Leaden Skies

Chapter One

And lead us not into temptation,but deliver us from evil…

—Matthew 6:13

July 22, 1880

When the summer storm arrived late that afternoon, it was hailed as a blessing. Damp splots the size of half-eagle gold coins pocked hats and shawls, sent small dust explosions puffing up from dirt streets ground to dust beneath boots and wagon wheels, and tempted small children to stand with faces upturned, tongues thrust out to catch the drops.

Many who lined Leadville’s overheated streets, hoping for a glimpse of Ulysses S. Grant arriving for his five-day visit, had been there since sunrise. They welcomed the rain, the cool wind that accompanied it. But after the thunder passed and the drenching continued, hour after hour, the thousands packing the avenues began to curse the clouds and their liquid gift.

Damp crawled up trouser pants and wicked up the hems of long skirts and petticoats. Drops trickled off hat brims to wilt celluloid and lace collars and chill the backs of necks. Streets, which had produced clouds of dust mere hours ago despite the best efforts of squirt wagons, now flowed mud.

He’s coming. Just left Malta.

The whisper moved through the crowds like a gathering wind. Ears strained to hear the faintest of train whistles over the murmur of voices, the snort of horses, the shouted directions of those preparing the parade route from the point of disembarkment to the hotel where Unconditional Surrender Grant and his party would stay.

Still, not everyone’s attention focused on the impending arrival. In the red-light district of Leadville’s State Street, rain conferred anonymity while darkness stilled the voice of conscience. Behind the heavy damask curtains of a three-story brick fortress on the corner of State and Pine, another world beckoned.

Mapmaker Cecil Farnesworth tipped his head back to examine the front of the substantial building. Rain dripped off the brim of his hat, mingling with the drops that fell from the sky and slapped his face. With a long intake of breath, Cecil stepped up on the porch, out of the rain. He removed his hat and, clutching it over his heart like a shield, knocked on the door of the whorehouse.

Chapter Two

Cecil was sure that, by stepping foot inside the house of prostitution on State Street, he had consigned his soul to purgatory, or worse.

Forgiveness, he feared, would be very long in coming.

Right then, though, it didn’t matter. He’d come back to see her, the woman with the dark eyes who reminded him of Rachel. He wasn’t going to do anything…sinful. He just wanted to talk to her. Hear her voice. See if she sounded like Rachel.

But the visit wasn’t going the way he’d pictured it.

After surrendering his hat and heavily soaked overcoat to the silent doorman, he’d allowed himself to be escorted into the drawing room by the woman called Molly. She was all sharp angles—nose, chin, elbows, and wrists. Jutting collarbones created a topographical ridge above a flat, freckled expanse bordered by lace. Not to his taste.

There was no sign of Miss Flo, the woman who ran the place. Flo, as he remembered her, was pleasant, blond, soft, and warm. At least, she’d felt soft and warm, the last time he’d been around. At that preliminary visit, she’d greeted him as if he were an old friend, even before he’d introduced himself and his purpose. She hadn’t turned him away as he’d feared she would, but had hugged his arm close to her side, said Call me Miss Flo, honey, and shown him around the upper floors while keeping up a cheerful line of chatter. He remembered that she’d worn a green dress of silky fabric with fancy trimmings on the back and a low neckline. A diamond necklace—at least, he thought they might be diamonds—had glittered in the light of coal oil lamps throwing back the shadows of the early summer evening. Everything she wore looked expensive. And she’d been so kind. He couldn’t remember the last time a woman had not treated him with the most neutral courtesy or, worse, with disdain.

Now, here he was, days later, sitting in the parlor room.

He’d refused the champagne, but been talked into buying a single, high-priced glass of wine. (Another sin he would never have the courage to confess. He’d not touched anything stronger than the weakest of beers in his entire forty-two years of life.) Cecil looked around at the room’s appointments. Thick rugs, inlaid wood ceiling, crystal chandelier, silver candlesticks, rich velvet curtains, burnished piano. He wondered, briefly, how it was possible to make enough money at…well, this kind of business…to afford such things. Too, there were the dresses that most of the women wore, all sewn from luxurious materials that shimmered in the candlelight as they shifted and moved about. And he remembered Miss Flo’s diamond necklace…maybe it was a gift from an admirer?

He would never have been able to buy that sort of thing for his Rachel on his salary from the Johnson Map Company. Even if events had proceeded to the point where such expensive items were a necessity.

