“Jack help hide.” Li Ang’s gaze was still steady, gauging Cat. “Li Ang hide. Hide Jin. Hide both.”
“I see.” The cramping subsided. But the smell, dear God, it was terrible. How could anyone bear it? He had…the man had tried to kill Li Ang, and now he was…dead. Dead on the kitchen floor, and Cat had absolutely no idea how to begin dealing with this.
But Li Ang was looking at her.
I am a Barrowe-Browne. I came all the way out into the uncivilized wastes to find my brother, and since I arrived I have done things no lady should ever do. Perhaps I am not quite a lady anymore, but by God… She coughed again, and decided the pain in her midsection was retreating enough to allow her some leeway.
“By God,” she muttered, “I am a Barrowe-Browne.”
How would Mother handle this? Well, there is a dead body on my kitchen floor. This is not The Thing, as she would say. It must be dealt with, and quickly.
The answer occurred to her in a flash. She braced herself, wincing, and wondered if her legs would carry her.
Gingerly, Cat rose, her nightgown falling in folds of linen, marred with dust and splinters. Her legs were obedient, at least. The silk robe—a present from Robbie—had torn, and she felt a pang as she inched her shoulders up the wall and arranged her clothing afresh. The movements soothed her nerves, and by the time she was reasonably respectable she was at least also able to draw a lungful or two of cleaner air.
Li Ang gazed at her, and the girl’s lips compressed into a thin grim line. Did she think Cat was going to march her baby down into the Chinois section of Damnation and get out the brass kettle?
She set her chin. “Very well. I shall dress, and I shall find Mr. Gabriel.” Jack. He’ll know what to do.
Another article of faith, but not as childish as her urge to write Miss Ayre. No, she could all but see Jack Gabriel pushing his hat back and surveying this scene of destruction and confusion. And glancing at her, that small reluctant half-smile turning one corner of his mouth up, before he settled into making it all right.
Li Ang examined her from top to toe, and Cat might have felt unreasonably ashamed under such scrutiny. But the Chinoise girl must have found whatever she sought in Cat’s expression, for she sighed and sagged against the wall. Livid bruises were purpling on the girl’s slim throat, and it seemed a wonder that she could put up such a terrible fight. A lioness protecting her cubs could hardly do better.
And, therefore, Catherine Elizabeth Barrowe-Browne could do no less.
“Very well,” Cat repeated. “Can you stand? I do not think we should be apart until I leave. I shall dress myself, and I shall find Mr. Gabriel, and we shall make this right.”
Though how it could be made right was beyond her.
Chapter 21
The Lucky Star was going full-tilt, rolling like a whaling ship on the North Atlantica. The tinkling pianoforte was spitting out a reel, and miners and gamblers were dancing, either with the saloon’s fancy girls or the dancing girls who would cozy up to a miner through “Clementine” or “That Old Gal of Mine,” as long as he paid for the drinks.
Doc was the first to arrive, in his dusty black, and he gave Jack Gabriel a narrow-eyed stare. “You look like hell, Gabe. Something been keepin’ you up nights?”
“Riding the circuit.” That damn storm’s too thick tonight. Wonder where Russ got himself off to, he should be back by now. Gabe tossed back the shot of what passed for whiskey, set the bottle in the middle of the table. The thumping and jollity from downstairs was enough to give a man a headache.
“Not a pretty pair of dark eyes?” Howard’s laugh was dry and rasping as the dust. “Someone should tell Laura Chapwick she’s still got a chance.”
Gabe stared at the amber liquid in the bottle. The old man would grow tired of baiting if the bear didn’t respond.
Sure enough, Doc dropped down in his usual seat. “You are looking rough, Sheriff. It isn’t like you to drink before the game, either.”
“Might make it easier to lose.” Since my luck’s been so bad.
“Might, at that.” Doc’s spidery tabac-stained fingers drummed the table.
“Well, Hell,” Paul Turnbull announced, stamping into the room and slamming the door so hard it was a wonder the whole place didn’t shake. “Gabe, God damn it. The whores are accusin’ Tils of skimming, and that goddamn man’s been taking it from my cut too. He’s drunk, the books are a damn mess, and that Tiergale whore says she’ll fix ’em if I pay her. What in God’s name is goin’ on around here?”
Gabe made a noncommittal noise, and Doc’s laugh scraped the corners of the room again, harsh as the grit-laden wind outside. “You’re just now noticing Tils is a thief? There’s a reason I won’t play cards with him, Turnbull.”
Paul’s footsteps were like to rattle the room. He yanked out his chair, its legs screeching discordantly against the floor, and a shout went up downstairs. Gabe tensed slightly, but it was immediately followed by a flood of drunken laughter. Seems usual enough, he decided.
“Hell, I knew he was a thief.” Turnbull eased his bulk into the chair and sighed, rubbing at his moustache. “I just didn’t think he’d steal from the whores. Ain’t good business, what with the trouble of getting more of them out here. No reason for the dancin’ girls to work like that when they can get what they want for a few turns around the floor.”
“Maybe Letitia Granger could take up a subscription.” Doc found his own witticism hilarious, and wheezed through another laugh.
There was a tentative tap at the door, but instead of Russ Overton, a corn-gold head poked through atop a pair of massive shoulders. It was Billy, the boy who ran errands for Coy and the girls, and he shuffled into the room with his hat in his broad paws, blunt fingers working nervously at the battered thing. His dark eyes were sleepy and one of them drooped at the corner; whenever he was nervous that cheek would twitch madly like a spider-charm was trapped under the flesh. His charing was a cheap brass disc, barely sparking even when he worked a simple mending. For all that, he was good with those graceless hands, and never touched the booze.
“Now what?” Turnbull barked, and Billy all but cowered.
“Guh-guh-guh…” The stammer got worse when he was excited. Nobody knew where he’d come from; he’d just arrived in Damnation and slept out on the main street in the dust until Turnbull let him sweep the boardwalk in exchange for a meal. “Gabe. Missah Gabe.”
The flash of white he was crumpling along with his hat was a piece of paper, and Billy extended his arm. He stayed where he was, trembling in the face of Paul’s glower.
What the Hell? Gabe gained his feet and did his best to block Billy’s view of Turnbull. “What’s this now, Billy? For me?”
“L-l-lady.” Billy nodded his head several times. “Lady.”
The note was stained by Billy’s moist palm, and Gabe clapped him gently on one meaty shoulder. The boy was built like an ox, and it was a good thing he didn’t like the liquor. He’d be unrestrainable if he took a mind to go on a tear. “Good boy, Billy. Thank you.” He dug in his pocket and found a half-bit, pressed it into the boy’s palm. “Good boy. You done good.”
“A billet-doux?” Doc Howard found this intensely interesting. “Oh, my.”