Christie And The Hellcat Part 7

It was all Fred's fault. Nothing but the best would do for his bride-to-be. And since a Parisian seamstress had recently set up shop in Benson, that meant to Benson Christie must go. She had protested, of course. The price the seamstress was charging for a trousseau was obscene, and Christie could see nothing wrong with buying material from Blue's store and making the clothes and under things herself.

She was quite a good needlewoman, and Blue stocked dress patterns.

But Fred was having none of it.

"No offense, Hayes," Fred had said, "but that material really isn't of the quality I require. And those patternswell!" He rolled his eyes. "Hardly the latest fashion." Her brother was wounded, she could see it in his eyes, but he said nothing.

Then Fred patted her hand. "No, Christie, I shall wire Madame Clemence in Benson and arrange for her to see you personally."

And so he had. Christie suppressed a yawn. Poor Blue was becoming quite concerned about her not sleeping, but she had waved him off, said it was nothing. How would he have reacted if he knew she was having nightmares about Zee?

Last night, for example, she had been hiding behind the rain barrel, rifle at the ready, watching Zee fan the hammer of her gun and take out three of Prescott's men. Then it had come, as she had known it would: the moment when Zee's gun clicked on an empty chamber and the man in the red bandanna pointed his shotgun straight at her.

As in real life, Christie had got Red Bandanna in her rifle's sights and pulled the trigger. But this time she had missed and the shotgun blast caught Zee full in the chest. Those compelling blue eyes had widened with shock, then, as though in slow motion, Zee had fallen to the platform and lain still, a glutinous pool of blood widening around her.

Christie had woken with her heart pounding and a cry of anguish on her lips. When Blue rushed in wondering what was wrong, she improvised quickly, claimed to have seen a spider. She wasn't sure he believed her though.

A rustle of newspaper pages turning brought her back to the here and now, and she glanced at her fiance. He had wanted his sn.o.bbish sister Julia to accompany her to Benson and back, since he was staying on the train with the silver all the way to San Francisco. But Christie had shown him the loaded Derringer she kept in her drawstring bag, and reasoned that she was hardly likely to meet drunken 50 riffraff in a Parisian seamstress's shop. Reluctantly he had agreed to let her return home alone.

At least she would be free of him while he was away. The way he insisted on treating her as though she was fragile had at first been flattering, but was becoming irritating. If only she felt the least bit fond of him. But the brief flash of affection she had felt when she accepted his proposal had not recurred. And whenever he kissed heras he was ent.i.tled to do now they were officially betrothedhis lips awoke no response in her whatsoever.

She knew she had made a terrible mistake. But what could she do?

Fred would be devastated if she backed out now, not to mention having grounds for breach of promise, and Blue . . . well, Blue would never say so, but she knew he was looking forward to seeing her settled in her own house, to being able to concentrate on his own prospects for future happinesshe had his eye on Jenny, the blacksmith's pretty daughter.

Fred turned and smiled at her. "Only a few hours to Benson, my dear," he said. "And it will be worth the effort for all those pretty new dresses."

Christie tried not to scream.

GIF.

"Why do you always look so chipper and I feel so old," complained Hogan, as Zee came striding into his office.

"A healthy diet of wine, women, and song." She flung her Stetson at the hat rack and smirked when it plopped onto the hook.

"Ha! Don't let those Temperance Union biddies hear you. They'll be around here with their soap boxes, preaching the virtues of clean-living and teetotalism, before you can blink."

"After yesterday, I reckon they've written me off as a lost cause."

She grinned, unrepentant, and perched on the corner of his desk. "So.

What's on your mind?"

"I want you to mind the store." His gesture encompa.s.sed the curling Wanted posters and yellowing back copies of The Police Gazette.

She raised an eyebrow. "Going somewhere?"

"Heard some rumorsnothing substantial. The Cody Gang has been seen sniffing around the depot and railroad tracks."

Zee pursed her lips. "Think they know about the silver shipment?"

51.

