Chapter 7

“Welcome back, Deputy.” Mrs. Sanders stated from her perch at the end of the bar.

Mac McIntyre shook his head. “I’m not here in an official capacity, Mrs. Sanders. I’m here as a customer.”

“Well, den.” She slid from her stool. “You must call me Alicia Marie.” She grinned. “Let me offer you a chance at cards.” She gestured toward a card table where a gal stood, waiting for players. Her skimpy state of half-dress made Mac’s heart pound out of control and heat filled his cheeks. He closed his eyes and focused on breathing in a natural manner as if her red satin corset trimmed with black feathers had no effect on him. A long black ostrich feather whipped about as she turned to look at her boss for instructions.

The woman’s yellow hair reminded him of spun gold. A small red satin cap supported the feather. But when she sashayed around the chair to sit, his eyes popped wider than before as a hitch caught his breath. His eyes dropped to the black stockings she wore. They looked like a fishing net and were tied to her thigh by a lace that had been formed into a perfect bow. He couldn’t bring his gaze away from that bow or her exposed thigh. He cleared his throat in an attempt to regain his composure.

She nodded to Mrs. Sanders and lifted a deck of cards, dividing them into two stacks, and expertly shuffling them together. Her blood-red painted nails curled slightly along the edge of the cards as two stacks became one again. She tapped the deck on the table and paused, ready to deal when he sat down.

“Or,” Mrs. Sanders continued. “Would you like ta try your luck in the excitement of a dice game?” She gestured to the back corner. “You look like a lucky fellow to me.” She cooed.

“And what can Bourbon Jack pour for you, Deputy? We have some of da finest bourbon and whisky dis side of da Mississippi, or we have a full-bodied beer dat will satisfy a man’s soul like da love of a good woman.” Mrs. Sanders smiled sweetly like a horse trader making an offer he couldn’t refuse. “We even have some Pappy’s Homemade Recipe, if you prefer a down-home, warm-your-gut, brew dat won’t drain your wallet so quickly.”

Mac glanced around the saloon. He had hoped to just blend in with the crowd and watch the mysterious Mrs. Sanders handle her patrons, but since she had met him earlier when he and O’Riley had come in to check things out, Mac had no chance of being here incognito. “I think I’d like a mug of beer, Ma’am. And ... I’ll just take a seat ... over here where my back is to a wall.”

“Certainly.” Mrs. Sanders nodded as if she understood and pulled a chair out for him. She motioned with a tip of her head to a girl who stood waiting on the steps that led upstairs. The girl had hair the color of his chestnut horse, just as shiny, and was dressed similarly to the one dealing cards, except the satin in her get-up was green and her stockings were solid black not woven fish net.

“Oh, that won’t be necessary,” Mac stated quickly, holding up his hand as if he were halting a horse and buggy at a busy intersection in town. “I just want to unwind, alone, after a long day.”

Mrs. Sanders glanced at the girl with a frown, which stopped her in her graceful walk toward him. She returned to her spot on the steps, poised along the handrail as if she were about to have her portrait painted. Mrs. Sanders nodded to Mac, conceding to his request to sit alone.

If she could handle her patrons like she did her workers, he had nothing to report. He wasn’t here really as a customer, but at the request of Sheriff Pike Bewdley, to slip in after his shift, undercover, to learn more about Mrs. Sanders’s ability to handle any aggression among her customers. Every time he and O’Riley dropped by everything seemed well under control, but the sheriff, like O’Riley, was suspicious nonetheless and wanted to have a more recon-type observance of the place. Mac got the short-stick choice to do it. That and he was the most likely choice because he was single.

“Bourbon Jack!” She called over her shoulder with a frown. “Pour Mac a pint of beer and mind the head.” Turning back to Mac with a smile. “My man behind the bar thinks a beer needs two inches of foam as a garnish like his momma’s lemon meringue pie, but I keep telling him a real man just wants his beer, not some fancy lace atop it.”

Mac smiled. “Thank you, Ma’am. I appreciate it.” He sat down just as Bourbon Jack approached with the mug of amber liquid with a thin cap of white foam. Mac looked up at his server, gave an approving nod, and handed the man a coin. “Thank you.”