Weeping Angel by Stef Ann Holm Read Free Book Online Page B

when the afternoon heat took him two hours to blow a cup of coffee cool.
    Though Pap had riled Frank, he wasn’t going to break his self-imposed rule. Besides, he wasn’t feeling guilty about Miss Amelia Marshall. He’d nearly succeeded in not giving her a second thought—until Pap had decided to make an issue out of her. Amelia Marshall’s troubles weren’t his concern. The town had temporarily rectified the piano company’s mistake, and he had made allowances for her.
    â€œI’m a student of musicology,” came Pap’s steady voice, his words drawing Frank from his thoughts. “It’s our common thread—Miss Marshall’s and mine. We both play the piano.” Pap took a broom from the cupboard and began to sweep the dirty sawdust into neat piles. “Tell me, Frank, can you read sheet music and draw a treble clef?”
    Frank stood with agitation. “No, but I can read the top of a bullet box and draw a Smith and Wesson No. 3 revolver. I suggest you button your lip on the subject of Miss Marshall, or I’ll be forced into proving my reading and drawing skills.”
    Pap laughed without interrupting his sweeping.
    Frank went behind the bar, dunked his mug into a round tub of cold dishwater, then headed for the swinging front doors. “I’m locking up.” He put his hand in his trouser pocket and felt for the Yale key he kept on a silver ring. Then he remembered he’d taken it off to give to Amelia. Feeling inexplicably short-changed,he ran his fingers through his hair. “Hey, Pap, give me your spare key.”
    Pap set the broom handle against a table. “What happened to yours?”
    â€œI gave mine to your wife-to-be.”
    Pap’s eyes held a faint glint of humor as he said, “You better not be planning any funny stuff with her, Frank.”
    â€œI’m not planning on doing anything with her,” Frank replied as he took the key from Pap.
    Frank strode through the saloon’s entrance, stepped outside onto the boardwalk, and put his hand on one of the seven-foot doors he closed over his fancy ones. Leaning into the roughened wood wall, he pondered Pap’s choice of words. Funny stuff with her . Frank hadn’t counted on making a running commitment to Miss Marshall when he’d given her the key to the Moon Rock, but that’s exactly what he’d done. How the hell was he going to deal with her taking over his domain every afternoon with a barrage of kids?
    He hadn’t really thought things through at the time, and too late after the fact, he realized he’d be keeping close company with a woman whose glance seemed to be accusingly cold, but he still found her attractive. To complicate matters, Pap had gotten the foolhardy notion into his head she was the girl for him. Any trifling Frank would have tried with Miss Marshall was now off limits.
    Moving one of the heavy doors into place, Frank slipped a long rod into a hole in the plank and contemplated the situation. He was a mixologist and supposed to be a native philosopher. He knew how to listen for hours to endless monologues and be an impartial umpire of wagers and disputes, as well as a peacemaker, never an egger-on. He solved the drinkers’ problems of heart and mind, or at least pretended to. He never discussed religion or politics, but stuck to sex and sports.
    He got along with most everyone. He and Pap had never had a major disagreement, and not under any condition had they fought over a woman. They never would because Frank’s attention wasn’t engaged on the passionless Miss Marshall. So he had no problem to solve. No astute advice to offer himself.
    Why, then, did his barroom wisdom fail to convince him otherwise?
    *  *  *
    Amelia held on to the key with a black ribbon she’d tied through the hole, in lieu of a ring. Self-conscious, she looked over her shoulder to check if anyone watched her. She’d waited