07. Surprises from Your Husband

"There is an unalterable truth about men of wealth and power," Mr Ambrose declared, as he strode ahead of me, towards a small building in the distance. "They do not like to lose it."

"You don't say?" I enquired, the corners of my mouth twitching. "I would never have guessed."

"Remove that smirk from your face, Mr Linton. I was not talking about myself."

Dang! Did he have eyes in the back of his head?

"Then who were you talking about?" I asked, deciding to grab the opportunity to change the subject.

"Spain." Pushing open the door to the little shed, he gestured me over to a crooked table that was the only piece of furniture in the dingy interior. "Or Spain's nobles, to be precise. Come here."

Curious, I stepped forward. There was a map spread out over the table, showing both North and South America. It didn't take me long to notice that the southern half was covered with notes, arrows and marks that looked very much like crossed swords.

Battles.

"During the last few decades," the cool voice of Mr Ambrose filled the room, "Spain's colonies in the new world have rapidly fallen, one after another. Whether it be due to economic crisis, incompetent leadership, or any number of different factors, the Spanish dominion has been quickly vanishing into thin air. Something that...certain influential elements among the Spanish nobility do not approve of. A few years ago, they were like gods—able to command half the world with a flick of a finger. Now, all they have left are some run-down islands in which rebellion is rumbling. They aim to change that situation."

"But..." I felt a shiver travel down my spine. "This is the United States of America! They threw out the British back when they were only thirteen ramshackle colonies! And, in case you didn't notice, they've come a long way since then! Have the Spanish gone insane?"

Mr Ambrose gave a dismissive wave. "There is more than one type of power. By traditional means, they would never be able to conquer even a postage-stamp-sized part of this country. But out here, in the wilderness of the West, where there are no laws, no limits and no boundaries? As long as they act under the mantle of private individuals and businessmen, they can do whatever they wish."

From outside, I heard the cracks of whips and bangs of gunfire. I reached the window just in time to see the group of burly enforcers chase the crowd away.

"I see," I said.

That still left one rather important question unanswered, though.

"So...what exactly are they after in this place?"

Mr Rikkard Ambrose gave me a considering look—then turned away, pulling a key from his pocket.

"Let me show you."

Striding forward, he bent down, grabbed something, and...

"A trap door?"

Mr Ambrose didn't answer. He simply pulled it open and disappeared down the ladder.

"Would you like to go first, Mrs Ambrose?" I asked, addressing the empty room. "Ladies first, Mrs Ambrose. I always take care of my wife, Mrs Ambrose."

Silence.

"Oh, fiddlesticks!"

Grumbling, I hurried towards the opening and started scrambling down the ladder. Glancing down, I couldn't even see the end of it. It seemed to vanish straight into the darkness below. Lucky I had always been sure-footed. Quickly, I started climbing, and—

Suddenly, my head felt odd. I started swaying.

"What the—!"

Before I could get another word out, I felt as if the world tilted. My feet slipped from the rungs. Instinctively, my hands clenched around the ladder, but they were too darn slippery! I was going to fall! I was going to—

"Oomph!"

I hit something as hard as rock. Startled, I blinked. Had the rocky ground just jumped up a dozen yards or so to catch me?

"That," Mr Rikkard Ambrose said from right beneath me, "was exceedingly foolish."

"Oh. Um...I..." Stone-hard, muscled arms around me. Breath tickled my cheek. Oh dear. "Hello there."

I tried to free myself from his hold—until I felt the world tilt again, and decided to stay put for now. The dozen or so yards that were still between me and the rocky ground might have played a tiny role in that decision.

And so, perhaps, did the strong arms holding me in their embrace. Mr Ambrose's grip tightened around me, his mouth moving towards my ear.

"I," he whispered, "always take care of my wife, Mrs Ambrose."

And, before I could find a chance to reply, a pair of lips branded a searing hot kiss on the side of my neck, at that soft spot right behind the ear.

I nearly fell off the ladder again.

Darn him! He...he...

He was taking care of me. He'd gone down first on purpose, because he was taking care of me. Because he cared for me.

Slowly, the embrace around me opened, setting me free. "In the future, be more careful," I heard Mr Ambrose's voice in my ear. It was not a request. "Especially in your condition."

"Condition?" I blinked. "What condition?"

His arm, which had only just loosened, slid around me again, hands coming to rest protectively on my belly. "Your, ehem...landsickness."

Why did his voice suddenly sound so strained?

"Ehem. Well, you have wasted enough of our time, Mr Linton! Let's get a move on."

Then, quickly, he started descending once again. The whole way down, though, he didn't let go of me even once.

By the time we reached the bottom, it was so dark I could hardly see my hand in front of my face. Trust Mr Rikkard Ambrose to save money on light in a pitch-black cellar.

"Cover your eyes."

I was just opening my mouth to ask why, when light flooded the space around me, blinding me. Quickly, I covered my eyes with one hand and muttered a few choice curses from my favourite foreign languages. Slowly, I lowered my hand, blinking in the light and...

"Holy Mother of Moly!" Stunned, I stared at the walls around us. Not cellar walls, as I had thought. No, we were in some kind of narrow cave, almost a tunnel, leading ahead endlessly into the darkness. And on the walls... "Blimey! Is...is that..."

Mr Ambrose's answer was just a single word. "Yes."

I swallowed.

Gold.

Everywhere, from down by my feet to ten yards above me, where the walls of the cave tunnel disappeared into the darkness, gold. And gold. And more gold.

Did I mention gold?

Maybe I should ask for a raise.

