Dulcina Read online

  Dulcina

  The Widows of Wildcat Ridge

  Western Historical Romance

  Linda Carroll-Bradd

  Copyright © 2018 by Linda Carroll-Bradd

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, without prior written permission.

  ISBN: 978-1-940546-25-4

  Cover designed by Charlene Raddon,dba www.silversagebookcovers.com

  Author’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

  Book Layout © 2017 BookDesignTemplates.com

  DEDICATION

  To all individuals, past, present, and future, with pioneering spirits

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Thanks to the wonderful authors involved in creating this fictional town of Wildcat Ridge through which the characters of our individual creation lie and breathe.

  ~**~

  A big thank you to my copy editor, Shenoa Carroll-Bradd, for her story insights and attention to detail.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  March 28, 1884

  W hich dress to wear for tonight’s singing performance? From the overstuffed armoire in her bedroom, Dulcina pulled out two possibilities and eyed them. First, an emerald sateen gown with fitted bodice and cap sleeves. Second, a ruby red dress including a sweetheart neckline outlined by long folds that curved over her shoulders.

  Thursdays weren’t usually too busy at the Last Chance Saloon she and her husband, Stuart, operated in Wildcat Ridge. Holding up the gowns one at a time, she pressed them under her chin and turned this way and that to view her reflection in the cheval glass standing in the bedroom corner. The mid-afternoon sun shining through the window picked out hints of red highlights in her dark hair, and her decision was made.

  For some reason, she was feeling festive today. Last night, she’d overheard Stuart whispering to their bartender, Ralph Driscoll, about next Wednesday and special arrangements. That day marked their eighth wedding anniversary. Her devoted husband must be planning a way to thank her for making their latest saloon a success. Perhaps he would finally present her with tickets to an opera performance like he’d been promising for years. Would they travel to the opera house built by the mining millionaire Horace Tabor in Leadville or in Denver, Colorado?

  Without being told, she knew her singing brought the customers in droves—even if they were mostly miners. After almost a year in this location, she’d become used to the lack of elegant clothing and proper manners of the saloon’s clientele. As long as they kept their distance, she was not opposed to uplifting their work-weary spirits by sharing her talent. The entire town of Wildcat Ridge in Utah Territory depended on the workers from the Gold King mine, and their families, to sustain their businesses. Even if that patronage was accompanied by the repeated bragging by the town’s founder, Mortimer Crane.

  Walking barefoot across the carpeted floor, she dug her toes into the soft tapestry carpet that helped keep away the chilly northern Utah Territory air. The silk of her dressing gown caressed her curves, and the fluffy ostrich plume trim displayed her long dark hair to its best advantage. Too bad her husband never saw her in the luxurious garment. After the first few months of their marriage, Stuart said he was much too busy to lie around in their room as she made her leisurely preparations for each evening’s performance.

  She dropped onto the chair at her vanity and reached for the last bite of a sweet roll. The tea had cooled from when Stuart delivered the daily tray promptly at noon, but she savored each drop. Singers needed to keep their throats moist. She’d read somewhere that Jenny Lind drank six cups of tea a day and at least two glasses of champagne every night. I love champagne. She wished Stuart would order champagne to keep on hand at the saloon. But he said no one in this town had sophisticated enough tastes to recognize the special bubbly wine.

  Reaching a hand to a low table nearby, she shuffled through sheet music of parlor songs scattered on the surface. Creating the song order was her responsibility, and she did her best not to repeat the same tunes every night. The latest batch of songs arrived earlier in the week. She longed for a new song to rekindle her joy in singing. Maybe one would be arranged simply enough for the saloon’s pianist, Herbert Schumer, to learn.

  If only Stuart could find a pianist of Latin birth. Someone with the passionate blood of generations of Spaniards was the one to do songs like La Golondrina or Tres Hojitas, Madre proud. Sighing, she picked up a piece of paper, hummed the tune, and waltzed across the bedroom floor. Vibrations flexed under her feet. She paused then shrugged. Dynamiting at the gold mine again.

  The perfume bottles on her vanity tinkled together. A concussive boom shook the windows.

  Dulcina turned and stared at the jiggling bottles. Had Stuart dropped something in the storeroom?

  The wooden walls creaked, and the floor rumbled and shook.

  Her knees buckled. She gasped and grabbed the edge of the armoire door to pull herself to the chair. A clock on Stuart’s nightstand fell onto its front. As the bottles danced on the vanity’s surface, she grabbed for her favorite bottle of Parisian perfume and clutched it to her chest. Oh no, not another one.

  Dulcina dove under her vanity, wrapped her arms around her crooked legs, and closed her eyes. Flashes of a terrifying earthquake from her youth tightened a knot in her stomach. She’d been outside playing when the ground shook, raising dust and preventing her from walking straight. She’d climbed into a storage bin in the outdoors kitchen and waited for someone to rescue her. The small space was so dark, and she cried but no one came. Hours passed before her family had found her.

  “Dulcina, are you all right?” A faint voice called from the first floor.

