The Damnation Affair by Lilith Saintcrow Page A

Tilson beating his girls again? Or was there a deeper trouble to add to the mess inside Gabe’s head?
    He might almost welcome some more trouble, if only to keep him occupied and away from brooding over a silly nose-high Boston miss.
    “I aim to visit the schoolmarm before the churching.” Mercy took a deep breath, and high color flushed her round cheeks. She was popular among the Lucky Star’s patrons, most of whom liked a woman with a little heft. “I aim to have you go with me, to keep it all respectable-like. None of the gossipies in town are like to go, and I aim to have the marm listen to what I have to say.”
    That’s a lot of aimin’ you’re fixed on. “She seems the listenin’ type.” Gabe got his feet under him. “What kind of business, if I may inquire?”
    “ Personal business, Sheriff.” Mercy nodded once, sharply, and that was that. “Not saloon business.”
    In other words, Tilson didn’t need to know. Gabe thought it over. Well, what could it hurt? Besides, there [sidTilswas his curiosity, which had perked its ears something awful. “Yes ma’am.”
    The saloon girl’s face eased, and her earrings—bits of paste glass, with tiny charms flashing in their depths, probably to keep the dye in her hair—danced. Her eyebrows were coppery, and there was a fading set of bruises ringing her neck. She’d curled some of her hair over to hide them, but there was no hiding some things. “Much obliged, Sheriff. If you want…”
    There were times when he was mighty tempted, true. “No ma’am, thank you ma’am,” he said, maybe a little too quickly. The saloon girl’s face brightened with an honest smile, and Gabe dropped his gaze as he stepped past her to rescue his hat.
    Women. How could a man ever figure? He’d visited one or two of the Star’s girls, when it got to be too much. They were uncomplicated. They didn’t twist a man up inside.
    And they were welcoming, too. What more did a man need?
    His mood had just turned a little blacker, and Gabe scowled. He offered the girl his arm as they stepped outside, and at least she accepted.
    *  *  *
     
    Mercy was silent the entire way, her steps light and delicate. They kept to the back row running parallel to the main street, their only witnesses some chickens and stray dogs, as well as wet washing flapping on lines, crackling with dust-shake charms. And they reached Miss Barrowe’s trim little cottage just as the marm herself, smartly dressed in a soft peach frock that made her glow in the morning sunshine, stepped out her front door with yet another parasol, this one bearing a ruff of soft scalloped lace.
    She was obviously bound for church.
    His throat tightened. His face was a mask. The gate didn’t squeak, but the painting on it was a little slapdash.
    Served her right.
    Miss Barrowe didn’t seem surprised in the least. “Sheriff. How pleasant. Are you attending church today?”
    He had to clear his windpipe before he could say “No ma’am,” with anything resembling his usual tone. “Miss Barrowe, may I present Miss Mercy Tiergale? She’s some words for you.”
    “I see. How do you do?” And the marm, pretty as you please, offered her hand with a smile that, for some reason, made Gabe’s chest even tighter.
    “Ma’am.” Mercy was back to flour-pale, and she shook the marm’s hand once, limply. A tense silence rose, dust whisking along the street on a brisk fresh breeze. It would be hot later. Finally, Mercy swallowed visibly. “How do.”
    Miss Barrowe glanced quickly at Gabe, her expression unreadable. “Where are my manners? Do come in. May I offer you some tea? I know Mr. Gabriel prefers coffee—”
    “No ma’am.” Mercy’s fingers tightened on his arm. A spate of words came out in a rush, like a flash flood up in the hills. “I aim to have you listen. We—some of the girls and me—we wants our letters. I mean, we want to do some larnin’. Book larnin’, and figures.” The saloon girl freed one hand,