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  The door whooshed shut behind him, and his face cracked with a smile of silent laughter. He stood for a full minute inside the kitchen, fantasizing over the possibility.

  The muffled sound of Ima Jane’s voice pierced through his reverie. Two things registered at once: the weight of the dish-laden serving tray in his hands, and his promise to get coffee. Not bothering to unload the tray, he shoved it onto the sink counter. With a kind of eagerness he hadn’t felt in years, Griff exited the kitchen to fetch the coffeepot.

  As he finished refilling Angie’s mug, Ima Jane rejoined them. “We were right,” she announced, taking her chair. “Joanie’s going to be late.”

  A harrumph of nonsurprise came from Griff. “What’s her excuse this time?” He poured more coffee into her cup.

  “The car won’t start, and Bud is out with the pickup checking cattle.” She took a tentative sip of her coffee, then pulled back, making a face of distaste. “This is cold. Would you get me a fresh cup?”

  “Sure.” He took the cold coffee from her and headed back to the bar with both the cup and the coffeepot.

  Lifting her voice, Ima Jane said to him, “Joanie said she’d be here as soon as Bud got back, but would we please start setting things up.”

  “Don’t we always,” he grumbled and dumped the cold coffee in the bar sink.

  Ima Jane tasted a bite of the French toast remaining on her plate, but it, too, had grown cold while she was on the phone. With a sigh, she laid her silverware on the plate and pushed it back as Griff returned to the table with her coffee.

  “Want me to warm that up in the microwave?” He gestured to her plate.

  She hesitated, then shook her head. “No. My hips really don’t need the calories.” She gathered the cup to her. “I’ll just drink my coffee, then give you a hand with the pulpit.”

  Doubting her hearing, Angie asked, “Did you say ‘pulpit’?”

  A smile stretched Ima Jane’s mouth. “I did, indeed. We hold church services here every Sunday.”

  “You’re kidding,” Angie blurted in amazed delight.

  “I’m not, I promise,” she replied. Then she explained, “You see, nine years ago, heavy snows caved in the roof of the town’s only church, collapsing one of the sidewalls in the process. Unfortunately, the loss wasn’t covered by insurance and, so far, we haven’t been able to raise enough money to build a new one. In the meantime, since the Rimrock is the only place in town big enough to hold everyone, we have church here on Sunday.” Pausing, she ran a self-conscious glance over the interior. “I know it isn’t exactly an appropriate place of worship—”

  “Oh, but it is,” Angie insisted. “Back in the days of the Old West, a saloon often doubled as the town church.”

  “Really? I didn’t know that.” Ima Jane lowered her cup to stare in surprise.

  “It’s true. Saloons were invariably the first substantial structures built in a town. I guess”—Angie allowed a smile to show—“the first settlers in a town had a greater thirst for whiskey than they did for the Word. And, just like here, saloons were the only places large enough to accommodate a crowd, which made them the logical choice.”

  “Isn’t that something, Griff?” She gave her husband’s arm a pat of amazement. “And here I thought our situation was unique.”

  “I’m afraid not.” Always fascinated by the history of the Old West herself, Angie couldn’t resist the chance to share interesting tidbits of it. “Most saloon keepers looked at church services as being good for business. Probably because, back in those days, most of the preachers were the hellfire-and-brimstone kind—true Bible-thumpers determined to put the fear of God in their listeners. And after a heavy dose of Godly fear, some listeners felt a desperate need for a drink. Of course, some saloons didn’t shut down at all, and people continued to drink and gamble during the sermon. And in some places, the saloon owners insisted that services be held on Saturday because they did more business on Sunday.”

  “How do you know all that?” Ima Jane marveled.

  “I teach American history.” Angie smiled. “A long time ago I found out that students pay more attention when you include bits of background trivia along with major historical events,” she explained. “It keeps history from seeming so dry and boring, little more than a bunch of dates to be memorized and later forgotten.”

  “I hadn’t thought of it that way. Still”—she studied Angie with bright, speculating eyes—“to know so much about saloons and churches seems unusual.”

