This novella is a work of fiction. Names, place, characters and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Copyright ©Linda Carroll-Bradd All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute or transmit in any form or by any means without express permission from author or publisher.

  Published by Inked Figments

  Cover artist: Charlene Raddon of Silver Sage Books, https://silversagebookcovers.com

  Edited by: Shenoa of Lustre Editing http://lustreediting.com

  Manufactured in the United States

  ISBN: 978-1-940546-29-2

  First printing January, 2020

  This book is copyrighted intellectual property. Purchasing this e-book gives you the right to one copy for your reading enjoyment. The purchase does not grant resale rights, sharing rights (either individual file sharing or sharing through peer-to-peer programs) auction or contest prize rights, or rights of any kind to sell or give away a copy of this book.

  Doing so is considered piracy and criminal copyright infringement—an illegal act in violation of U.S. Copyright Law and can be investigated by the Federal Bureau of Investigation and is punishable by a maximum of five years in federal prison in addition to a $250,000 fine.

  Please respect Linda Carroll-Bradd’s right to earn a living from her creative endeavors. If you have knowledge of misuse of this e-book, do not hesitate to contact Inked Figments at inkedfigments@gmail.com.

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Epilogue

  OTHER HISTORICAL TITLES

  BY LINDA CARROLL-BRADD

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Chapter One

  “I assure you, Missus Harrison, escorting you is not an inconvenience. The Palace Hotel places guest requests as our highest priority.” Catalina del Mar smiled across the polished lobby counter at the waiting woman. Where is that porter? Her job was to handle registrations for hotel guests, not tote their luggage.

  Doing her best to hide her irritation, Catalina gave the well-appointed lobby another quick onceover. Afternoon sunshine filtered through the large windows overlooking one of Cheyenne’s busiest intersections. Pedestrians strolled or strode down wooden boardwalks bordering the dirt street busy with freight wagons, vegetable peddlers, and riders on horseback. A young boy, with the strap of a rucksack slung over a shoulder, waved an upraised arm, hawking newspapers.

  Ensconced in a grouping of leather armchairs, several guests chatted in the far corner near a large woodstove. A dark-haired man seated in an armchair near the other stove held the Cheyenne Daily Leader spread before him, although he seemed more interested in something through the front window. The gentleman had piqued her curiosity earlier, but she didn’t have time to investigate what he might be watching. What she didn’t see was a glimpse of the young man hired to perform this luggage-toting task. Recently, Pete was absent from his post too many times for Catalina’s preference. She disliked having to report him but she might have to this time.

  “Well, miss, I would like to get settled.”

  “Of course.”

  Smiling to keep herself from screaming Pete’s name, she regarded the middle-aged woman waiting on the other side of the counter and tucked the hotel’s registration log on the shelf beneath the surface. “Excuse me for one moment while I check on a final detail in the office. After I’m done, I’ll take you to your room and make sure the accommodations suit your needs.”

  Then she stepped to the far end of the polished counter and slipped into the hotel manager’s office, wrinkling her nose at the scent of stale cigar smoke. Moving across the thick tapestry carpet, she relished the springiness underfoot before scooting behind his swivel chair.

  After complaining about a bad toothache for most of the morning, Mister Tyler headed out to seek a dentist an hour earlier. A hand clamped to his jaw, he’d left Catalina in charge, albeit begrudgingly.

  He remained dubious about a woman knowing bookkeeping, as well as a man, but she’d never posted an error on her shift. Unlike those who worked the evening and night shifts. This opportunity to demonstrate how she could take charge was not one Catalina intended to squander. But she couldn’t leave her post unattended without double-checking the safe was secure. Bending at the waist, she yanked on the silver handle which gave only an inch or so before stopping then spun the combination dial, ensuring it remained locked.

  As she turned toward the exit, she couldn’t suppress a sigh at the office’s elegant furnishings of walnut-trimmed, upholstered chairs and a matching settee in deep maroon. The rich color was echoed in thick draperies at the twin windows. The person who sat behind the massive oak desk wielded power and garnered respect—both were attributes of the type of responsible position she desired to reclaim. Less than a year ago… Throat tightening, she shook her head and fingered the silver locket that lay beneath her dress bodice. Thoughts of what might have been─had tragedy not struck─served no useful purpose.

  At the office door, she drew in a calming breath and ran a hand down the front of her black bombazine gown. Standing on tiptoe before the oval mirror hung on the wall, she straightened the crepe bow at the top of the mourning gown’s austere bodice. Her soul yearned to see a bit of vibrancy against her olive skin. Black was not her color. The only relief from the stark lines was a thin edge of Battenburg lace at her cuff’s edges that had faded to dark gray. Before she sank into one of her melancholic moods, she twisted the cut-glass knob and sailed back into the lobby. The smile she summoned couldn’t possibly look genuine, but she flashed it toward the hotel patron anyway. “Now, Missus Harrison, how many bags do you have today?”

