Chapter One
Golden City, Colorado, 1881
Beth growled in frustration. She jammed her Colt into its holster. When she’d drawn it, the loose fabric in the shoulder of her dress had twisted. It’d messed up her aim. No one else was in the hotel’s parlor, thank God. No one could hear her curse under her breath.
Should be in my shooting blouse, she grumped to herself.
But Hickok had told her, again and again, to practice in every outfit. “The gun should feel like a part of you,” he’d said, “not just something you wear. It should be like pulling your hand from your pocket.”
Except my dress doesn’t have pockets, she thought sourly.
She took a deep breath and untwisted the thin cotton fabric. The gingham had gotten thread-worn. It tended to bunch at the seams and her ma had re-stitched it more than once. Still, she forced herself to be patient. She plucked at it and smoothed it as best she could until it lay straight all the way to her cuff.
Then she shook her arms loose. Just as Hickok had taught. Her right hand hovered over the Colt’s handle. She stared at her reflection in the parlor mirror. She narrowed her eyes and—
—yanked the gun out, fast and smooth. She snapped her other hand to the grip as soon as it was level. Her aim was right between her reflection’s eyes.
Perfect.
She slowly lowered and holstered her revolver, and did it again.
Her aim was high and to the right. Only a few inches, but still. Hickok had driven it home, again and again. A few inches could be death instead of life.
She took a deep breath, lowered her gun, and practiced her quickdraw once more. This time her aim was dead on.
Pots clanged in the hotel kitchen. Her heart skipped a beat, but the kitchen door didn’t swing open. She let out a relieved breath.
She glanced at the parlor’s main door that led into the heart of the hotel. Not a peep. The Astor House of Golden City was quiet this morning. Most of the boarders had escaped outdoors. She couldn’t blame them. It was one of the first truly beautiful Colorado spring days.
Another bang of metal rang out from the kitchen. She glanced around the parlor, with its dozen wooden tables and chairs.
Good enough, she thought. Mr. Lake wouldn’t notice where she hadn’t dusted. He’d only docked her wages once. She’d since learned all the spots he would inspect.
It wasn’t that she liked cutting corners. She just needed the time to practice.
She checked her reflection in the mirror one last time. She’d tied her brown curly hair too loosely. It’d come untucked and she looked disheveled. She scowled.
You don’t look like a “proper young lady” at all, she thought, mimicking Ma’s regular phrase.
Still, it couldn’t be helped. She brushed her errant hair back and glanced one more time toward the kitchen. It had gone relatively quiet as the cook moved to chopping or stirring or whatever his next step was.
So Beth unbuckled her gun belt and rolled it up around the gun. She headed to the polished upright piano that stood in the corner, where she scooted one of the wooden parlor chairs over and stood on it. With a small grunt, she lifted the heavy piano lid and carefully placed her gun inside. She rested it where it would only affect the keys with the lowest notes, the ones Mr. Lake never played. It wasn’t the best hiding place, but it’d do.
At least until mid-afternoon. Then she could go down to the old battlefield like her friend Billy the Kid always did when he was in town. He’d taught her how to sit still, even in the hot sun, even in light rain, and wait. You had to wait, and then be fast. The prairie dogs popped out of their holes barely long enough to draw and shoot.
She smiled at the memory of practicing with Billy. He drew a crowd in town, but on the old battlefield, it was just the two of them. Just like it’d been with Hickok.
Most people avoided the battlefield. The giants and trolls who’d come through the rift from Jotunheim had destroyed too much and killed too many people. The battlefield felt haunted to them. And of course, they were right.
Neither Hickok nor Billy were scared of the ghosts that remained. Of course, they couldn’t see ghosts like she could, but they wouldn’t’ve minded if they had. The few ghosts left were friendly.
Not that it comforted Hickok. He always thought of Jane when they talked of ghosts. Beth had done her best. She’d listened to his stories. She’d held his hand when he needed it. More than once, she’d taken away his whiskey. She suspected she was one of the very few who’d seen him cry. Not that she’d admit it to anyone else.
She shook off the memories and set about straightening up the parlor’s chairs. She’d gotten to the fifth table when Mr. Lake bustled in. Beads of sweat glistened on his forehead. His eyes darted nervously around, but he smiled when he saw her.