With an inward cringe, he remembered his last walk with Rachel that spring day. Their last day together. How he’d felt as they walked along, side by side, Rachel chattering about her sister’s upcoming nuptials. He’d felt young again—she always made him feel that way, his Rachel did—and that life, like the season, was full of possibilities and hope for the future. And then, when he’d asked her hand in marriage, granted, somewhat on impulse and without asking her father for his blessings first, how she had stopped in her tracks. Turned to him, strands of shining black hair escaped from her bonnet and lying along her cheekbones, blue eyes wide, beloved face slack-jawed. Not, it had finally dawned on him, with hoped-for happiness, but with an emotion that looked more like shock. A look, he thought in retrospect, which might have even been tinged with repulsion.

That afternoon now seemed so far away. Like Rachel. Half a year and hundreds of miles away from Leadville, Colorado.

Thinking of Rachel, he almost left the brothel right then.

Still, he remained seated in the parlor room, the only man there among—he counted quickly—six women. The horsehair in the sofa pricked through his trousers into the backs of his legs, much as the memory of Rachel’s face had pricked his conscience as he’d hesitated on the boardwalk in the rain before summoning enough courage to knock on the door.

But this visit was definitely not proceeding as he’d hoped.

The woman with hair and eyes like Rachel, the woman who, incongruously enough, glowed with purity and youth just like his Rachel, sat on the Turkish couch in the corner, twirling a strand of dark hair around one finger. She, like the rest, was dressed up fancy, not wearing the loose garment he’d glimpsed her in when Miss Flo had taken him around the upper stories and he’d made his notes and measurements.

She was watching him.

As were all the women in the room.

The girl with the gray teeth sat across from him. She stared hardest of all. Her face was not unpleasant, structurally speaking. But, she’s so young, he thought. Younger than Rachel’s almost eighteen years. Too young to be here. Full-bodied, she wore a purple, satiny sort of dressing gown dotted with what might be flowers and butterflies. He wasn’t certain about this, as he was trying hard not to stare back at her. She looked as if she hadn’t had time to dress properly before Molly brought him into the room. The top three closures of her gown—complicated corded oblong buttons of a vaguely Oriental nature—were undone. White skin teased him through the deep open V as she leaned forward to refill his glass.

The woman’s dark, musky scent washed over him, as she remarked, Another drink, another dollar, Mister Mapmaker. It’s Angelica wine, all the way from California. My favorite too, ’cause it’s so sweet.

He had to stop drinking so quickly, he hadn’t realized he’d drained the first glass.

The red painted lips parted in a smile. He had an even better view of those teeth as she said, Guess everyone else’s off, hoping to catch a look-see at the first train t’ town and Mister Grant. ’Cept for you. Flo’s still out there, drumming up business for us all. Did she send you here, Mister Mapmaker? What’s your name, anyhow? We can’t just keep calling you Mister Mapmaker.

He couldn’t remember her name, although she’d told him when she’d handed him the wine glass a few minutes ago. After all, it wasn’t her he wanted to talk to. But here she sat, simpering and smiling, the tip of her tongue darting out to touch her upper lip.

Her smile didn’t reach her eyes. The way she stared at him made him feel like a rabbit trapped by a hungry cougar.

He cleared his throat and sat up straight, reminding himself that he was taller by a head and a half, much, much older, and had masculine strength on his side. There was nothing to fear. What could she, a mere slip of a girl, do to him, after all?

I’m a surveyor, not a mapmaker, actually, said Cecil, gripping the wine stem tighter and wondering why he’d listened to the demon that had urged him to turn off the sidewalk to enter this house of ill repute. I’m in town surveying buildings for the Johnson Map Company. Identifying features of interest to insurers. Type of frame, floor, roof. Pipes. He realized that he was babbling, but the words kept coming. The number of stories. Placement of doors, windows, the size of the rooms.

He glanced at the Rachel-like girl to see if she was listening. Her wonderful eyes were half-closed, as if lulled by his voice. It’s important, he cleared his throat, important for the insurers to have all the details. So as surveyors, or striders as we’re sometimes called, we’re tasked to make a thorough examination.

That so. The slash of a smile widened. Those gray teeth seemed to take up her whole face. Her sly eyes, a muddy brown color, slid to the other women lounging about the room, sending a message he couldn’t interpret. "You want to examine this?"

She tugged the half-unbuttoned wrapper aside, exposing one breast.

A wave of tittering flooded the room. Heat rushed up, strangled his breathing, and mottled his face. He shrank back against the sofa. The breast seemed to stare at him. Eye of the Devil.

Her wicked grin broadened. She closed the robe, looped a single button, then set one slipper-shod foot on the ottoman between them. With the proper coin, you can inspect all you want. Of course, if you’re looking for a fire, I’m supposin’ you’ll be wanting to take a poke in the cellar.

