Free Weeping Angel by Stef Ann Holm Page B

hard stuff while you’re thinking. My ma says that all you do in that saloon of yours is think up smut and drink hard stuff while you’re thinking.”
    â€œDaniel!” Dorothea cried.
    Frank’s nostrils flared and he felt that damn tic—the one even the nuns hadn’t been able to whop out of him—kick up at his jaw. “Well then, ma’am, I’m sure you won’t be allowing Danny-boy here to take lessons from Miss Marshall in my smut hall.”
    â€œI-I—” Dorothea stammered, then straightened her shoulders. “One must make amends, Mr. Brody. Of course my Daniel will be taking lessons. I’m going to personally escort him to and from them to see for myself the inside of that bar of yours.”
    â€œYou do that. And I’ll make sure it’s worth your while. I’ll keep all my smut in full view. Now, if you’ll excuse me, folks,” Frank said, and nudged his way past Thorpe who had dried up speechless. “I’ve got to be moving on.”
    Frank glanced around for Pap but didn’t find him. He did make eye contact with Emmaline Shelby, though. She stood off to the side, her black hair all done up in pretty waves, and with a silver cross dangling from the lace pin on her collar. He’d never seen her dressed up for religion before. Prior to their beginning a relationship, he’d known she was a churchgoing woman, and he’d asked her if she’d get all righteous and weepy on him with regret after they started something. She’d sort of shocked him with her reply of, “I know how to handle this type of situation. I have before.” Then she’d gone on to say, the Lordneed only know her business on Sundays; what she did with the rest of the week was strictly her own. So he’d let the subject go, but he hadn’t counted on seeing her in the clutches of the Christ Redeemer right under his nose. It left him feeling rather unscrupulous about diddling one of their own.
    Esther Parks, the ticket agent’s wife, made her way to Emmaline’s side, and the two of them went off before Frank could make heads or tails out of what Emmaline could be thinking about him. She’d made it quite clear two days ago when he’d brought his laundry in for cleaning—and some steam put in his pants—she hadn’t been too happy about his consideration for the piano teacher. One look at the businesslike pinch on her face as he’d set his clothes bag on the counter, and any thoughts of extra starch fled his mind. She’d politely asked if he wanted his muslin shirts laundered with blueing or borax. He’d stated bleach, then after an awkward lapse of silence, he’d left.
    He couldn’t understand why Emmaline was so agitated about the situation. Amelia Marshall wasn’t a hot commodity type of woman. True, she was pretty, but not with the same passion as Emmaline.
    As he walked toward Gopher Road, Frank saw Pap loitering in front of the mayor’s house. A cast-iron railing surrounded the lawn and front border of curly pink rose bushes, and Pap had his foot propped up on the mud scraper. He’d ingratiated himself into the company of Amelia and Mrs. Dodge. The two women stood on the other side of the closed gate while Pap gave his jaw plenty of exercise by planting a crop of words on his plaster-smiling audience.
    As Frank approached, both women looked up, but Pap kept on talking.
    â€œI played an upright in the El Dorado. You’ve heard of the El Dorado, haven’t you, Miss Marshall?”
    â€œI’m afraid I haven’t,” she replied, turning back to face Pap.
    â€œWhy I’ll be ding busted, Miss Marshall,” Pap said, shaking his derby-topped head. “Everybody’s heard of the El Dorado down in San Francisco. It’s the best damn gambling house I ever played in.” Pap shifted his stance and brought his foot down.
    Frank noticed Amelia grew visibly