  “Probably, but I did my college thesis on the role religion played in settling the West. The Old West has always been a special love of mine. It probably comes from watching all those Western movies with John Wayne and Randolph Scott when I was growing up.” That, and all the whispered family stories about her outlaw ancestor.

  Ima Jane looked at her askance. “You’re too young to remember Randolph Scott.”

  “In theory, yes.” Angie smiled at the comment. “But he was my grandmother’s favorite actor. Every time one of his old movies ran on television, we watched it. It didn’t matter how many times she might have seen a particular one before; we watched it again.” Her expression grew thoughtful. “I think she liked him so much because he reminded her of my grandfather. She showed me a picture once, and there was a definite similarity around the nose and eyes.”

  Remembering that, especially the half-wistful and half-painful look in her grandmother’s eyes, Angie felt again the sadness of her grandmother’s passing.

  Seeing that sadness in Angie’s face, Ima Jane remarked, “You still miss your grandmother, don’t you?”

  Without a trace of self-consciousness, Angie nodded. “I expect I always will.”

  “Did she ever remarry?” Ima Jane wondered.

  “No. She used to say she was the kind of woman who could love only one man, and that man was my grandfather. ‘My Blue Boy,’ she used to call him,” Angie recalled.

  “Blue Boy?” Ima Jane repeated, her curiosity aroused.

  “Yes. He had a birthmark the color of lapis right here.” Angie touched a spot high on her left temple near the hairline. “A blue nevus is the proper name for it. It’s very similar in size to a large mole, only it’s blue. The shades can range from light to dark.”

  “Interesting,” Ima Jane murmured.

  Griff leaned forward, resting both elbows on the table while he held his cup near his mouth. “Did she ever hear from him while he was here looking for the gold?”

  “Only two letters. One he wrote shortly after he arrived in the area when all the enthusiasm and excitement for the search were still fresh. In the second and last one, he talked about giving up and coming home. There was a sense of despair in it, not so much in the words, but between the lines.”

  “Sounds like you still have those letters, too,” Griff surmised.

  “Yes.” Smiling absently, Angie recalled, “Grandma always kept them in the drawer of her bed stand. Nearly every night before she went to sleep, she’d take them out and read them. The writing is so faded from all the times she ran her fingers over the lines that you can barely read them now. There are even a couple places where the ink has been blurred by tear stains.”

  Griff didn’t care about all that sentimental nonsense. “Did he mention whether he found any of the places he’d been askin’ people ’bout?”

  “No. In fact, he only made one reference to his search.” She paused to recall the exact wording. Like her grandmother, she had long ago committed the letters to memory. “ ‘It’s all confusing, Hannah. Nothing I’ve found makes sense.’” Angie pulled her gaze from its sightless stare into space and glanced at her tablemates. “That’s what I meant about the note of despair in his last letter.”

  “Sounds like he was searching in the wrong area,” Griff murmured thoughtfully.

  “Who knows?” Angie lifted her shoulders in a shrug of ignorance.

  “And it isn’t likely we’ll ever know either.” Ima Jane released a heavy sigh and lowered
her cup, glancing at her watch. “Heavens, look at the time, Griff. It’s already after ten. People will start arriving in another twenty minutes. We’d better get moving.” She was on her feet, snatching the cup from his hand and grabbing the water glasses before the last sentence was out of her mouth.

  “Would you like some help?” Angie offered, rising to her feet.

  A look of gratitude flashed across the woman’s face. “Are you sure you wouldn’t mind—”

  “Mind?!” Angie laughed at the idea. “I’d love it. This will be like stepping back in time.”

  “Except Reverend Firsten is far from being your old-time Bible-thumper,” Ima Jane declared, eyes twinkling. “A more soft-spoken minister you couldn’t find anywhere. Isn’t that right, Griff?”

  He grunted his lack of interest in the subject.

  “What would you like me to do first?” Angie asked when Ima Jane started toward the kitchen.

  “You can begin by dragging the tables over against the front wall while Griff and I get the pulpit from the back room. A couple of the tables will have to be stacked on top of each other, but we’ll give you a hand with those.”

