Brayton, Colorado, 1876

Light spilled on to the boardwalk just ahead, and the sounds of merriment grew closer with each of Shelley's steps. As he moved toward the only bright spot in the dark night, the light and laughter called to him. The Silver Palace, Oscar Beddingfield's fine saloon and gaming house, had always been Brayton's one redeeming feature as it was one of Shelley's favorite places to spend a day or two.

Oscar's prices were fair, and he never watered the tequila. It had only been a few years ago that he had added his "girls," whom he named after colors and dressed accordingly. His girls were clean, young, and pretty, and as far as Shelley knew, he employed only three: Cherry Red, Bonnie Blue, and Summer Green.

Shelley grinned as he entered the circle of light coming from the saloon that spread over the boardwalk, and stopped for a moment to listen to the murmur of voices and the enticing ring of bottles lightly touching empty glasses. He heard Cherry Red laugh, a harsh, forced laugh. She'd be glad to see him, and so would Oscar. Shelley always managed to spend a bundle when he stayed a few days in Brayton. Between the tequila Oscar stocked for him, and Cherry, he always left the Silver Palace a poorer man. But a happier one.

He studied the room over the top of the batwing doors. The bartender was pouring drinks and Oscar was lovingly polishing the long bar. The Silver Palace had come a long way in eleven years from the ramshackle saloon Oscar had founded. There was a gaming room in the back, a small stage in the front room, and several comfortably furnished rooms upstairs which customers paid dearly to visit. Dollar whores were available down the street, but Oscar's girls were special.

The front room was packed, more crowded than Shelley had ever seen it. His grin faded. Crowds made him nervous, just a bit. He was always watching his back, and couldn't relax like he needed to on occasion. Cherry was busy, sitting in a bearded man's lap and whispering into his ear as she swung one leg in a calculated move to keep the customers' attentions on her.

"Shelley!" Cherry Red screamed, and half the room turned to watch as she left the man's lap and ran across the room as Shelley pushed his way through the swinging doors. He caught her when she jumped into his arms, wrapping her legs around his waist and clasping her hands behind his neck.

Shelley held her, his arms around her waist. "Hello, darlin'," he drawled. "I'd a been here sooner if I'd a known I had a greetin' like this waitin' for me."

Cherry planted an ardent kiss on his lips. "It's been ages since you were here, Shelley. Don't you like me anymore?" She pouted, her full and brightly painted lower lip trembling slightly.

"Of course I like you, darlin'."

Shelley lowered Cherry to her feet and smoothed her red silk dress. The skirt ended just above her knees, and she swung one black-stockinged leg seductively, enticing every man in the room. The fair, blue-eyed blonde was a favorite at the Silver Palace. It was no coincidence that Summer was a redhead and Bonnie had light brown hair. Oscar had seen to that. Variety.

Shelley spun Cherry around and patted her on the bottom, sending her back to the miner she'd deserted. "I'll see you later." He ran a hand over his bearded jaw when she turned back to him, pouting. "After I have a drink, a shave, and a bath."

"I can take care of all that for you, Shelley," she offered, but he turned away from her and sauntered to the bar, grinning at Oscar.

Oscar reached under the bar and placed a bottle of tequila on the polished wooden surface. "What have you been up to, Shelley?" he asked as he poured the pale amber liquid into a heavy shot glass. Though he employed a bartender, who was pouring drinks for an impatient group of miners further down the long bar, Shelley knew that Oscar always insisted on serving Shelley himself.

Shelley leaned into the bar and tossed back the tequila. He closed his eyes and savored the first taste. The first of many. "Same old thing. Just turned in Willie Erskine. Slippery fella. Led me a merry chase through half the Rocky Mountain Range."

"But you caught him, of course," Oscar prodded.

He nodded and poured the next shot himself.

"Is he at the sheriff's office here in Brayton?"

"That's where I left him." Shelley was quickly becoming tired of the subject. Yes, that was where he'd left Willie Erskine. His body, anyway. After all, the poster said dead or alive, and Willie had refused to be taken alive.

Oscar smiled, and Shelley could see the man's mind at work. Willie Erskine had been worth 500 dollars.