"Let me tell you a little story, Mr Linton," Mr Ambrose's cool voice echoed from the walls. "There has been a political debate going on for quite some time in the American Congress, about a proposed law called the Homestead Act. The Republicans want to distribute public land to farmers and their families. However, the Democrats have been stubbornly blocking it for years, because they're firmly convinced all land is better off in the hands of the plantation owners and slave masters who pay for their election campaigns. This issue has been stewing for years. So you can imagine my surprise when this particular state suddenly decided to pass a local version of the Homestead Act, just days after I staked my claim in this little town."

Something clicked in my head. "Let me guess. A day or two later, lots of 'farmers' applied for land grants in this area. Especially right around the mine."

"Indeed they did, Mr Linton."

"And these farmers just so happened to be of Spanish origin?"

"Unfortunately, the Spanish nobles are much less stupid than they are ruthless. The enforcers come from Spain all right. But the others? The people at the top simply 'convinced' a number of the locals that they suddenly wanted to give up whatever they were doing with their lives and start 'farming the land'. And if they didn't want to be convinced..."

With his usual lack of verbosity Mr Ambrose sliced a finger across his throat.

"Court cases were filed, trying to claim ownership of the mine. The local law enforcement was bought off, the mine workers, management staff and some stubborn locals thrown in prison, and any land they couldn't get their hands on legally was simply stolen or occupied. Then they sent the owner of the mine a letter, suggesting it might be beneficial to sell the operation for ten cents. They did pretty much everything—except for one thing."

"And what was that?" I asked, although I already had a feeling I knew the answer.

"Find out," Mr Ambrose told me, gold reflecting in his dark eyes as he turned to face me, "exactly who it is they were messing with."

Oh dear.

Suddenly, I felt very, very glad not to be in the Spaniards' shiny black shoes.

"So..." I enquired. "What now?"

In answer, Mr Ambrose swept aside his tailcoat, revealing the place where, at his side, a revolver had been fastened. Pulling out the weapon, he opened the chamber, checking for bullets.

"For now, why don't we enjoy the local culture?"

"The local...culture?" I blinked. Whatever I had expected, that definitely wasn't it.

"Indeed. I have been reliably informed that in this area, locals congregate in an establishment generally referred to as 'saloon'. Apparently, in this 'saloon', all the people gather, chat and exchange friendly, peaceful banter." Slamming shut the chamber of the revolver, he gave it a twirl and cocked his head at me, his cold eyes boring into mine. "Why don't we go and pay them a visit?"

***

Clink...clink...clink...

The metallic sound of spurs hitting the ground echoed through the air. The eyes of everyone inside the saloon moved towards the door. Mugs were set down onto the tables and bar. Hands shifted to revolvers.

A dark figure appeared in the doorway. It stood there, its towering shadow cast halfway across the room.

A moment later, I pushed open the door and gave the occupants of the room a beaming smile. "Hello there, everyone! Is this here the Ladies' Flower Arrangement Association Headquarters?"

...

...

What, you thought it was Mr Ambrose who bought himself a lovely pair of shiny golden spurs? Get real!

The crowd in the saloon didn't seem to appreciate my lovely new accessories. Or me, for that matter. Eyes narrowed. Rough hands grabbed revolvers, and—

"Greetings, gentlemen."

—let go again.

Another shadow was cast across the saloon floor, swallowing mine whole. Most men in the saloon shifted uncomfortably, averting their eyes, while most of the women, including the dancers with one leg still in the air, stood frozen and gaping.

Three guesses who had just joined me?

Stepping past me, Mr Rikkard Ambrose strode into the saloon until he came to a stop in front of the bar. His chiselled face, cast in shadow beneath a broad-brimmed hat, was half-covered by a ragged piece of cloth.

"Barkeep," he said, his cold voice cutting through the silence like a knife through inexpensive margarine. "A glass of water."

Absolute silence pervaded the room. You could have heard a pin drop onto a soft cushion.

"What did ya say ya want?"

Raising an eyebrow a fraction of a millimetre, Mr Ambrose stared at the man. "Water."

Again, a long moment of silence, before...

Roaring laughter exploded throughout the room. People were pointing, slapping the tables and smirking like they'd seen the biggest clown ever just ride into town. Everybody in the room was busy ridiculing Mr Rikkard Ambrose.

Everybody except me, and a small number of other intelligent people, that is.

"Hola, pretty boy!" A massive Hispanic man with a beaver-sized moustache ambled over, grinning in a way that would make the most patient of men punch him in the face. "Did I hear right? You came into a saloon to get water?"

Reaching out, Mr Ambrose lifted the glass of water the barkeep had placed in front of him.

"Indeed."

"Say, niño..." The man smirked. "What d'ya want water for?"

"Simple," Mr Ambrose told him. "This."

And he emptied the glass over the big oaf's head.

"You...you...!"

The man's face darkened. His jaw clenched. His muscles bulged as he raised a massive fist, and stepped forward, towering over Mr Rikkard Ambrose.

Sidling up to the crowd of men avidly watching the scene, I nudged one of them.

"Hey! Twenty dollars on the stiff Brit."

The man stared at me as if I were off my rocker.

"Done!" he held out two bills.

"I'm in!" another man yelled, holding out thirty dollars.

"Fifty on the big dago!"

"Twenty-five for me!"

I grinned as the pile of gleaming coins in my hands grew and grew. Above the heads of the crowd, my eyes fixed on Mr Rikkard Ambrose, as he stood perfectly still, waiting as the fist of the other man sailed towards him.

Then I saw it. Just the slightest shift. A tiny twitch of muscles under the black tailcoat that betrayed what was coming.

I grinned, my hands folding around the heaps of dollars.

Time to make a killing!

------------------------------------------------------------

My dear Lords, Ladies and Gentlemen,

Seems Mrs Ambrose had leaned some lessons from her husband, doesn't it? ;) How much money do you think she'll make?

Yours Truly

Sir Rob