  Stuart. Dulcina scrambled to her feet and rushed to the bedroom door. She yanked it open and dashed to the edge of the balcony overlooking the saloon.

  Her husband stood in the middle of the room, thin arms akimbo. His shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, but he looked none the worse for wear. “I’m all right. What was that? An earthquake?”

  “Don’t think so.” Glancing toward the door, he ran a hand through his brown hair. “But something terrible has happened at the Gold King. I don’t know if it’s a cave-in or an explosion. Either event could mean injuries or even lost lives.” He walked out of sight toward his office. “I’m heading there to see if I can help.”

  What is he talking about? She clutched the railing. Her husband was a businessman. His manner was suited for acting a host to make sure customers had a good time. Or he was good at pacifying unruly ones to maintain a calm atmosphere. What did he know about mine accidents? “Don’t go, Stuart. Let others provide assistance.” How could he help? Telling him his small frame wouldn’t be of much use was rude. Before she formed the right argument, he dashed across the saloon floor, through the doorway, and onto the boardwalk. The swinging bat-wing doors marked his departure.

  She glanced outside and saw people—men, women, and children—hurrying down the street toward the mine. Back in her room, she threw on a yellow shirtwaist and a brown skirt
then ran downstairs to stand on the back stoop of the saloon. Rubbing hands up and down her arms in the chilly air, she looked down Ridge Alley toward Wildcat Mountain and lifted a hand to cover her gaping mouth. The buildings in the south part of the town obscured her view of what happened at the ground level. But the huge plume of smoke rising through the trees looked ominous. When did anything good come from so much smoke?

  The cold air finally drove Dulcina back inside. To keep occupied, she slipped behind the long mahogany counter to straighten bottles of corn whiskey and rearrange the glasses on the shelves. Stuart would return soon with news. She grabbed a rag to dust the glossy curves of the uprights on the shelves behind the bar.

  Stuart had been so proud when he commissioned the shelving case from Peter Sullivan, the town’s furniture maker. The reddish wood gleamed after her attention. Over her shoulder, she tossed a glance at the door. Nerves raced up and down her spine. Why hadn’t Stuart returned? Should she go see what was happening? With hesitant steps, she walked to the front window and looked up and down the street. No one rushed toward the Gold King anymore…but no one walked away from that direction either.

  Moving into Stuart’s office, she lifted down her gray woolen cloak from a peg in the wall and arranged it over her shoulders. A glance toward the desk informed her Stuart had been working on the ledger when the shaking started. She reached over the heavy oak desk, slipped a scrap of paper into the middle, and then closed the book. He was the one with the head for figures and accounts, but leaving the details of their livelihood open didn’t sit right.

  Pausing at the front door, she glanced down the street again, wishing she didn’t have to make this trek. But years ago, she swore she’d never just sit and wait when she had the power to do something. Another explosion boomed, softer than the first, but she grabbed the doorjamb to steady herself. Urgency fueled her steps along the wooden boardwalk bordering Front Street, but at the same time, her limbs felt heavy.

  At each business window she passed, she glanced inside. But the shops stood empty. No one offered pasties at the Sugar and Spice Bakery or served customers at the Crystal Café. Neither Mister or Missus Ames stood at the registration desk for the Ridge Hotel. Seeing the growing number of empty businesses knotted her stomach tighter. Across the street, not a soul moved at the Wells Fargo office…and that place was never unoccupied.

  Lifting her skirts to cross Chestnut Road, she set her gaze on the plume of smoke that had dissipated somewhat but still served as a marker of her destination. The names of businesses blurred as she hurried forward. Her progress was slowed by shards of broken glass and shingles that fell from rooftops.

  Suddenly, she had to find Stuart. He’d been her steadfast rock for the past eight years, and she needed him to tell her everything would be all right. When she turned onto Mountain Road and glanced past the red light district, she spotted an outhouse on its side. A couple of the shanties in Chinatown leaned at a greater degree. Angling left, she walked the inclined path to Moose Mountain.

  A crowd formed a ring around where the Gold King entrance had been. In its place was a mound of disrupted dirt. Her muscles tightened. What had happening? Mournful wails echoed from the group and rippled goose bumps over her skin. Dulcina scanned the gathered people, searching for where men dug with shovels or picks. Only after the third review of the stationery figures did she realize they were almost all women—some grouped together and others standing alone. Crying children clung to their mothers’ skirts.

  On the ground ahead, a slender blonde who looked like Priscilla Heartsel dug in the dirt with her bare hands. Her clothes were caked in mud, and dark swathes marked her tear-drenched face.

  Another woman stood nearby, wringing her hands. The drab-colored dress labeled the blonde with golden curls as Thalia Plunkett. Frowning, the young woman pulled Priscilla to her feet. “They’re all gone. All our men,”

  Thalia’s words rang in Dulcina’s ears. Can’t be. Her stomach plunged, and she tightened her grip on the cloak’s edges. Who’s gone…the miners? She glanced around. None of what she saw happening made sense. Where was the rescue crew? Shouldn’t Marshal Fawks be directing the efforts? Could Stuart have gone back to the saloon via another route?

