Mercury's Rise (Silver Rush 04) (5 page)

“Morrow. Gene Morrow.”

“Mr. Morrow will get the blanket for your husband.”

She handed the tiny woman back into the coach as Morrow went to the rear and pulled the heavy skin from the boot. Inez stepped away from the coach, hugging her elbows against the chill. Before entering the coach to wrap the dead man, the driver looked again at Inez and shook his head once, a quick side-to-side motion.

He would drive as quickly as was safe, she knew. It would be her job to keep panic and hysteria away and maintain some semblance of calm in the coach, even if it meant denying the horror that had just occurred.

Inez waited until Morrow had tucked the robe around the body before venturing back inside. The two Pace children had changed seats to give their mother and father more room, and were now huddling between the nanny and Susan, who had draped a protective arm over their shoulders. “Did you really see a red injin savage?” the little girl asked.

“Indeed I did,” said Susan. “When I was no older than you are now. But his skin was no more red than our driver’s. There were many Indians close to the town where I grew up in Nebraska. This one, he was hardly a savage. He liked to take tea with my father, who ran the town’s newspaper, and they would talk. Why, he even wore a top hat!”

“Stop your prattling, Mathilda,” said Mrs. Pace sharply. “Your father needs his rest.”

Nanny Warren was whimpering as if they were all on their way to the underworld. She clutched the baby, pillowing it to her bosom, and rocked back and forth. “Missus. Oh Missus.”

“Shhh!”

“Here,” said Inez injecting a no-nonsense tone to her voice. “Why don’t I sit on the other side of Mr. Pace, and we’ll just make sure that he stays covered and comfortable.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Stannert.” Mrs. Pace suddenly sounded far more subdued.

“What’s wrong with Papa?” Mathilda wanted to know.

Susan was staring at Inez through the darkening coach. Inez gave a slight shake of the head, cousin to the one from the driver to her.

“Your father has taken ill,” said Mrs. Pace.

“We’ll see what the doctor says when we get to the hotel,” Inez added.

Mathilda looked dubious. “The medicine made him sick.”

“Papa?” said Atticus uncertainly.

Nanny Warren left off whimpering and began to whisper. Inez, sitting across from her, caught “Blessed is he whose transgressions are forgiven, whose sins are covered. Blessed is the man whose sin the Lord does not count against him.”

In her turn, Inez prayed fervently that the road to Manitou would be smooth and swift. But no matter how fast the horses ran, she feared the questions and sorrows rattling within the coach would keep easy pace and only loom the larger at journey’s end, not fade away.

Chapter Five

The ageless sound of racing water kept them company down the pass, across the clatter of a wooden bridge, and into the flats at last. A change in the tempo of hoofbeats alerted Inez that the coach was slowing down. Inez pulled back a corner of the coach curtain, relieving the pitch dark inside. The two oldest children, huddled next to their nanny, stirred. Inez heard one snuffle, then yawn.

Inez eyed the dark shape beside her: Mr. Pace, bundled in a tarp like a caterpillar in its chrysalis. Only, unlike a caterpillar, he was not going to emerge in a new form, unless one counted the journey from life to death as the ultimate transformation.

Mrs. Pace leaned over and gently shook her little girl’s shoulder, whispering to wake her. Inez’s heart constricted at the sight of the children, beginning to stir. Inez became aware of a pale filtered light coming through the curtain and the motionless state of the conveyance, just as her friend Susan said softly, “We’re here.”

A hasty crunch of feet on gravel, accompanied by low male voices outside, stopped. The coach door creaked open. Weak light resolved into a partially shuttered lantern held aloft. The shaft of light revealed the holder of the lamp—a barrel-chested man, dressed formally in a black frock coat but no hat. Thinning hair on top was offset by an impressive pair of white muttonchops, which, like a pair of parentheses, embraced a round and somber face. He gazed at the stirring forms in the coach, before taking in the wrapped figure by the far door.