"That's my theory." Hogan rose, crossed to the rifle cabinet, unlocked it, and took out his Winchester '73 and some ammunition.

"Anyway, thought I'd take a look-see, scout around a bit." He relocked the cabinet and began to load cartridges into the rifle's magazine.

"Anything in particular you want me to keep an eye on while you're gone?"

He shook his head. "It'll liven up tonight, always does on a Friday, but you can handle it; anyway I'll probably be back by then."

"Couldn't get much rowdier than it's been."

"Ain't that a fact."

It had been one of those weeks. Monday: she'd had to break up a fight between a Mexican and a Chinaman, former partners in a silver claim, who were attacking each other with pick-axes. Tuesday: Diamond Dust Kate had taken exception to something Clubfoot Liz said, and Zee had had to soak the two of them with a pail of water before she could pry them apart. Wednesday: one gambler at the Golden Slipper had accused another of cheating. The accuser ended up dead; an innocent bystander was shot in the arm. And yesterday: members of the Temperance Union had marched into the Last Chance Saloon, singing "Rock of Ages" at the top of their lungs and smashing every gla.s.s and bottle in sight. Zee had grabbed the not so tem-perate ringleaders by the neck and bustle of their gowns and bodily thrown them out into the street, then advised the saloon owner to send them the bill for damages.

"All righty." Hogan grabbed his Stetson from the hat rack and crammed it on his head, then picked up the rifle and a full canteen and headed for the exit. In the doorway, he paused, turned, and nodded toward the comfortable chair he always reserved for himself.

"Make yourself at home while I'm gone, Deputy."

"Thanks," said Zee, sitting down, crossing her ankles, and resting her boot heels on the desk. "I will."

GIF.

Benson looked as if it had started out like any other mining town, thought Christie, as she traipsed along Main Street looking for Madame Clemence's, but it was on its way up. Contention didn't have nearly as many stores or shops, and its hotel paled in comparison.

52.

She could still feel Fred's wet kiss on her lips, his beard and mustache p.r.i.c.kling her chin. At least, as they were in public, he hadn't tried to put his tongue in her mouth.

"I hope your trip is successful," she had said, meaning it, as they stood side by side at the bottom of the rail car's steps.

"It will be. Now remember, Christie, as my wife you will have a certain position to uphold, so let Madame Clemence do what she needs to. I wired her full instructions."

She sighed. "All right."

"Good. I'll see you in a week." Then he kissed her and bounded up the steps, and the porter closed the door behind him.

At the window, Fred raised his hand in farewell, and mouthed something that might have been "I love you." She threw him a weak smile and raised her gloved hand in reply. Then the locomotive whistled twicea mournful sound in keeping with Christie's moodand, with a great shudder and clatter, the train pulled away.

With a start, she realized she was pa.s.sing by what was obviously a brothel and blushed at the sight of the wh.o.r.es lounging on the balcony in their petticoats. Unfortunately, averting her gaze caught their attention and gained her a barrage of whistles and comments for her trouble.

"What's the matter, honey? We got something you ain't seen before?"

"More like we've got something she wants."

Laughter. "Maybe she's just lost? You lost, sweetheart? Cute little thing like you? Why don't you come in? We'll soon put you right."

Cheeks burning and chin tucked in, she hurried onward, trying to ignore the comments wafting after her. Then she saw, on a recently painted store front, a sign proclaiming: "Direct from Paris: Henrietta Clemence, Seamstress to the Gentry."

She crossed to the gla.s.s-fronted door, turned the handle, and darted inside to the accompaniment of a bell jangling, then leaned back against the closed door in relief.

"Can I help you, Miss?" came a soft voice. The speaker was a girl with heavy eyebrows and a downtrodden expression.

"My name is Christie Hayes." Christie pulled the tattered rem-nants of her dignity round her like a cloak. "I have an appointment for a fitting . . . for my trousseau."

The girl brightened. "We've been expecting you. I'll just fetch

53.

Madame. One moment."

