Simpson Creek, Texas September 1869 "Could I interest you in a sandwich, cowboy? Maybe a bowl of chili?" Ella Justiss didn't like the look of the man who leaned on the counter, studying her instead of the menu posted behind her. He had a scraggly scruff of a beard, narrow, calculating eyes and smelled of sweat, stale whiskey and the cheroots that peeked out of his shirt pocket. "So here's where Detwiler keeps his best gal!" the drifter crowed, staring at her with red-rimmed eyes. "I knew he had to have somethin' better than the ones he's got out there servin' rotgut. What's your name, pretty gal?" Pretty? Me? The drifter must have drunk a powerful lot of the saloon's whiskey before coming to her little café in the back of the building. "Whoa, cowboy, I think you misunderstood. I'm not one of the saloon girls. See the sign?" she said, pointing behind her.
"I'm selling food, cold tea, lemonade and coffee, nothing else." There was no one else in the café at the moment, and nothing between her and the drifter but a long, battered and scratched pecan-wood countertop with a narrow opening at one end so she could bring orders out to the tables. She'd have to leave its safety and go right by him to reach the saloon or out into the alley behind her café. And something in his avid gaze told her she'd never make it past him, that he might try to force his way behind the counter. Then she could be trapped between the stove and the wall. "Are you hungry? Would you like something to eat?" she prompted, keeping her voice natural, hoping to distract him. His eyes went narrower still, and she knew she'd said the wrong thing. "Oh, I'm hungry, all right, gal.
An' you look purdy enough to eat. C'mere." Before she could think to back away or try to call for George Detwiler, the saloonkeeper, the stranger made a grab for her, pulling her out from behind the counter, snaking an arm around her waist and hauling her toward him. Suddenly she was a frightened child back in the asylum at night, waking at the sound of the creaking of the floorboards in the darkness. Her eyes strained to see through the gloom, but she couldn't make out what had roused her. Around her, she could hear snores from some of the cots, the quiet breathing of children from others. And then there was a hand over her mouth. Ella could never remember further than that.
She didn't know why confrontations with overfriendly customers made her think of the asylum, but they always did. Her stomach clenched, as it always did when this half memory paid a visit. "Stop it!" she screamed. "George, help me!" She boxed her assailant's ears and clawed at his face as he succeeded in pulling her out of her sanctuary, but she might as well have pounded on a tree trunk. The stranger guffawed, amused by her attempts to free herself, and clamped a smelly hand over her mouth, muffling her screams. "Settle down, woman, I jes' wanna kiss. You don' weigh any more'n a minute, you know that?" Oh, yes, she knew folks said she was thin as a fiddle string and short as an ant's eyebrow, and now her size was a distinct liability in the fight. The tinkly piano music in the saloon had probably drowned out her cries.
Detwiler would never hear her in time to come to her aid. Dimly she was aware of the door opening behind her, but she was too busy fending off her attacker, who had begun to paw at the neckline of her dress, to pay any attention to what the sound might mean. Then all at once she was free, and the drifter, his nose bloodied, had fallen heavily on his backside, out cold. Ella found herself looking into the clear blue eyes of yet another stranger. This one was as well favored as the drifter had been ugly, with a lock of curly light brown hair falling over his forehead. "You all right, ma'am?" he asked, his Southern drawl like a caress. "Yes, I think so. Thank you," she said fervently.
"You came along at just the right time. I knew the saloonkeeper wouldn't hear me over his piano. " Ella glanced uneasily at her unconscious attacker lying just a few feet from her, wondering if he would come around and launch himself at her again. "Don't worry about him," the newcomer said, following her gaze. "He'll be out for a while, and when he wakes up, his head will ache too much to think of bothering you. I'll get the saloonkeeper and we'll drag him out of here." He left for a moment, and when he returned, he had Detwiler in tow. "Again, Miss Ella?" Detwiler said, glancing from her unconscious attacker to Ella and back again.
