Rough diamond the diamon.., p.1
Rough Diamond (The Diamond Series Book 1), page 1
ROUGH DIAMOND
(The Diamond Series Book 1)
An American Western Historical Romance
Copyright © 2012 by Cassandra Dean
This edition: Copyright © 2022
Cover Design: SeaDub Designs
Interior Book Design: SeaDub Designs
Editing: White Rabbit Editing
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form by any means, including photocopy, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.
This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locations, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, locales, or events is entirely coincidental.
License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favourite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy.
Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Cassandra acknowledges where she is based are the traditional lands of the Kaurna people and respects their spiritual relationship with their Country.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Epilogue
Author’s Note
About Cassandra Dean
Other books by Cassandra Dean
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Acknowledgments
Thank to you to my wonderful editor at White Rabbit Editing, AL Brady-Clark.
Defo couldn’t have done it without you.
Thank you to my wonderful advance reading team, Team Dean. You peeps are the bomb.
And thank you to you, dear reader. Your continued support means the world.
Chapter One
Ironwood, Wyoming, 1876
A KNOCK SOUNDED AT the closed door, a brief hesitation followed by two firmer knocks, and finally a group of three that seemed more flourish than a signal of a man’s presence.
Regarding the door, Alice didn’t immediately rise to answer the summons. A lot could be learned from a man’s knock, and even more from his reaction to waiting a spell. From this particular man, she could tell he was unsure of his welcome, but sought to cover such worry with brashness. Then, probably to be cocky about it all, he added the last flurry. From what little she knew of her visitor, such a knock described him to a tee.
Beyond the door, and the man on the other side of it, the faint sounds of the Diamond intruded. When she’d left the floor an hour earlier, the saloon had been full of men, all seeking to win at the tables or to drown whatever troubles they reckoned they had with what was behind the bar. It sounded as if the patronage had increased in number and rowdiness, judging by the raucous cheers as someone won at dice, or maybe the roulette wheel she’d had imported from New Orleans.
Tapping her finger against her temple, Alice stared at the door. The man on the other side had arrived in Ironwood two weeks ago, disembarking from the new train and trudging through Main Street. Standing on her balcony, she’d watched as he had walked through town to arrive at the boarding house, his fine coat and fancy boots ruined by mud. An inquiry to Mrs Bartel, the owner of the boarding house, had her discovering his name and his origin, and in his short time in Ironwood, he had done little more than wander aimless around town. She had no notion as to his purpose and, when he had requested this meet with her, she’d been curious enough about discovering his purpose that she’d accepted.
From beyond the door, the dealer called for new bets and the cheers settled to indistinct murmuring.
Her visitor had waited long enough. Placing her newfangled fountain pen in its holder, Alice rose from her desk, moving the kerosene lamp lighting her paperwork to the sideboard behind her. Seth had taught her much, and among his lessons had been if a man couldn’t tell the expression on your features, he couldn’t make a fool of you.
Quickly, she checked her appearance in the mirror. The hour spent on accounts and reports had done little damage to her hair, the complicated arrangement she’d braided into the ebony strands still under ruthless control. Her gown remained unblemished, but it was difficult to see any flaw in black, especially in such uncertain light. She’d taken to wearing the shade, as was proper and right, after Seth had passed. Too soon her husband had been taken from her, but few recovered from a knife and a wicked-bad man wielding it. In those dark days following his passing, ritual had kept her grief from overwhelming her.
With the heel of her hands, she swiped at her eyes. That was over and done, and five years had passed. Grief had lessened, but the day she’d been of a mind to wear colour, she’d hesitated. If she continued to wear black, no man would forget she was Seth’s widow and, all things considered, it would make the running of a saloon that much smoother. Now, her wardrobe consisted of nothing but black: black blouses, black skirts, black dresses.
Giving her hair a final touch, she made her way across her office and, affecting the dazzling smile her momma had taught her long ago, she opened the door.
Mr Rupert T. Llewellyn—lately of San Francisco, and before that London, England—stood on the other side. He looked the same as he had upon his arrival into town, dressed in fine, fancified clothes costing more than most men in Ironwood earned in a year.
Widening her smile, she motioned he enter. “Mr Llewellyn, I’m mighty pleased you chose to visit us here at the Diamond. If you’re of a mind, I’d be delighted for you to seat yourself.”
Beaming, he grabbed her hand and pumped it mightily. “Mrs Reynolds, a capital idea, simply capital! I say, this is how the chaps here in the West do it, is it not? A lady’s hand is to be shaken, as if a man?”