He said, “Ah,” then turned to the driver. “Mr. Morrow, please fetch Dr. Prochazka. He’s in the clinic, of course.” He returned his attention to the travelers. “I’m Mr. Lewis, that is Mr. Franklin Lewis, hotelier and owner of the Mountain Springs House. You must all be exhausted after your journey. Please, allow me to escort you inside.”

“Are our rooms readied?” Mrs. Pace asked.

“Indeed, Mrs. Pace, they are.” He held out a hand.

Mrs. Pace, now holding the toddler boy, clucked to her daughter. The young girl tentatively disembarked. Mrs. Pace, holding her son, followed. Susan exited, and the nanny with the baby squeezed past Inez and the body of Mr. Pace to hasten out the door.

Inez risked a final glance at the lonely shape bundled on the coach’s seat, then rose and moved to the door to take Franklin Lewis’ steadying hand. A gangly figure behind Lewis scampered to the boot of the stagecoach. Inez caught a glimpse of a youngster hauling out hatboxes and piling them into a three-wheeled handcart.

Lights gleamed through lower windows set under a deep porch, backlighting figures within. The upper floor was mostly dark. Here and there muted illumination bled through drawn curtains. Beyond this half-lit façade, all was blackness, although Inez sensed the hotel sat on a saddle in a rise and the hill continued, in some fashion, behind.

Blessedly cool air caressed her cheek. Inez inhaled as deeply as her sweat-loosened travel corset would allow, and let the sound of the vigorous waterway wash over her. The air seemed heavy compared to Leadville’s thin atmosphere, full of moisture, and redolent with sage and a hint of something sweet and blooming, some kind of rose. The sharp, bracing scent of mint tangled among other scents she could not identify.

Entranced, temporarily distracted from the sorrows of the trip and complications of her life, Inez lingered a moment longer in the welcome air. The small knot of travelers huddled around the lantern and guided by Lewis, drew further away, ever closer to the hotel proper. Inez fell further behind, seeking a few minutes alone before having to face whatever commotion waited inside. She finally turned from the light toward the invisible river and stood still, listening, wishing the water could simply sweep away all problems with its rushing sound.

The loud crunch of hasty footsteps on the gravel behind her belatedly reached her awareness. A hand fell heavy on her shoulder with a stern voice saying, “Nurse Crowson! I need you now.”

Inez’s own hand had flown to her pocket at the instant of the touch. Her new pocket revolver was out, even as she wrenched away and turned. In the confusing light, she looked up.

Tall as she was, Inez was not used to encountering men whose eyes were a handspan or more above her own. Wrapped in a loose white coat, the thin rail of a man took a hasty step back. Reflected light flashed off oval spectacles and touched a head of wild hair, which looked as if its wearer had faced off a windstorm without the aid of any pomade.

“Madam, calm yourself! I mistook you for someone else.” Without further ado, the white shadow brushed past her and stalked toward the carriage, a ghost crossing the gravel pathway.

The knot of travelers had reached the porch and disappeared inside. Lewis was hurrying back in her direction, lantern bobbing. Inez, slipped the pistol back into its hiding place, trying to stop the shaking in her hands.

“Mrs. Stannert.” He positioned himself at her side. “Please, come with me.” Holding the lantern high, he gestured toward the hotel. Inez risked a final glance back over her shoulder. The white-coated figure knelt by the prone shape that was Mr. Pace, with the coach driver standing nearby. Another involuntary shudder ran through her frame.

Lewis took her elbow. “I am sorry that you and Miss Carothers were party to this sad event. Forgive me, but you are shaking like a leaf! The shock of the incident, I’m certain. Come, it’s warm inside and I can supply something to calm your nerves.”

I do hope it is something with a high alcohol content.
She allowed him to guide her to the inn.

One of the hotel staff opened the door for them as they came near. Eyes dazzled by the light, Inez looked around. A wide staircase faced them across the lobby, its long sweep guarded at the top by an impressive bronze statue of Hermes, complete with winged helmet, winged feet, and caduceus. She was willing to bet, although it was too dark to be certain, that the statue also sported the obligatory fig leaf.

