Rush

act iv. { a nice pair of pantaloons }

{ ❧ Song of the Section; Wild Goose Chase by Bassekou Kouyate and Direk Westervelt }

❧ "No," was Mery's flat reply.

"No?" I repeated in unison with the innkeeper. Confusion hung thick like the cigarette smoke wafting through the air. 

"I won't stay in a room with a man who's not my husband," Mercy explained simply. Her perpetually polite voice was starting to get on my nerves. "Are you sure you don't have a second room available?"

"Woman, you wouldn't stay in a room with the man who is your husband either," I erupted. We stood in a mostly dark room with wood paneling, plush rugs, and a rambunctious racket from the saloon below. It filled the coarse silence between the three of us. After taking a deep breath and regaining my composure, I slicked a hand through my frazzled hair and  turned back to the manager.

"Would you be so kind as to give us a moment?" I ventured as politely as my tongue would allow and clasped my hands together on his desk. The beady eyed man looked from Mercy to me with an unamused look on his plump face. With a single nod, he scuffled off to his office and left the two of us alone. I immediately let my patience crumble and turned to face Mercy. 

"Let me get this straight," I hissed, clenching my fists in an attempt of restraint. Mercy let out a lofty sigh and crossed her arms, waiting for me to say my piece. "You'll shoot a sheriff, spring an outlaw from jail, and use fowl language, but you won't share a room with a man you're not wedded to?"

By the time I was done with my rant, I was red in the face. Even the Pope himself would think something was screwy with that reasoning. 

"That is correct," Mercy snapped back with as much venom. Despite her annoyance with the situation, it didn't seem to be a hill she intended to die on. After all, we had slept around a campfire together the night before. Every fiber in my being was convinced she was just trying to be a pain in the ass. Mercy shook her long, honey colored hair back and gave me a tough look that said, 'what are you going to do about it?' I cursed under my breath at her outright defiance. 

"This is the only damned hotel in Idaho Springs," I explained. My fingers explored the smooth desktop and found a marble paper weight to tinker with. "If the man says there's only one room, there's only one room. You can sleep outside if you'd like. Oh, perhaps the whore house has an open room." I set the paper weight back down on the table with a flick of my wrist and craned my head to see into the dimly lit office the innkeeper had retreated into. I heard her gasp, but it was no matter to me. She could sleep where ever she damn well pleased. "Sir?" I lazily waved him back over. "We'll take the room."

Mercy shook her head in exasperation and pulled dainty gloves over her slender hands. "I'm stepping out," she informed me before making her way toward the door. "You're sleeping on the floor." Her dark blue dress flounced with each purposeful stride.

The manager drew up the paperwork and handed me a single timeworn key. I pressed my weight against the desk and eyed her from behind as she made her way out. "No, I ain't, honey," I hollered calmly after her. The sound of a bell rung through the air as she pushed open the door. A coy smile pulled at my lips while I signed my John Hancock for the room. "And why don't you wrangle yourself a nice pair of pantaloons while you're at it?"

                                                                             ❦

When we rode into Idaho Springs, every man in town turned toward Mercy like the way a sunflower turns toward the sunshine. Yep. That was about right.