She hiked her skirt hem above her knee, providing enough of a view for him to realize she wore nothing underneath. Nothing, that is, but garters holding up red-and-gold embroidered stockings.

The skirt dropped. The peep show was free. You want to measure the cellar with your rod, mapmaker, it’ll cost. How much depends on whether you’re using the front door or the back.

She thinks I want to…

Cecil’s hand twitched. Wine spilled on his lap in a cold amber splash. He jumped to his feet, setting down the half-empty wine glass with an unsteady hand. You’ve misunderstood my intentions. I, I just wanted to talk.

The woman shrieked with laughter. Most of the others snickered or belatedly hid smiles behind ornate fans. All but the one with Rachel’s eyes, who just watched, stone-faced, twirling her hair.

Cecil fled the parlor, pushed past the doorman, who made no attempt to stop him, and stumbled out, crashing full-on into a waterproof-swathed figure mounting the front stairs. The person’s gloved hand shot out and clutched his arm.

Watch where you’re going! The sharpness in the feminine voice softened in shocked recognition. Mr. Farnesworth? Is that you?

He looked up, aghast, at Miss Flo, her concerned face outlined inside the loose hood. The parlor house madam’s rain-slicked coat blew open in a gust of wind, revealing a sparkly ensemble of patriotic red, white, and blue.

He tore away and fled, the woman’s shrieks reverberating in his mind, chasing him into the anonymous crowds of State Street.

***

Flo swept into the drawing room, tugging off her wet gloves, a frown hovering dangerously between her eyebrows. I was almost knocked down by the mapmaker on the steps. What happened? She looked around, her displeasure visibly deepening. I’ve spent the last hour getting soaked, ruining my shoes, trying to round up business in this lousy weather… Her gaze stopped on Molly. Has he been the only customer?

Molly, gathering up empty glasses, nodded without looking at Flo.

Our only customer, and you all scared him away?

Dead silence. The women shifted in their chairs, smoothing fabric over their laps, licking their lips, examining their fingernails.

Lizzie snorted. "He was only looking, not buying. Said he came here to talk, f’god’s sake."

Flo focused on the woman in the wrapper. Lizzie, is this your doing?

Lizzie raised one shoulder in a shrug. The wrapper slid down, revealing a bare collarbone.

Flo slapped her gloves down on the end table. Wet silk met wood, sounding like a hand smacking skin. Lizzie! I’ve had enough of your antics. He might’ve changed his mind if you’d given him more time and liquor.

Lizzie smirked. "Oh, we gave him plenty of liquor."

One of the other women in the room spoke up. Miss Flo, he might come back later. While Lizzie was tartin’ around, he was making eyes at Zelda. She jerked her head toward the young woman lounging on the corner sofa.

Flo raised one pencil-thin, calculating eyebrow, glanced at the young woman still curled on the couch, then turned her gaze back at Lizzie. This is a high-class parlor house, Lizzie. Remember that.

Lizzie bared her teeth. "Yes, ma’am."

No drinking. No drugs. No potions for female complaints. No laudanum. I have a reputation to uphold. The gentlemen expect quality, and quality is what we deliver. No sloppy whores, drunk and weeping, or worse. That’s how we can charge more than any other place on State Street. That’s what’s going to allow us to charge even more when we move up-town.

Flo’s sold her soul to the Devil so’s we could move up-town to screw all the qual-i-ty gentlemen, Lizzie said in a drunken sing-song.

All the women froze.

Flo swung around to her. What did you say?

Lizzie shrugged, a smirk curling her mouth.

Flo walked over to her, put two fingers under her chin and pressed upward, forcing the girl to meet her gaze. Don’t cross me, Lizzie. Remember who’s in charge here. The words carried a soft, dangerous charge.

Lizzie yanked away. "Why don’t you tell us, Flo. Who is in charge?"

A knocking on the front door interrupted further discourse. The squeak of hinges reached the parlor room, along with the low rush of men’s voices. The women stirred, like aspen leaves fluttering in the high mountain breeze, their lassitude vanishing.

With a last glare at Lizzie, Flo snarled, "Why do I even bother with you! I shelter you. Feed you. Buy you the best, most up-to-date outfits….And what are you doing wearing my dressing gown? Go take it off and put on one of your own. Now!"

Flo hurried from the room, her voice shifting to a cheerful trill as she approached the entryway. Gentlemen! Good evening! Has the train arrived yet? No? Coming in to escape this dreadful rain, then? Well, you’ve come to the right place. Let Danny take your coats and hats, and I’ll escort you into the parlor where it’s warm and pleasant and the girls are waiting. We’ll get hot toddies set up all around, unless you’d prefer champagne or wine. We have the loveliest selection, shipped in from California. And the girls are just dying for some company.

