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"Oh, nothing terrible," she teased, but her eyes were soft with genuine concern. "I've just… I booked the hotel tub for a proper hot bath for you. It's being filled now downstairs. And I asked the saloon to send over a proper lunch, some steak with potatoes, oat poroudge, and an apple pie, for us to have in the room."
"And after that," she squeezed his hands, "I thought I might try to work some of that tension out of your shoulders. You've been carrying the weight of our gabg and future these past weeks."
Caleb raised an eyebrow, touched and slightly suspicious of such orchestrated pampering. "This is quite the production. Are we celebrating something I've forgotten?"
Mary-Beth shook her head, her expression softening further. "No occasion. I just look at you, Caleb Thorne, and I see a man who builds many things in his mind before breakfast, swings a hammer 'til he sweats through his shirt, and then stays up half the night staring at maps. You're planning for many years from now but forgetting to rest for tomorrow. So tonight, you're not the man who planned to do this great things. You're just a normal man. My man. And you're going to be still for a few hours."
Her words disarmed him completely. The constant forward pressure, the calculation, the vigilance, it all receded, leaving behind a simple, profound gratitude. He brought her hands to his lips and kissed her knuckles. "In that case, I surrender. Lead me to this bath, my lady."
The next hour was a lesson in quiet luxury. The bath in the converted storage room down the hall was indeed a deep copper tub, filled with steaming water scented with a few drops of pine oil Mary-Beth had procured from somewhere.
The grime and dust of the land, and the metaphorical grime of deals and rumors, soaked away. The soreness in his muscles melted into a pleasant lassitude.
Wrapped in a clean robe, he returned to their room to find it transformed. The small table was set with a white cloth, proper eating wares from the saloon, and two covered silver domes. A bottle of decent Bordeaux stood open, breathing. Mary-Beth had changed into a simple, pretty dress of deep blue.
The meal was eaten slowly, with easy conversation. She asked about the land, and he described the progress in detail, the satisfaction in the work.
She talked about a story idea she'd had, about a woman who inherits a failing ranch and outsmarts the cattle baron trying to steal it. He listened, genuinely engaged, offering suggestions about legal loopholes the heroine might exploit, making her laugh.
Afterwards, as promised, she had him sit on the floor by the bed while she knelt behind him. Her hands, strong and knowing from years of hard living now gentled but still capable, worked at the knots in his shoulders and back. He let his head fall forward, a low groan of pure relief escaping him.
"See?" she whispered near his ear. "Even the mighty need maintaining."
"I'm not mighty," he murmured, his voice thick with relaxation. "Just stubborn."
"That too," she laughed softly, her thumbs digging into a particularly stubborn ridge along his spine. The silence that followed was comfortable, filled only with the crackle of the lamp and the distant sounds of the saloon.
In that quiet, with her hands on him, the last walls of his always thinking mind came down. "I have to go to Saint Denis," he said, the words quiet in the dim room.
Her hands paused for only a second, then resumed their work, a fraction firmer. "When?"
"Day after tomorrow. After Strauss and I finalize the papers for Strawberry. I'll only be gone two or three days. I need to… take the temperature of things there."
"The Pinkertons? And Bronte?"
"Yes. The world doesn't stop shifting because we're building a house. I need to know if that particular fault line is still active, or if it's settled. For our sake."
She was quiet for a long moment, her fingers tracing the line of a old scar on his shoulder. "You'll be careful."
It wasn't a question.
"Always. I'm just going to listen. No trouble."
"You have a talent for finding trouble, Caleb. Or it for finding you."
He reached back, finding her hand and lacing his fingers with hers. "Not this time. This is reconnaissance. I'll be a ghost."
He felt her press a kiss to the top of his head. "See that you are."
The next day was a whirlwind of preparation. Caleb and Strauss spent the morning in the restaurant's back room, surrounded by paper.
Strauss presented the purchase agreement for the Welcome Center Lodge, the language dry and legalistic, securing the property, its contents, and its business licenses for the sum of 8,500 dollars. A steal, considering if the potential that Caleb knew it could have.