"I heard you tell Cherry you wanted a bath and a shave. Barber shop's closed. Why don't you let me have the girls fix you a bath upstairs? If you don't want to wait until morning, Cherry can shave your beard for ya."

Shelley grinned and poured another shot. "I might take you up on that offer of a bath later on, but I'll be damned if any woman is gonna take a razor to my face. I can shave myself, thank you."

He leaned on the bar and took a deep breath. The Silver Palace was one of several saloons that were like home to him. He loved the smell of cigar smoke, cheap perfume, and the oil Oscar used to shine the bar.

"What's new around here? Any luck replacing Iris?"

The question caused Oscar to lose his smile. "Ungrateful girl. I still can't believe she ran off with that sodbuster."

Iris White had been one of Oscar's most popular girls, dark-haired and tall and by far the most beautiful girl who had ever worked for him. She had surprised everyone by eloping with a widowed farmer who had four young children.

Oscar's smile slowly returned. "But you haven't seen my newest attraction."

"A new woman?" Shelley raised his eyebrows.

Oscar shrugged his shoulders. "Not yet. At least, not like you think. I've found me a singer."

He grimaced. He had heard some godawful singers in saloons attempting to provide entertainment other than whiskey, women, and cards. "The last singer you hired brought tears to my eyes, Oscar, and I don't mean that kindly."

Oscar laughed. "Hiring that woman who claimed to be an entertainer from New Orleans was one of my worst mistakes. Her voice grated on one's nerves even as she danced half naked on the stage. But this one's got the voice of an angel." He gestured to the crowded room. "See all these customers? Most of them are here to see her."

He grinned lopsidedly. "Is she pretty?"

"Well... " Oscar screwed up his face, thinking hard. "Her face is kinda... peculiar."

His smile faded.

"I don't rightly know what kinda figure she's got, because she's always wearing this black dress that would probably fit you, it's so big. It hangs on her, and there's black silk everywhere. I tried to get her to wear one of Iris's old costumes, but she wouldn't have none of it. She's a widow, see, from St. Louis. Still mourning, I reckon." Oscar looked pensive. "Every now and then I look at her close and I think she'd clean up real nice."

"Why don't you threaten to fire her if she don't wear what you tell her to? You're the boss." Shelley looked around the crowded room.

"Tried that. She said she'd go, and I believe her." He shook his head. "Stubborn woman. I can't afford to lose her, and she knows it."

"What's her name?"

Oscar laughed. "Ann Brown, and I swear to God I didn't name this one."

At that moment the woman they'd been speaking of walked into the saloon through a side door and headed for the stage. The room broke into thunderous applause to which she gave a brief nod and an even briefer smile. Alfred, the aged black man who had been playing the piano at the Silver Palace for eight years, was already seated at the piano as Ann Brown climbed the steps to the stage.

Oscar's description had been accurate. Her black dress was volumes too big, and buttoned from just beneath her chin to the floor, where it brushed gently as she walked. He'd used the word peculiar to describe her face. Shelley thought it merely tired and colorless, though the dark circles under her eyes were odd. Her sable brown hair was in a tight bun at her nape. Shelley thought, before she opened her mouth, that she'd better be a damn good singer.

With no introduction or word to the audience, she began to sing, and Shelley was entranced. He knew nothing about music -- pitch, tone, resonance. He only knew that her voice was perfection. Sweet, strong, and somehow uplifting. She began with "Annie Laurie" and went directly into a rendition of "Lorena." Several patriotic songs followed.

Shelley shifted his attention from her to the room. All eyes were on the stage. Miners, cowhands, even the gamblers had left their cards behind and stood congregated in the doorway to the gaming room. The only faces that were less than friendly were on the three women who found themselves suddenly ignored. Cherry, in particular, seemed put out by all the attention Mrs. Brown was receiving. Her red mouth was set in a pursed frown, and when at one point she leaned over to speak to Summer, she was quickly shushed by a nearby admirer of the singer.

Ann Brown sat on a three-legged stool, her voluminous skirt spread around her, her hands folded primly in her lap. Her dark eyes were fixed on a far distant place above the heads of her audience, as if she were singing to an empty room.

