Tomorrow's Dreams by Heather Cullman Read Free Book Online

as he shifted his gaze to the dealer, who was secreting gold from the game table. “Those are my winnings,” he pointed out, motioning to the coins in the man’s hand.
    Horace’s eyes bulged in terror. “Just c-collecting ’em for you, Mr. Tyler.”
    â€œSeth,” Seth amended, taking the gold from the man’s outstretched hands. He paused to contemplate the money for a moment, then tossed several coins onto the table. “For your trip to Cheyenne.” Without sparing the dealer so much as a parting glance, he turned and rejoined the saloon owner.
    Floyd, deliberately blind to the interplay between Horace and Seth, guided Seth toward the variety hall, pointing out the wonders of the Shakespeare Saloon with the smoothness of a patent medicine salesman as they went.
    â€œAs classy as any establishment in St. Louie” was how Floyd described the Shakespeare. Though Seth knew St. Louis well enough to disagree, he had to admit that by Denver’s standards, the Shakespeare was very grand indeed.
    Gaudy red and yellow paper covered the walls, their vivid tones rivaled only by the well-worn rugs placed at intervals on the hardwood floors. Over the men’s heads hung three gilded wagon wheels that had been fitted with kerosene lamps to fashion makeshift chandeliers. There was a large potbellied stove in every corner, and along the frosted glass front window was a row of tall potted plants. Scattered throughout the room were tables offering chances to win on games ranging from faro to roulette.
    Seth’s stomach gave a painful lurch as he passed the gaily painted wheel of fortune. When he was seventeen, he’d lost his last coin to the game, a bit of stupidity that had resulted in him going hungry and sleeping in the bitterly cold streets.
    â€œBetcha never seen a finer bar than this,” Floyd boasted, giving the well-polished surface a proud pat. “Thirty-two feet of gen-u-ine mahogany. Came all the way from Chicago.”
    Swallowing hard, Seth forced his gaze away from the wheel of fortune to glance toward the bar. His gentlemanly reflection in the plate-glass mirror along the wall served as a powerful reminder he hadn’t gone hungry or slept in the streets for over a decade now. Slowly the ache in his belly receded.
    â€œAnd this here is Monty Dowd,” introduced Floyd. “The finest mixologist west of the Mississippi. Monty, meet Mr. Tyler.”
    Monty, a lanky, sandy-haired man with a properly waxed mustache and a friendly smile, extended his hand. “Pleasure.”
    Seth took the proffered hand and returned the man’s smile as Monty proceeded to pump his arm with enthusiastic vigor.
    â€œWell, then,” Monty said. “Now that we’re on handshakin’ terms, why don’t you nominate your poison?”
    â€œWhat would you suggest?”
    â€œYou look like a man with a healthy constitution. I’m guessin’ some Red Dynamite would put a spin in your sombrero.”
    â€œNo way, no how,” Floyd bellowed, grabbing Seth’s arm and pulling him from the bar. “Save your pizen for the bummers. Only the finest of the Shakespeare’s libations for Mr. Tyler.”
    As Floyd guided Seth through the door leading into the variety hall, Seth tossed the bartender a look promising that he would be back later to sample the infamous Red Dynamite.
    â€œMake way! Make way!” bawled Floyd, shoving his way through the crush. The variety hall was packed tonight. “You sit here, Seth,” he said, snatching up and tossing aside a cowboy who had dared to sit at the front-center table. After plopping down in the opposite chair, he pulled out two fat cigars and handed one to his prospective buyer. “Finest bit of tobaccy in the world. Rolled between the bare, supple thighs of a Cuban virgin.”
    Carefully hiding his distaste, Seth pulled out his silver cigar cutter and expertly notched the end. That formality