Ellen Hart Presents Malice Domestic 15: Mystery Most Theatrical. Karen Cantwell
she was doomed.
She swapped her skinny jeans and t-shirt for a corset and flouncy skirt. Every time she leaned over, the boning of the corset caught on her naval ring, but her posture had never been straighter.
Beyond the door, cowboy boots clomped across the oak floorboards of the bunkhouse. The steps slowed as they neared. She hoped they’d continue but knew they wouldn’t.
“Get a move on, Nellie. You’re slower than molasses in January.”
She didn’t know which she hated more. That the name they slapped onto her character sounded like a horse, or the stupid Ah-shucks drawl Shane adopted even when there was no one to hear. This is how we talk round these parts, he’d say. Never know when there might be young’uns underfoot.
She yanked the top of the corset higher. It wasn’t the kids that worried her.
“I’d be happy to help the little lady out with her laces.”
“Not in this lifetime, Shane.” The laces weren’t even functional. The corset fastened with a series of tiny hook-and-eyes up the front. More steampunk than frontier.
“I told you to call me Sheriff. And as Sheriff McMasters, I order you to open up in the name of the law.”
Law. He acted like the badge he wore gave him the authority to do whatever he wanted. In some ways, that made him an accurate representation of the time. On a wild frontier, more than one lawman freelanced as a gunslinger or outlaw when it suited him.
“Go away. You don’t have jurisdiction here.” She returned to dressing. The fishnet pantyhose were another cheat. Pantyhose weren’t even invented until 1959. Stockings, yes, but pantyhose? It was as if no one even researched the garments saloon girls actually wore.
“When all’s said and done, maybe you’ll let me buy you a whiskey at the bar. Demonstrate how grateful you are that I didn’t kill you when I had the chance.”
He spoke in character, but the words made her uneasy. He was one of those guys who had all the attributes of a great cover on an awful book; attractive enough to gain attention, but hiding a deeply flawed character inside. He’d asked her out every day since she joined the cast. Each time she’d said no.
She zigzagged the laces around the hooks of her granny-boots. Double knotted them, yanking the laces tight with more force than necessary.
The only thing left was a drawstring purse. She fastened the empty decorative cloth bag to her belt and stole a glance at her watch. Eleven thirty. An ungodly hour for a college senior on summer break. She dropped the timepiece into the valise and grabbed her garter. The cheap polyester lace scratched against her fingers. A red rosette hid the tiny holster like a wilting afterthought. Hurriedly, she slid it over her boot, snagging the rosette on one of the hooks. She bit back a swear word and set about untangling it.
“You listening to me?” He rapped sharply on the door.
She started and the garter tore free. A red scrap of lace clung to the hook like a droplet of blood.
“You know I have a boyfriend.”
He snorted on the other side of the door, so close she checked the keyhole to make sure he couldn’t see through it.
“Slim Jenkins is a skinny runt and he certainly isn’t the most fearsome gun in the west if he lets a common saloon girl get the drop on him.”
He knew nothing about her boyfriend. “It’s a show, Shane.”
“What you need is a strong man like me to take care of you.”
She slammed the valise shut. “I don’t recall asking you what I need, but since you seem so interested, let me make one thing perfectly clear.” She opened the door so fast he took a step back. “It isn’t you.”
“I’m sure sorry to hear that.” His eyes narrowed. “I suspect you’ll be regretting them words ‘fore too long.”
“I’m going to pretend you didn’t just threaten me. Make that mistake again, and you can explain yourself to HR.”
“That’ll never happen.” He touched his fingers to his hat and stomped away.
Frontier Adventure, Modern Luxury
Outside the bunkhouse, the air smelled of pine and horses and Cassidy inhaled huge lungsful in an effort to calm down—or at least as much as the corset allowed. The summer afternoon rains that washed across southwestern Colorado had come and gone. Already the dirt was dry enough to kick up little dust clouds as she weaved her way past Hansen’s Mercantile and toward the blacksmith’s forge.
She knew better than to let Shane get under her skin, but darned if he didn’t do it anyway. You’d think he owned the ranch, instead of being a cast member, apprentice blacksmith, and occasional bellhop. Cassidy had grown up on a real ranch. He wouldn’t last a day.
She took another deep breath and slowly spun with her head tilted back. There was nothing like a Colorado sky seen through a screen of branches. Even Shane couldn’t spoil this.
Ads for the Stagecoach Guest Ranch promised adventure, and the ranch delivered. Guests were met at the imposing wrought iron gates of the resort by one of the namesake stagecoaches. There, a cowboy took possession of their car, making a corny joke about being a reformed horse thief. An authentically bumpy stagecoach ride through pine trees and aspen groves transported guests through history, and by the time they arrived at the resort—a collection of buildings built to look like a weathered frontier boom town—they’d landed in the 1880s.
Guests checked in at the Grand Hotel, but specialty rooms were also available behind the mercantile, in leather-smelling tack rooms off the stables, on the upper floor of the saloon, and in individual cabins scattered across the property.
Cassidy cut through the bone orchard and wound her way around gravestones that sprouted like crooked teeth from the hard- packed dirt.
A boy wearing an obviously new cowboy hat called out, “Hey, Dad, listen to this one. ‘Here lies Lester Moore, Four Slugs from a .44, No Les No more.’” He darted to another one and started to read it aloud.
The headstones were replicas of several found in the real Boothill Cemetery in Tombstone, Arizona. Whether Lester Moore was an actual occupant of the cemetery like the men killed in the O.K. Corral shootout, or if the witty marker was merely a ploy to draw tourists into the cemetery was yet to be established to most historians’ satisfaction.
In the distance, a cloud of dust rose. The morning trail ride would be returning to the stables. She’d have to hurry, or she’d be late for the show.
The ranch Cassidy’s folks owned was seventy-two acres divided between growing alfalfa and raising cattle, but it had nothing on the resort’s four hundred acres snugged up against the San Juan Mountains. Here, guests could pan for gold, shoot a bow, ride horses, or participate in sanitized versions of roping (a set of longhorns protruding from a hay bale), branding (searing the resort logo into souvenir wood trivets), and moving cattle between pastures (a glorified trail ride where real cowboys did all the moving of said cattle).
For something less dusty, there were gifts to buy at the saddlery, mercantile, and blacksmith shops. Hungry folk had their choice of chuckwagon grub, gourmet game, and farm-to-table produce flavored with herbs grown in the sprawling kitchen garden. But by the end of the day, everyone ended up at the saloon.
The entire downtown served as an informal stage. Cowboys and guests rode through town and tied up their horses at various hitching posts. Stagecoaches and wagons rumbled between eras. Inside, the buildings sported frontier chic decor with modern innovations. Guests may claim to want an authentic experience, but no one liked outhouses or spotty Internet service.
A rhythmic metallic clang grew louder as Cassidy reached the entry to the blacksmith’s forge. Shane barreled out of the double doors and slammed against her shoulder, knocking her off balance.
“Watch