Naughty Marietta

“And you’ve chosen me to go get her, bring her here.”

“Exactly.”

Cole looked thoughtful, as if he was considering the proposition. But when finally he spoke, he said, “No, I don’t think so. Find somebody else.”

Maxwell’s wrinkled face instantly turned scarlet with anger. He thundered, “Damnation! If just anyone could bring her back from Central City, you’d be swinging from the gallows this very minute! I saved your life. You owe me, young man!”

“True,” Cole admitted, pausing briefly. “I’ll go,” he finally answered. “But here are my terms. Before I leave for Colorado, you’ll pay me ten thousand dollars cash.”

“Ten thousand dollars! Why, this grand house didn’t cost much more than that. You’re out of your mind if you think I’ll give you that kind of money.”

Cole sat calmly, said nothing.

“That’s highway robbery! You’re in no position to demand anything,” barked Maxwell Lacey. “Let me remind you again, I saved your life. You will go after my granddaughter or you’ll go right back to the gallows and be hanged.”

Still, Cole didn’t budge. “Ten thousand or your precious granddaughter stays in Central City.”

Maxwell Lacey was not a man used to being bested. His first inclination was to order this arrogant upstart out of his house. Send him back to the gallows. Let the ungrateful bastard swing. But time was short. Running out. His days were numbered.

“Very well,” he said grudgingly, “I’ll pay you the ten thousand.”

Cole smiled for the first time since entering the mansion. He said in a low, level voice, “You will have your attorney deposit the money in the Gulf Shores State Bank this afternoon. I’ll leave for Colorado in the morning.”

“Agreed,” said Maxwell and he, too, was smiling. His attorney had, by telegraph, queried both Union officers and fellow Confederate officers and all had agreed that Cole Heflin’s word was as good as his bond. “Weathers is waiting in the parlor. He will accompany you to the bank.”

Cole nodded, rose, shook the old man’s hand and then turned to leave the library.

But he stopped abruptly when Maxwell Lacey said, “Ah, one last little thing I didn’t mention, Heflin.”

Cole turned. “Which is?”

Maxwell looked sheepish when he admitted, “Marietta may not want to come with you.”

Cole frowned. “Jesus, are you telling me I’m supposed to bring this woman back against her will?”

Maxwell nodded his head. “Absolutely! I’m certain she’ll refuse to come. It’s a long, complicated tale and of no concern to you. Your orders are to bring my granddaughter safely back here to me.”

Cole made a face. “Just how am I supposed to persuade this woman to—”

Lacey interrupted, “If you can’t convince her to come peacefully—which I fully doubt will happen—snatch her right off the stage! Kidnap her! Use force if necessary. Do whatever you have to do, but bring her back. You understand me?”

“I don’t like this,” Cole said.

“Why, Heflin, what’s kidnapping to an arsonist, a bank robber?” Cole gave no reply. Lacey continued, “You don’t have to like it, just do it. I’ll give you the ten thousand you’ve demanded and fully finance your trip.” He lifted a hand and indicated the soiled jail garb Cole wore. “Buy yourself some decent clothes, travel in style and stay at the best hotels.” He paused then, looked hopefully at Cole.

Cole said, “How do you know I won’t take your money and disappear?”

Lacey replied, “I don’t. But I’m a pretty good judge of character and I’d bet everything against it.”

“I’ll bring your wandering granddaughter home to you, Mr. Lacey. Count on it.”

Central City, Colorado

“No, no, you must start over!”

“Not again!”

“You heard me,” said Madam Sophia.

Marietta made a face, sighed heavily, but cleared her throat and began anew.

It was early afternoon. Marietta Stone, a twenty-five-year-old, red-haired opera singer, was practicing her roulades and glissandos under the tutelage of her two-hundred-and-fifty-pound voice coach, Madam Sophia.

Teacher and pupil were ensconced in Marietta’s private quarters, a luxurious five-room suite above the Tivoli Opera House. In a few short days, Marietta would debut at the grand opera house in a production of Verdi’s La Traviata.

She was the star.

The young singer took her voice lessons seriously. She was determined to become a famous soprano in the glamorous and exciting world of opera. She never doubted that she would achieve the fame she sought.

Marietta was a woman as obstinate as she was beautiful. She believed that she could change, if not the world, her world. As indeed, she had. Endowed with intelligence, determination and great beauty, she had been successful in the dogged pursuit of her goals.

“No! No! No!” scolded the frustrated Italian voice coach as Marietta reached for a high note and went a trifle flat. Marietta immediately fell silent. Madam Sophia, shaking her head, said, “Try again and remember to breathe properly as I have shown you. You must learn to enunciate and strengthen your vocal cords.”

Marietta was not stung by the reprimand. She trusted her voice coach completely. The acclaimed—and well-paid—Madam Sophia was an expert in the physiology of voice production and control. Marietta felt fortunate to have such a talented teacher. And, she was pleased that she was Madam Sophia’s only pupil.

“You will begin once more,” instructed Madam Sophia, “and practice breathing properly so that you can reach those high notes without going flat!” Madam Sophia paused. “You must be better before dress rehearsal.”

Marietta nodded, took a deep, slow breath. She began the musical scales, but was momentarily interrupted by a knock on the suite’s door. Marietta stopped her exercises. The rotund voice coach frowned.

“That will be Maltese,” said Marietta.

Madam Sophia exhaled with annoyance. “Must he come here while we are practicing?”

“He won’t stay long,” assured Marietta.

Madam Sophia held her tongue, said no more. She couldn’t object too fiercely. Taylor Maltese paid her handsomely to tutor Marietta.

Marietta hurried to the mirror to examine herself. She pinched her cheeks, bit her lips, drew the feathered lapels of her pink satin dressing gown together. Then turning, she said, “Sophia, let my visitor in, please.”

Muttering to herself in Italian, Madam Sophia opened the door and then hurried out once the dapper, immaculately dressed suitor had entered. A slender man of medium height with silver-gray hair, hazel eyes and a ruddy complexion, Taylor Maltese was an extremely wealthy, middle-aged bachelor. He owned and operated a number of Colorado’s most prosperous gold and silver mines as well as Central City’s newspaper, the Gilpin Hotel and many of the stores and saloons of the thriving mountain hamlet.

He also owned the Tivoli Opera House, which was more of an indulgence for him than a commercial venture. He loved music, opera…and his beautiful leading ladies. Especially his current leading lady, the opera’s star, Marietta.

Maltese had a spacious three-story home high on a bluff above Central City, as well as a huge stone mansion down in Denver, which was his primary residence. His great wealth and position in society made him the target of many hopeful women longing to become Mrs. Maltese. They were wasting their time.

Since the moment he had first seen her, Maltese had been totally smitten with the young, lovely Marietta. His first glimpse of the flame-haired beauty had been a year ago on the stage of his own Tivoli Opera House. He had come to see a production of La Bohème. He hardly noticed the celebrated soprano who was the star. Marietta, in a bit role as a café customer in the chorus immediately caught his eye. He was entranced. And had been ever since.

He so adored Marietta, he was afraid to press her for fear he might lose her. He longed to take her in his arms, but he didn’t dare. He had seen flashes of her fiery temper and didn’t want that anger directed at him. So he contented himself with nothing more intimate than kisses on the cheek and the pleasure of her company.