Free Mercury's Rise (Silver Rush 04) by Ann Parker

swiveled to Mark Stannert, sitting at one end of the long kitchen table, then swiveled back to Inez, apprehensive. It was almost as if she expected Inez to stalk up to Mark and commence beating him with the parasol.
    Inez’s grip on the parasol did tighten as she took a step through the doorway and into the kitchen.
    Mark smiled and said, “Good mornin’, darlin’. Hope our jawing down here didn’t interrupt your beauty sleep.” He rose from the chair at the far end of the table.
    Her chair.
    Then she remembered, through her flash of ire, that it had once been Mark’s. She’d only jumped that claim after he’d disappeared.
    Without responding, she switched her gaze to Abe Jackson, the Stannerts’ long-time business partner, at the other end of the work-scarred and stained table. Abe was eased back in his chair, balancing on the two rear legs. Dark hands laced across his black waistcoat, he looked back at Inez with heavy-lidded eyes and an unreadable expression. It was as if he waited to see whether she would call or fold before deciding how to play his hand.
    A beam of sunlight cast a sheen on Abe’s steel-gray hair, the natural kink subdued with a copious application of brilliantine. His skin, normally the shade of the mahogany bar in the saloon’s main room, appeared almost ashen in the bright light. The lines in his face were scratched deep by harsh shadows, the standup collar almost blinding in its whiteness. The glare slid from him as he leaned forward and brought the tilted chair upright, front legs hitting the floor with a thunk .
    He picked up the spoon in the bowl before him. “Bridgette’s got some mighty fine potato soup, Miz Stannert. Whyn’t you set yourself down and have some.”
    Mark moved around the table and pulled out the vacant chair between the two men—Inez’s spot in times before—saying, “Abe and I, we were just discussing when to open today. We thought to give you some time to rest up, being that it was a long night.”
    Mark’s everyday, conversational tone—as if the previous fourteen months and fifteen, no, she corrected herself, sixteen days had been nothing more than one night’s bad dream brought on by bad whiskey—made her shiver in fury.
    “We can’t go back,” she said, deliberately shattering the illusion. “Don’t even try to pretend that we can, Mr. Stannert. Too much has happened during your absence.”
    Mark stood by her unclaimed chair, thick fair hair combed into a smooth wave, mustache neatly trimmed and waxed, the face she had once loved, all so familiar, and yet not. The scar and more prominent cheekbones indicated that the missing months had stamped their hard passage upon him.
    Inez was well aware that living in the high altitude of Leadville paired with the hard work of running the saloon had sharpened her own features and pared down her curves since they’d last been together as man and wife. What does Mark see when he looks at me now? She gave the unwanted question a mental shove.
    “Inez.” Mark’s voice was soft, as if he understood her pain. “We can talk about this later.” He glanced at Abe and Bridgette, his meaning obvious: let’s not air our differences and dirty laundry in front of others. “Why don’t you set a spell, have something to eat. Abe and I’ll open the doors and put things to rights in the saloon.”
    “I’ve no time at present,” she said, pulling her gloves out of her purse. “I have business to attend to, and I won’t be here.”
    She bent her head, tugging on the gloves and straightening the seams, not looking at Mark. It was so damned disconcerting to see him standing there in the flesh. She said to the room at large, “We should set up a schedule for covering the saloon. There are four of us now working the bar, including the hired help.”
    Inez continued, still fussing with her seams, “An extra pair of hands should provide some added relief for you, Mr. Jackson, since your wife’s time is so