To her left, a reception desk was flanked by twin marble pillars. Behind the desk and above the shadowed letterboxes and key board, the antlered heads of what looked like a veritable herd of elk or deer graced the wall. On the right, the lilt of a string quartet drifted to her from behind a set of closed dark-wood doors.

The doorman, a young man with slicked-down blond hair and a “face-spanner” mustache with ferociously waxed points that looked lethal in their sharpness, closed the hotel’s front door with a muted click. Lewis asked him in a soft undertone, “Where is Miss Carothers?”

“In the ladies’ parlor, as you suggested.” The words rolled out in well-schooled syllables that spoke of top-drawer schooling in England. “The fire’s made up, and I am off to prepare the tray.”

Lewis nodded. “Excellent. Thank you, Mr. Epperley.”

Epperley bowed to Inez saying, “Madam,” and moved briskly past the music room and staircase, vanishing down a hallway to the right.

Lewis said, “Mr. Terrance Epperley, my manager. Came to Manitou for the waters at his physician’s orders and decided to stay. Many similar stories here at the springs.”

He guided her to the left of the staircase, away from the music and the lobby and down a hallway punctuated by gaslights set in sconces at regular intervals. Pausing before a door leaking bright light from underneath, he remarked, “Here we are,” and pushed the door open.

Susan looked up from a cushion-filled settee. Other chairs and a divan or two dotted the room, set further back from a fireplace that, despite its painted screen, radiated heat. Susan’s travel coat and hat hung on the coat rack by the door. Inez felt beads of sweat popping out along her hairline, the layers of clothes and overgarments suddenly stifling. On top of it all, she had a raging, overwhelming desire for a glass of something that would take the edge off the day’s events.

Inez unclasped her travel cloak, and allowed Mr. Lewis to slip it from her shoulders. “Mr. Lewis, is there something to drink?”

“Refreshment is on the way. Epperley is preparing it.”

Coat off, Inez gazed down at her skirts. A crust of dried vomit and blood blotted the dark wool from knee to floor. She bit back a groan. The skirt, she feared was a lost cause.

Without her cloak, she felt a coldness penetrate to her bones despite the heat in the room. Shivering, she moved to the fireplace, standing to one side of the screen. A mantle clock ticked loudly into the silence as Lewis took her cloak to the coat rack.

The door swung open, admitting Epperley with a tray of crystalware and a decanter. He handed Inez a cut-crystal goblet before moving to Susan. Inez took a large gulp, only to have the liquid fizz in her mouth, delivering an overwhelming taste of ash and salts. She swallowed reflexively, and almost gagged. She stared at the glass in disbelief, then looked at the hotelier.

“What
is
this?”

Lewis appeared proud, obviously taking her shocked distaste for admiration. “Mineral water from Manitou’s famous Ute Iron spring. You all have been through an extremely difficult event, and no doubt you find yourself much disturbed in temperament and humors. The carbonic acid and carbonate of soda of the waters here in Manitou are known to have a calming effect, soothe inflammations, and relieve dyspepsia, that is, the imperfect actions of the digestive powers. Certain of the springs also address symptoms of nervous exhaustion and those of a,” he averted his eyes, “delicate nature. ”

Her stomach did a flip-flop, feeling like it was back on a badly rutted portion of the coach road. She set the goblet down with a decided
click
on the mantelpiece.

“Something stronger, Mr. Lewis, if you would,” Inez said tersely.

“As you wish. Nurse Crowson makes an excellent mint tea, that does wonders for the nerves.”

“Stronger than tea. If you please.”

He looked around the room, as if at a loss. “We have some wine.”

Inez narrowed her eyes. “I was thinking more along the lines of whiskey. Or brandy.”

Susan froze in mid-sip, crystal glass raised. Lewis’ mouth dropped open. He looked as shocked as if she’d slapped him. No one moved, except for Epperley who set the decanter of spring water on a side table and silently exited the parlor.

Finally Lewis spoke faintly, “Pardon me? Whiskey?”

His horrified stare only enraged her. “Surely, surely, if you haven’t a decent whiskey in the house, the gentlemen in this fine hotel take an occasional glass of after-dinner brandy with their cigars. That will do nicely. Minus the cigar, of course.”