Night Hawk by Beverly Jenkins

method successfully in the past, especially on occasions when he was unsure about the day of his arrival. Usually the local lawman didn’t mind.
    Ian wrote out the message he wanted sent and handed it to the clerk.
    The old man read what he’d written and his eyes rounded. “You’re Vance Bigelow? The Preacher?”
    Ian held on to his irritation. “Yes.”
    â€œI’ll send this off first thing in the morning,” he promised, eyeing Ian with awe. “Wait till I tell the missus I met the Preacher.”
    â€œWhat time does the westbound train come through tomorrow?”
    â€œAround nine.”
    â€œAny place in town where we can get a room for the night?”
    â€œTry Wilma’s down the street.”
    The disappointment on Maggie’s face made Ian wish he’d come into the office alone and saved her hopes from being dashed. “We’ll get this straight, if we have to go all the way to Denver to do it.”
    â€œLet’s go find Wilma’s.”
    J ust as the old telegraph operator promised, just up the street they found a small whitewashed house with a hand-painted sign that read: “Wilma’s Emporium—Eats, Drinks, Rooms.”
    Inside, it was more saloon than emporium. There was a bar with a huge cracked mirror behind it. There was an old man in a threadbare white shirt banging out an unrecognizable ditty on a piano badly in need of tuning. At one of the place’s three tables were a couple of men drinking. Seated with them were two rouged-up, past-their-prime women in skimpy, well-worn dresses, one red, the other green. The one in the green got up and came over to greet them. On the way, she sized up the marshal and apparently liked what she saw. “Name’s Wilma. Can I help you?”
    â€œBigelow. Pleased to meet you. Looking for a room.”
    â€œDon’t usually take coloreds but I’ll make an exception for you.” She gave him a winsome smile that might have been effective had she not been missing her two front teeth. Still grinning, she appeared to see Maggie for the first time. The smile faded. “One room for the both of you?” she asked him.
    â€œYes.”
    â€œToo bad. You look like you’d give a girl a good time.”
    Maggie stood silent.
    â€œHow much?” he asked.
    She quoted a price, and after the coins disappeared down into the bosom of her dress, she led them down a narrow hallway to a small room in the back. “Clean sheets is extra.”
    Maggie had never heard anything so outrageous in her life, but he handed over the amount without complaint, asking, “Meals come with the price of the room?”
    â€œNope. That’s extra, too.”
    Maggie knew that beggars couldn’t be choosey but at the rate he was being charged, he would be beggared by the time the woman was through, but he didn’t complain.
    Wilma immediately sent the handful of coins down into her bosom with the rest. “Your sheets and food’ll be here directly.”
    Before she could leave, Maggie asked, “Where are the facilities?”
    â€œBack down the hall. First door,” Wilma replied while visually feasting on the marshal again. “You sure you don’t want to put her in a room of her own? I can give it to you at half rate.”
    â€œOne will do.”
    She sighed her disappointment and left them alone.
    The room’s furnishings consisted of a large four-poster brass bed, and a nightstand topped with an old oil lamp. The shutters were open on the one unscreened window. The frayed wallpaper sported bright pink cabbage roses on a field of green. She could feel his silent scrutiny. She hazarded a glance over her shoulder and was again captured by the intensity in his eyes. Looking away, she set her pack on the floor. “I need the facilities.”
    He gestured her towards the door.
    â€œYou’re going with me?”
    â€œJust to make sure there’s only