last I heard, Miss Frieda and Maisy were cleaning up Gethsemane. I don’t want to leave you alone.”
Malina smiled. “I will be fine, Miz Lila. They won’t be long, and I’ve got this bell to ring should I weaken.” She grabbed the school bell on the night table. “You see, one of the ’marms has kin visiting from Nebraska. Cousin Augusta is reading and knitting in the parlor all day ’til school ends.”
“All right, then. I imagine you’ll be much improved by suppertime.”
Someone pounded on the front door then, and Lila’s skin goosed. Oh, her nerves were too raw, anyway, but usually folks needing a room or a meal strode right in.
Well, she could show them Miss Frieda’s register, if needed. Slinging on her brown coat and fluffing the feathers on her hat, she took a deep breath against the surprise and opened the door.
“Miss Frieda isn’t in right now.” She cleared her throat. “Might I direct you to come back in an hour or two?”
“I am not here to let a room, ma’am.” A man, maybe her father’s age, tipped his tight derby hat and stepped back and down one step. “My name is Matthias Scottsdale. And I am looking for a man named Bronx Sanderson. And I believe he resides here.” With a slight nod, he pulled back his lapel to display a badge inscribed Pinkerton National Detective Agency.
Chapter Thirteen
Bronx found out quick the hammering of planks yesterday did not hold a candle to building a staircase. And the man supervising him let him know, loud, all about his shortcomings. And in front of all the others, too. In truth, Bronx Sanderson had in his past been good at several legitimate undertakings, but building was apparently not among his talents.
At least he would be leaving soon.
But the softness of Lila’s lips still flickered in his mind, making it a good day all around…as well as making regret simmer. How could he leave her? He could almost feel her warmth on his mouth. And because of their last kiss—and he’d almost halted it, foolish as he’d been—he didn’t mind the hammering, the cusses swirling around him. Not even the critique of the handiwork his boss found so weak and wanting.
Mostly, it was the recollection of his head all night in Lila’s lap still pushing through his muscles.
Asa found him after not too long after high noon.
“You’re regretting me hired on for this job, aren’t you?” Bronx wiped his face, for he had tried hard all morning. The sun was shining warm and bright from a hole in the clouds.
“Not a chance,” Asa insisted although he did flush. “You are a hard worker, truth is. Can’t fault you for not knowing how to build a hoe-tel.”
“Truth is, I know how to use a hammer. And a saw. I cut through things, just never built ’em up. I just ain’t sure how to mitre,” Bronx groused back. “And well, despite the use of my gloves, my hands are alive with blisters.”
Asa looked him up and down. “Well, depending on your commitment to this town of Leadville, I have a possibility to make you a trainee.”
“What do you mean?” Bronx leaned against what would someday be a banister.
“Flashing.”
“Flashing? Like lightning?” Bronx grinned, but Asa wasn’t amused.
“Nope.” The old man rolled his eyes and pulled at his beard. “We gotta keep wind and rain out of the little cracks between the brick and mortar. So we set up a cavity lined with flashing, which is thin sheets of copper. Copper’s thin and strong and ain’t gonna tear, gets moisture to drain at places called weep holes. I need some grunt work done alongside with the master masons, and reckon a man of your caliber’d be able to partake of such a task. But you still need training to do even that. And dammit to hell, our shipment didn’t come up from Arapahoe this morning.”
“I guess that mean’s I’m dismissed.” Bronx’s spirits fell a tad at having nothing profitable to do. When he’d signed on, Asa had told him of a yearly wage of almost five hundred dollars, eight-hour days making two-and-a-half dollars, and even Sundays off. Not, of course, that Bronx intended to be in Leadville long, specially now with Gethsemane getting sold and with a Pinkerton right behind. But yesterday, Bronx’d likely earned one greenback. More in his stash to find Tulsa, pay back the horses he’d stole.