The Bride of Willow Creek(57)
The minute Sam heard that Herb Govenor was in town, he nodded slowly and abandoned his usual routine. He wouldn’t be going up to his claim tonight. He’d been awaiting the Govenors’ arrival, taking for granted that they would be among the out-of-town dignitaries invited to the hotel’s grand opening.
After the six o’clock whistle, he gave his tools to Rafe for safekeeping, then washed at the rain barrel and slicked back his hair. The Govenors might be staying at the new hotel, but he guessed it more likely that they would stop at the Congress as they usually did. If so, at this hour Herb would be in the bar off the lobby.
The Miners’ Bar smelled of polished oak, soft leather, and rich cigar smoke. There were no wood shavings on the floor in here, no painted women competing for a quick trip upstairs. Men in evening dress relaxed in deep club chairs, discussing investments and the syndicates that many of them headed.
In his denims and work shirt, his paint-spattered boots and worn hat, Sam stuck out like a penny in a pile of gold coins. A few years ago most of the men in the bar had looked like Sam and had dreamed Sam’s dreams. The scowls directed his way said these men resented an echo from the past invading their sanctuary. Most didn’t welcome a reminder of the hard days before mansions and fancy carriages.
Herbert Govenor shared a table with two other newly minted moguls, only one of whom was worth a damn in Sam’s opinion. That was Marcus Applebee, a man who hadn’t forgotten where he came from.
Applebee stood and shook Sam’s hand with a smile of pleasure. “I was thinking about you not long ago. The mayor tells me you’re going to build a new school on the upside of Bennet. It’s a good idea that’s long overdue. When you’re ready to put together the financing, come see me.”
“I’ll do that, Marcus.” Sam watched Herb Govenor push to his feet, and his face went flat. “It’s time we talked.”
“You and I have nothing to say to each other.”
“We can talk here, or we can talk privately.”
Clamping his cigar between his teeth, Govenor studied Sam’s hard eyes before he nodded shortly and dropped his cigar in an ashtray. Sam followed him to the door of the bar, feeling the stares of curiosity that trailed him.
In the light of the marble-floored lobby, he got his first good look at Herb Govenor since he’d seen him in court months before. It seemed that Govenor had added a few pounds to his tall wiry frame. His hairline had receded another inch. But the arrogance and hatred hadn’t changed. Both were starkly evident.
“What do you want, Holland?”
Other than a desk clerk at the far end of the room, they were alone in the lobby. Still, Sam lowered his voice. “I want the fires to stop.” Govenor stared at him. “I know what you’re doing. If the jobs dry up, I won’t be able to afford Daisy’s surgery, and then you’ll take my daughters.”
“You’re accusing me of starting the fires on your sites?”
“I’m accusing you of hiring it done.” They squared off, facing each other. “So far no one has been injured, and the places you burned are owned by people who can afford the loss. But it ends now or I go to the authorities.”
“You can’t prove a damned thing.”
The lack of denial solidified Sam’s suspicions into fact, and fury boiled in his chest. “You son of a bitch!”
Govenor leaned close, his eyes glittering. “I’m going to ruin you like you ruined my daughter.”
He hit Govenor hard enough that Govenor went down and slid sprawling on the marble floor, and Sam wondered if he’d broken his knuckles. Govenor regained his feet quickly for a man twice Sam’s age, and they fell on each other, punching and gouging with no regard to where they were, with no thought but to inflict damage and punishment.
By the time the men in the Miners’ Bar had rushed into the lobby and pulled them apart, bright blood soaked Govenor’s shirt front and waistcoat, and the front of Sam’s shirt was equally red. Both had aching jaws and ribs, and both had swollen eyes that would turn blue-black by morning.
None of the men crowding around the combatants considered sending for the law, and none thought of inquiring into the cause of the fight. Most knew and respected Sam Holland and Herb Govenor, and most knew an explosive family situation existed between them.
Marcus Applebee placed an arm around Sam’s shoulders and turned him toward the street door. “It’s over now, son.”
“Not by a long shot,” Sam muttered, testing his jaw and checking for loose teeth. He ached all over. Herb might be getting old, but he could still throw a mean punch. All Sam could hope was that he’d given as good as he got.