Ada's Secret Read online

  “Oh what a tangled, wicked web we weave when first we practice to deceive,” I uttered as my traveling shoes clicked along the tiles in Union Station. Soon my train would be arriving.

  I settled into a wooden bench close to the platform. It was still early, and I had tucked a biscuit and some cold bacon in a napkin for my breakfast. I let the salty, smoky flavor linger on my tongue as I retrieved Patrick’s last letter. It read:

  Dear Ada,

  Your beautiful letters show, without a doubt, you have been educated in art and music. You are obviously a virtuous lady of excellent upbringing.

  I am delighted that such a fine lady would consider me here in a lonely ranch. From your letters I already know that you will fall in love with my ranch, but I hope you won’t be disappointed by the lack of the arts and culture available.

  There is very little music here in Fort Collins and even less art, but I do have a small collection of books and the new university being built here promises to have an opera house as good as the one in Central City. We are not too far from the town, and we can order almost anything you would need to read or sew.

  I am sorry to hear how your aunt’s passing created such hardship that you, an obvious woman of culture, would need to become a mail-order-bride. It saddens me that you have fallen on such hard times, but I hope you will give serious consideration to my proposal. I have always prayed to find a woman of grace and virtue and can’t tell you what an answer to my prayers you would be.

  As you know, life on a ranch is never easy, but thirty head of Hereford cattle, all heifers, have arrived and are doing well in my pastures. I will have the services of a bull in June with high hopes for the calving season next spring.

  Your letters described how much you loved ranch life so your ranching skills will be very valuable here. It is a good life and I feel certain that we will get along well together. My confidence in this is so sure that I am asking you to be my wife. I pray that you feel the same about me and accept my proposal of marriage.

  I have enclosed money for your passage on the train, and if you decide not to accept my proposal, you may use it as a start to keep you safe until you do find the appropriate man. I anxiously await your answer.

  If you do say yes, please write soon and tell me what date you will be here. I will have a Justice of the Peace ready to marry us before I take you home. Your virtue should be protected and honored, as it is very important to us both. I look forward to your arrival.

  Yours truly,

  Patrick

  I studied his picture again. There was something restless and wild, yet honorable and honest about him as he stood in a leather jacket with his Winchester beside him. “I hope I can be a good wife to you, Patrick,” I whispered. “Someday I hope you will understand my secrets, but for now I am Ada Moore, niece of an obscure aunt that raised me on a ranch somewhere west of Denver.” I was thankful that I had enough experience on Lettie’s real ranch west of Denver that my story would hold up.

  “All aboard! All aboard for Longmont, Loveland, Fort Collins and final stop, Cheyenne!” The loud call coming from the conductor startled me back to awareness. “OK, Patrick,” I whispered, “I’m on my way!”

  Chapter 3

  I remember feeling the gentle slip of the metal wheels against the steel rails as the powerful engines started pulling the long line of cars. The cars seemed to resist the massive strength of the fire-belching locomotive, but one by one they succumbed to the raw power of the engine. With a decisive thunk, each car subserviently surrendered, gliding away from the platform. Friends and family members waved and called to travelers, wishing them safe passage to the new frontier.

  “Next stop, Longmont. Longmont!” the conductor chanted. As I settled into the thick velvet brocade of the passenger car seat, the panorama of the Denver stockyards slipped away and was replaced by windswept prairies on my right and soaring snow-capped mountains on my left. The sounds of the passenger car blended into a peaceful hum as the train began its journey to the northern frontier. The rhythmic clacking of the wheels combined with the gentle rocking created a hypnotic sensation, which lulled me into a peaceful spell. Relaxed, my mind freed, I drifted back to the Silver Dove the only home I had ever known.

  ***

  The Silver Dove was the best saloon and dance hall in Colorado. Mr. Jesse Byers, and his two unlikely partners, Lettie Stiles and Jeremiah Freeman, owned the business. Jesse grew up in Denver. In addition to being exceptionally handsome, Jesse’s family was rich. The Byers’ first fortune was made from a gold strike at the mouth of the Little Dry Creek when Denver was just a supply stop for prospectors and mountain men. Jesse’s father Daniel had the foresight to see that the money made from a gold claim would be fleeting, but acquiring land could make huge fortunes. Purchasing thousands of acres of homestead land along the Front Range, he built a lucrative business selling grazing rights for cattle on open range.

