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during the day. They took turns leading tours through the house or playing hide and seek with tourist children.
    For some reason, Challenger McCall came to mind, though she couldn't imagine why. She shrugged. Perhaps it was because he was a fine specimen and the flowers would probably have a high time over at the Bordello tonight. And a profitable one. Lucky them.
    She, on the other hand, had to get the Tea tourists out of the dining room, sweep up, mop up, get supper for the hotel guests on the table, iron a fresh shirtwaist for tomorrow…
    "Will you be open Thanksgiving Day?" a pleasant faced woman asked, distracting Rachel from her thoughts and yet adding to them. "There's only my husband and myself and I get so tired of cooking."
    "So do I," she wanted to say, "In fact, I'm so tired, I could cry." But she smiled pleasantly and said instead, "No, Ma'am, I'm afraid not, but we will be open that weekend."
    "That's disappointing," the woman said, and then she shrugged. "Ah, well, I suppose it's not fair to expect you to work just because I don't want to."
    How right she was, but again, Rachel only smiled and exchanged her thought for a pleasant comment.
    "I'll still be cooking," she said, cheerfully, "We have a community Thanksgiving. The whole town will be there."
    "Did you hear that, Harry? That's so sweet!" the woman said to her husband, "Wouldn't it be wonderful to turn back the clock and live the simple life they lived back then; no rushing here and there, and spending time with neighbors instead of being distracted with TV or computers."
    "I'll take that check, now," Harry told Rachel and to his wife, "I want to get back to the hotel in time to catch the end of the ball game."
    "You see?" the woman laughed.
    Rachel took the bill from her apron pocket and waited while the man fished his credit card from his wallet. She did see, but the woman didn't. Like most people, this woman saw the past as a simpler time, less stressful than the modern world, more peaceful. They thought it quaint and enviable that the folks of Gold Gulch lived that life even when the town was closed to tourists. They had no idea of the endless drudgery involved.
    Rachel ran the credit card through the machine concealed behind a high wall built atop the counter to further the illusion that this was the 1800s and electricity was a thing of the future.
    'A necessary evil' is what Mayor Hoffman called electricity and each business and household was restricted in its use. Rachel had a vacuum, for instance, but she could only use it before or after business hours. It was the same for washers and dryers, which were a godsend, though the all-natural fabrics still had to be ironed. Refrigerators, for businesses at least, were required by law.
    Tourists often commented on two features that couldn't be hidden; flushing toilets and hot, running water. Shouldn't there be outhouses, they'd laugh. Rachel would laugh with them, but modern bathrooms were one thing she wouldn't mind giving up. Each one of the hotel's fifteen bedrooms had one and each one needed to be cleaned.
     
    Bertie, who shared most duties with Rachel, was just finishing up when Rachel came back to the kitchen, having finished her dining room chores.
    "Pots and pans are done," she said as soon as Rachel came through the door. She drew her shawl around her shoulders and picked up the two plates covered in foil; supper for her and Victor. "And you remember to tell that Eustace if he soaks my fry pan one more time, his keester's goin' to be the next thing frying in it. Where is the little weasel anyway? Always disappearing when there's work to be done."
    Rachel would have challenged the criticism of Eustace, but she knew Bertie didn’t mean it. The two made a game of bickering and complaint. "Papa sent him to fetch luggage. We have a new guest. Remember?" she asked tiredly. The extra money would be welcome, but it meant more work as well.
    " Ah, yes, the new sheriff with the funny name. What was it