As he sipped, he viewed her lovely rear view with an anticipation of more intimate views to follow. Red Robin liked it dog-style, and the best part was that she never made a pal feel guilty in the warm gray light of dawn. For like himself, Red Robin led a tumbleweed life that called for grabbing such prudent pleasures as fate offered and never holding others to promises too awkward to keep.
From her scarlet velveteen dress and matching upswept hair, one gathered Red Robin admired red. Longarm suspected she might be a natural brunette, but he wouldn’t have bet big money on this because she shaved under her arms and between her creamy thighs. She said a gal who lived on the road had to watch out for bugs. That might have been why she wore no unmentionables under that tight-bodiced scarlet dress. Her skirts Were long enough to keep such secrets, and pals who knew her as well as Longarm never told.
He had a pretty good erection for the pretty little thing by the time Red Robin stopped in what seemed like midstream and got up to see if anyone clapped. Some of the boys did, as soon as they figured out what she was doing. Everyone of the male persuasion liked Red Robin to look at, and when she was just smiling so pretty, nobody had to listen.
Longarm had expected Red Robin to look surprised as their eyes met through the tobacco haze. But he didn’t know what to make of her odd expression as she gulped and waved at a corner table for the two of them.
They each made their separate ways there, with more customers asking her to marry them, and sat down across from one another. He knew a lady of around thirty had no call to drink beer between meals, and no professional entertainer with a lick of sense drank the hard stuff. But he still felt obliged to ask her if she wanted him to order something for her.
Red Robin shook her head, licked her painted lips, and murmured, “I heard you were in town. They said you’d only be here overnight.”
Longarm left his own beer untasted as he nodded. “They told you true. But the night is young and I got a swell room over to the Elk Rack Hotel, honey.”
She looked down at the table and replied, “Me too. I’ve been staying there myself. This will be my last night here in John Bull. Things have gotten slow and I hear there’s way more action at that new camp, Holy Cross, on the other side of the Divide.”
Longarm grinned as if he’d just been dealt a face card and told her, “There is. I was just over yonder a spell back. But to get to Holy Cross from here you have to take the trains on back to Denver, transfer to the Leadville Line, and then …”
“Custis, I’m heading over the mountains the shorter way, by mule train, with … company come morning.”
To which Longarm could only reply, “Oh. In that case we’ll say no more about tonight.”
She placed her cool hand atop his left wrist and quietly explained, “It’s not as if I was expecting you to show up here, Custis.”
He smiled gamely, and said, “Hell, if you hadn’t been in town I would have gone after somebody else and we both know it. I thought we’d agreed on some rules that night in that army tent up betwixt Ward and Jimtown.”
She almost sobbed. “I know we promised never to make any promises. Even though you’d just made me come again, you reasonable cuss. It’s just that I never want to hurt you and yet …”
“You’ve been offered a ride over the divide by some other gent going your way.” He turned his hand over to take hers as he said soothingly, “It’s going to work out fine, pretty lady. I was just now telling a love-struck swain what a fool he looked for pestering a stranger who’d meant him no harm over a similar situation. I don’t aim to stay here and glower at this other gent you’ve decided to go riding with of your own free will.”
He took a last sip of suds, set the scuttle aside, and continued with a wistful smile. “I ain’t up to one of them stiff upper-lipping drawing room scenes neither. So I reckon I’d best get it on up the road.”
Red Robin smiled back uncertainly and said, “The least you could do for my self-confidence would be to make a counteroffer, Custis!”
He rose from the table and soberly assured her, “I would if I could. But I’m headed for Denver with a prisoner in the morning, whilst you’re headed for Holy Cross with somebody else. So let’s say no more about it, hear?”
He turned and strode off through the blue haze without looking back. Some kindly philosopher had once written, doubtless in French, that there was nothing a rejected lover could say to a woman dealing the cards that topped a polite farewell. For the only sight sillier than a cuss with a red face was a cussing cuss with a red face, and graceful losers unsettled women more.
He barely made it to the corner outside before he heard the gal who’d rejected him pounding harder and worse than ever on the piano. He chuckled, lit a fresh cheroot, and kept walking. The evening was young but the opportunities in a town this size seemed limited. So it made more sense to buy something to read, turn in early, and get back to Denver and the main action all rested up for some action.
He stopped at a corner shop near his hotel to stock up on more smokes and the latest issue of Scientific American. He’d found in the past that trying to keep up with all those newfangled notions tended to either educate a man or put him to sleep earlier. He had no call to stop at the desk as he entered the Elk Rack. He’d stayed in enough hotels to know the educated way to manage one’s room key was to hang on to it until you were fixing to leave and either turn it in at the desk or leave it on the bed if there was a catch lock you could shut behind you as you and the lady used the discreet back stairs. Hotels only got sore when you left without paying up.
So Longarm was mildly surprised when the elderly room clerk hailed him from behind the desk. But as he strode over politely to explain he had his key in his pocket, the clerk said an errand boy had left a message for him.
The scented envelope the hotel man handed over was the color of old ivory. It seemed a shame to tear open such expensive paper, but he had to if he wanted to read what was inside. So he did.
It was from that handsome Widow Farnsworth, although she’d signed it Constance. She allowed she wanted to talk to him about a matter of grave importance and that she’d be receiving until ten that evening. So it had to be important indeed. Most invitations were for no later than eight.
He consulted his pocket watch, saw he had close to an hour, and went on up to toss that magazine on the bed and make sure he didn’t need a shave before he went back down and headed up the slope to the address included in the invitation.
It wasn’t far. Nothing was all that far in a town the size of John Bull, but as was only to be expected, the mustard-yellow and mansard-roofed Farnsworth mansion was well uphill and windward of the railroad yards, stockyards, municipal corral, and such.
A stuffy colored butler, who made Longarm think of a frog dipped in chocolate and dressed up like the late Prince Albert, opened the big front door and insisted on taking Longarm’s hat away from him. Then he ushered him into the parlor, where Constance Farnsworth lounged on a satin sofa in a summer-weight dress the same ivory shade as her fancy writing paper. It sure set her jet-black hair and lavender eyes off in a flattering way. He noticed the drapery and matching satin of the sofa were the exact same color as her eyes. A lady had to have money to decorate her house like that.
She rose all the way to greet him, like a real sport, and told him refreshments were on the way. So they both sat down on opposite ends of that sofa with their knees behind a low-slung rosewood table. Sure enough, a white gal dressed in French maid’s livery soon came in to set down a tea tray heaped with a sterling silver service and more vittles than you’d think such a dainty little thing could carry.