singing to the accompaniment of a piano player.
She was not very good, and everyone in the bar yelled over her singing.
Two girls came by, a tall redhead and a brunette with mean eyes. He waved them off.
“The men who come in my doors are usually not so picky,” another woman said, coming to stand at his elbow. She was sturdy and older than the young girls in corsets, their chemises undone. Her eyes a deep green that sliced right through him.
She wore more clothing than any other woman here, but it hardly mattered.
Something carnal seemed to cling to the edges of her feathers. The bits of beading at her shoulders. Her hair was the color of sunlight. It was very pretty. She was very pretty.
She stepped up beside him so they were shoulder to shoulder at the bar. He shifted away so they would not accidentally touch. After she lifted a finger, the bartender with red hair and dark eyes that could not be called friendly poured her a glass of sherry from a special bottle behind the bar.
“Perhaps it’s not a girl you’re looking for?” the woman asked, lifting a blond eyebrow as she took a sip from her glass.
I don’t know what I am looking for.
“If that’s the case, I’m afraid I don’t offer that kind of service,” she said.
She is asking me if I am here for a man.
“It’s not… I’m… I came in looking for a woman.”
“You don’t look like a miner,” she said, turning again with her back against the bar, her elbows braced behind her. She looked like a woman on the front of a ship, all bosom.
“I’m not.”
“Railroad?”
“In part.”
“Soldier.”
It wasn’t a question so he didn’t answer.
“Where are you from?” she asked.
“West Virginia. You?”
“Tell me something, soldier. Do you really care? Or are you just making conversation?” she asked. She had a beauty mark painted on her cheek to draw attention to her crimson lips. It was effective.
"I'm not very good at conversation these days," he said by way of answer.
“If you say so. Kansas. I’m Delilah," she said, blunt and bold. Was it wrong that this madam reminded him of Anne? That her boldness was endearing to him? Comforting nearly?
“Steven.”
At the far end of the bar, there was a cry and the smashing of glass. Delilah stepped past him to see what the problem was. Steven, taller than her, could see a man, dirty and ragged and drunk, had knocked over a glass.
The redhead that had approached Steven earlier stepped to Delilah’s shoulder.
“Don’t throw him out,” the redhead begged.
“Stella, don’t be ridiculous. He causes nothing but trouble.”
“I’ll take him upstairs,” Stella said.
Delilah lifted that eyebrow again. “Sam Garrity does not have the money to pay for an hour of your time.”
Sam Garrity was the man Anne had stitched up last night. The man she was worried about. Steven shifted a few steps to the left to get a better look at him. The man’s face was purple and black with bruising. A filthy bandage swaddled his hand.
Beneath that bandage were Anne’s stitches, and the way Sam was going, they’d be pulled by the end of the night.
He wore his threadbare Union Cavalry coat that didn't stand a chance against the wind whistling outside.
“I’ll… take it out of my own money.” The redheaded prostitute said.
“I do not run a poor farm, Stella.”
The redhead looked down at the man at the end of the bar, swaying like he was on the deck of a ship in storm-tossed waters.
“He lost everyone and everything. Just like us,” she whispered, and something flinched on Delilah’s face. Something scared and young, and she glanced sideways at Steven as if to see if her secret was out.
“I’ll pay,” he offered. “For Sam’s hour.”
Delilah carefully controlled her surprise. “That’s generous of you,” she said, and urged Stella forward. “Go, before I change my mind.”
Stella was gone, moving quickly down to the far end of the bar.
And then Delilah turned to
She was not very good, and everyone in the bar yelled over her singing.
Two girls came by, a tall redhead and a brunette with mean eyes. He waved them off.
“The men who come in my doors are usually not so picky,” another woman said, coming to stand at his elbow. She was sturdy and older than the young girls in corsets, their chemises undone. Her eyes a deep green that sliced right through him.
She wore more clothing than any other woman here, but it hardly mattered.
Something carnal seemed to cling to the edges of her feathers. The bits of beading at her shoulders. Her hair was the color of sunlight. It was very pretty. She was very pretty.
She stepped up beside him so they were shoulder to shoulder at the bar. He shifted away so they would not accidentally touch. After she lifted a finger, the bartender with red hair and dark eyes that could not be called friendly poured her a glass of sherry from a special bottle behind the bar.
“Perhaps it’s not a girl you’re looking for?” the woman asked, lifting a blond eyebrow as she took a sip from her glass.
I don’t know what I am looking for.
“If that’s the case, I’m afraid I don’t offer that kind of service,” she said.
She is asking me if I am here for a man.
“It’s not… I’m… I came in looking for a woman.”
“You don’t look like a miner,” she said, turning again with her back against the bar, her elbows braced behind her. She looked like a woman on the front of a ship, all bosom.
“I’m not.”
“Railroad?”
“In part.”
“Soldier.”
It wasn’t a question so he didn’t answer.
“Where are you from?” she asked.
“West Virginia. You?”
“Tell me something, soldier. Do you really care? Or are you just making conversation?” she asked. She had a beauty mark painted on her cheek to draw attention to her crimson lips. It was effective.
"I'm not very good at conversation these days," he said by way of answer.
“If you say so. Kansas. I’m Delilah," she said, blunt and bold. Was it wrong that this madam reminded him of Anne? That her boldness was endearing to him? Comforting nearly?
“Steven.”
At the far end of the bar, there was a cry and the smashing of glass. Delilah stepped past him to see what the problem was. Steven, taller than her, could see a man, dirty and ragged and drunk, had knocked over a glass.
The redhead that had approached Steven earlier stepped to Delilah’s shoulder.
“Don’t throw him out,” the redhead begged.
“Stella, don’t be ridiculous. He causes nothing but trouble.”
“I’ll take him upstairs,” Stella said.
Delilah lifted that eyebrow again. “Sam Garrity does not have the money to pay for an hour of your time.”
Sam Garrity was the man Anne had stitched up last night. The man she was worried about. Steven shifted a few steps to the left to get a better look at him. The man’s face was purple and black with bruising. A filthy bandage swaddled his hand.
Beneath that bandage were Anne’s stitches, and the way Sam was going, they’d be pulled by the end of the night.
He wore his threadbare Union Cavalry coat that didn't stand a chance against the wind whistling outside.
“I’ll… take it out of my own money.” The redheaded prostitute said.
“I do not run a poor farm, Stella.”
The redhead looked down at the man at the end of the bar, swaying like he was on the deck of a ship in storm-tossed waters.
“He lost everyone and everything. Just like us,” she whispered, and something flinched on Delilah’s face. Something scared and young, and she glanced sideways at Steven as if to see if her secret was out.
“I’ll pay,” he offered. “For Sam’s hour.”
Delilah carefully controlled her surprise. “That’s generous of you,” she said, and urged Stella forward. “Go, before I change my mind.”
Stella was gone, moving quickly down to the far end of the bar.
And then Delilah turned to
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