When Mrs. Brown finished the evening's entertainment to shouts and whistles and uproarious applause, she left the stage with little visible awareness of the commotion she had created. She walked with her head down, exiting through the side door. Only after she'd left the room did the gamblers return to their cards, and Oscar's girls were the center of attention once again.

Shelley was about to look away from the door the odd Mrs. Brown had disappeared through when he saw a well-dressed and impeccably groomed man, sitting alone and near the back of the room, rise and follow her.

Shelley leaned over the bar and grabbed Oscar's arm. "Who is that fella?" He nodded to the door as the man passed through it.

Oscar shrugged. "Stranger. Showed up here yesterday. Spent a lot of time with the girls." He smiled.

Shelley sauntered toward the side door that he knew opened into a narrow alleyway. It was none of his business that the man had followed the pale singer... except that she didn't look like the kind of woman who could look after herself, if it came to that.

"You're not leaving already, are you?"

Cherry stepped between him and the door. He jumped. He hadn't seen her coming, and that wasn't like him. He prided himself on being observant... always aware of what was going on around him. In his business it was crucial.

He gave her a charming smile. "Just going out for a bit of fresh air, darlin'."

She winked at him. "How about I keep you company?"

He looked over her shoulder to the door. "Not this time. Cherry. I'll be back in a few minutes."

He brushed past her, but she stopped him, her fingernails digging into his arm through the thin fabric of his shirt. "If you're following her you're wasting your time."

"I'm not following anybody."

"There's been a fella in here asking about her. I think he's an old friend or something. You don't want to interrupt them, do you?"

"Jesus, Cherry," he snapped. "I just need some damn air." He removed her hand from his arm and stepped into the alley.

To his left was the main street. Straight ahead a mere five feet was the side wall of the general store. To the right, he knew, was a flight of stairs that led to a small room Oscar sometimes rented at an exorbitant rate. It was quiet, hidden from the street, and Shelley knew without a doubt that that was where Mrs. Brown lived, so he turned in that direction.

The man he had seen follow Mrs. Brown was leaning against the handrail at the foot of the stairs, a cigar in one hand, his other hand in his pocket. Shelley studied the man as he approached slowly. He was no miner, no cowhand, didn't dress like a gambler. His clothes were more suited to the East than the West, but he was no greenhorn. The stranger reminded Shelley of the man he had met in Kansas City. They'd been after the same outlaw, and the man had been a detective for Pinkerton's Detective Agency.

Shelley took a deep breath, mussed his dark blond hair, and began a drunken rendition of "Annie Laurie" as he approached the man. He tripped over the first step of the stairway that led to the room where he was certain Mrs. Brown was staying, purposely landing on his face. Then he saw her... crouched beneath the steps like a frightened mouse. Their eyes met, just for a second, and he winked at her. She was barely three feet from the man she was hiding from. Had it been daylight she would have had no cover at all.

Shelley pulled himself slowly to his feet, grasping the handrail as if for dear life. "Annie!" he yelled as he faced the door at the top of the stairs. He waited several seconds, ignoring the other man, and then yelled again.

The stranger who waited at the bottom of the stairs turned to him in disgust. "She's not there."

Shelley looked at the man as if surprised. "You sure?" He slurred his words just slightly. "I'm supposed to meet her here... I think... " He turned and stepped cautiously down the few steps to the ground. "Maybe I was supposed to meet her at my place... sometimes I forget details like that." He gave the man a searching look. "She gets mad at me when I forget."

Pulling on his cigar, the man peered at Shelley with sudden interest. "You're well acquainted with Ann Brown?"

"Well acquainted?" He grinned. "I guess you could call it that. I've known Annie for a long time... a long time."

The man tossed his cigar to the ground and stomped it out with the toe of his well-polished boot. "How long, exactly?"

Shelley knew then that the man was Pinkerton's, or some other sort of detective or lawman. What could a sweet little thing like Mrs. Brown have done to make this man track her?

"Two years," he slurred.

"You knew her in St. Louis, then? Before her husband died?" the man pressed.

He nodded.

"I need to talk to her. One of the ladies told me she'd been here four weeks. Is that correct?"

He shrugged. "I reckon."

"Did you actually know her husband, the late Mr. Brown?" The detective's tone was increasingly authoritative.