  Thank goodness, she’d assigned the woman to a room on the first floor. After carrying three valises, adjusting the curtains, fluffing the pillows, and repositioning the armchair to achieve the best view, Catalina exited the guest’s room and sighed. A guest like this one was the reason she’d fought hard for the promotion to registration clerk when the position opened three months earlier. She had enough experience dealing with temperamental personalities on her previous job that the occasional demanding guest wasn’t a problem.

  Although working as a clerk, she rarely received such a generous tip. Tucking the dollar bill into the cuff of her shirtwaist, she sagged against the wainscoting. Several moments spent gazing at the garden suggested by the vibrant roses and trailing vines on the wallpaper might restore her equilibrium.

  At the faint pealing of the front desk bell, she propelled herself away from the wall and hurried down the carpeted hallway. So much for a respite. As she walked, she scanned the area for anything out of place or needing attention. Most patrons wouldn’t notice the peeling corners of wallpaper or wearing of carpet threads at the entry of each room’s doorway. But she did.

  Passing Room 101, she heard strident tones coming from the lobby. How long had she been absent from her post? And with Mister Tyler gone, too. Anxiety grabbed her shoulders, and she blew out a breath to relax the muscles. About to round the corner ready to handle whatever problem existed, she heard names uttered that froze her steps. Emerald Construction Company and Leary Riddock. Sucking in a breath, she kept out of sight and shamelessly eavesdropped.

  “Will ye keep yer voice down, O’Toole?”

  “Who in tarnation put ye in charge, McDougal?” A deeper voice hissed.

  “At least I’m smart enough to speak in whispers when discussing our plan.”

  A scoff rasped. “What plan? We’re no closer to that reward money than we were a week ago.”

  What reward could be related to the construction company where she used to work? Her pulse beat faster. Forced by recent circumstances to provide for herself, Catalina needed every dime she could earn. When her previous employer was hauled off to jail, she’d lost a respectable position worthy of her bookkeeping skills. This hotel clerk job was the only one she could find. She’d not yet adjusted to living on only one salary, and a reduced one at that.

  “Riddock demands we find the tally journal that went missing from the blacksmith shop.”

  Blood thundered in her ears. Catalina braced her hands against the wall to steady her wobbly knees. Her late husband, Joaquin, worked at that shop. At least, he had, until the mysterious house fire that snuffed out his life and burned all the worldly possessions she hadn’t been wearing that marketing day. Her stomach knotted, and she pressed a hand to her mid-section.

  “After all this time, how’d he find out about that?”

  “Dunno. Someone must be reporting to him where he’s jailed until the trial.”

  The bell pealed again. “Where is the dang clerk?”

  Catalina squared her shoulders and stepped forward, swinging her arms like she’d hurried from a distance. “Oh, gentlemen, I was just seeing to another guest. I apologize for making you wait. Welcome to the Palace Hotel.”

  The pair of men turned at her greeting.

  She scanned their faces to see if she recognized them as Emerald Construction Company employees. They weren’t familiar, but employees had frequently come and gone at that business.

  Although with her bookkeeping position at the construction company, she’d been tucked away most of the time in a back office with the invoices, bills of lading, and ledgers. “How may I assist you?” Lifting the counter’s pass-through section, she slipped into her space in front of the bank of key and postal slots and rested her folded hands on the wooden surface.

  The man wearing a brown suit pulled off his hat and nodded. “Afternoon, ma’am. We need a couple of rooms. Got any vacancies?”

  The other man left on his hat, leaned a hip against the counter, and stared.

  Her skin prickled. Catalina looked to the first man, the one who wasn’t leering. “Yes, we do.” After pulling the registration log atop the counter, she flipped to the page marked with a long ribbon as the current one and ran a finger down the column of occupied rooms. The action was for show, because she prided herself on knowing exactly which rooms were vacant at any time. “For how many nights?” She reached for the pen in the inkstand with one hand and uncorked the ink bottle with the other.

  The man, whose hair almost reached his shoulders, scratched his temple. “Not sure how long our business will take. Can we let you know each day?”

  “I’ll make that notation and charge you for just two nights at this time.” Glancing between the two men, she smiled. “Names and cities of residence, please.”

  “Timothy McDougal. Denver, Colorado Territory.” He set his hat on the counter and dug into a front trouser pocket.

  She wrote the information next to room 210 then glanced up at the other man, catching him gazing at her figure. His leer made her skin crawl, but she held her smile in place. “And you, sir?”

  “Finbar O’Toole, but my friends call me Fin.” As he stroked his droopy moustache, he grinned and gave a slow wink. “Originally from Denver, too, but I’d move here in a heartbeat if all the women are as pretty as you, lady.”

  His presumptuous endearment lifted the hairs on the back of her neck. “Thank you, Mister O’Toole.” She hoped her genial tone would be taken as being grateful for the information. Because she did not want him to think she encouraged his attentions. After scribing his name beside Room 212, she turned to the cubbyholes and reached down the keys to their adjacent rooms. “The first floor is already booked, but I’ve assigned you nice rooms away from the street on the second floor. Two nights prepaid comes to two dollars and fifty cents each. Two bits more if you need hot bathwater brought to your rooms.” Since she hadn’t yet located Pete, she hoped they would not make this request.