  Nearby stood Cordelia Wentz, head bent, her rounded shoulders heaving as she stared at the ground.

  “Excuse me, Missus Wentz.” Dulcina gulped against a dry throat. She had to find Stuart. When the woman didn’t respond, she tapped her shoulder.

  “What?” Cordelia swiped the back of a muddy hand over her cheeks. “Missus Crass, I’m sorry I snapped.”

  Involuntarily, she flinched at the sound of her married name. After eight years, she should be used to it, but the single syllable contained no lyricism. “Can you tell me what’s going on?” She waved a hand toward the gathering that hadn’t shifted since she arrived.

  “We’re all standing witness to our dead.”

  A tiny spark of hope bloomed. “For the miners, you mean.”

  “For more than the miners.” The older woman sniffled then squared her shoulders. “An explosion blasted from the bowels of the Gold King while the morning shift was readying to be relieved by the afternoon shift. Wiped them all out.”

  “Oh no.” Panic tightened her chest. Dulcina wrapped her arms around her middle. “How do you know?”

  “If the crush of rocks didn’t smash them flat, then the lack of air did. Without open shafts, they’d suffocate in no time.” She blinked and looked around. “Townspeople rushed to help, including my Ch-Charlie. Women and children, too. While they were digging, another explosion went off. Dynamite, I’m guessing, by the sweet smell lingering in the air. More flying dirt and debris killed the rescuers.”

  “All of them?” Dulcina’s legs wobbled, and she locked her knees. “Where’s the owner? Maybe Mortimer Crane has answers.”

  “Haven’t seen him.” Cordelia swung an arm around the immediate area. “But you tell me. See anybody heaving a shovel? Or hauling away dirt in a wheelbarrow? Poor Doc Spense is sitting over there with no one to patch up. Because I’m telling you, they’re all dead.” Spittle flew from her mouth.

  Not Stuart. The woman’s voice roared and then faded in Dulcina’s head. Her husband wouldn’t have left her all alone. Tightness wrapped around her throat. “I thank you for the information, but I’m sure Stuart is waiting for me back at the Last Chance. I’d better hurry there right now.” Turning, she didn’t bother to lift her skirts. What was a little mud? She had to see for herself that her husband was safe.

  Had she remembered to lock the front door? Stuart always chided her about forgetting to do that. Today of all days, she didn’t want to be at the wrong end of his temper. What she needed was to feel her husband’s wiry arms around her, providing reassurance their world hadn’t been torn apart like all those other pitiful women.

  When she reached the first building across Mountain Road, she pressed a hand to the solid structure. Right now, she needed the support of something sturdy to guide her feet along her path.

  With each step she took, she remembered a detail about their lives together.

  How Stuart had arrived at the Miranda Rancho outside of Questa, New Mexico Territory, to look over her father’s fine horses.

  Because he hadn’t lived in the area for her entire life, Stuart appeared to be the most fascinating man she’d ever known. She’d never met anyone who traveled to New York, New Orleans, or San Francisco.

  The farthest Papa had ever taken the family was a festival in Albuquerque. Only nine or ten, she’d loved every moment of seeing new sights.

  By the time she was abreast of the Crane Bank, Dulcina lowered herself to the wooden bench outside. Dread invaded her body and weakened her limbs. She leaned her head against the bricks and closed her eyes, needing a few moments to gather her strength. What air had been warmed by the sun didn’t reach this space under the wooden roof overhanging the walkway. Better to have the sun drying the dirt streets.

  Fr
om inside the building came the murmur of voices. Dulcina pictured the teller, Birdie Templeton, and the manager, William Humphries, discussing everyday financial transactions. They’d both been pleasant enough the previous year when Stuart had her accompany him to make their initial deposit. Birdie even commented that not every husband added his wife’s name to the account, especially in a territory without community property laws. Signing her married name when they’d transacted other business always filled her chest with pride.

  “Missus Crass.”

  Yes, that was her name—Missus Dulcina Crass.

  Boots scuffled on the boardwalk then stopped. “Missus Crass.”

  Eyelids fluttering, she squinted at the male silhouette standing two feet away. “Stuart?” Now, why would her husband use her full name? Sitting forward, she blinked at the sandy-haired man before her. “Oh, Mister Driscoll.”

  “I’ve been lookin’ for you, ma’am.” Frowning, the saloon’s forty-ish bartender leaned over and slid a hand under her left elbow. “Let me help you back to the Last Chance.”

  Finding nothing wrong with his statement, Dulcina allowed herself to be pulled to her feet. “An escort would be appreciated. I’m suddenly so very tired.”

  “Understandable, ma’am. Here are four steps down.”

  “Did you see Stuart at the saloon?”

  He jerked and shook his head. “No, ma’am.”

  As they proceeded down the street, she followed his quietly spoken directions. When had she ever spent time alone with this man? She only related to him as the person who served drinks every night while she performed. She knew they were close to the Last Chance when the yeasty smell of fresh bread overrode the earthy scent of mud. Once inside, he guided her to a table and eased her down into a chair. Not having to walk felt so good.