Bushedwhacked Bride (34 page)
Chapter Thirty-one
Sitting beside Cole in their handsome folding-top buggy,
Jessica was filled with awe as they crossed the bridge
over Monument Creek and entered the streets of
Col
orado Springs
. Back in
Colorado
City
, she’d insisted they
leave their horses at Margery’s Stable on the outskirts of
town, and hire out the conveyance and team of matched
grays, in order to enter the city in style. The fall day was
cool, and in keeping with their spiffy image, Jessica was
attired in her new serge traveling dress and jaunty hat;
Cole wore his new black frock coat, fawn-colored
trousers, and black dress western hat.
Jessica glanced about her eagerly while scribbling
notes in her journal. Set amid rolling hills,
Colorado
Springs
lay sprawled beneath the eastern face of the
Rockies, with spectacular snow-capped
Pike’s Peak
serv
ing as a backdrop. Although the city was only of medium
size, surely no more than five thousand people, it was the largest metropolis Jessica had seen since she’d journeyed
back in time. She marveled at the sights they passed—the
quaint street lamps, the peddlers with their vegetable,
pastry, and cream cheese carts, the ice and milk wagons, the shoppers and businessmen in their elegant Victorian clothing, marching down boardwalks past clapboard
storefronts, dormered hotels, mining offices, and liveries.
And everywhere she looked were shade trees—ranging
from paper birch to elm, cottonwood, poplar, pine, and
spruce.
“I’ve never seen so many trees,” Jessica remarked.
“I read once that one of the founders, Major McAllis
ter, planted five thousand of them back in ‘73.”
“Gracious.”
As they turned north onto Nevada Avenue, Jessica was
amazed at all the convalescent homes and rooming
houses lining the street, with invalids crowding the ve
randas and yards in their chaise lounges, huddling be
neath quilts and clutching books. “My heavens,” she remarked to Cole. “I knew
Colorado Springs
was once a
mecca for the sick, but I never quite imagined this.”
“It’s the clean air and high altitude,” he replied. “Both
known to improve the lot of those with consumption and
other lung ailments. Lots of miners end up here. Wish this
place had been around back when my stepdaddy took sick.”
She touched his hand and smiled. “I’m sorry, Cole.”
“Well, we can be happy the facilities are here now.” He gestured at a massive edifice to the east of them. “Though
the new
St.
Francis
Hospital
is already full to capacity, I
hear.”
“There’s a lot of need here,” she remarked.
“Sure is. Much of it caused by Miser and his cohorts.”
Guiding the team around a corner and heading west on
Pike’s Peak Avenue, Cole pointed ahead to a massive
gray stone structure. “That’s the Antlers Hotel, built by
General Palmer, one of the town’s founders.”
Jessica studied the large Tudor masterpiece with its
towers, cupolas, and dormers. “It’s magnificent. May we stay there?”
“Sure, sugar, if that s what you want.”
“Don’t forget you must register as Clay Lively, not
Cole Reklaw. And we’ll need separate rooms again.”
“Aw, shucks.”
She wrinkled her nose at him. “Although there might
be some shenanigans after-hours.”
“Like there were last night?” he teased.
As they pulled up to the hotel, a valet in red uniform and cap rushed forward. “May I see to your buggy and team, sir?”
“Sure.” Cole handed the man a coin.
“I’ll have a man bring in your luggage, sir.”
Cole alighted and helped Jessica down. A smiling doorman held open the front door, and they entered the
massive lobby with its richly patterned Brussels carpet,
its high ceilings and brass and glass chandeliers, its handsome walnut furnishings. Not far from the front desk, two
smartly attired gentlemen were smoking cigars and play
ing cards; as Jessica passed, both men popped to their
feet, offered clipped bows, and murmured “Madam” with
definite British inflection. Jessica nodded back, amused
by the men’s continental style suits, their well-waxed,
curling mustaches and slicked-back hair parted down the
middle.
Behind her, Cole whispered, “Lots of English fellas in
this town. Reckon that’s why they call it ‘Little London.’“
“Ah,” she murmured.
They paused before the massive desk, also fashioned
of finest carved walnut, with an amazing brass sculpture
of a big-horned sheep perched at one end.
“May I help you, sir?” inquired the clerk, a short, thin
man in a black suit.
“Yes. Two rooms,” pronounced Cole. “One for me, and
one for the lady—er, my cousin.”
“Yes, sir. Our rooms run two dollars a day, but that’s
including meals. And would you like views of
Pike’s
Peak
? It’s two bits extra.”
Cole winked at Jessica. “Sure, why not?”
“All our rooms are equipped with gas light,” the clerk continued, “and there are two—er—bathing facilities on
each floor. Do you wish to have telephones in your
rooms? That’s another ten cents.”
“Hot damn!” declared Cole. ‘Telephones, eh? You
folks really are highfalutin’.”
“Yes, General Palmer had us add them to some of the
rooms, for our most particular guests.”
“We’d love to have telephones,” Jessica told the man,
mainly because she wanted to see one of the quaint de
vices herself.
Cole registered them, and the desk clerk handed him
two keys. “I’ve got you on the second floor, and your
cousin next door. I assume that will suffice, sir?”
