Between Love and Lies

by Jacqui Nelson

  Among other things, John was the Star’s box herder. He kept the ladies in line and fetched them back if they took any ideas of independence. Moments ago, Gertie Garrett had instructed her right-hand man to keep watch over Sadie. He was to protect her from the crowd, and from her own self. He’d have to punish her if she ran. Those were the rules.

  John turned, looked her straight in the eye and she realized with a jolt that he was nervous as well. Rightfully so. A giant of a man with a battle-scarred face, he towered over everyone and outweighed most men two to one, but he was only one man against a hundred. His gaze dropped to the floor, his lips compressing into a resigned line before disappearing beneath the snarl of his beard. He drew himself up and stepped onto the stage and out of Sadie’s sight, entering the lion’s den.

  “Settle down now, boys,” he hollered.

  Nothing happened. If anything, the noise increased.

  Her guardian tried again. “I said, pipe down!”

  Curses and jeers turned the air blue, followed by the shattering of glass. Close by. On the stage where John stood. His calls for order had their attention.

  Sadie flattened her spine against the wall. The rough-cut boards dug into her flesh, reminding her that the men couldn’t see her. Still safe. Still a coward. She squeezed shut her eyes, gulped a breath of air and began to sing.

  “Amazing grace, how sweet the sound…”

  She grimaced, but didn’t stop. Why had she chosen such a song? Was it because this morning she’d been pondering her past, both before and after she’d come to live in Dodge? Was it because she’d decided God would never forgive her for all the sins she’d committed of late?

  Whatever the reason, her selection didn’t matter. The men were too busy kicking up a ruckus to listen to her. Damn them and their gracelessness. Damn them all to hell. If it was possible to send them there with a song, then she’d give it her best.

  She raised her chin and her voice as well.

  On the other side of the wall, all went quiet. She kept singing as if her life depended on it. And it did.

  Her every move at the Northern Star seemed a step deeper into hell. The role she’d concocted to slow her descent was a precarious one. She’d saved herself with a series of lies that now might lead to her death. But the lies were all she’d had. Too late to do anything differently, she reminded herself. Keep lying…and singing.

  Heart hammering against her ribcage, she opened her eyes and midsentence stepped onto the stage. A sea of faces stared up at her, unmoving. Liquor bottles and glasses hovered in their hands. Forgotten. A new indulgence had captured their attention.

  All too soon, the last line in her song slipped from her lips. She drew the words out, trying to hold on to them, dreading their departure. Without her song, she feared chaos would return.

  And then there was silence. Not a word. Not a footfall. Nothing.

  “God in heaven,” a man standing in the front row said. His words echoed in the stillness, making her flinch. “You sing like a preacher’s daughter. But if I’d wanted a sermon, I’d ’a gone to church.”

  Laughter slipped from her lips, a bubbling carefree sound that took her by surprise. When was the last time she’d laughed? She couldn’t remember. Didn’t want to remember. The past was gone and the future uncertain. All she had was today.

  “Well—” She drew in another breath for courage. “We can’t have you thinking this is a house of the Lord.” Or that she was pure. She needed to maintain the appearance of a seasoned saloon girl.

  She forced herself to lean forward and prop her hands on her knees, so she could stare directly into her reluctant disciple’s eyes.

  His gaze fell to her cleavage and stayed there.

  “Now you see what you want to see.” Bit by bit, she straightened, sliding her hands up her legs until they settled on her hips. She assumed one of the poses she’d observed the other girls at the Star employ…and put some thought into her next song.

  “There’s a yellow rose of Texas

  That I am going to see.”

  Shrill whistles and a volley of shouts greeted her choice. But it was the abrupt intake of breath behind her that drew her attention. Handsome John’s jaw hung so low it rested on his chest.

  Didn’t think I had it in me, huh? She gave him a mock salute. Wasn’t certain I did either.

  With a shake of his head, John settled the contours of his scarred face back into its usual scowl and lumbered off to tend the bar. Sadie turned back to her audience and strove to make the next line of her song as sultry and breathless as she could.