The strength of his gesture had her wincing. “The greeting is not usually so effusive.”
He dropped her hand as if it had turned to lead. “I do beg your pardon, dear lady! I should never wish to harm you, and it certainly was not my intention to cause you any injury. Dear me, we are getting off to a less than promising start, are we not?”
“Don’t let it trouble you. Please, sit.” As she led him to the chair before her desk, she stretched her fingers surreptitiously. He didn’t sit, though, instead watching her with a vapid smile as she moved around the desk. In fact, he didn’t seat himself until she had done so first, lowering himself into his chair with the enthusiasm of a demented puppy.
She let her gaze run over him. He was strange, this one. Manners she appreciated, but those he displayed were beyond what was proper and right. The last time a man had waited for her to seat herself, she’d been fifteen years younger and on the other side of the country, in a dance hall in Chicago. However, it hadn’t been courtesy for her, but because the man in question wished to impress her momma, and somehow thought being polite to her momma’s fourteen-year-old daughter would do the trick.
Rupert T. Llewellyn wasn’t all that different from that fancy-man. He also wore clothes too loud and too bright—his waistcoat was mustard, for chrissakes—and he appeared to have poured an entire tin of hair oil onto the gleaming black strands of his hair. She’d never seen such a fancy mane in all her years in Ironwood. His clothing and demeanour were better suited to citified places, rather than this young frontier town she called her home. Even his skin wasn’t fit for Ironwood, pale and fine under the wavering light of the kerosene lamps. Lucky for him the height of summer was past them, otherwise he’d burn to a cinder five minutes after stepping out Mrs Bartel’s boarding house door.
Up close, he was handsome—extremely handsome. Dark hair, dark eyes, and even features, while his body was tall, taller than her, and well-shaped besides. He appeared to have not an ounce of fat upon him, but fancy-men’s clothes were designed to hide the flaws nature gave. In any event, he were a pampered handsome, one owing a debt to fine living. It had been so long since she’d seen a man of his ilk, she could barely imagine any but a rougher sort.
She returned her gaze to his. During her perusal, dark eyes regarded her with not a spark of
Those dark eyes brightened, and still didn’t display a lick of smarts. “My dear lady, please do not castigate yourself so! I’ve been here but a fortnight, and have found myself most occupied with other concerns. Now those are past, I can devote myself to pleasure as was surely ever intended.” His face fell. “Oh! A fortnight is two weeks. Damn me and my English words. I’m in the Great American West, I must recall to speak in the vernacular!”
Her smile didn’t waver, though her patience surely did. She knew what a fortnight was. She’d read them books from England, the ones Mrs Cutter sold in her general store. “Is that so, Mr Llewellyn? In any event, I’m glad you’ve chosen tonight to grace us. Can I procure you a beverage? A whiskey, maybe?”
“No, I thank you. Must have my wits about me, don’t you know.” Eyes still lit with that dim-witted gleam, he leant forward. “You see, I wish to purchase your saloon.”
A roaring started in her head. He said something else, but it must be she’d lost her hearing because she couldn’t understand a goddamn word he said.
“I beg your pardon?” she finally managed.
Befuddlement didn’t detract from the handsomeness of his features. In fact, it made him more attractive, and wasn’t that just a kick in the pants? “Oh, I was speaking too fast? Six weeks on the ship, and then another fortnig—my apologies, two weeks—to take the train across this great wide land of yours, sometimes I forget my damnable accent.” He laughed, and delight made him even more attractive. “I suppose now it’s our great land!”
She attempted to arrange her features in a pleasant smile, as if he hadn’t just struck an unexpected blow, and God knows if she were successful. “Reckon it might be I heard you wrong regarding this here saloon. Would be a kindness if you could repeat your words, just so as I don’t misconstrue your meaning.”
“Oh, of course, my dear, of course! You see, I have a burning desire to become a part of your glorious West—beg pardon, our glorious West—and to that end, I do believe I shall purchase myself a small part of it. I should be a fine saloon owner, do you not agree?”
No. She heartily didn’t agree. He sat there in his perfectly tailored dove-grey trousers, his fancy maroon coat with its mustard—mustard—waistcoat, and he wanted to buy her saloon? Was he cracked? He’d never make it in Ironwood, he was too…too...English.
“I’ve taken quite the fancy to your saloon, Mrs Reynolds,” he continued. “I’m of the opinion I would make a fair saloon owner. Can you not see me behind the bar, serving rough beverages to your clientele?”