  “Sounds good.” Angie grabbed the edge of an empty table and started pulling it across the floor, smiling at the thought of the look on her mother’s face when she’d learn that in Wyoming people attended church in a bar. It would be a severe shock to her Methodist-strict soul. Angie regarded it as an experience not to be missed.

  “‘Where sin abounds, grace does much more abound,’” she murmured to herself and laughed softly.

  Chapter Seven

  Ima Jane was lighting the altar candles when the first congregation members arrived. Only seconds earlier, Angie had set the last folding chair in place, one of a dozen that supplemented the bar chairs, arranged now in orderly rows to serve as pews.

  She stood back and studied the transformation of a bar into a place of worship. A long black curtain, hung from hooks fastened to the ceiling, encircling the long bar, completely hiding it from view. Along the end wall, a cloth of wine-colored velvet embroidered with a gold cross was draped over one of the bar tables that now saw duty as an altar. Above it, there was a portrait of Jesus against a stained glass background. The neon beer lights in the front windows were silent and dark, hidden behind tightly drawn curtains. To the left of the altar, a speaker’s podium served as the pulpit, its new use confirmed by the wooden cross tacked on its tall front.

  There were few visible reminders identifying the place as a bar. Even the tables lined up along the wall were covered in white sheets. Yet, mixed in with the scent of burning candle wax, Angie detected telltale traces of stale tobacco smoke and spilt beer. She liked the combination.

  A quick glance at her watch warned Angie that she had scant ten minutes before the services were scheduled to start. As she took a step toward the door, Ima Jane intercepted her.

  “You are going to stay for the services, aren’t you?” Her expression held the beginnings of dismay.

  “I was on my way out to the camper to change.” Angie pulled at the front of her yellow T-shirt, drawing attention to her inappropriate attire.

  Ima Jane dismissed her concern with an expansive wave of her hand. “Good heavens, you don’t need to bother doing that. Church here is pretty much a come-as-you-are thing.”

  “Maybe, but just the same I think I should change to a blouse.”

  Before Ima Jane had a chance to pooh-pooh her plan, Angie slipped out the door, crossing paths with Joanie Michels, who was on her way in, the bottom half of a cardboard box clutched in her arms.

  Startled, Joanie did a double take, then stared after Angie while continuing to walk forward, one hand outstretched to catch the door. Not looking where she was going, she walked right into Ima Jane.

  “Excuse me.” She bounced off, identified the obstacle in her path, and apologized in an embarrassed rush. “I’m sorry, Ima Jane. I didn’t see you standing there.” Instantly she turned curious eyes after Angie. “That woman—is she the granddaughter Tiffany Banks was telling me about? I forget her name.”

  “Angie Sommers.” Ima Jane supplied it, then studied the ash blonde with a questioning look. “When did you talk to Tiffany?”

  “She called me this morning to fill me in on everything we missed last night.” Joanie paused in the doorway, watching until Angie strode out of sight, then stepped inside and breathed a frustrated sigh. “That’s part of the reason I’m late this morning. That, and the car. I swear if Bud doesn’t get that thing fixed or else trade it for something more dependable, I’m going to wring his neck. Now, what’s left to—” She looked around in amazement. “You’ve got everything set up.”

  “Angie gave us a hand.”

  “She did?” With a thoughtful look, she glanced toward the curtained windows and the parking lot beyond them. Another sigh slipped from her when she turned back. This one held regret. “Wouldn’t you know the one Saturday night we don’t come in, that’s when all the excitement happens? We had Warren and Peggy over for dinner last night,” she explained in an aside. “I wanted us all to meet here and have a night out, but Bud insisted that we eat at our place and play cards afterward. After Tiffany told me what we missed, then the car not starting—believe me, he got an earful this morning.”

  “Poor Bud,” Ima Jane murmured in amused sympathy.

  “Poor Bud?” Joanie scoffed in indignation. “Poor me, you mean. You know as well as I do how picky Peggy is about her food. Sometimes I think she is impossible to please. It makes me wonder what they eat at home. I swear, she hates everything. So, tell me—” She paused to pull in a quick breath, but never got any further with her request.

