letter had her father mentioned it. Why would he send her a key and not tell her what it opened?
She had to admit, the enigma sparked her curiosity and appealed to her intellect. In secret, the past few months she’d been reading mystery novels in her room at night. Her mother, God rest her soul, would have been shocked had she known.
Dora had begun her diary shortly after discovering her father’s letters to her. In it she wrote her most private feelings and thoughts, in addition to faithfully recording her observations regarding any unusual events. She’d learned something from those mystery novels, after all.
Her journey to Last Call and the Royal Flush counted as perhaps the most unusual event of her life, and so she’d decided to record everything, including descriptions of the people she met. She’d wasted half a dozen pages this morning on Chance Wellesley alone. Perhaps now she could banish him from her mind.
She returned her thoughts to the letter and read the most cryptic paragraph again.
I know I haven’t been much of a father to you, Dora, but rest assured, your financial future is secure. I’ve left you something at the ranch. Something only you, seeing as how smart you are, will recognize. It’s the Chance of a lifetime, Dora. Take it.
She held the key up to the sunlight and studied it closely. “The chance of a lifetime.” Whatever did he mean? As she pondered her father’s parting words, her eyes refocused on an upstairs window of the house.
She gasped and dropped the key.
Chance Wellesley dropped his opera glasses. The insufferable man was spying on her!
He made it to the bottom of the spiral staircase a second before she burst through the kitchen into the saloon.
“How dare you!”
“Coffee?” he said, motioning toward the bar, where the bartender was pouring himself a cup. “I don’t mean to be rude, but you look like you could use it.”
“You were watching me from that window.”
There it was again, that trick of the light. She was pretty when she was mad, despite the ugly dress. Her eyes were gunmetal gray, he noticed for the first time, and flashed him a murderous look in response to his smile.
“Explain yourself.”
He shrugged. “I can’t. Guilty as charged.”
“So you admit you were watching me?”
“I do. Now, how about that coffee? I know I could use another cup.”
She took stock of her surroundings, as if she’d just now realized she was standing in the saloon. It wasn’t much to see this time of the morning. Delilah and the girls were still asleep, and the bar didn’t usually open until ten, not until two on Sundays. Wild Bill had had standards, after all. For regulars like himself it was different, of course.
“Miss Fitzpatrick?” The bartender held out a cup to her. “Could rustle you up some breakfast if you like.”
“No, I, um…” She calmed herself down—for the bartender’s benefit, not his, he presumed. “Yes, a cup of coffee would be wonderful.” She walked up to the bar and he set the cup down in front of her. “Thank you.”
“My pleasure. Cream?”
“Yes, please. And sugar, if you have it.”
“Comin’ right up.”
Chance watched her as she fixed her coffee, doing the best she could to ignore him.
“I don’t think we were properly introduced last night. You are…?”
“James Parker, ma’am. But you can just call me Jim. We’re pretty informal around here.”
“Jim, then.” She nodded, looking past him along the bar, which hadn’t been wiped down from last night, to the pile of dirty glasses in the sink. The floor was littered with cigar butts and sticky with spilled beer.
“Oh, I, uh…” Jim cast her a sheepish look. “I meant to get this mess cleared up last night, but you know how it is.”
She wasn’t listening to him. Chance followed her gaze to the portrait above the bar. Her pale cheeks flushed the most disarming shade of scarlet he’d ever seen.
“Something wrong?” he asked.
She instantly averted her eyes. “Yes. No. I’m perfectly fine.”
He hadn’t been up long, and while he was wearing trousers and boots, his shirt was only half buttoned. Her gaze drifted to the opening, lingering on his chest hair. He knew she’d come around. They always did.
Their eyes met, and true to form she blushed hotter and turned her attention back to her coffee. He was beginning to enjoy this.
“Don’t like that painting much, do you?”
“No. No, I don’t.”
“Well, it’s your place now. You could always take it down.”
“Take it down?” Jim, who was hastily wiping the bar down, froze in midstroke.
“That won’t be necessary. I told you. I’m selling the place as soon as possible.”
“Selling it?” Jim had worked at the Flush since Wild Bill opened the place. He didn’t look happy about the prospect of losing his job.
“Yes. In fact, I’m going into town this morning to see a lawyer.”
“But, uh, Miss Fitzpatrick…” Jim ran a hand over his balding head, then toyed nervously with the ends of his moustache. “Your pa wouldn’t have wanted you to sell the place. Not right away, at least.”
“I’ve been meaning to ask someone.” She drew herself up in what Chance was beginning to think of as her schoolteacher pose, and said, “How did my father die?”
“You mean you don’t know?” Jim tossed him one of those you-tell-her looks.
“He was shot,” Chance said. “Right here in this very room.”
She sucked in a breath, and from the stunned look in her eyes he knew her surprise was real and not fabricated.
“W-who did it?”
“Nobody knows.” But he was going to find out, if it was the last thing he did. “It was a Saturday night. The saloon was packed. We heard the shot, and he just went down.”
“Right here,” Jim said, nodding at the floor behind the bar.
“You were here? Both of you?”
“Sitting right over there, playing cards.” He cocked his head toward one of the tables.
“I dropped a tray of beer mugs in the doorway there.” Jim nodded toward the kitchen. “Glass everywhere.” He shook his head. “Damned shame.”
“Excuse me?”
“About your pa, I mean, not the glass.”
“Oh, of course.” She stared past Jim at the dark stain on the well-worn pine flooring behind him, where William Fitzpatrick’s blood had soaked the unvarnished wood.
Chance caught himself feeling sorry for her. He downed the rest of his coffee and adjusted his attitude. He had a job to do, and it was time to get some answers. “Your father, uh, write you any letters before he died?”
She snapped to attention, her spine straightening, and cast him a suspicious look. “Why do you ask?”
“No reason.” He shrugged convincingly.
Not ten minutes ago he’d watched her read a two-page letter he’d mistaken last night for prayer sheets. His first erroneous impression of her and that red leather-bound book had cost him time. No matter, he thought as he noticed the diary and the letter sandwiched inside it poking