Free Love Finds You in Tombstone, Arizona by Miralee Ferrell Page A

sound. It was too early in the day for supper, and no patrons sat at the tables in the dining area. Three ornate chandeliers hung from the ceiling, and walnut dining tables were covered with fancy cloths and topped with cut glass, china, and silver.
    He could stare down the barrel of a cocked gun without flinching, but the sight of china and glass unnerved him. His early days growing up flashed before his memory. Mama with all her genteel ways, insisting he use the proper fork and fold his napkin when he finished his meal. Daddy smoking his cigar in their parlor after supper and Mama sitting with her embroidery. He hadn’t cared for all the finery then, nor the airs the adults who came to visit assumed, and nothing had changed. He’d find another place to take his evening meal.
    Someone nearby cleared his throat, and Nevada jumped. He gazed at the middle-aged man who rose from behind the desk. Nevada had totally forgotten the clerk while taking in the sights of the hotel.
    “May I help you, sir?”
    Nothing about the clerk’s expression convinced Nevada he thought poorly of the cowboy standing before him. No doubt the man had been instructed to take money from anyone who could afford this opulent place. Many a dirty miner could be packing thousands of dollars in silver or gold, and most businesses in frontier towns didn’t judge men by their attire.
    “Are you waiting for the dining room to open? Or might you be looking for the saloon? Big Nose Kate’s bar is in the basement and open all hours.”
    Nevada stepped forward. “No, sir. But I’d surely enjoy one of your rooms for the night, if you happen to have one open.” He carefully enunciated his words and watched with amusement as the clerk’s eyebrows rose.
    “Glad to have your business.” The clerk picked up a pencil and moved a large, open book toward the edge of his desk. “If you’d care to sign in, I’ll give you a room on the second floor. We have sixteen in all, including one suite called the bridal chamber.” He peered out the door behind Nevada. “I don’t suppose you’re in need of that one, sir?”
    Nevada grinned in response. “Nope. I’m not hitched and have no plans to be, so one of your smaller, simpler rooms would suit me fine.” He picked up the pen and hesitated, then wrote with a flourish James N. King, II. How many years had it been since he’d used his real name? More than he cared to remember, but somehow it seemed suitable here.
    The clerk stepped from behind his desk and beckoned Nevada to follow. They walked up the wide stairs, their feet muffled by the deep carpet. At the top they entered an elegant parlor. Oil paintings lined the walls, the furniture was covered in silk, and a piano stood in grandeur in the far corner. They passed through a set of double doors and into a hallway where a myriad of rooms opened up along the way. Most were closed, but he got glimpses of empty rooms, each beautifully appointed with walnut furniture and carpet, and every one with its own window.
    Finally they came to the end of the hall. The clerk pushed open a door and stood aside. “Will this do, sir?”
    Nevada stepped over the threshold and stifled a yelp. Papered walls, carpeted floor, walnut furnishings, and a toilet stand fitted out the room, while a wide bed covered with what appeared to be stiff silk stood off to the side. “It’ll do fine, thanks.” He reached into his pocket and withdrew a gold piece.
    The clerk shrank back. “No, sir. We don’t accept gratuities. My employer pays me quite handsomely, but thank you. Do you have any bags you’d like brought up?”
    Nevada shook his head. “I have a saddle bag and bedroll down at the livery. I’ll be buying a change of clothes before I eat supper.”
    “Very good, sir. And we can draw you a bath, if you’d like.”
    “Fine.” Nevada waited till the man left the room, closed the door behind him, then walked to the bed. He sank onto it. Springs. A real spring mattress. It had