Alongside it were two other documents. One was a legitimate looking draft from the "First Bank of New Hanover" for the full amount.
The other, a masterpiece of Strauss's clandestine art, was a letter of credit from a "Bank of London" correspondent, thicker, more ornate, designed to dazzle and overwhelm a desperate small town aide with its imposing, foreign legitimacy. It was a tool of psychological pressure, a backup plan.
In the afternoon, Caleb rode out to the land once more. He informed George of his short trip east. "Keep the momentum. I'll be back before you've finished the staircase."
George grinned. "We'll have it waiting for you, boss. Safe travels."
That evening, Caleb prepared differently. He selected clothes that were of good quality but not flashy, outfits that are suitsle for his fake identity, the famous bounty hunter McLaughlin, wear in Saint Denis.
He cleaned and oiled his Navy revolvers, but also packed his Litchfield and Pump Action Shotguns, just in case.
He filled his satchel with essentials and some amos, including a bundle of cash in various denominations sealed in oilcloth. He was not planning on trouble, but a man who walked into the lion's den, even just to listen, did so prepared.
Mary-Beth helped him pack in silence, her worry a quiet presence in the room. When he was done, she handed him a small, folded piece of paper. "A list. Saint Denis has a proper bookstore. I've heard of it. If you have a moment…"
He took it, unfolded it, and saw the titles of three novels. He smiled, folding it carefully into his vest pocket. "I'll find them."
The morning of departure was a study in contrasts. At dawn, Caleb left instructions with Strauss, brief but precise, then mounted Morgan and he rode to the southeast out of Valentine under a pale pink sky, heading toward Saint Denis.
The journey to Saint Denis was a slow metamorphosis. As the flat, open plains of New Hanover gave way to the creeping lushness of the Bayou Nwa, Caleb Thorne began to recede, layer by layer. The man who built houses and dreamed of lodges folded inward.
By the time the first tendrils of marshland mist curled around Morgan's legs, the set of his shoulders had changed, the look in his eyes hardening into a flinty watchfulness. When the sprawling, stinking, magnificent city finally rose before him, it was the bounty hunter, McLaughlin, who guided his horse through the crowded streets.
McLaughlin was a useful fiction. To the public, he was a man of justice with a fearsome reputation for bringing in outlaws alive, a rare and profitable skill.
To a smaller, more dangerous circle, he was a discreet and lethally effective associate of Angelo Bronte, a troubleshooter who handled problems too messy for the regular ranks.
And to a vanishingly small few, he was the ghost who had rained sniper fire on a Pinkerton convoy, leaving bodies and a burning fury in his wake.
He rode directly to the Bastille, the heart of high class vice in the city. Caleb dismounted, gave Morgan a reassuring pat, and hitched her at the post out front. She snorted softly, accustomed to cities but no lover of them.
"Back soon," he murmured, then turned and pushed through the doors.
The familiar wave of sound, scent, and sin washed over him, the intricate piano melody, the clink of fine glass, the murmur of deals in French and Italian, the perfume and powder of the working girls who were more courtesans than saloon girls.
Heads turned. Recognition flashed in the eyes of several patrons, rich merchants, minor politicians, a known fight promoter. A few raised glasses in greeting, one called out, "McLaughlin! Back from the wilderness!"
Caleb, as McLaughlin, offered a tight, neutral smile and a nod, acknowledging them without engaging. Two of the working girls, Celeste and Colette, glided toward him, their smiles practiced and warm.
"Cher McLaughlin, you have been away too long," Colette purred.
"Missed you, handsome," Celeste batting her eye. "Care to make up for lost time?"
"Tempting as ever, ladies. Rain check. Business first," he replied, his voice a low rumble, touching the brim of his hat respectfully before moving past them. They laughed, not offended, McLaughlin's reputation for restraint was as known as his skill, and let him pass, though not without a lingering look.
He made his way to the counter.
Ezra was on shift.
