Scandal at the Cahill Saloon - By Carol Arens Page 0,4
one more word, Glen.” She leaned forward in the saddle. She covered her son’s ears with her fingers. “It’s been a difficult day. Don’t test me.”
“I’m scairt now.”
“You ought to be.” This time she glared at him. In the recent past, this expression had gamblers backing away from her poker table, ashamed of suggesting that she might want to make some extra money upstairs. “This little fellow is a Cahill, just like me, just like my brothers. I’d be careful about insulting him.”
Glen opened his mouth but Leanna cut off whatever he had to say since it likely wasn’t “Welcome.”
“Have you ever run across an angry mama bear, Deputy?” He nodded and shrugged. “She can’t shoot a bug out of the air, but I can. I learned that from my brother, Chance, in case you hadn’t heard.”
Evidently, he had heard. He tugged at his shirt collar and backed into the office, slamming the door behind him.
Leanna led her horse and her ladies away from the business area of town, toward the residential area where she had rented a secluded home for her and her son.
“We’re home, Boodle.” She hugged him closer. “Heaven help us.”
The next day, Leanna decided she was blessed, helped by heaven, to be sure.
“It’s perfect,” she whispered, standing alone in the street, gazing up at the three-story building she had purchased sight unseen before she left Deadwood.
The Realtor had promised that the structure, a former home for railroad employees during the rail line construction, would suit her needs to perfection.
“Wonderful,” she added in awe, still amazed at how well it did suit her needs. “All we need is a big, fancy stained-glass window right here in front.”
The porch would fit half a dozen chairs. Inside, the ground floor was one big room, open wall to wall. The second floor contained five bedrooms. The next story was smaller to accommodate the slant of the roof but it had two more bedrooms and another open area between them.
Hearts for Harlots would be its unofficial name, though the sign over the door would read Leanna’s Place, Gaming and Spirits for Gentlemen of Refined Taste.
“There’s enough dust in here to stuff a pillow!” Lucinda Callet’s voice carried through the open window on the first floor.
Lucinda was the first of her harlot friends from Deadwood to decide to change her life. She was a determined lady. Leanna was convinced that with the aid of Hearts for Harlots, she would succeed.
“That’s to be expected.” This voice belonged to pretty Cassie Magill. Only twenty-three years old, her new life stretched out before her full of hope. “Sweep it up and be grateful.”
Leanna skipped up the steps of the front porch, her spirits much improved over yesterday. Grateful did not begin to describe how she felt.
The dream that she had held close to her heart for the past couple of years was coming true. Giving women a place to work and heal would be healing for her, as well. The ache in her soul that had never quite mended after her parents’ deaths might ease.
During her time in Deadwood she had become another person. Grown from a child to a woman, really, in many ways.
Before Deadwood, before her parents died, life had been a party. Which new dress would she buy? Which boy would she charm? Which brother would be best for Ellie? Quin or Bowie?
But the family, as a loving unit, had died along with her parents. Angry words had cut wounds into broken hearts until the only thing left to do was flee. Everyone had done just that except Quin, who bore the responsibility of keeping the 4C going.
She had fled to rowdy, sinful Deadwood, and nothing would ever be the same for her again. She’d met women who, in her earlier life, she would have shunned, just as the folks in Cahill Crossing now shunned her.
She had learned to understand those women, to care for them, to respect them. Had it not been for the money that Chance had stuffed in her saddlebag while she kissed Bowie goodbye that last day, she might have been one of them.
The biggest change in her life had stolen her heart, every blessed beat of it. She had become a mother. She’d watched Cabe draw his first breath; his newborn cry had captured her. She would raise him to be as fine a Cahill as the family had ever known.
She could accept the loss of her good name. Her little baby Boodle and her crusade to