“You an’ who else, Miss Lucy?” the driver named Tom prompted from the far side of the room where he had reemerged carrying Longarm’s saddle and carpetbag.
“Myself and my brother Luke own the line jointly if you want all the details,” she amended, casting a steely glance in Tom’s direction.
The driver-turned-freight-handler dropped Longarm’s gear onto the floor—Longarm wasn’t in any position to catch the bag before it hit this time—and with a clearly audible grunt of disapproval disappeared into the back of the building again.
“Something’s sure chewing on that man’s …” Longarm had been about to say backside, but he thought better of it and lamely went on. “On that, uh, man there.”
Miss Lucy Watson smiled—Lordy, but she was awful pretty when she did that—and said, “Tom has been with our family quite literally as long as I can remember, Marshal. He worked for our daddy in the store back in Kansas, and in an oil-drilling venture up in Florence when we first came to Colorado. And in all the things Daddy got into afterward.”
“Your papa likes to try his hand at different things, does he?” Longarm said with a smile.
“Not so much because he liked it as because he had little choice in the matter. Daddy wasn’t a very good businessman. I loved him to pieces, but the truth is that he was a perfectly awful businessman. And a perfectly wonderful daddy. He died just as he was starting this business. The Watson Express Company is all the estate Luke and I had to fall back on.” She smiled again. “And really, Luke is no better at business than Daddy was. So it’s up to me to make a go of it, which I certainly shall.” The smile became a gentle laugh. “With Tom’s help, whether I want it or not.”
Longarm smiled too. And took a moment to enjoy the sight of this girl. Woman, he supposed she would prefer to be called. He guessed she would be twenty or a bit over that. Well past the first blush of marrying age anyway, but still short of whispered warnings about becoming a spinster.
Lucy Watson was right at five feet tall. She had honeycolored hair that was mostly hidden under a mob cap and a heart-shaped face. She had round apple cheeks and a perky, pointy nose with the tip turned slightly up. Her neck was unusually long and thin. He couldn’t tell much about her figure thanks to a duster that she wore over the top of her dress, but her hands were very nicely made, the fingers long and slender and her nails well kept and burnished.
And she had a smile that could outshine any lantern and most chandeliers. That much Longarm was sure of.
“I’m sorry to hear about your papa dying,” Longarm said.
“Thank you.”
“And if the lack of my passage is threatenin’ the future of this coach line …”
Lucy Watson threw her head back and laughed.
“Well, I reckon we settled that much,” Longarm said.
“Do you accept my apologies then?”
“For your driver an’ my luggage, you mean?”
“Yes.”
Longarm pursed his lips and thought for a moment, then shook his head. “No, miss, I don’t reckon I do.”
The laughter died out of the girl’s eyes, and she looked worried. “But
…”
“What I was thinkin’,” Longarm said quickly, “was that you could make amends.”
“Yes?”
“I only expected to be in town a few hours, but now I find I gotta stay a spell. Till after supper anyhow. An’ that means eatin’ alone. I’m a man as craves company, miss. Why, it bothers me something terrible to be alone at mealtime. So what I was thinkin’ is that …”
The girl began to laugh. “Are you asking me to dine with you tonight, Marshal?”
“I am for a fact,” he admitted.
“You are very forward on such short acquaintance.”
“Yes’m. But like I said, I don’t expect to be in town all that long. Reckon I’d best speak up while I still can.”
“You are direct. I like that.” She dropped her chin a mite so that she was looking up at him past her eyelashes. And he knew right then what her answer was going to be. “There is a cafe two blocks down. The sign out front says Tyrone’s Fine Eats. Ask for the mayor’s room. I’m sure Elmer and his cronies won’t be using it at this hour; it’s where the councilmen and their pals have their coffee and crullers every morning and conduct all the town’s important business. But like I said, they won’t be using it now. There are a few things I need to do first. I’ll meet you there in twenty minutes. Fair enough?”
“Fair enough,” he agreed. He glanced down at his bag and saddle.
Lucy grinned. “Put them behind the counter. No one will bother them there.”
“And the claim ticket?”
Her laughter was bright as a brass bell’s note. She started toward the back of the station, then paused and turned to look at him. “Marshal?”
“Yes?”
“What was it you said your name was again?”
He told her.
That marvelous smile flashed once more. “I won’t forget again.”
Longarm felt pretty good as he ambled down the street in search of Tyrone’s Fine Eats.
Chapter 7
Longarm dropped his napkin onto his plate and, with a belch that was only half hidden behind his palm, pushed his chair back from the table.
“Go ahead and smoke,” Lucy offered without waiting to be asked. “I won’t mind.”
The lady had a hearty appetite, but was not one to be rushed through her meal. She continued to eat while Longarm crossed his legs and brought out a cheroot.
It wouldn’t have been polite to stare—although this girl was certainly worth staring at—so Longarm contented himself with looking around the small room where much of the town’s civic planning took place.
There wasn’t really all that much to see. The place obviously was valued for its function, not its ambiance. The room was small, just large enough to hold a table with six chairs plus a small sideboard where a coffeepot, creamer, and sugar bowl sat on a pewter tray. Ashtrays dotted the table surface, and spittoons were placed strategically along the perimeter of the floor. There was only one door, through which the waiter silently came and went. Apart from that door the walls were plain, unbroken expanses. No windows, grills, or ornaments intruded on the flat planes of pale green paint. All the light in the room came from a hanging doodad—it wasn’t fancy enough to be called a chandelier so Longarm didn’t know what the right name for it ought to be—of coal oil lamps suspended from the ceiling. With no windows, not even a transom over the door to open, Longarm suspected the place could get smoky enough to choke a trout when all the city fathers fired up their cigars.
On the other hand, he had to admire their thinking on the subject. Because while it might get thick inside, there wasn’t any way anybody outside the room could be listening in on what was going on once that one-and-only door was closed. The walls and the door alike were stout and as good as soundproof, he’d noticed.
About the time Lucy Watson was finishing her meal—a pot roast so tender it almost fell apart from a sharp glance, accompanied by spuds and gravy and plenty of soft, yeasty rolls to mop up the excess gravy—the waiter came in again. “What will you folks have for dessert?” he asked.
“Nothin’ for me, thanks. I’m full to the top,” Longarm answered.
“Miss Lucy?”
“Not for me either, Ben. But perhaps the gentleman would like a brandy now?” She inclined her head in Longarm’s direction.
“No brandy, but a touch o’ rye might be nice,” Longarm conceded.
“Rye, Ben, and bring the brandy anyway in case the marshal changes his mind. Oh, and is the coffee hot?”
“I’ll fetch a fresh pot just in case,” the waiter offered.
“Thank you And Ben. Please make sure no one disturbs us. The marshal and I have to talk about business. Never mind what it is he has to ask me in here. This is all supposed to be entirely secret.”