“Oh, yes.”
“You can take the elevator up, sir.”
“Elevator, eh?” Cole repeated. To Jessica he bragged,
“Don’t worry, I know all about those newfangled conveyances. I rode in one out at the mines.”
“My, I’m so impressed,” Jessica replied drolly.
They strolled down the opulent carpet to the ornate wrought-iron elevator cage. A bellhop stepped forward. “May I take you up, sir?”
“Sure. Only take care not to scare the lady, will you? She’s never been in one of these contraptions before.”
The clerk said, “Of course, sir.”
Cole patted Jessica’s hand. “Don’t worry, honey. I’ll
get you through it. It’ll even be fun.”
She rolled her eyes.
The clerk opened a folding gate and bid them enter the small cage. Stepping inside after them, he asked, “Which floor, sir?”
‘Two.”
The man shut both doors and the car lurched upward.
“Hey, take it easy,” Cole scolded.
“Yes, sir.”
Cole squeezed Jessica’s arm. “Don’t fret, honey. We’re
just going up, as we should be.”
Jessica burst out laughing, and Cole shot her a per
plexed look.
When the door opened on the next floor, Cole stuck his
head outside and glanced about warily. He turned back to
Jessica and offered his arm. “It’s safe,” he assured her.
“You’re so funny,” she declared, stepping out.
Cole followed, muttering a thank you to the man.
Cole unlocked Jessica’s door and followed her inside,
whistling at the opulent expanse of rose-colored, brocaded wallpaper, a pink, cut-glass chandelier dripping
with prisms, the mahogany four-poster bed and dressing
table, and a tufted red velvet Duncan Phyfe settee.
“You happy, sugar?”
Jessica stared in awe at green silk brocade draperies,
and roller shades painted with rosy-cheeked cherubs.
“I’m overwhelmed. It’s like a bordello.”
“Bordello?” he scoffed.
“Well, it’s very Victorian.”
“Woman, I’ll never understand you and your loco way
of talking.”
Before she could respond, there was a knock at the
door. Jessica threw Cole a warning look, and he ducked through a side door into his adjoining room. She admit
ted the bellhop with her luggage. She tipped the man,
then opened the French doors and stepped out onto the
balcony with its charming wicker chairs. She gazed at the
spectacular view of
Pike’s Peak
, its snowy pinnacle
agleam in a misty shaft of sunlight. Directly below her on
the railroad tracks, a magnificent steam engine of the
Denver
and
Rio Grande
sat huffing smoke into the blue
heavens as passengers from the adjacent station house boarded the old-style
Pullman
cars. Jessica could only
shake her head at this scene as charming as a Currier and Ives painting.
Cole stepped out to join her. “What a view!”
A brisk breeze stirred; Jessica rubbed her arms. “Yes,
it’s fabulous. Did the bellhop drop off your luggage?”
Cole draped an arm about her shoulders. “Yeah. We
shouldn’t be disturbed again. Come on back in, honey.
You’re shivering.”
After Cole shut the doors behind them, his gaze came
to rest on the antique black telephone sitting on a tea
table. “Hot damn, guess that’s the telephone. Never seen one before, though I heard you can use it to talk to folks
who are far away.”
“Try it,” suggested Jessica.
Cole strode over to the phone and picked up the re
ceiver, holding it in his hand and staring at it in perplex
ity. “Nothing happening,” he muttered.
Jessica joined him and pointed at a knob on the antique box. “Maybe you need to crank it first.”
“Oh.” Cole flipped the crank several times, raised the receiver slightly again, and scowled as both of them could hear
the faint sound of a woman’s voice.
He examined the receiver from various angles, his
frown deepening. “Now there’s a woman trapped in there
somewhere.”
Jessica laughed. “No, silly, her voice is being transmit
ted through the phone wires. Just put the receiver up to
your ear.” Taking his hand, she demonstrated, lifting the
receiver and positioning it against his ear and mouth.
“There. Now listen.”
Cole listened intently, then lowered the receiver and
whispered, “She’s talking again. What am I supposed to
do?”
“Listen to what she’s saying, and talk back.”
He lifted the receiver again. At last, with a perplexed
frown, he said, “No, lady, I don’t have a number, but I do
have a name. You want to hear it?” There was a brief
pause, then he added, “Well, you don’t have to be nasty
about it.”
Jessica convulsed with laughter.
Cole lowered the receiver and glowered. “What are
you laughing about? I heard a click and now the lady isn’t there anymore.”
“She hung up on you.”
“She
what?”
Jessica took the receiver from Cole’s hand and placed
it in its cradle. “She wanted to know the number of the party you wanted to speak with.”
“Their
number?
That makes no sense. Why should I
give her a number for some other person, when every
body already has a name?”
“Cole, you’re so funny. If this has got you mystified,
I’ll never be able to explain twentieth-century technology
to you.”
“Huh?”
“In my time, we don’t even have to speak with opera
tors to make calls. We just punch numbers on telephones
and we can contact any person in the entire world.”
“Yeah?” He eyed her askance.
“In my time, we have elevators, but they don’t need op
erators either. We run them ourselves. We get inside
them, punch some numbers, and rise dozens of stories in only seconds.”