While the a.s.sistant hurried away into the interior, Christie turned and sneaked a glance through the door gla.s.s at the brothel. The "ladies" were now hara.s.sing another pa.s.serby, but far from being embarra.s.sed or offended, the whiskery old gent had a grin plastered from ear to ear and seemed to be giving as good as he got. She sighed and turned back in time to see the a.s.sistant returning, and behind her, like a galleon in full sail, the seamstress herself.

"Bienvenu, Miss Hayes," said the matronly woman, swishing her full skirts. "I am Madame Clemence." She looked at her a.s.sistant.

"And this is Jeanette. My measuring tapes, s'il vous plait, Jeanette."

She turned her attention back to Christie. "We have a lot to get through. Come upstairs to the fitting room and we shall begin."

One and a half hours later, Christie's back was aching from all the standing around while both Madame and Jeanette took their endless measurements. Fred had apparently given instructions that Christie should be provided with a complete new wardrobe from her under things up. Which meant she absolument must have: chemises, corset bodices, drawers, petticoats, nightgownsedged with lace, of course, and monogrammeda wedding dress ( naturellement), a day dress, a tea gown, an evening dress, and a dinner gown . . .

Christie had held up her hand. "Please. This is far too much. May I not have just a few simple, easy to care for garments?"

A shocked Madame Clemence was having none of it though. If Christie wanted to be tres chic, she must let Madame Clemence advise her. Reluctantly, Christie held her peace.

Next came the choice of designs and fabrics, which must match Christie's coloring. Madame was particularly taken with the color of her eyes and her hair, and thought she had just the thing, but she deplored Christie's unfashionable hairstyle. Had she never thought of wearing hairpieces? They were all the rage. Christie won the battle on that topic ( Oh la la), but the war continued.

As the fitting progressed (though it seemed to Christie as if little progress was being made), and Jeanette adjusted and pinned according to Madame's directions, she learned Madame's opinions on the merits (or otherwise) of high necks versus low, puff sleeves versus leg of mutton, and wool versus silk brocade. Bustles, she was unsurprised to learn, since Madame was wearing one herself, were a must.

m.u.f.fled gunfire startled her. "What was that?"

54.

"Miss Hayes, s'il vous plait," chided Madame Clemence, prevent-ing Christie from moving toward the window.

The shots, thought a frustrated Christie, sounded as though they had come from right outside. What was going on?

"We have far too much still to do," said Madame, "if you are going to catch your train home on time."

With a sigh, Christie resigned herself once more to the torture.

Chapter 10.

Zee studied the man lying face down in the dirt. Bill Gribble had been a fool, and vicious with it. Now he was a dead fool.

It had been a quiet morning, so Zee had pinned a note of her whereabouts to the jail door and returned to Angie's Palace, where she settled down to play poker with some of the girls not working.

She had just been dealt a Full House, when they heard terrified screams.

Zee ran up the staircase flat out and reached the bedrooms in seconds. She kicked open Lazy Alice's door, and found Gribble, face red with rage, pistol-whipping the girltoo much beer had affected his prowess in bed, so, of course, he blamed the little wh.o.r.e.

She pulled the son-of-a-b.i.t.c.h off Alice and gave him a taste of his own medicine. But the weasely little man was so incensed at being pistol-whipped by a woman, he called Zee out.

She gave a mental shrug. Admittedly, she hadn't tried to dissuade him too hard, but she wasn't going to apologize for that. The memory of a battered and bleeding Alice cowering in the corner, unable to reach the Derringer all the girls kept in their bedside cabinets, was too fresh.

So . . . she had accepted Gribble's challenge, and they had taken their business out onto Main Street. With the inevitable outcome.

She reholstered her still smoking gun and turned the body over with the toe of her boot. Straight through the heart. No need to call Doc Pellet.

Squatting beside Gribble, she began going through his pockets.

Three dollars. The town coffers would have to foot the rest of the undertaker's bill, since the bad-tempered miner had no relatives or friends, as far as she knew.