Daisy frowned at him. “Well, what should we call them, Papa?”
The question planted a stake in his heart. Children this age shouldn’t know about whores or parlor houses, shouldn’t need to know how to refer to prostitutes. One glance at Angie’s expression told him she felt the same.
But saloons, faro parlors, gambling dens, parlor houses, cribs, beer halls—they were the first buildings erected in a mining camp. The whores and saloon girls arrived long before the wives and mothers. In Willow Creek the sporting ladies had outnumbered the Mrs. Finns and the Molly Johnsons until very recently. Of course his daughters knew about the Old Homestead and Miss Lily. How many other prostitutes did they recognize on sight and know by name?
Sam clenched his fists. He was going to find his jackpot. Then Daisy would get her operation. And then he would move his daughters as far from the mining camps as he could.
“If you must refer to the ladies living at the Old Homestead, and I can’t think why you would,” he said, speaking through clenched teeth, “then refer to them as sporting ladies.”
Somehow the phrase sporting ladies made the whores sound adventurous and athletic. A sporting lady sounded rather like a desirable person to be.
Angie shook her head. She also spoke through clenched teeth. “A better way is to refer to them as those poor unfortunates.”
“They’re fallen angels.” At once he saw that he had erred again. Both of his daughters stared up at him with stricken expressions.
Daisy wrung her hands together. “Did Miss Lily get hurt when she fell out of heaven? Is that why she doesn’t turn her head to look at us? Did she hurt her neck when she fell?”
There were times when the responsibilities of fatherhood overwhelmed him. When he felt that every word he spoke painted him further into a problem corner. He glanced at Angie, hoping she would jump in and say something to rescue the situation. But she clamped her arms over her breast and lifted an expectant eyebrow as if she, too, wanted to know if Miss Lily had sustained any injuries as a result of her fall.
“Actually, Miss Lily didn’t really fall out of heaven,” Sam began. “Fallen angel is just an expression that some people use meaning that all women are angels, but some have fallen from grace. Do you understand?”
“Who said all women are angels? We’re not angels. And she’s not an angel.”
“But Mama is an angel.” Sudden tears welled in Daisy’s eyes. “Oh no! Is Mama going to fall out of heaven?”
Lucy gasped and instant tears spilled over her lashes. “Oh! I don’t want Mama to be a fallen angel like Miss Lily!”
Horror and disbelief slackened Sam’s jaw. How on earth had this gone so badly? He lifted his gaze to Angie. “You can step in here anytime you like. I’d appreciate it.”
“I wouldn’t dream of interfering,” she said, backing up a step. “I warned you that I don’t know about these things. You got into this, you’ll have to get out of it.” She fanned her face with the edge of her shawl. “In fact, I think I’ll . . . I’ll just step outside for some air.”
Wasn’t that like her? To abandon him when he needed her the most?
Trying to be fair, he reminded himself that this was only Angie’s second day. He knelt in front of his crying daughters. “Let’s start over. . . .”
In the mornings, when John Avril was airing out the place, the Gold Slipper didn’t smell as smoky and beer-soaked as it did during the rest of the day. In the mornings, with clean sawdust freshly laid down and the spittoons emptied, the Slipper smelled like coffee and Mrs. Avril’s famous cheese bread.
“What I’m saying is our children shouldn’t have to walk past the Old Homestead on the way to school.”
One of the town councilmen that Sam had summoned swallowed a wedge of cheese bread, then shook his head. “No help for it, Sam. The Old Homestead is here to stay.”
“I’m not suggesting that we shut down the ladies or that we force the Old Homestead to move. I’m saying let’s build another school on the uphill side of Bennet where there aren’t any saloons or whorehouses.”
“There’s already a school up there,” the mayor reminded everyone at the table.
“I have to agree with Sam,” one of the councilmen stated, lighting a cigar. “The Eaton Street school has thirty kids crammed into one room.”
Sam nodded. “If that school could hold two more children, my daughters would be there, too. If we build another, we could put the lower grades in one school and the upper grades in the second.”
“That’s all fine and dandy, but where’s the money coming from? Schools don’t grow on trees. And frankly, Sam, there are things this town needs more than another school. We need a bigger jail for one thing. Now that we’ve got the railroad and important visitors arriving on a regular basis, we should pave Bennet Street. Install more streetlamps. Clean up Poverty Gulch.” The mayor shrugged. “Now you want another school.”