She nodded. "I'm afraid so, George." Detwiler said nothing more to her, just grunted as he reached under the man's shoulders, and with the newcomer hoisting the attacker's booted feet, and Ella holding the back door open, the two men hauled the drifter into the alley. She knew they would leave him in front of the saloon, and hopefully, he wouldn't find his way back. When they returned, Detwiler trudged back into the saloon, leaving Ella once more alone with her rescuer. As much as Ella had wanted to scuttle back behind the counter, she had been too shaky to move, and she still stood clutching the doorknob. "You get a lot of that sort of thing, men bothering you like that?" Her rescuer look concerned, but what was he going to do about it? She nodded and tried to look unperturbed, despite the fact that she was still shaking inside. If this man hadn't come along.
And being alone with this man now, without the counter between them, made her nearly as uneasy as the drifter had. "Not usually as bad as that," she said, hoping she sounded calm. "Guess it was too much to hope that some fellows wouldn't get the wrong idea from my little café being in the back of the saloon." It couldn't be helped--it wasn't as if she had the funds to buy a lot and erect a building on it. Using the back room of George Detwiler's saloon for her little eatery and paying him a small sum that covered rent and provisions was supposed to be a temporary measure until the profits would enable her to have her own café, but it seemed she'd be old and gray by the time that happened. She could think of that later. Meanwhile, she owed this stranger some sort of thanks for his timely intervention. "Can I offer you a cup of coffee, mister? And a sandwich?" Ella asked, though she couldn't help wincing inwardly at the loss of the three bits it would cost her to give away what she was supposed to be selling.
"Thank you, but I'll pay for two sandwiches, since I came in with money to buy food anyway," he told her. "I'll eat one now, but would you wrap up the other sandwich for a friend, please?" Suiting his action to his words, he sprinkled some coins onto the countertop. "You could tell me your name." "Ella," she said. "Ella Justiss." "Nice to meet you, Miss Ella. I'm Nate Bohannan." After making the first beef sandwich and pouring his coffee, she studied the man from under her lashes as he ate.
He wasn't one of the local ranch hands, and he wasn't dressed like a cowboy. He wore black trousers, a clean white shirt and a silver brocade vest with a gold watch fob. All of his clothes were clean and well cared for, if a little well-worn. If it weren't for the fancy vest, she might have thought him a doctor, or maybe a preacher. He was well-spoken and polite, but the vest revealed a showier side to his character than a man of one of those professions. "What brings you to Simpson Creek, Mr. Bohannan, if I may ask?" she said as she fashioned the second sandwich for his unseen friend. "Are you a gambler, by any chance?" Detwiler operated a faro table at night, so maybe the man had come to try his luck.
Bohannan threw back his head and laughed. It was a hearty laugh, as if he enjoyed a good sense of humor. "No, I'm not a gambler, though you might say our business is a kind of gamble. I'm the assistant to Mr. Robert Salali. He runs the Cherokee Medicine Show, and we're visiting your fair town to sell his amazing product." "'Salali?' Is he Indian? Or is that some kind of foreign name?" she asked. Bohannan smiled as he answered.
"As American as you and I, though he was given the Cherokee name Salali by a Cherokee chief. He considers it an honor and uses it for his medicine business. Say, Miss Ella, why don't you come see the medicine show. The bottled medicine he sells is a wondrous potion. It'll cure whatever ails a body--though looking at you, I'd say you're not troubled by lumbago, catarrh or rheumatism," he said with a wink of a twinkling blue eye. What was it about this man that made her want to laugh and smile at everything he said, despite her unease with his charm? It was more than the gratitude inspired by his rescue. "No, I'm not subject to those complaints," she said, trying to sound tart but failing miserably. "It's good for lots of other things," he assured her.
"Things that might not be apparent on the surface. Melancholy, dyspepsia." "Fortunately, I'm in good health, but I hav.