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  "Yes'm," Bit mumbled, stabbing one of the tiny pieces.

  Wayland headed out then, and Josie turned her attention to Dahlia. "That was awful kind of you, Miss Wheeler. You didn't have to turn in your favor just to help me."

  "You did me a favor last night. I saw it only right that I return the kindness," Dahlia said, keeping an eye on Bit and making sure that she was eating. "I'm glad that he was able to find something for you."

  "Well, now I owe you a favor," Josie said, setting down her cup in favor of fork and knife. She stopped on the way to cutting her own sausages when Dahlia's soft hand rested on her arm.

  "Now, don't be silly. We'll be doing each other favors until the end of days if we keep doing this!" Her smile was for Josie now. "How about I call you a friend, and then we don't have to worry about who's done more favors for the other?"

  Josie felt her cheeks heating up and turned her head to hide it. "Well, Miss Wheeler, I can't say I have too many that call me 'friend'. I'd like that, though."

  "Just Dahlia will do, Josie, as we're friends now."

  She nodded in agreement and quickly stuffed a cut of sausage into her mouth to prevent herself from saying anything foolish.

  Bit finally ate enough for Dahlia's satisfaction, and the both of them left the table. Bit returned while Josie was finishing her sausages, propping the front door open so she could sweep the floor. A blurry-eyed man stumbled down the stairs, still looking half-drunk as he wobbled across the floor. He patted Bit on the head as he made his way out the door.

  Chuckling, Josie finished her plate and took it up to the bar. She said her farewell to Henry and to Bit, then made her way outside to get her horse. It butted her shoulder as she opened the stable gate; Josie would have to see if she could find some sugar cubes for it.

  She was curious about what this job would be like. She'd seen Chinamen in passing, but never spoke to one. If Wayland said that he spoke to one of them, she had to guess that he spoke English.

  It took Josie a little longer to get there than she remembered it being, but the church was soon looming into view. She'd completely overlooked the undertaker on her way into town, but she saw it now. The sign was painted gold, in whatever language the Chinamen used, but it said Sing Coffins and Burial in English. It was an odd name for such a morbid business.

  Josie tied her horse up outside of the church, where there was plenty of grass for it to eat, and approached the undertaker's shop. There were unfinished coffins leaning against the wall; the sight of them gave her a chill. She removed her hat and stepped inside.

  There was a young man inside, looking maybe in his late teens, his right arm in a sling. With his left, he was attempting to carve the shape of a cross into a coffin lid, gripping it tightly between his legs. When he noticed Josie, he set his carving tool aside. "Are you looking for a coffin?" he asked, and to Josie's surprise, he had very little accent.

  "No, the sheriff said I could find some work here," she said, looking around. There were finished coffins inside, their gleaming wood catching the sunlight that streamed in through the window.

  "That's you? He didn't say you were a lady." The young man jumped down from the table he'd been sitting on, easing the coffin lid to the ground. "Come into the back; my father owns the business. He'll have to approve."

  Josie followed the kid through the door into the back room. It was their living area: two beds were on one end of the room, a stove on the other. In between, on the back wall, was a door that most likely led outside. There was a pleasant odor in the air, and Josie could see curls of smoke rising from a bowl on a shelf. There were various small statues that didn't mean anything to her, but one on the end, of a kindly smiling woman with many arms, caught her eye.

  "What's that?" she asked, nodding towards it.

  It took him a moment to find what she meant, and he paused to search for the right words. "She is the Listener; she hears our prayers and helps those that suffer."

  "Well, that's mighty kind of her," Josie said.

  He smiled; it make him look even younger."What's your name?"

  "Josie. Yours?"

  He started to say something, then stopped and said what sounded like "way" to Josie's ears.

  "Way?" she repeated.

  "Wei," he said, as if correcting her, but it sounded the same to her.

  Josie understood then why everyone called Chinamen "John"; their names were so damned hard to say.

  The back door opened then, an older Chinaman walking in. He walked with a pronounced limp, one gnarled hand resting on a cane, his face speaking of weariness. He gave Josie a curious look and said something to Wei in their language. Wei replied in the same, and the older man grunted.