  “Here’s payment for the rooms.” Mister McDougal counted out five silver dollars. “No bath requested just yet.”

  Mister O’Toole flattened a palm on the counter and leaned forward. “Say, have we met before?”

  His tone wheedled, as if they should be on friendly terms. “I don’t believe so.” Fighting hard to keep her expression neutral, she shook her head. She recognized the ploy and did her best to keep disgust from her expression. “I’ve not been lucky enough to visit what I understand is a wonderful city.” Without appearing to do so, she eased back a couple inches. Then she slipped her left hand under the counter and wrapped fingers around the leather handle of the blackjack she kept handy for protection. She faced men like Mister O’Toole too often to rely on good manners and proper upbringing.

  “Not from there. You sure you never sang on the stage before?”

  “Never been a performer, Mister O’Toole.”

  O’Toole shook his head. “I just know I’ve seen those snapping brown eyes before. Tell me your name.”

  Catalina glanced at Mister McDougal, hoping he’d reel in his too-forward friend.

  “I just gotta know your name.”

  But the man stood facing the street, hands clasped behind his back.

  Rudeness or ignoring him wasn’t the answer. “I’m Widow Padilla.” Why she provided her maiden name she didn’t know. But this mustachioed man’s keen interest rang false following the conversation she overheard. After collecting the silver coins lying on the counter and slipping them into a pocket in her skirt, she set both keys in their place. “Gentlemen, I hope you enjoy your stay and your business matters prove successful.” Wanting them to take the hint the conversation was over, she turned to the cubbyholes to straighten letters and keys until she spotted movement from the corner of her eye.

  The two men sauntered toward the staircase, each carrying a valise. Before Mister O’Toole disappeared up the steps, he paused and turned back enough to wink.

  Heat flushed her neck. She’d only been wanting to see him gone, and now he could construe her watching as interest. She spun to look the other way. An hour passed before the knots in her stomach released. But dealing with guests and their needs kept her busy. Since its founding during the construction of the Transcontinental Railroad two years earlier, Cheyenne kept growing, which was good for the hotel trade and her job security. Being a hub for the Union Pacific Railroad and numerous freighting companies brought prosperity after the city outgrew its Hell on Wheels stage and the railroad track moved west.

  From the very beginning, she and her late husband had been residents of the tent cities and shanty towns that marked each stage of the railroad’s western progression from Omaha. First, she’d worked as a laundress until she proved she possessed higher-level skills and then she’d worked as a scribe to help with the many reports required by such a huge undertaking. Then personal circumstances for her and Joaquin changed, and she insisted on putting down roots in the next substantial town. And here she remained.

  The grandfather clock in the lobby ticked down the minutes until the end of her work day. Catalina walked through the room. As unobtrusively as possible, she glanced at the classified ads for job opportunities before refolding newspapers and setting them in a rack for the next interested guest. After adding another log to both stoves, she plumped pillows and straightened the folds on the draperies. No task was too small to create a pleasant atmosphere and make a guest’s first impression of the hotel a favorable one. At the desk, she reviewed the registration log for a final time, readying the verbal report she’d provide the night clerk.

  With a whoosh of cool air and a clattering of footsteps, Karla Lambrett breezed into the lobby at the same instant the clock started striking the six o’clock hour. “That’s cutting it short.” Laughing, she shrugged out of her navy long jacket and tossed it over an arm.

  Catalina smiled at her auburn-haired coworker and roommate whose sunny personality provided needed comfort over these past months of mourning. “You’re in luck because Mister Taylor left early today. No one is here to cluck his tongue or deduct from your next salary payment.”

  Eyes alight, Karla scurried across the floor and slipped behind the counter at the same second as the chime of the sixth bell. “See, not late.” She spread her hands, palms up, and grinned. “My timing is perfect.”

  “Except now I’ll be late to leave. Let me do the review quickly so I can get home to my supper.” Catalina reached for the reservation book.

  “Not much in the icebox. Sorry.” Karla frowned and shrugged. “I know I said I’d go to the mercantile this afternoon, but then I heard about an audition at McDaniel’s Theater.”

  Shaking her head, Catalina sighed. Tonight wasn’t the first time she’d heard that excuse. “Well, one last portion of my tamale pie must be left because you don’t like it.”

  “It is.” Karla wrinkled her nose and waved a hand in front of her pinched mouth. “Too spicy.” She walked into the office to hang her jacket on the coatrack and brought out Catalina’s and her reticule. “Give me the report. What’s the vacancy rate tonight?”

  Within minutes, Catalina completed her report, said her goodbyes, and headed down the block. Passing an alley, she heard voices from the back of the Palace.

  “I tell you, McDougal, I know that female at the counter. But not from the hotel.”

  Hearing O’Toole’s speculative tone, she glanced over her shoulder and recognized the man’s mustachioed silhouette. Standing at his side was a man with shoulder-length hair. Those two same men. Her mouth dried, and she quickened her steps. Men like O’Toole didn’t need a pretense to initiate conversation…or more. At the next intersection, she crossed left and darted down Eighteenth Street. If she walked a couple blocks off her normal routine, she could enter her rooming house from the back.

 

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