Saving the Gunslinger

Chapter Two

Chapter Two

Samantha's meeting with Thomas Williamson had done nothing to ease her troubled mind. While there had been nothing outwardly threatening about the short, stocky man with a thick black mustache and ruddy complexion, something in the way his dark eyes had looked at her had caused Samantha's unease to deepen.

Still she had held her tongue. What could she have said? The saloon had already been sold and Samantha did not want to dampen Barbara or Johnathon's excitement about going to see their son. Her issues and problems were her own and she would not ask the Morgan's, who had done so much for her, to worry about her any longer.

A week had passed since that meeting and Samantha still felt uneasy. Thomas had proven to be much different than the saloon's previous owners. He was loud. He was angry. He mistreated the women and didn't seem to have a problem with patrons doing the same. Thomas was also very unhappy that he was paying Samantha to clean, manage the supplies, and occasionally tend bar. He seemed to think she should be entertaining the men to bring in extra money and he was becoming more vocal about that fact every day.

Samantha knew she would have to leave soon. Her situation here was becoming precarious to say the least, but she was terrified. Leaving would mean worrying once more about where she would lay her head at night. It would mean hunger and uncertainty. She didn't have much money stashed away—most of her pay for the work she had done while at the saloon had been in the form of room and board for both herself and Athena.

And then of course there was the fear that out there, wandering aimlessly, Clinton Matthews would find her.

Samantha was sitting in her new room simply staring at the walls and contemplating just how badly both her father and Clinton Matthews had destroyed her life, when a knock sounded and yanked her from her worrisome thoughts. Standing up, she walked to the door and pulled it open to find one of the serving girls, Eleanor, waiting in the hallway.

"Are you busy?" she asked, a friendly smile on her red, painted lips. It was nearing the evening and clearly Eleanor was preparing for work. She was wearing her corset and petticoat and nothing else other than the heeled shoes upon her feet. Her blond hair was styled upon her head with loose tendrils curling down and dancing against her shoulders. She wore powder on her cheeks and paint on her lips and eyelids to draw men's attention.

Samantha shook her head, feeling out of place and awkward. For two years she had worked hard to isolate herself—always running. For five months she had done her best to avoid forming friendships while living at the saloon. She wanted so badly to have a friend her age to confide in. Eleanor, despite her line of work, was proving to be a kind and caring soul which made it all the harder to maintain those necessary walls.

"No, I wasn't busy."

"You should have joined us girls for supper earlier," Eleanor scolded with a knowing glance. "I respect that you're a private person, Samantha, but us girls are family here and if you ever want to talk or anything, all you gotta do is say so."

Samantha wrung her hands a bit as she swallowed hard. She wanted so badly to open up and have friends—but what if Clinton found her? What if he used those friends to hurt her? What if he killed them the way he had her father? And what if she opened up to the wrong person—someone who knew Clinton and let the man know just where to find her?

"Thank you, Eleanor. I may join you all another time."

Eleanor simply sighed and studied her closely before smiling. "We'll welcome you whenever you finally decide to."