  "You're here to work." His accent was more pronounced than his son's. "You think you can lift a full coffin?"

  "I reckon I'll find out. I've worked on cattle drives and building sites. I'm strong, Mister…?"

  "Sing," he said, looking Josie over critically.

  That explained the strange name for the business. "I ain't built a coffin before, but I can learn."

  He grunted again, and walked past her, opening the door. "Come." Josie followed him to what looked like a pile of rough lumber, stacked in a corner. "These need to be smoothed. Do a good job, and I'll show you more. Fifty cents a day."

  It was less than she'd earned in other places, but it was sure better than nothing. "Want me to take these outside, for the mess?"

  "Yes. My son will show you." Mr. Sing limped over to a table and leaned his cane against the side, sitting down and opening a book.

  Wei appeared then and nodded to the pile of wood. "Pick up what you can. Most of the tools are outside. It's too hot to work inside long anyway."

  Josie sure agreed with that; sweat was already dripping down the back of her neck. She put her hat back on her head and grabbed an armload of lumber.

  Before she could even begin to carry it outside, the door opened. She looked up, and her blood turned to ice.

  Bill Walters looked near the same as he did fifteen years ago. His hair was greyer, but he was still tall, face still gaunt with cheeks that were perpetually shadowed with whiskers, but would never grow a mustache or beard. He was dressed in clothes that looked new—there wasn't even dust on his boots.

  "Had an accident at the mines, John," he said, his horrible, reedy voice making Josie's skin crawl. "I'm gonna need a box."

  "What style you looking for?" Mr. Sing asked, beginning to rise from the desk.

  Bill laughed. "Style? I'm paying for this—just any old box you got. It sure doesn't need to be fancy."

  Mr. Sing yelled something to Wei, and the kid tapped Josie. "Put that stuff down. We're going to carry a coffin to the wagon."

  Josie kept her head down as they picked up a plain casket; it didn't even have a cross like he'd been carving when she came in. He grunted as he tried to pick up one end with his left arm.

  "Don't kill yourself, kid," she said. "Let me get the bigger end." Josie did just that, grabbing it between her hands and hefting it onto one shoulder. It sure was heavy, but she somehow managed to shoulder it anyway. Josie walked backwards, her neck prickling when she neared Walters, but he only opened the door for them without saying a word.

  His wagon was waiting outside. Josie slowly backed up onto it, setting the coffin down with a grunt of exertion and pulling it up as Wei pushed it up with his good hand. Bill Walters watched, only saying, "Thanks, John," when they were done.

  Josie vaulted over the side of the wagon to land beside it, dusting her hands off. She felt like someone had walked over her grave, cold even in the oppressive Texas sunshine, and did her best to avoid letting him see her face. Maybe with her dark hair, braided as it was, he'd think she was a Chinaman, too.

  Bill Walters was already leaving by the time Josie was back inside, but her hands were still shaking. When she carried the lumber outside to smooth it, it took a cigarette and cutting her fingers on the shaving knife before they would stop.<
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  Chapter Eight

  At the end of the day, Josie was riding back to the Sentimental Lady with her trousers full of splinters and fifty cents in her pocket. Truth be told, working for Mr. Sing wasn't all that bad, once one got past the eeriness of it. Mr. Sing was fairly quiet, but Wei was a sight cheerier, whistling to himself while he struggled through working with his one good arm.

  It was nearly sunset when Josie put her horse in the stable and wandered inside. Cards were out again, and a glance showed that Dahlia was in the middle of a game at her usual table. Josie sat at the bar.

  "I know, I missed supper," she told Henry. "Anything left?"

  "Might be. I'll look for you," he said, disappearing back into the kitchen.

  Josie glanced about as she waited, spotting a whore leaning against the end of the bar. She was the same whore with the red hair that she had seen when she arrived yesterday; Josie tipped her hat politely.

  "Hello," the whore replied, her tone doubtful. "You ain't… lookin' for company, are you?"