Swaying drunkenly, Shelley placed his arm around the detective's shoulder, leaning heavily against the smaller man. He always liked to know what he was up against. There was a pistol in the detective's shoulder holster, and a derringer in his left boot.

"You want to talk to my Annie?"

"I'd like that, yes."

Shelley turned and led the man toward the street. "I'll take you to my place. She's probably waiting there for me right now." He leaned in, placing his face close to the detective's, giving the man a chance to smell the tequila on his breath. "If you're with me maybe she won't yell at me too much for being late."

He pressed heavily against the man all the way down the alley, until he could see the boardwalk that ended in front of the general store. Suddenly he lurched to the side, bringing the man with him, and before the detective could react, Shelley's fist connected with his jaw. It was a well-placed, well-practiced blow, and the little man slumped to the ground.

Shelley took the detective's pistol from its holster, drew the derringer from his well-polished boot, and tossed the weapons further back into the alley. Then he turned and all but ran toward Ann Brown's hiding place.

Shelley bent over and peeked under the stairs where she crouched in a dark heap of heavy silk. There was a lot more fabric there than woman. He offered his hand and she took it, slipping out from her shelter with a wary expression on her face. He held her slender hand for a moment before she pulled it slowly away and held it to her breast.

"Is he gone?"

"Otherwise detained." Shelley shoved his hands in his pockets. "But not for long."

"I've got to get out of here."

She turned and ran up the stairs, fishing a key from a pocket in the folds of her skirt. She stopped with the key in the lock and turned to him hesitantly. "Thank you. I don't know why you... "

He shook his head. "Darlin', neither do I."

Ann Brown disappeared into her room, reappearing moments later with a worn leather satchel. She was apparently surprised to see him still standing at the foot of the stairs, blocking her path of escape, and she descended the stairway cautiously.

"Where are you going?"

"West," she said, stopping while still several steps from the ground and him. "Do you mind?"

He stepped back, and she flew to the bottom of the stairs, brushing past him.

"How?" He followed her, even as she took a wide berth around the man who still lay slumped against the wall of the general store.

"Is he dead?" she asked, her voice small.

Shelley continued to follow. "No, so you'd better hurry. You didn't answer my question."

"I don't know." She started down the boardwalk, stepping quickly, until he grabbed her arm and spun her around.

He'd opened his mouth to chastise her, but closed it quickly when he saw that her eyes were full of unshed tears. "Just stop and think a minute," he said kindly. "You can't just walk out of town."

"I don't have any choice," she said, her voice still small, but steady. "I appreciate what you've done, but... "

"Why don't you hire me to take you where you're going?" he offered. The words were out of his mouth before he had a chance to think. Why had he said that?

Ann Brown took a step back. "I... I don't have very much money."

"How much?"

"Thirty-six dollars."

He shrugged. "Thirty dollars is fair salary for a month's work as a cowhand."

"Is that what you are? A cowboy?"

He shook his head. "Nah. They work too hard. But escorting a lady to her destination shouldn't be too much work, even for me."

"For thirty dollars?" she asked suspiciously.

He narrowed his eyes and gave her a crooked grin. "I'll make you a deal. Thirty dollars and you sing me a song every night."

A slice of moonlight lit the lower half of her face, and a smile transformed it pleasantly. "Then we have an agreement, Mr. . . ."

"Shelley." He offered his hand and they shook on the deal. "Just Shelley. Where are we headed?"

"San Francisco."

He took her arm and led her toward the livery. "San Francisco? Hell, woman, you plan on getting your money's worth, don't you?"

"You can back out any time, Mr. Shelley," she offered, and she was sincere.

"Nah. I've got a brother in San Francisco. Haven't seen him in... hell, I think it's been five years. And it's not Mr. Shelley. It's just Shelley."

Far behind them he heard the detective's muttered oath, and Shelley quickened his step. The lady beside him needed no encouragement to follow suit.

"I don't suppose you're gonna tell me why that man's after you?" he asked as they stepped into the shadow of the stables.

"I can't," she whispered.

He tied her bag behind the cantle and lifted her into the saddle. He sat behind her, studying her profile as she looked to the ground and tried not to lean against him.

San Francisco. Goddamn.

Copyright © 1995 by Linda Winstead Jones