  “Do you have the programs, Joanie?” The inquiring voice came from the front row of chairs where an elderly couple sat.

  Her head jerked toward the pair, her mouth curving in an automatic and perfunctory smile. “I’ve got them right here, the programs and copies of the hymns Reverend Firsten picked out for this morning’s service.” She held up the box, then said in an undertone to Ima Jane, “You might know the Hoopers would be here already.” She laid a hand on Ima Jane’s shoulder as if to excuse herself and murmured a hasty, “There isn’t time now, but after church you need to fill me in on everything that happened last night. You know how Tiffany is. She never gets anything right.”

  Off she went to deliver a set of the church programs and selected hymns to the Hoopers. Ima Jane turned away, suppressing a sigh of annoyance. Sometimes Joanie Michels irritated her. She was the only woman Ima Jane knew who could outtalk her. Joanie absolutely thrived on dirt and loathed it when it was passed on to her with some detail missing. The woman was a gossip, pure and simple.

  As much as Ima Jane wanted to complain to Griff about Joanie Michels, she held her tongue. She knew he would remind her that she was too quick to see the splinter in someone else’s eye while ignoring the timber in her own. He didn’t understand the difference between a gossip and a purveyor of news about the community and its inhabitants. In her opinion, Ima Jane performed a service of sorts, one that attracted customers to their establishment, which was very good for business. On that point, Griff never argued.

  The door opened, admitting more churchgoers. Ima Jane went forward to welcome them, taking on the self-appointed task of meeting and greeting, a role that came naturally to her.

  Tobe West was among the last to arrive, pushing his younger sister, Dulcie, ahead of him. Like every other male who had preceded him, he automatically took off his hat the minute he stepped inside, something that wouldn’t have crossed his mind to do last night when the place had been a bar. He held it awkwardly in front of him, hating that naked feeling he always got when he was hatless.

  “Good morning, Tobe. Dulcie.” Ima Jane nodded to both, then smiled at the girl, clad in an ill-fitting jumper dress missing one button. “My, you look nice this morning, Dulcie.”

  Ducking her head, the girl mumbled a good morning and plucked at the threads
that once held the missing button. Her white-blond hair was skinned back from her face to hang in a limp ponytail secured by a garish pair of red glass beads strung with elastic.

  “Mornin’, Ima Jane.” Tobe scanned the rows of parishioners already seated. “I don’t see that Angie woman here,” he remarked in a hushed voice. Talking softly always seemed mandatory to him when he was inside a church. “I kinda thought she might be here this morning.”

  “She’s coming,” Ima Jane assured him. “She wanted to change first.”

  “You’ve talked to her this morning?” The sentence had the lilt of a question, but one that anticipated an affirmative answer.

  “She had breakfast with us.”

  He hesitated, then gathered his courage and made a weak attempt to appear indifferently curious. “You didn’t happen to find out whether she still has that letter the outlaw wrote?” he asked. Then, succumbing to an attack of nerves, he hastily explained, “Fargo and me, we were talking about it this morning, thinkin’ it was likely that her grandfather had it with him. If he did, then we figured somebody either took it or it got buried with him. If it did, then all those years in the ground, it probably rotted away with the rest of him.” He stopped, noticing the smug little smile Ima Jane wore.

  “She still has it.”

  “She does?” Tobe was half afraid to believe her as excitement rolled through his stomach.

  “She even brought it with her.”

  He stared at her, big eyed with hope and doubt. “You know that for a fact?” he whispered. “You saw it yourself?”

  “No,” Ima Jane admitted. “But she said she had it, and I believe her.”

  Someone arrived, claiming her attention. Tobe stood there, his feet rooted to the floor while he absorbed the incredible news: not only was the letter still in existence, but this Angie person had it with her!

  Man, what I wouldn’t give to see the letter! The mere thought was almost enough to draw a groan of longing from him.

  He’d lain awake half the night thinking about that letter, certain that if he could get his hands on it, he’d find the hiding place for that outlaw gold. Maybe he didn’t know the Ten Bar as well as Luke or Fargo, but he’d ridden over it plenty of times.