  She felt her cheeks heating up. She might have been, but she didn't want Dahlia to know. "No, no ma'am. I'm just stayin' here."

  "Glad to hear that. I'm not sure I'd know what to do with a woman," she chuckled, her voice throaty. "I'm Sadie, but pretty near everyone calls me Snapdragon."

  "Josie. Odd nickname. How'd you come by it?"

  "The Irish temper," she replied. "I chased a man out of here with a fan after he slapped me. Henry said I was a regular snapdragon, and the name stuck."

  "Snapdragons are beautiful, too. Don't forget that," Henry said as he returned, carrying a plate. It looked like leftovers from breakfast, but Josie hasn't eaten since morning. Anything sounded good. He added a beer, and Josie nodded her thanks, attacking the sausages.

  When the door opened, Josie naturally glanced over and nearly choked on her food. Bill Walters walked in, glancing about. He waved to Dahlia, but sat at the bar. "Whiskey, Henry."

  He poured a shot and slid it over.

  "Any new girls?" Bill asked, tipping it back.

  "Not since your last visit, Mr. Walters," Henry said. "Snapdragon's free, if you like."

  Sadie opened her huge fan of peacock feathers—most likely what she'd used to chase the man out when earning her nickname—and waved it, cooling herself.

  Bill didn't so much as glance at her. "I'd prefer Emily, if she's free."

  Henry looked around. "She's over at that table," he said, nodding.

  Josie couldn't help but look. Emily had a round, fair face that made her look younger than she probably was and blonde hair hanging in loose curls around her shoulders. Josie's fingers curled tightly around the knife in her hand, every muscle in her ready to jump to Emily's defense, even as her brain was doing its best to remind her that she was a whore and would be doing her job.

  "Much obliged," Bill said, and slapped a quarter onto the bar.

  Josie forced herself to swallow the sausage she'd nearly forgotten was in her mouth.

  Bill got up and then stopped, looking at Josie's face. She looked away. "Didn't I see you earlier, at the undertaker's?"

  "Yep," Josie said, cutting off another hunk of sausage.

  "What are you doing, working with Chinamen?"

  "Job's a job," she mumbled around her food, refusing to meet his eye. Her hands were shaking again, aching to reach for the pistol at her hip.

  "You should have come to see me," he said, putting a hand on her shoulder. "I'm always looking for new blood, even if you are a woman."

  Josie shrugged his hand off. "Don't want anything to do with you."

  "I don't recollect ever meeting you before. Why're you so rude to me?"

  The fingers wrapped around the fork were beginning to ache from being clenched so tightly. "I know you're a snake. Now let me be."

  Bill held up his hands, a look of both shock and anger on his face, and walked away.

  "What's your beef with Mr. Walters?" Henry asked, taking the glass he'd left behind.

  "Long story," Josie said, trying to keep her mouth full as an excuse not to talk.

  Henry stood, waiting to hear more. When he realized that Josie wasn't going to say more, he turned his attention to Snapdragon. "A man just has no taste if he chooses anyone over you," he said.

  "You old flatterer," she said with a laugh, tapping her fan on the bar. "If I didn't know better, I might even believe it."

  "I always mean it with you," he said.

  Josie watched how they looked at each other, and couldn't help wondering if there was something of a romance blossoming there. Not that she knew much about love, but it helped to distract her mind from the fact that Bill Walters was right behind her.

  At least, it did for a moment. When she saw him climbing the stairs with Emily out of the corner of her eye, the cold feeling came over her again. "You have any coffee on now? I need somethin' warm."

  "With as hot out as it is? You must be part snowman," Henry said. "I'll put some on the stove for you."

  "Thank you." Josie stared at her plate, her appetite suddenly scarce. Bill Walters was close enough for her to spit on, and she couldn't do a damn thing about it. Even if they were alone in an empty field, she had a feeling she would be too scared to pull the trigger. Fine job she was doing of coming into town to settle business.

  She kept forcing herself to choke down food until Henry brought her a cup of coffee. It only took a few sips of that for her to remember how hot it was outside, and she finished her beer instead. It wasn't exactly cold, but at least it wasn't piping hot. She pushed her plate and cups towards Henry and bid him and Snapdragon goodnight before heading upstairs.

