James sat at the saloon, the first time he'd dare to enter one since he'd arrived in Leadville. The city was lawless-- every night there was a brawl somewhere, everyone was getting robbed by everyone else, and he himself slept with a penknife just in case one of his roommates decided to try anything. The saloons, and the rampant drunkenness, seemed to him to be the main cause.

"A pint of beer, please," he said to the barkeeper, putting down a dime.

"A newcomer, eh?" said the barkeeper, taking the coin and grabbing a glass. "Don't worry, the politeness rubs right off." He handed James the beer with a small smirk.

James didn't let it bother him. He was in a good mood-- he'd gotten a job, he had a place to live, and he was treating himself to a drink for the first time in a few weeks. He wasn't going to delude himself and say his life was perfect, but it was fine for now.

The evening was young-- James knew he shouldn't be long unless he wanted to get caught up in something-- but the sun was already down. It was getting to be winter, after all, and he hardly seemed to see the sunlight any more. He left for the Matchless Mine every day before dawn, and came out after dark. 

The pianist-- a wiry young man with a dusty hat on-- was playing some lively sort of tune while a heavily painted young woman sang along. She was wearing what James would only describe as summer clothing, and winked often at the young pianist and the men watching, who hooted at her. James looked away.

Above the piano there was a sign, James saw, as he took a drink.

PLEASE DO NOT SHOOT THE PIANIST. HE IS DOING HIS BEST.

He chuckled into his mug. In any other city the sign would have been horrifying. In Leadville, it made sense.

Then he saw the there was a bullet hole peeking out from the wall behind the sign, and he nearly choked on his drink.

*****

Emma waited at the door. She wished she could have just visited Duncan's house-- she knew where it was-- but that would have soured her reputation beyond repair. He'd said he would make a call at noon, and stay for lunch, and Emma was dreading every moment of it.

She was dressed in her new day dress, a deep chocolate colour with scarlet trim, and she felt she was sweating through it. With one more look out the window-- the street was still empty-- she sighed and walked towards the dining room.

"Can I help with this?" she asked Abigail with defeat, pointing to the pile of dishes the maid was setting out.

Abigail shrugged. "Go ahead. You seem nervous."

The clock struck noon, and Emma jumped at the chime, dropping the fork onto the tablecloth. "What gives you that impression?" She gave a shaky laugh.

A moment later the doorbell rang, and Emma put down the cutlery and walked silently to the parlour, where Mrs. Remigrant was waiting. She arrived just a few seconds before Duncan did. and didn't bother to sit down.

He was wearing a neatly tailored suit of dark grey and had a cheerful smile on his face. Emma cringed to think about what she was going to do.

"Oh, do come in, Mr. McDonald," said Mrs. Remigrant, gesturing to the chair in front of the fire. "It's a terrible day out, I'm terribly sorry we made you come out."

"It's always a pleasure to visit your home, madam," he said charmingly, and sat down.

This is going to be hard, thought Emma, but she smiled and sat down on the upholstered chair that was closest to the window. "Are you well?" she asked politely, trying so hard to not break down that she thought she might explode.

"Very well. One must remember that winter will never last forever, and there are certainly worse places to endure it." He grinned almost boyishly.

Is he trying to make this harder than it already is?

Just then, Abigail walked into the room. "Lunch is served, Mrs. Remigrant."

The three rose and walked to the dining room. Duncan pulled out Emma's chair, and she thanked him before sitting down. He sat across from her. 

"I've just come across a fascinating investment," he said. "There are so many silver towns booming that a friend of mine suggested a claim. It's already made Horace Tabor one of the richest men in Colorado, and he only began his mining last year!"

"Where would you find a claim that was not already, well, claimed?" asked Mrs. Remigrant, dipping into her soup. "It feels the mountains have been picked clean already."

He shrugged. "Perhaps. It may be that I should venture further south, or try to buy a claim from a madman who is running it poorly."

Emma was careful with her words, but she decided to be a little risky. "Does your friend have mining experience, or would this be a very new adventure for you both?"

Duncan took a sip of his drink. "It would be new to both of us. I am always open to a new adventure, though; it might be worthwhile."

Emma listened to him for the rest of lunch, deciding not to push her luck. When their plates were cleared, Mrs. Remigrant stood.

"Go and talk in the parlour," she said, "and I'll be there in a moment."

Emma's heart began to pound. It was time, it was time-- and she had no idea what to say to end things with Duncan McDonald. Slowly she rose from her chair, with a graceful smile, and followed him into the parlour. He sat on one end of the long floral sofa and gestured for her to sit on the other. Tentatively she obliged, although she wished she had just run back to Anne and sent him a letter.

"Miss Remigrant-- Emma," he said softly, shifting in his seat as they faced each other and playing with his gloves, "I have something to talk to you about and want to take full advantage of your aunt being out of the room."

Emma looked at the open door. Come back, come back, she begged in her mind. Then she glanced back at the handsome man in front of her and found she could not meet his shining eyes. Demurely, she turned her gaze to her hands and smiled to cover the nervousness.

He was very serious. "I've thought about you often in the past months we've been courting, and I know that by English standards this is rather improper and rather fast, but I have a question to ask you, Emma, and I think I want to do it sooner rather than later."

Her eyes widened as the situation became clear. He's going to propose to me, and I'm going to have to reject him. Why didn't I just write a letter and then pretend nothing ever happened between us?

"I have something I'd like to say first, if I may," she blurted out.

He straightened, bewildered. "Of course," he said.

Ohhh boy, that sign above the piano is my absolute favourite thing I've ever seen-- it was real!! When Oscar Wilde was doing a tour of the US in 1882, he saw the sign and said it was the "only rational method of art criticism" he had ever seen. I don't know if he was referring to the sign, or shooting the pianist. Wilde was like that-- and by 'that', I mean 'absolutely iconic and the time period may be a few years off but how could I NOT put this in my story?'

The history of Colorado mining towns is absolutely fascinating! You'd think I would have known more about them, considering I'm from Colorado and all, but I'm doing all this reading and it's thrilling. Leadville and other mining towns were known for being absolutely lawless, and by the mid 1880s Leadville was the second largest city in Colorado, giving rise to plenty of famous American names (such as Meyer Guggenheim) but also bandits like Doc Holiday. I really don't know why westerns are always set in Wyoming or Oklahoma or something, when these weird little boom towns are RIGHT THERE!

Sorry for the rant. As always, let me know your thoughts and predictions! I split this chapter into two because it started getting very long, and I'm only slightly remorseful about the terrible break spot.