you," she said quickly to forestall another scintillating historical monologue.
The loud, pealing jangle of a brass bell announced the arrival of a draft-horse-drawn streetcar. Emma almost buckled with relief when it came to a creaking halt in front of them.
She jabbed Larence in the side. "Ask him where the place is." And it damn well better be in Albuquerque and not Atlanta.
"Sir?" Larence inquired of the man perched on a three-legged stool in the thrusting lip of the streetcar. '
'Do you go to San Felipe de Neri?"
The man squinted up at them. "You in a hurry?"
"No—" "Yes—" They answered at once.
The driver laughed. "Well, if you ain't in a hurry, hop on. If you are, you'd best walk. Me an' Bullet here, we take our sweet time."
Larence grinned at the driver. "A man after my own heart," he said, offering Emma his arm.
Ignoring him, she grabbed her skirt and descended the wide, pale-colored stairs to the dusty, dirty strip of land that Albuquerqueans ambitiously called Railroad Avenue.
Naturally, with ten empty seats on the streetcar, Larence squeezed in beside her. She jabbed her parasol between them and rammed her satchel on her lap. Her gloved fingers curled around the smooth leather handle and didn't let go.
Emma stared forlornly at the town as it unfolded before her. The street was nothing more than a long, wide stretch of loose sand and dust. Buildings were crammed on either side of the street like a child's building blocks.
96
Kristin Hannah
r
All wood, all the same height, all false fronts, and all boring.
She pressed a hand over her mouth as a filter against the dust churned up by Bullet's huge, plodding hooves. Thank God she wouldn't be here long.
Larence edged forward on the streetcar's hard wooden seat and peered around Emmaline's stiff shoulders.
Albuquerque unfurled in front of his eyes like something out of one of Mayne Reid's dime novels.
His gaze darted up and down the street, greedily storing images to take out later and savor like fine pieces of chocolate. Horse-drawn wagons and ox-drawn car-retas churned down the street, creating a cloud of rolling dust.
They passed the White Elephant saloon, and Larence craned his neck for a better look. The saloon's front door was flung open in greeting, giving him an unobstructed view of the dark, smoke-filled interior.
Body-shaped shadows shifted and moved in the hazy half-light. The warbling strains of a poorly played accordion and the tinny clang of an old piano drifted into the dusty street.
It was exactly what he expected. Exactly. A dime novel hero's perfect haven. He closed his eyes for a moment, imagining the scene inside the saloon. Dozens of hard-bitten, hard-riding men sidling up to a massive wooden bar, swilling rotgut and laughing about the day's work. Pretty, scantily clad women sidling up to the men, laughing softly, propositioning.
Slowly the streetcar clanked on by. The warbling, hard-edged sounds of the saloon drifted on the air for a long, exquisite moment, and then drifted away.
Gradually the new part of town gave way to the old. The western frontier town became an age-old, much-THE ENCHANTMENT
97
loved Spanish village. Pale adobe buildings squatted one after another along the wide street, their doors connected by a long, covered boardwalk. Across from the small plaza, a beautiful, white-picket-fenced park appeared like an oasis in the middle of the dusty street.
People drifted through the marketplace. Horses and mules and burros clomped up and down the hard-packed street, their heavy footfalls accompanied by the occasional snap of leather reins on a dusty hindquarter or the grinding squeak of tired wagon wheels.
"Whoa, Bullet."
The streetcar came to a stop. The driver twisted around on his perch to look at them. "Here yah are, folks. Old Town."
"And the other part was 'new'?" Emmaline said under her breath. She shot a disgusted glance at the flesh-tone adobe buildings, and wrinkled her nose.
Larence started to
The loud, pealing jangle of a brass bell announced the arrival of a draft-horse-drawn streetcar. Emma almost buckled with relief when it came to a creaking halt in front of them.
She jabbed Larence in the side. "Ask him where the place is." And it damn well better be in Albuquerque and not Atlanta.
"Sir?" Larence inquired of the man perched on a three-legged stool in the thrusting lip of the streetcar. '
'Do you go to San Felipe de Neri?"
The man squinted up at them. "You in a hurry?"
"No—" "Yes—" They answered at once.
The driver laughed. "Well, if you ain't in a hurry, hop on. If you are, you'd best walk. Me an' Bullet here, we take our sweet time."
Larence grinned at the driver. "A man after my own heart," he said, offering Emma his arm.
Ignoring him, she grabbed her skirt and descended the wide, pale-colored stairs to the dusty, dirty strip of land that Albuquerqueans ambitiously called Railroad Avenue.
Naturally, with ten empty seats on the streetcar, Larence squeezed in beside her. She jabbed her parasol between them and rammed her satchel on her lap. Her gloved fingers curled around the smooth leather handle and didn't let go.
Emma stared forlornly at the town as it unfolded before her. The street was nothing more than a long, wide stretch of loose sand and dust. Buildings were crammed on either side of the street like a child's building blocks.
96
Kristin Hannah
r
All wood, all the same height, all false fronts, and all boring.
She pressed a hand over her mouth as a filter against the dust churned up by Bullet's huge, plodding hooves. Thank God she wouldn't be here long.
Larence edged forward on the streetcar's hard wooden seat and peered around Emmaline's stiff shoulders.
Albuquerque unfurled in front of his eyes like something out of one of Mayne Reid's dime novels.
His gaze darted up and down the street, greedily storing images to take out later and savor like fine pieces of chocolate. Horse-drawn wagons and ox-drawn car-retas churned down the street, creating a cloud of rolling dust.
They passed the White Elephant saloon, and Larence craned his neck for a better look. The saloon's front door was flung open in greeting, giving him an unobstructed view of the dark, smoke-filled interior.
Body-shaped shadows shifted and moved in the hazy half-light. The warbling strains of a poorly played accordion and the tinny clang of an old piano drifted into the dusty street.
It was exactly what he expected. Exactly. A dime novel hero's perfect haven. He closed his eyes for a moment, imagining the scene inside the saloon. Dozens of hard-bitten, hard-riding men sidling up to a massive wooden bar, swilling rotgut and laughing about the day's work. Pretty, scantily clad women sidling up to the men, laughing softly, propositioning.
Slowly the streetcar clanked on by. The warbling, hard-edged sounds of the saloon drifted on the air for a long, exquisite moment, and then drifted away.
Gradually the new part of town gave way to the old. The western frontier town became an age-old, much-THE ENCHANTMENT
97
loved Spanish village. Pale adobe buildings squatted one after another along the wide street, their doors connected by a long, covered boardwalk. Across from the small plaza, a beautiful, white-picket-fenced park appeared like an oasis in the middle of the dusty street.
People drifted through the marketplace. Horses and mules and burros clomped up and down the hard-packed street, their heavy footfalls accompanied by the occasional snap of leather reins on a dusty hindquarter or the grinding squeak of tired wagon wheels.
"Whoa, Bullet."
The streetcar came to a stop. The driver twisted around on his perch to look at them. "Here yah are, folks. Old Town."
"And the other part was 'new'?" Emmaline said under her breath. She shot a disgusted glance at the flesh-tone adobe buildings, and wrinkled her nose.
Larence started to
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