  “No other fellow knows her,

  No other, only me.”

  The men’s appreciation grew louder.

  Texans. One of their statesmen had started her descent. The one with eyes like fine whiskey. Nothing fine about him. He’d destroyed everything she had. Then he’d left. His memory didn’t deserve to linger in her thoughts.

  By God’s hand— No, by her own hand, she’d get out of Dodge. She’d be beholden to none. She’d be free. Completely free.

  But first she’d give these Texans something to remember.

  Strident piano music, so unlike Edward’s masterful playing, joined her song. He’d insisted she had her own talents, hidden ones waiting to surface. A surge of confidence made her buoyant, lifted her voice above the clamor. She was pulling it off, holding the men’s attention and more. They’d bought her act. They believed she was one of Gertie’s girls, just another prostitute with only her wits and her will to keep her alive.

  Her gaze skimmed the sea of faces: clean-shaven and bearded, young and old, drunk and sober—then jerked to a halt on one she knew. Disbelief stole the strength from her voice.

  Lord in merciful heaven, it couldn’t be.

  The face from her past. A face better left there. She kept singing, but every fiber of her body begged to retreat from the stage, to crawl away so she could hide her wounds. Unwelcome memories—her father’s betrayal, Madam Garrett’s ownership, Edward’s death—surfaced, so vivid they could’ve happened yesterday rather than during the last year, making her voice more breathless, her song more emotional.

  She closed her eyes, opened them again ever so slowly. She wasn’t dreaming.

  The face remained, solid and unmoving. A face so compelling it was sinful. She cursed every line of his features, from the straight slant of his nose to the robust square of his jaw…and his whiskey-colored eyes.

  You took my home. You took my future. You cannot be trusted. The sorrow constricting her chest splintered into anger. May the devil take you straight back to hell.

  * * *

  Awareness prickled the nape of Noah’s neck as he and Lewis stood in the doorway of the Northern Star Saloon.

  “Jesus,” Lewis whispered. “An angel is singing about Texas. I must have died and gone to heaven.”

  Sweet Jesus, indeed. He’d never heard a voice as compelling as the one that washed over him now. The husky rawness awakened every nerve in his body. It drew him like a parched man to a watering hole.

  His step quickened as he pushed through the crowd in search of the voice’s owner. Cowhands, trail bosses and wealthy cattle barons pressed shoulder to shoulder, all focused on one thing—the redhead on a raised stage in the far corner.

  His redhead.

  The air abandoned his lungs in a rush. He blinked, forced himself to take a second look. Nothing had changed. She was still onstage…but oh, had she changed since he’d last he’d seen her. Gone was the tangle of red tresses, replaced by a mass of curls artfully arranged atop her head. Her pretty gingham dress had been swapped for a shiny sapphire creation with a high hem, tight waist and a plunging neckline.

  Equal parts shocked and mesmerized, he watched her chest rise and fall with the words of her song.

  “She cried so when I left her,

  It like to break my heart,”

  Lord, he felt like his heart was liable to break right here and now. It missed a beat, tightened
as if she’d reached out with her small hand and twisted it. What in the blue devil was she doing dressed like that and in a saloon?

  “And if I ever find her

  We never more will part.”

  He’d found her. Hadn’t even taken a day. But what had happened since he’d last seen her? Dread made his stomach churn as a dozen possible answers, each one more sordid than the last, flashed through his mind.

  “She’s the sweetest rose of color

  A fellow ever knew,”

  The red of her hair shone like a beacon. He’d remembered it perfectly these last twelve months. But her face was different…paler, while the blush of her cheeks was too vivid.

  “Her eyes are bright as diamonds,

  They sparkle like the dew.”

  From this distance, he couldn’t see the color of her eyes, but he didn’t have to. They’d be green as a summer meadow and glittering with tears. Tears he’d caused.

  An avalanche of regrets roared in his ears, blocking out all sound. The one person he’d loved was gone, wiped out much like he’d destroyed this woman’s farm. Now there was only her, haunting his dreams, both sleeping and waking. Her memory had called to him in Texas, same as her voice broke through his grief and called to him now.

