Della learned early to let go of everything that doesn’t matter–you need both hands to hold on tight to anything you want to keep. Don’t get bogged down by the weight of inconsequential bullshit, or somebody or something will snatch what matters right out of your hands. She’d lost two daughters and a son before she’d seen twenty years. When she finally escaped the misery of her past, she promised herself that she’d never again lose anything she truly loved. She built the Silk Rose Saloon in St. Louis with blood money taken from the last man who’d laid a hand on her. That seemed like a square deal, but Missouri was still a dangerous place for a woman to openly defy the expectations of gender, race, and society. When the Silk Rose went up in flames one night, taking most of its staff with it, the neighbors shook their heads and clucked their tongues and whispered What else could she expect, living like that? Evidence of arson was brushed under the rug. But Della had made a promise to herself, and she knew her soul would never rest easy anyway, so she bargained with the only thing she had left to lose.

Twelve years ago, the Silk Rose unfolded itself whole on a street corner in Never, New Mexico, with Dellaphina Jones on the deed as sole proprietress. Customers may find that the rooms have a whiff of smoke–or maybe brimstone–now and then, but everything is otherwise circumspect.