The young black bartender stood polished and composed, a glass in one hand, a clean cloth in the other. He looked up as Caleb approached, a genuine smile touching his lips. "Mr. McLaughlin. Welcome back to Saint Denis."
"Good to see you, Ezra," Caleb replied. "Looks like the Bastille hasn't missed a beat."
Ezra chuckled. "City don't sleep. It just pretends to." He set the glass down. "Whiskey?"
"Yes. The good stuff."
"Only kind we keep," Ezra replied, setting the clean glass down with a soft clink. He selected a bottle with a wax seal, poured two fingers of amber liquid, and slid it across. Caleb laid a silver dollar on the bar, which Ezra swept away with a fluid motion.
"Much obliged," Caleb said, lifting the glass.
As Caleb took his first sip, letting the familiar burn settle in his gut, Ezra leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping to a confidential murmur while his hands remained busy. "The boss will be happy to know you're in town."
Caleb paused, the glass halfway back to the bar. He set it down carefully. "That so? Why's that?"
Ezra glanced around briefly, then spoke quietly, the way a man did when passing along information he'd been trusted with. "I was told to pass something along if you ever came back through Saint Denis. Said you'd should know."
Caleb nodded once. "I'm listening."
Ezra's eyes flicked around the room, ensuring no one was in eavesdropping range before then continuing. "Things have been… unsettled. Since you left. The Pinkertons, they made a big show of pulling out. But it's a quiet war now. In the alleys, the warehouses by the docks… bodies turn up. Some wear Pinkerton ties tucked in their pockets. Others are known to run errands for Mr. Bronte. The blood's been watering the cobblestones."
Caleb's expression didn't change, but his mind was already working, slotting the information into place. "And Milton?"
"A ghost," Ezra whispered. "Seen once, just once, about a week ago. He was seen entering the State Government building, surrounded by armed men, not Pinkertons, looked like private guards, expensive ones."
"He was inside for two hours. When he left, it was in a closed carriage with reinforced sides. The boss sent some of his boys to follow. Lost him in the traffic near the trolley depot. He hasn't been seen since. But the feeling is… he's still here. No one knows where he's staying. Or who he's talking to."
...
Name: Caleb Thorne
Age: 23
Body Attributes:
- Strength: 7/10
- Agility: 7/10
- Perception: 8/10
- Stamina: 7/10
- Charm: 7/10
- Luck: 8/10
Skills:
- Handgun (Lvl 4)
- Rifle (Lvl 4)
- Firearms Knowledge (Lvl 4)
- Past Life Memory (Lvl MAX)
- Knife (Lvl 4)
- Blunt Weapon (Lvl 1)
- Sneaking (Lvl 4)
- Horse Mastery (Lvl 4)
- Poker (Lvl 4)
- Hand to Hand Combat (Lvl 4)
- Eagle Eye (Lvl 1)
- Dead Eye (Lvl 3)
- Bow (Lvl 2)
- Pain Nullifier (Lvl 3)
- Physical Regeneration (Lvl 2)
- Crafting ((Lvl 4)
- Persuasion (Lvl 4)
- Mental Fortitude (Lvl MAX)
- Cooking (Lvl 4)
- Teaching (Lvl 2)
- Trilingual Language Proficiency - G, I, & C (Lvl MAX)
- Inventory System (Permanent - 10x10x10)
- Acting (Lvl 4)
- Alcohol Resistance (Lvl MAX)
- Treasure Hunter (Lvl MAX)
- Drugs Resistance (Lvl MAX)
Money: 3,525 dollars and 10 cents
Inventory: 77,892 dollars and 61 cents, 11 gold nuggets, 65 gold bars, 1 Double Action, 1 Schofield, 2 Colm's Schofields, land deed (Parcel), 1 Mauser, 1 Semi Auto Pistol, 1 Lancaster Repeater, 1 Old Wood Jewelry Box, 1 F.F Mausoleum small brass key, 1 Ruby, 1 Braithwaites Land Deed, & 1 Broken Pirate Sword
Bank: -