Lizzie leaned forward and snatched up Cecil’s abandoned glass. Then she sat back, wiggling her bottom into the plush velvet seat. She lazily crossed her feet on the ottoman before tipping the glass back and, with a defiant glance around the room at the other women, drained the last of the wine.

Chapter Three

Cecil paused on the boardwalk, pulled his handkerchief from his waistcoat pocket, and wiped sweat and rain from his face. It was a July night, but here, ten thousand feet up in the Rocky Mountains, the cold froze the moisture to his skin. It was only when an icy breeze whispered through his hair that he realized he’d left his hat at the bordello.

For a moment, standing on the slick and weather-warped boards, jostled on all sides by passersby, he wasn’t sure what direction he faced. How strange, for him. He prided himself on his sense of direction, always able to pick out north, no matter if he stood in a coal cellar or the middle of a windowless factory floor.

He squeezed his eyes shut, blocking out the sights of State Street—the dance halls, saloons, hotels. But he couldn’t shut out the sounds or smells. Male voices clashed in argument and drunken laughter. The oompahs and blats from brass bands outside dance halls and saloons competed to lure in customers. Smoke from thousands of wood- and coal-burning stoves mixed with sulphur fumes from the smelters and the wet heavy scents of mud, manure, unwashed men, and wet wood. Over it all, like a light blessing from the hand of God, lay the clarifying smell of rain.

After the debacle back home with Rachel, he’d let his supervisor know that he would accept the first assignment available out West, no matter where. Leadville had been a challenge he’d taken gladly. At first, all had gone well. He had been able to push his personal woes aside, be the professional strider that would make the company nod with approval. He met the local officials, explained his business, then dutifully went from building to building and explained his business again and again to owners and managers. Some were accepting, some wary, others downright hostile. He took notes in painstaking details, not to be hurried. Each night in his cramped hotel room, he carefully drew up his diagrams and forwarded his sheets once a week to the home office. The work had filled his days and nights, kept the darkness that was his failure with Rachel at bay.

But all that changed when he first knocked on the door of the brick brothel on the corner of Second and Spruce. Miss Flo had been more welcoming than most. She’d listened intently to his explanations, examined his credentials, and then, with a brilliant smile, hooked an arm through his, and gave him a personal tour of the building. The woman who looked like Rachel had passed him on the second floor, glancing at him once. With that single glance, something inside him faltered. His moral determination melted.

Chills, not all from the cold and wet, racked him. I can’t go back there, he whispered through chattering teeth. God give me strength. He pulled his jacket closer around himself.

A violent jostling, followed by some creative cursing from the man who’d knocked into him, nearly sent Cecil off the boards and into the muddy river that served as the street.

Cecil clapped his hand to his jacket pocket and almost swore out loud in return. His hat was not the only thing he’d left at that cursed brothel. His firearm, which the doorman had insisted he check, also waited for him.

He remembered the words of warning from one of Leadville’s city fathers: Only a fool goes about at night unarmed.

At that moment, someone across the street shouted, Train’s down by California Gulch! They saw the light!

It was as if someone had opened the floodgates. People streamed across the street toward Cecil, heading toward Third Street. He was caught up in their sheer numbers, dragged along with the current, unable to stand fast against the unending flow.

As he neared Third, he saw bonfires lining the sides of the road, police standing at intervals with local militia, straining to keep pedestrians, carts, and riders on horseback from surging onto the road where General Grant would pass by. He halted, in the middle of the cross street, behind the human barriers, unable to move in any direction. The deep mud sucked slowly at his boots. Mire oozed in over his boot-tops, began to attack his gartered stockings with cold intent.

He caught a glimpse of the shining black hulk of the locomotive, now stopped at the foot of Third. Spots of light from the bonfires set the wet black bulk agleam, steam from the smokestack rising through the rain. It looked nearly alive as it disgorged small figures, one after another. The iron horse, he thought. A carnivorous horse whispered back a voice from deep inside. He started shivering again.

A compact, gray figure appeared on the platform, hat in hand.

The crowd surged forward, and cheers rose from a thousand throats.

The General, he realized. Ulysses S. Grant. Civil War hero and past president.

As if in confirmation, the massive engine emitted an ear-splitting shriek.

A commotion to one side drew his attention.

Two pistol shots cracked.

People nearby screamed, squeezing back. Police broke ranks, converged on a shadow figure yelling above the wash of cheers, Butcher! He was nothin’ but a butcher for Mr. Lincoln’s War!

The police wrestled the would-be avenger of the South to the ground, but not before a last gunshot rang out.