Unable to speak, she watched him as he eagerly told her his plans, her fingers tapping against the folds of her skirt.
“I’ve been in this rather marvellous country of yours for almost two months, Mrs Reynolds, and your glorious town for two weeks, and I’ve not seen an establishment quite as delightfully…I believe the most appropriate description is authentic.” A wave of distaste flowed across his expression, dimming his zeal. “If you will allow me to be vulgar, price is no object.”
See, too English. Only an Englishman would find the discussion of price too crass.
“I do so love Ironwood, Mrs Reynolds. The acquaintance of not even three handfuls of days has convinced me of its worth, and I believe it to be a fine place to put down roots. The purchase of the town’s saloon would go a ways to doing so, wouldn’t you agree?”
Still she stared, and not a word crossed her lips. Well, there was one flaw in his plan. She wouldn’t sell the Diamond.
She had never even considered it. The saloon was Seth’s legacy, his home. He may be gone, but his presence was still felt. She still felt it.
Llewellyn didn’t seem to be affected by her lack of response, sitting there with eyes too wide and a fool’s grin on his face.
Abruptly, she’d had enough. She stood. “I regret to say I won’t part with the Diamond. I appreciate your consideration, and thank you for your words, but the Diamond will remain under my ownership.”
His face fell. “Are you certain, dear lady? It cannot be an ease, for you to be here without husband or family. I’m certain neither would have meant for you to languish alone, and I’ve no doubt running a saloon is burdensome for a woman.”
Nothing else he could have said would have got her back up more. She’d run this saloon successfully for five years—her, and her alone. She’d started the Spectacular and made it so people journeyed from as far as Cheyenne to attend the show. She didn’t need some fancy man telling her she needed one of his sex to lessen a non-existent weight. “Mr Llewellyn, I will not sell my saloon: not to you, not to anyone. I thank you for your visit, and hope we will see you return to the Diamond soon, maybe even for our monthly Spectacular in a fortnight’s time.” In truth, the Spectacular would occur in a little over a week, but she couldn’t resist the dig.
A frown creased his brow. “Oh dear, have I said something amiss?”
“Not at all.” Making her way to the door, she held it open.
Hesitantly, he rose from his seat and followed her not-at-all subtle hint, placing his silk hat on his head. Halting in the doorway, he turned. “I do so like your saloon, Mrs Reynolds. I shall ask again.” He offered her a smile weak-willed women no doubt found charming. She, however, was made of sterner stuff.
“You can ask,” she said flatly.
Something flickered in his dark eyes, something that didn’t fit with the air-headed fool, but then he smiled his dazzling smile again. “Well, Mrs Reynolds, I shall leave you be for the moment. If you require me, I am at Bartel’s Boarding House.” Tipping his hat with a jaunty air, he bowed again afore departing.
Alice closed the door behind him. That had been...strange. The man himself appeared to be as she’d expected—naïve, dim-witted and something of a fool. He was also extremely pretty, there was no denying that, and while she enjoyed looking at him, he’d had all the depth of a puddle...but then there had been that flicker in his eyes, a flicker that told her more than all his chattering combined.
That, and his knock. That forceful, cocky knock. Both spoke of an intelligent man, one who understood when he was being refused and what was more, could calculate on how to change an unfavourable outcome.
Sliding behind her desk, she picked up her fountain pen. It could be she should discover more of Rupert T. Llewellyn. Setting her pen to paper, she sketched out a telegram to a bounty hunter. Jacob Wade might advertise his services as such, but the man was also skilled at collecting information. Besides, none would guess her suspicions if she contacted him instead of an inquiry agent. It would hurt nothing but her purse if she were wrong in believing barely more than flicker, but if she were right…
Pen digging into the paper, she paused. If she were right, then Mr Rupert T Llewellyn of London, England meant to play a completely different game.
***
SHAKING HER BLACK SKIRTS, Alice descended the Diamond’s stairs. She’d neglected the saloon too long already, and she would have no one say Alice Reynolds didn’t care about her patrons: she cared about each and every one, and she cared even more that the cash weighing heavy in their pockets made its way into the Diamond’s register.
Satisfied she looked somewhat decent, she walked onto the floor. The front bar of the Diamond had to be the prettiest for a hundred miles around. She’d decorated with an eye that veered toward elegance, knowing even a two-bit hack could charge more if a thing looked fancy. The curtains surrounding the windows were the finest she could afford, and she was replacing the basic wall lamps with more ornate ones as extra money came in.
