Prologue:
"They call her the Ice Angel. She came into town a few years ago and took up residence at Miss Beckie’s. Place is a brothel. She’s been good for business. And business is all it is for her. Most people ain’t never seen her smile. Don’t rightly know how old she is. Can’t be too old, though. ‘Cept for her eyes. Them cold, steely gray eyes. They’s full of anger, and this cold bitterness . . ." The old man trailed off. He took a drink then shook his head, ready to go on.
"Nobody knows whar she come from, or even her real name. Said to call her Angel, so folks do, least them what calls her anythin’ fittin’ for public use. ‘Bout a month after she came to town the men, what ones goes over there anyway, they made them a wager. Ain’t nobody won it yet, and she’s been here dang near five years. All they had to do was melt the Ice Angel. Make her happy like, you know? She’s still as cold as ever. Can’t no one get through to her, ‘ceptin for the kids, what ones can get to her without their Mama’s knowin. She loves the kids. That’s the only time she ever seems alive, when the kids is around." He paused again, smiling.
"Always wears that gold locket, she does. Nobody knows what’s inside it. Sometimes, she gets real quiet, moreso ‘n usual, and she rubs that locket ‘tween her thumb and forefinger, just like this," he said, rubbing his thumb and first finger together in a circular motion. "She rubs it like that, just a starin’ off into space. That’s when you can see it. There’s a sadness in her eyes then, that she hides most of the time. A sadness so strong it would like to kill a man. There’s them that say women’s weaker’n men, that they need to be cared for. But I’m a tellin’ you, women’s ten times stronger’n any man could be, least ways when it comes to the heart."
The old man finished his tale and threw back the rest of his whiskey. "So, you gonna try an’ melt her, son?"
"What?"
"I seen the way you watched her in the street earlier. Are you gonna try an’ win that bet? The man what does, he’ll be a livin’ legend. I’d do it myself, if I was forty years younger’n like as I wasn’t so happy like with my Millie." He rubbed his round belly thoughtfully.
"I don’t think so, Sam," the younger man said. He leaned back in his chair, staring thoughtfully at the far wall.
"You got a name, son?"
"Yes sir. It’s Kirkpatrick. Christopher Kirkpatrick, of Dobson and Associates law firm. But call me Chris."
"A lawyer, eh? Well, I suppose there’s bound to be a few decent enough lawyers out there." Sam nodded his head. "Well, then, Chris. I thank you for the drinks. Now I best be headin’ home to my wife."
Chris nodded and watched as the old man left the saloon. "Angel, huh?" he muttered to himself. "Figures you’d be calling yourself that . . ."
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