A constriction and jolt transmitted through the mob and slammed into Cecil. At the same time, a thunderous crack sounded, not a block away. The blue and red of fireworks lit the frenzied multitudes.

Cecil stumbled sideways, off-balance, crashed into the person next to him, and collapsed to one knee. A commotion behind him. More screams. He couldn’t tell if they were made in anger, fear, or warning.

With one hand in the mud to steady himself, Cecil twisted around. A rearing horse plunged down, hooves flashing, missing his face by the merest breadth. His heart, his breathing, froze.

More commotion and warning shouts came from those who had been quicker to evade the terrified horse than he. The rider slid from the saddle and knocked Cecil aside, all the while saying urgently to the horse, Easy, easy, Lucy girl. Whoa!

Cecil’s supporting hand slipped, his elbow and left side landing in the mud, while the rider fought to keep the horse from rearing again. With the horse finally under control, reins gripped taut in one hand, the rider hooked a shrinking Cecil under one arm and hauled him to his feet.

Cecil blinked, inches away from the ashen face of the rider. Smooth, sharp features were branded with fear, anger, and something else. The phrase exhaustion of the soul popped into Cecil’s numb mind from somewhere.

Cecil watched, as if from a distance, as the rider’s mouth opened. He fully expected a stream of curses to emerge, accompanied by a blow or a knife to the gut.

An undignified end seemed imminent.

Automatic words surfaced, wrapped around his mind, as familiar and smooth as the worn beads of his childhood: O my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended thee—

Instead, the mouth croaked:

Jesus! I almost killed you!

It took a moment for the fact to penetrate his numbed senses that the voice belonged to a woman. Details pricked through the fog of misery and self-loathing that enveloped him: She was dressed, absurdly enough, in men’s attire. Tall, about his height. Her face, illuminated by the stark light of a nearby bonfire, held none of the feminine softness he so admired in his Rachel’s face. Instead, high cheekbones echoed overall angular planes. Eyes cut through him with a gaze sharp as the knife he’d been expecting. Dark, unaccountably short hair hung loose, plastered to her cheeks. Her mouth tightened, thinned out by anger or perhaps worry. The grip on his arm shook as if with palsy.

Someone seized his other arm.

Are you injured? A masculine voice, too close, almost at his ear.

Cecil shrank from the concern in the tone. He didn’t deserve it, this compassion.

The gentleman addressed the rider. He doesn’t appear hurt, Mrs. Stannert. Mostly shaken. Those shots, it’s a good thing the police were nearby. I wouldn’t be surprised if there’s more mayhem in store. For certain, that fellow isn’t the only one plotting against Grant. In any case, we should take this gentleman somewhere where he can recover. Perhaps to your saloon.

His mind tried to wrap around what he was hearing: A woman. Dressed as a man. Who works in a saloon. What manner of woman is this?

She spoke rapidly, with intensity. It will take forever to get up State to the saloon in this crowd. We can’t cross Third until the procession passes. I don’t know. He looks like he’s not altogether right in the head. Can he walk, do you think? Can you walk? This last was directed at him. Without waiting for a response, she continued to her cohort, Should we put him on one of the horses? Turn him over to the police for safekeeping? What do you think, Reverend?

Cecil blinked. Confused. Reverend?

The man’s somber dark garb, mellifluous words, the professional sympathy—now, it all made sense. The reverend hemmed and said to the strange woman, Perhaps I should take him to the church. Or the mission. It’s not far from here. Someplace quiet until he recovers.

The situation suddenly came clear to him.

A man of the cloth. And—

Another she-devil from State Street.

His strength returned. His feet came unstuck from the mud. He ripped from their holds and bolted, pushing his way through the crowd, heading toward Harrison, the main street of town. Rain pelted his face, ice-cold needles driving into his flesh.

He stopped only when he reached the cross street that would lead him to the brothel.

I can’t go back. I shouldn’t. Not now. I should go to the hotel. Get my hat and gun tomorrow. Or buy new ones.

Even as these possibilities crowded his mind, he was moving toward State Street, shaking, every nerve screaming for release, sweat soaking his undergarments and seeping into his outer clothes to mingle with the mud and rain. He pushed against the tide of humanity pouring in the opposite direction, all moving as one to greet the incoming train.

Chapter Four

My God, Inez Stannert whispered. Oh, my God.

The sweat, which had coursed down her back as she’d fought to bring her horse Lucy under control, was now an icy sheet on her skin. Her fingertips tingled inside her gloves from the force at which the older man had twisted away. I almost. Almost. Her throat closed up.

She couldn’t say it.

I