  During this time Oliver Grant owned most of the land next to the Denver rail yards. Daniel understood that that the railroad was the lifeblood of Denver’s future, so he sent Jesse to propose a business deal to Mr. Grant. Daniel wanted to build stockyards at the rail yard and Jesse loved nothing better than to find weakness in a negotiation and turn it into a Byers profit.

  Grant didn’t want to sell his land, but as he worked with Jesse he formulated a devious idea. If he could marry off his shrew of a daughter, Emily, into the Byers family he could gain access to assets that could serve his own selfish interests.

  Jesse had never met the sour tempered Emily and being good-looking, charming, and wealthy, he naïvely believed that he could change any woman to his will. When Grant proposed a family union, Jesse saw potential in the plan and agreed to take Emily as his wife.

  Jesse had honorable intentions at first, wanting his marriage with Miss Grant to be a loving and fulfilling relationship. Emily, though, was a vile, spoiled bitch, and soon Jesse understood that Emily’s social standing was far more important to her than fulfilling her wifely duties. Emily continued to snub Jesse socially and physically until he realized he could not, nor did he want to, change her mind. His barren, loveless marriage provided only essential social contacts and access to financial resources. Nothing more.

  Legally he was still married and as long as he was discrete he could have the company of any young lady he chose. Now delighted that his bed did not include the frigid Emily, he was free to pursue his female interests. He had an eye for beauty, but he tired easily of the shallow flirtations with society women.

  Jesse was conducting business in San Francisco when he decided that he wanted professional entertainment, and the Crystal Rose came highly recommended. Although he could find willing young women easily, he wanted someone who would challenge and entertain him. Little did Jesse know he would meet the challenge of his life when he asked Jeremiah, the black barkeep at the Crystal Rose, for a suitable professional companion for the evening.

  Jeremiah never talked about what had caused him to come to the Rose after working at a New Orleans bordello, but looking at him you knew you didn’t want to ask. His imposing stature was offset by his cultured manner and reflected in the entertainment he brought to the Rose. The Rose’s patrons were privileged to the best gentlemen’s entertainment in San Francisco.

  Jeremiah made it his business to know each lady’s strengths and appetites so he could pair a gentleman with the talents of a specific lady. He could tell immediately that Jesse was looking for something very special and even though there were younger, and prettier girls, Jeremiah knew Lettie would be the only one for Jesse.

  Lettie had brought herself up from an abused mail-order-bride to the most respected and sought-after professional girl at the Crystal Rose. She was fun-loving, flirtatious, and had acquired the necessary expertise to command over two hundred dollars for an evening. “I didn’t know what I was asking for,” Jesse would tell Jeremiah years later. “I thought I was the master, but when I met Lettie, I realized I was only
the prey. She could have asked for anything she wanted, and I’d have climbed over cactus, naked, just to provide it for her!”

  From that night on, Jesse became her best and finally only customer. His fortunes allowed him to afford her exclusively for himself. One evening as she entertained him at the bar, his blue-green eyes gleamed with diabolical excitement.

  “Lettie, my love, we have the perfect relationship. You would never be happy as any man’s wife, but I am used to getting what I want, and I want you to come to Denver. I have a proposal for you!”

  “Jesse, honey, you know I can never marry you. Everything I have ever worked for would slip quietly into your fortunes, and besides, your father and your father-in-law would never accept me,” Lettie uttered as she held up his ring finger and laughingly kissed it.

  Jesse got down on one knee in a mock-proposal. “You know me too well, marriage wouldn’t work for either one of us.” Jesse’s blue eyes sparkled. “I bought an old, rundown saloon in Denver, and I can think of no one better to build my saloon and dance hall. I’ll never ask you to marry me, but I will go one better. Will you be my business partner?”