  Josie didn't know what room Bill Walters was in, and she didn't want to know. All she wanted now was to wash her face and sleep before she had to go back to the undertaker tomorrow.

  Chapter Nine

  Josie was sleeping fitfully when the knock at her door jerked her awake. She was sweating and had to wipe it from her face with the sheets, it was so thick. "Who is it?" she called, her voice cracking.

  "It's Dahlia."

  This time, she fumbled with the bedside lamp and turned the flame up low. There was no reason to think it wouldn't actually be Dahlia—she recognized her voice—but she couldn't help the crazed paranoia that Bill Walters might be holding her at gunpoint. Josie grabbed her pistol before saying, "Come in."

  Dahlia entered, her gown looking almost black in the low light. "You weren't sitting up waiting for me, were you?" she asked as she closed the door.

  Josie slid her pistol back into its holster. "No, but I might if this is going to be a regular occurrence," she said. "Is something wrong?"

  "Henry told me about your reaction to Mr. Walters tonight," she said, her hands folded before her. "I have no love for the man myself, you know that, but it could be dangerous for you to show such obvious disdain for him."

  "It could be, but I'm not going to pretend to love him," Josie said. She got out of bed, uncaring if Dahlia saw her in her nightshirt, and pulled open the window. There was barely a breeze to be felt, and Josie groaned, sitting down on the bed heavily. "Blasted heat."

  "I do wonder if it's cooler wearing trousers than it is in a gown and petticoats," Dahlia said, smiling.

  "I reckon so. I can't imagine having to wear a bustle," Josie said with a chuckle. "I can't think of any good reason to act like a proper lady, the clothing least of all."

  "It's not so bad, once you're used to it." Dahlia sat down on the bed beside Josie. "My dresses are made in France. It's an expense, so I don't get new dresses often, but I like the look of them. I like reminding my customers that the Sentimental Lady isn't a flophouse. That it has a touch of class."

  "You bring class to it all by yourself," Josie said. Tentatively, she reached out and touched the pearl resting at her throat. "What country'd this come from?"

  Dahlia smiled. "It's the only piece of jewelry I own. I sold everything else to help with buying the Lady and getting her running. I cou
ld buy more, I suppose, but I have other things to put my money towards. Primarily, Bit's schooling."

  Josie found herself wishing she had more than the fifty cents she earned today, foolishly thinking she could deck Dahlia in jewels. "You think Bit is going to come back after her schoolin' is done?"

  Dahlia tossed her head. "I am not going to send that girl to Boston for her to come back here and run a whorehouse! No, she'll have a proper education, and a proper life. She's said before that she'd like to be a schoolteacher. If that's what she'd like, then I will surely give her every encouragement to do so."

  "Good for her," Josie said. She realized that she was still touching Dahlia's necklace, and pulled her hand away. "Bit can learn a lot from you about being a lady."

  "Are you as complimentary with everyone you rent a room from?" she teased.

  Josie's face flushed, but she teased back, "Can't rightly say I've ever stayed with someone as pretty as you."

  "You must not look in a mirror often, then," Dahlia said.

  Josie shook her head, brushing away the hair that was sticking to her forehead. "Ma'am, I'm nothing like you. You're…" she groped for words. "You're like that rose bush by the door. Well-tended, beautiful. It's clear a lot of pride has gone into it, and it's a joy to look on."

  Dahlia touched her shoulder. Even in the summer heat, her hand was still cool. "Flowers grow wild too, Josie, and they're just as beautiful."

  She looked at Dahlia. It was loco, but in that moment, she thought that maybe Dahlia wanted to kiss her. Josie definitely wanted to kiss Dahlia. She inched forward; the hand was still on her shoulder, and Dahlia didn't move away. Did she dare?

  Before she could decide, a door slammed in the hallway. The fear that it might be Bill Walters hit her like cold water in the face, and she sat back, beginning to sweat again.

  "Are you all right?" Dahlia asked, still touching her shoulder.