“Ah, Miss Armstrong,” he said. “Miss Armstrong, Miss Armstrong.”
Beth tensed. She stood straighter and brushed her errant hair back.
“Important visitors have come down from Fort Collins,” he continued. “Would you be so kind as to prepare Room Four for guests?” He rubbed his hands together and glanced around. “Yes, we’re ready here.” He gave Beth a more pointed look. “Room Four, Miss Armstrong.”
“Yes, sir,” she said with a nod of her head.
She quickly walked through the door and up the stairs to the hotel’s second floor. She paused at the top landing and took a deep breath. Then she continued on to the room Calamity Jane had stayed in the night she died.
Mr. Lake’s “important visitors” didn’t arrive for the midday meal. He himself disappeared a little after the clock struck noon. Instead, a couple of rough-looking teamsters joined the distinguished cattle merchant who was staying in Room Two for fresh bread and rabbit stew. The teamsters were unshaven and unwashed with greasy black hair. They laughed loud, but paid close attention to the merchant like he was their boss.
Beth served them quietly. She caught enough of their talk to realize they were discussing the way south, toward Santa Fe. The younger one had a stringy mustache and he leered at her. She bristled, but tried not to let it show.
When she brought glasses of Mr. Coors’s latest brew, the younger teamster made a show of looking her up and down. He grinned, wide but cold.
“What’s your name, missy?”
She stopped and stared at him.
“Mighty fine girl to be working in a place like this,” the teamster drawled.
The merchant scowled at the teamster. “Mind yourself.”
“Now why should I do that?” the teamster said. He gestured toward the glasses in her hand. “Gimme my beer.”
Beth quickly set the glasses on the table. When she did, the teamster reached for her, but the merchant swatted his hand.
“She’s Hickok’s,” the merchant said.
No, she thought, I belong to me.
“Hickok ain’t here.” The teamster waggled his eyebrows at her.
“You lay an unwanted hand on her, and he’ll hunt you down. God have mercy on you then.”
“Aww … but she’s so pretty.”
Beth pushed down the growing fury. She squared her shoulders and faced the merchant. “Will there be anything else, sir?” she asked.
He shook his head.
She turned on her heel and strode steadily toward the kitchen. She ignored the feeling of eyes on her back as best she could.
Pick your fights, Hickok had told her again and again.
This wasn’t one to pick.
In the kitchen, the fat cook looked up in alarm as she stormed in. He ducked his head and focused on chopping the winter potatoes. She glared at his back, but he just shrunk his shoulders and kept chopping.
The back door to the yard banged open. Beth spun and was about to say something tart to Mr. Lake but stopped. It wasn’t Mr. Lake, but Rose, the other, slightly older maid and server. Her dark hair was perfectly in place under her bonnet and her dress was pressed and sharp. She carried a large wicker basket of clean laundry and gave Beth a concerned smile.
“Oh, honey,” Rose said. “Men again?”
“They think I’m a whore,” Beth snarled. She put her hands on her hips. Her fingers itched and she wanted her gun.
Rose shrugged and set the basket down. “Some’ve been calling me that since I was your age. You pay ’em no mind. They’re not the ones that matter.”
“No,” Beth said, “but this isn’t the shantytown outside Fort Chicago.”
“There’s nothing wrong with Chicago, dearie,” Rose said. “Help me with the towels.” She picked a stack out of the basket and opened the little linen cabinet.
Beth frowned but joined Rose at the basket. “One of them said I was Hickok’s girl. I’m not.”
“We know that,” Rose said, “but they don’t.”
“I need to make a name for myself,” Beth grumbled.
“Mmmm hmmm.” Rose gave Beth her indulgent smile. “But don’t let them bother you.” She nodded toward the dining room and her eyes twinkled. “They’re just men. They see a pretty girl and their brains stop working.” She spotted Beth’s start of a frown and continued, “And yes, you’re pretty. You’d be prettier still if you’d let me make you another dress.”
“I need new trousers,” Beth said, “not a new dress.”