  Lettie’s relationship with Jesse Byers was complicated and born out of lust, love, and a business relationship. In addition, Jeremiah would become a full partner. His knowledge of the entertainment industry and his security experience would be necessary to safeguard profitability of the new venture.

  Six months later, the Silver Dove opened its doors in Denver. It was billed as the best saloon and dance hall west of the Mississippi and it was truly outstanding. Substantial oak doors opened to the inside where heavy red velvet curtains protected the inner sanctum. Gentlemen fulfilled their secret fantasies with live shows, gambling, drinking, and the most beautiful sought-after professional Ladies of the Evening.

  The Silver Dove promised and delivered entertainment for the discerning gentleman. Thanks to Jeremiah’s connections in New Orleans men flocked to see the latest Can-Can dancers flash their petticoats and sashay suggestively on the big stage. The gaming tables, as Lettie would say, “kept them winning just enough to keep them losing.” At the Silver Dove men enjoyed themselves, coming back as frequently as their money or wives allowed.

  ***

  “Fort Collins, next stop, Fort Collins,” the conductor’s baritone voice sang. The train slowed and stopped abruptly at a grey, weathered wood platform. It wasn’t anything like Denver’s Union station, but it was clean and bustling with life as wagons waited to be loaded from the boxcars. Trees lined the wide streets, and the midday sun was high and warm. “How will I know him?” I said to myself, “and more important; how will he know me?”

  Chapter 4

  Behind me came a slow, quiet voice. It was soothing, but I heard a bit of nervousness. “Beautiful day, Ma’am. Welcome to Fort Collins. Are you expecting someone?” A warm, strong hand encased my shoulder as the most unexpected thrill ran down my spine.

  Startled, I whirled around and came face to face with the cocoa brown eyes from the picture. Captivating dark chocolate eyes under beautifully arched brows and raven black glossy hair put the likeness in the picture to shame.

  “Are you Ada Moore?” the full lips with an intriguing hint of a pout spoke. Yes, it was Patrick! My breath caught in my chest as I drowned in his smoky eyes.

  Handsome men were a frequent sight in my life, but this one took my breath away. “I am Ada Moore, and you are?” I heard my own shaky voice steadying itself as my composure returned. Delicately I held out a gloved hand. Was he real? Could this be the man I had promised to marry?

  He was tall with a square jaw and a dark mustache that accentuated the perpetual pout in his sensuous lips. His black, lustrous hair was just as disobedient as his picture had portrayed. That lone boisterous lock fell over his brow, and he brushed a gloved hand across it nervously putting it back into place.

  His skin glowed with vitality and the very essence of sagebrush and sunshine cascaded from him. To say he was gorgeous was an understatement, but there was a boyish charm in his quick smile that made me stifle a madly urgent desire to run away with him.

  Dressed in a black frock coat with a crimson vest and doeskin gloves, he held my gaze and left me spellbound. “My name is Patrick Burgess, and I am very pleased to meet you, Ma’am.” As he formally took my hand, he presented me with a simple bouquet of spring wildflowers. “I picked these from my ranch. I hope they’re suitable,” he said. Looking into his eyes, I saw the importance of these flowers. He had, attentively, provided me with my wedding bouquet.

  His shyness was painful and my tension excruciating. Unnerved and not knowing what to say, I belted out a familiar greeting heard around my home, “What’s the matter, honey? Is this your first time?”

  His face went pale. A dark cloud of abhorrence shrouded his beautiful features. His sparkling cocoa eyes turned fiery as he coughed and involuntarily looked away.

  Oh, no! How could I have said such a stupid thing? My bumbling outburst mortified me as the wild flowers stabbed prickly thorns into my palms. Humiliated, I scrutinized my calico traveling dress and brushed the crinkled fabric down across my chest.

  My cheeks burned with embarrassment as I crushed the bouquet to my chest. “Oh! Mr. Burgess, Patrick, please, forgive me! I am a virtuous lady, but I was raised on a ranch! When I get nervous I am inclined to break the ice with humor, and I forget that sometimes people take me seriously. Believe me. I am not to be taken seriously most of the time.”