  “We’ll play the banjo gaily,

  and we’ll sing the songs of yore,

  And the Yellow Rose of Texas

  Shall be mine forevermore.”

  With that last line, Noah made a promise—to God, to himself and the whole forsaken town of Dodge. He wasn’t leaving until he fixed the wrong he’d done.

  CHAPTER 2

  “And you scoffed at my suggestion,” Lewis said in a voice hushed with both appreciation and amazement, “that we’d find anything of worth in a saloon.”

  Noah wrenched his gaze from the stage to stare at his friend. “Why is she here?”

  “You know her?” Lewis’ eyebrows rose even further. “Is she what you came searching for?”

  Noah spun on his heel and made a beeline for the bar. He ordered a shot of whiskey and drank it in one gulp. The cheap liquor burned a path down his throat, making him grimace. The bartender reached out a hand as big as a dinner plate to remove the bottle.

  “Leave it,” Noah growled, then poured himself another glass and tossed it back even faster. Out of the corner of his eye he saw that Lewis had joined him.

  “Last year, your trip to Dodge…” Lewis’ voice lacked its usual hint of merriment. “I always wanted to ask... You came home awfully cut up about your brother, but there’s more, isn’t there?” He glanced at the stage. “I’ll admit she’s mighty pretty, but you could pay dozens of saloon girls to help you forget about—”

  Noah seized Lewis by his shirtfront. He wasn’t sure if he did so to shut up his friend or keep himself from keeling over. A sudden dizziness was making it difficult to breathe. “I don’t deserve to forget. I deserve to rot in hell.”

  Lewis’ face went as white as bleached bone. “Noah, you’re scaring me. Tell me why you came back to Dodge.”

  Noah released him, but only so he could pour himself another whiskey. He knocked back the third drink, despairing when it still failed to numb the guilt stabbing his conscience. First his brother, then her. He’d destroyed both of their lives. Jacob was dead, and she was working in one of the roughest saloons in the West.

  What happened to her farm? To her father? To the money I left them? He poured another drink and rotated the glass in his hand, searching for answers at the amber liquid.

  “For God’s sake,” Lewis said. “Say something.”

  “Yes, she’s the reason I came north with you,” he managed through gritted teeth. “Only she wasn’t a whore—” the word stuck in his throat, had to be forced out, “—when I saw her last.” The full weight of the situation pressed down on him, crushing him. “I’m responsible for making her one.”

  Lewis’ eyes flared with disbelief. He opened his mouth to reply, but a cool, feminine voice behind them interrupted.

  “Well, I declare. I reckon I’ve never laid eyes on two such eye-catching men in all my life.” A delighted chuckle followed, then the woman announced, “And that’s saying something. Name’s Gertie Garrett. Welcome to my saloon.”

  The middle-aged madam’s squat frame sported a massive bosom and red hair…like Timothy Sullivan’s daughter, but there was a world of differences in the color. While Miss Sullivan’s mane gleamed with gold and strawberry tones, this woman’s hair was harsh and brassy as old copper. Her cloying floral scent made him wrinkle his nose. Everything about her was overstated, overpowering.

  Right now Noah welcomed her vulgarity. The force of it, the distraction, anything to halt his careening thoughts and wandering gaze. Despite his best efforts, he was staring at the stage again.

  “Ah, you are intrigued by my Sadie,” the madam observed.

  The word “my” raised Noah’s hackles. He gave Gertie Garrett his full attention. The hint of a smile curved her scarlet mouth, as if she were a mother mentioning a beloved daughter. But shrewdness narrowed her kohl-painted eyes. His hands tightened into fists. Madam Garrett owned this saloon. She owned Sadie. She was making that relationship clear.

  “Many have been interested,” she purred. “The girl caused a bidding war when I first got her. But tonight I can arrange for her to spend some time with you.”

  Noah fought the urge to punch Madam Garrett—and every person in the room who might have forced Sadie to do anything against her will. His inclination must have shown in his sudden stillness, because Lewis stepped between him and the madam.