Rose clucked her disapproval but didn’t restart their old argument. Rose was all girl—well, at twenty, all woman. She’d never wear the trousers Beth favored. Still, she didn’t exactly disapprove like most of the people in town. Beth had learned to ignore the looks and muttered comments. Most of the time.
They quickly finished with the towels and Beth pointed at the blankets that remained in the basket. “Are those for me, for Room Four?”
“Why yes, they are. Want some help?”
Beth shook her head. “The blankets are all I need.” She tilted her head toward the dining room. “You can take care of the guests.”
Rose’s laugh rang merrily as Beth left with the basket.
Beth spread one blanket out over the top of the bed and left the rest folded at the foot. She’d brought in some fresh wild roses, but the room still smelled musty. It also felt warm, but there was no window she could open. She gave the dresser top and little writing desk one last check for dust. Then she sagged onto the little wooden chair and stared at the room. She couldn't get the teamsters out of her mind.
She wasn’t Hickok’s girl. She was his protégé! Why couldn’t people understand that?
She snorted softly and shook her head. Well-worn thoughts, she chided herself. They wouldn’t get the room ready.
She decided to give it a good sweeping, even though it looked like Rose had done it the day before. When she was done, she fluffed the pillows, adjusted the hang of the blanket, and made sure the small mirror hung straight on the wall. Then she headed back downstairs.
She heard the teamsters at the bottom of the steps before she saw them. With a silent curse, she ducked back on the landing and waited for their voices to fade. The door banged as they left the parlor for the dusty street. Then it banged again and other voices came in.
One of them was Mr. Lake’s. Beth hustled down to talk to her boss.
The stairs ended in the front parlor next to the dining room. Whoever had been talking to Mr. Lake had preceded him through the connecting door, but Mr. Lake looked up at her footsteps. Tall and lanky with thinning hair, he looked a bit like a surprised scarecrow when he spotted her.
“Ah, Miss Armstrong!” he said. “I was just about to look for you. Please join us.” He held the dining room door open for her. “Please.”
She gave him her serious “What’s this about?” look. He only smiled and motioned for her to pick up the pace.
Inside the dining room, two men and a woman were pulling out chairs at the large round table near the piano. The older of the men wore a dark black suit of the same cut and style that Hickok did. His long blonde hair fell in curls around his shoulders. He held his broad-brimmed hat in one hand.
The other man, with thin brown mutton chop sideburns, was dressed in a blue army uniform. He looked quite young and his coat hung awkwardly at the shoulders. He held the chair for the woman, but his eyes latched onto Rose as she approached with a pitcher of water.
Beth’s eyes went wide as they fell on the woman. An Indian! She wore a beaded leather vest over a dark blue dress. Her braided silver-streaked black hair fell down her spine. Crow’s feet wrinkles lined her eyes. After she’d sat, she turned and looked at Beth with a smile.
“Come, child,” the woman said.
Mr. Lake gently pushed Beth between her shoulder blades. She lurched forward off balance, but didn’t trip. Stupid if I fell, she thought. She caught her breath and forced herself to calm a bit.
As she approached the table, the woman gestured to the chair next to her. When Beth paused, Mr. Lake stepped around her and pulled the chair out. Without thinking, she sat.
“You are Miss Armstrong?” the woman asked.
“Yes,” Beth said. “And you are …?”
“Raven Stormchaser.” Her slow smile showed her age. “With Mr. Weatherby and Lieutenant Tompkins.” Her hand swept to indicate her companions.
“How do you do?” Beth said. She nodded her head since she couldn’t curtsey, as Ma had taught, while she was sitting.
“Better than we were, Miss Armstrong,” Raven Stormchaser replied. She leaned forward, placed her elbows on the table, and looked deep at Beth. “Much better.”
“Ah … and what can I do for you, Miss—Mrs. …?” The Indian’s head shake was almost imperceptible. “Miss Stormchaser?”
“Raven will suffice.” Her eyes twinkled. “As for what you can do, that depends,” she said. “Mr. Lake says you can see ghosts.” She nodded toward him as he stood beside Beth’s chair.
Beth willed her nervousness aside. “Yes. Yes, I can.”
“Well then,” Raven said, “we have much to discuss.”