  I watched his face relax, and a broad, playful smile replaced the pout in his sensuous lips. The corner of his dark mustache curled up and I clutched my bouquet to my bosom to keep my heart from bursting.

  His smile started in his eyes and flooded through his face until it spilled over every inch of his manly body. He took the fingers of my hand and wrapped them over his muscular forearm. My hand felt small and very protected as he led me to an arch where a Justice of the Peace, glancing at his watch impatiently, waited.

  The ceremony was simple, and a wearied passenger, awaiting the next train to Greeley, was our witness. As the Justice of the Peace accepted his fee, he shook hands with Patrick and planted a perfunctory kiss on my cheek before we hiked across the rail yard to Patrick’s waiting buckboard.

  “Get up there, Sheba,” he spoke melodiously as Sheba his big bay draft mare, stepped into a trot, pulling the sturdy buckboard. Pleasant odors of horse, hay, and leather filled my senses as the delightful Colorado sunshine mended my travel weary spirit.

  Our conversation was easy, and we discovered we had much in common. We discussed art, literature, and music. “I think you will like our ranch,” he reflected. “I bought it from Sam, a miner who thought there might be gold in the stream running through our pasture.” His laugh seemed to sparkle. “Sam didn’t realize the real gold wasn’t in the stream bed. It was the water itself. I figured out an irrigation system and turned dry fields into the best pastureland in the state. The cattle are fat, and sassy and we have a big hay crop. That is where the real gold is! The log cabin is very sturdy, and the windows that open to the south and west keep the house warm and sunny, even in the winter.” He softly clucked to Sheba as she shied away from a breeze that rustled the willows along the rutted road.

  “Fortunately for me,” Patrick mused, “the man was a dreamer. He had good intentions of building his home in the valley, and when a salesman from Colorado Cast Iron Stoves paid a visit, Sam invested a pretty penny into the cook stove for the kitchen.” Patrick smiled and gave me a wink, “Sam told me he wanted to get himself a mail-order-bride, but he knew no woman would have him without a decent cook stove. He bought the best one the salesman had.” Patrick grinned at the memory.

  “The old guy was too much of a dreamer to stay in ranching. When he heard news of a gold strike in the Yukon, he couldn’t help himself and he sold everything to me.” Patrick threw up his hands in mock excitement. “Sam wanted to leave that day, so we negotiated a quick sale. He took the cash, and I got
a half finished ranch. Sam left that afternoon on a train bound for San Francisco. Over the next year, I finished the kitchen, barn, and set up the fences for my ranch, but that stove has kept me warm as toast during the long, cold winter months. Do you think he was right? Is the key to a woman’s heart as simple as a good cook stove?” Patrick asked playfully.

  “Oh, without a shadow of a doubt,” I teased back. “We mail-order-brides insist on the luxury of a respectable cast iron stove. Didn’t you get that in my last letter?” We both laughed, and the echo of the happy sounds drifted down the valley ahead.

  There was a long silence between us as we meditated on the beauty around us. June’s soft warm afternoon had turned to dusk. Beautiful shades of twilight transformed fluffy white clouds into passionately-colored billows. Yellow, orange, and crimson finally faded into charcoal-colored clouds.

  Great quaffs of alpine-scented air rejuvenated me as robins chirped their evening song. Swallows darted high in the cooling evening air, searching for a last few delicious insects before returning to their nests for the night.

  I watched Patrick guide the dutiful mare into the approach of my new home. Patrick’s unspoken communication with the gentle workhorse was evident as she pulled the buckboard up to the front porch. Looking around the darkened ranch, I couldn’t see much, but what I could make out was well maintained and meticulously planned.

  The moon had just risen, and I tried to peer into the dark shadows that I presumed were pastures for the cattle, but the moonlight didn’t illuminate any details. I could just make out the big dark shadow to my right. My mind recognized it as the barn. It was large and I estimated that it must have 4 stalls with a huge hayloft above. Attached to the barn and in its shadow, I could see the corral opening to the entrance where Sheba tossed her head, impatiently puffing clover-scented breath loudly at Patrick.