  Oblivious to the danger, she rambled on. “Men of your bearing are always welcome in my establishment.” Her gaze swept over first Lewis and then him. “Sadie deals a fine hand of poker. Which of one you would like to join her table and try your luck?”

  Lewis shook his head. “Neither one of us are much for playing cards. We should be going.”

  Noah shouldered Lewis aside. “I’m not leaving.” With folded arms, he faced the madam. “The sooner you set up that card game, the better. I want to sit down with Sadie immediately.”

  * * *

  Sadie doggedly avoided making eye contact with the brooding man seated across the card table. Her thoughts were harder to control. The Texan had been back in her life less than an hour and every second of that hour she’d spent thinking about him, recalling his calm, self-assured manner when he’d saved her from being trampled and told her that her farm could be rebuilt.

  Then he’d left.

  Anger and disappointment made her hand tremble, like a drunk letting go of an empty bottle, as she dealt the last card.

  She glanced up and caught him frowning, his whiskey-colored eyes locked on her fingers. She dropped her hand, palm down, onto the table, anchoring herself while she concentrated on suppressing her reactions. Unable to look away, she watched his gaze travel upward, over her gaudy dress, pausing for a heartbeat on the exposed flesh of her chest where—if possible—his eyes narrowed even more before they rose to her face.

  Noah Ballantyne. When he’d arrived at her table, introductions had been made. He’d spoken in the same rumbling deep voice that continued to befuddle her. She knew his name now. She knew who to curse.

  Deciding it was safer to concentrate on the others at the table, she assessed the two men seated with them: a fair-haired man named Mr. Adams and a cowhand still damp from a scrubbing at the bathhouse. The cowhand fidgeted with the collar of a too-tight shirt and the brim of a too-large hat, seesawing between praising and condemning his new clothing. Mr. Adams’ smile and cordial replies never wavered. He was a handsome man, but nowhere near as striking as her cowboy.

  Damn it. Noah Ballantyne wasn’t her anything. Desperate for a distraction, she scanned the table again.

  Cora’s gaze clashed with hers.

  Perched on the arm of Mr. Adams’ chair, the ebony-haired beauty’s ample curves and charm made her feel dull and dim-witted. She cared little about h
er looks, but in Dodge a dearth of knowledge could prove deadly. Eyebrows arched in challenge, Cora traced a slow but precise finger down Mr. Adams’ chest. Only after her hand disappeared below the table did she give Mr. Adams her full attention, along with a murmured invitation from him to accompany her upstairs.

  Sadie imagined herself and Mr. Ballantyne climbing the steps to the second-story rooms, his arm around her waist, binding her close. What would happen if they were alone in her room? She pictured him lying down with her, strong and sure, holding her on her bed instead of the trampled earth of her farm.

  Around her, the cacophony of braying voices faded to a dull roar. The heat in her cheeks spilled over, spiraling down to curl low in her body. The tension arched her back, making her sway toward him.

  Mr. Ballantyne reached out as if to steady her. His tanned, work-roughed fingers hesitated short of her arm.

  The wholesome scents of soap and leather tickled her nose, enticing her to remove the gap between them. Her gaze skimmed the faded blue shirt hugging his arms, the rough-cut leather vest encasing his chest, the sheepskin coat on the back of his chair. The same coat he’d worn when they first met.

  He hadn’t bothered to buy new clothing.

  A sudden chill chased the heat from her body. He wasn’t here to impress anyone and, judging from his lack of attention for his cards lying on the table, he wasn’t here to be play poker either. So why was he here?

  “Why are you so pale?” Mr. Ballantyne’s unexpected question made her jaw drop.

  His gaze searched hers.

  Behind her, Gertie cleared her throat, snapping her back to reality. Gertie always had a way of doing that. The heartless woman needed to pay for what she’d done to Edward. And when she did, Sadie could stop dealing cards to men who, when they stared at a woman like Mr. Ballantyne was looking at her, desired one thing. The one thing she not only wouldn’t, but couldn’t give.