Sweet Laurel

by Millie Criswell

  “THAT SCENT YOU’RE WEARING IS PREVENTING ME FROM CONCENTRATING, ANGEL. YOU KNOW THAT, DON’T YOU?”

  His lips were so close to her neck that she couldn’t think straight. He smelled of tobacco from the cheroots he was fond of smoking, and the manly scent played havoc with her emotions. When he blew gently into her ear, she pushed herself away from him instantly. “Stop that at once, or I’ll be forced to quit this establishment. Do you hear me, Chance Rafferty?”

  His answer was a devastatingly handsome smile. “What are you so frightened of, angel? Me?”

  “Not a thing! And certainly not you, Mr. Rafferty. Now let’s get back to work. Time’s a’ wastin’, and I don’t intend to be late for my lunch engagement.”

  “I can think of far more pleasurable ways to idle away the afternoon than having lunch, angel.”

  “That’s good,” she retorted. “Your appetite is much too large as it is.”

  PRAISE FOR THE NATIONAL BESTSELLER, WILD HEATHER

  “The first book in the Flowers of the West trilogy is a rousing success. . . . An excellent historical romance. . . . Criswell’s creativity is in full bloom.”

  —Affaire de Coeur

  “I loved it! It was romantic, humorous, and fun to read.”

  —Karen Robards

  “A charming, radiant romance that will lift and capture your spirit and your heart.”

  —Romantic Times

  Also by Millie Criswell

  Wild Heather

  PUBLISHED BY

  WARNER BOOKS

  A Time Warner Company

  To Larry, who’s made my dreams come true for the last twenty-six years. I love you!

  SWEET LAUREL. Copyright © 1996 by Millie Criswell. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

  For information address Warner Books, 1271 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020.

  A Time Warner Company

  ISBN 0-7595-8173-8

  A mass market edition of this book was published in 1996 by Warner Books.

  First eBook edition: April 2001

  Visit our Web site at www.iPublish.com

  Contents

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  Excerpt from Prim Rose

  CHAPTER 1

  Denver, Colorado, 1883

  “She ain’t got no tits to speak of.”

  “Shut up, Chance!” Rooster Higgins, stage manager of the Tabor Grand Opera House, glared at the tall man seated next to him. “You and Whitey ain’t even supposed to be in here during this audition, and you’re going to get me fired. You know if Mr. Witherspoon finds out, I’ll be back sweeping up at your saloon again.” He mopped droplets of nervous perspiration off his brow with his handkerchief.

  Chance Rafferty smiled that winning, self-assured smile that was known to melt the hearts of ladies—well, maybe not ladies—but women in general. It was a smile that could soothe the disgruntled patrons of his first-rate gambling saloon, the Aurora Borealis, and charm the angry mamas whose sons were, more often than not, found drinking and gambling there.

  “Pardon me for saying so, Rooster, but if you’re going to be showing off your wares at an opera house, and you can’t sing worth shit, then you’d better have a pair of hooters the size of Texas to make up for it. That’s all I’m saying.”

  “Well, don’t be saying it here.” Rooster snorted indignantly, glancing up at the stage and praying that the innocent young woman singing hadn’t heard Chance’s insensitive remark. Chance could be pretty thoughtless when he put his mind to it. Of course, he was so damned good-looking that most women overlooked that little flaw.

  “She sure is purty,” Chance’s cousin, Whitey Rafferty remarked, a childlike smile lighting his face. There was a vacancy behind that smile, behind his blue eyes, that had been there since birth. Though to look at the six-foot four-inch giant, you wouldn’t consider him less than a man. Many had made that mistake, and many had lived to regret it.

  Whitey Rafferty wasn’t playing with a full deck, as Chance was wont to say—though Chance, who was as protective as a mother hen when it came to his dimwitted cousin, didn’t tolerate anyone else saying it. Whitey dealt faro and monte at the Aurora with the best of them, but no one was absolutely certain he understood the rudiments of those games.

  Chance stared intently at the stage, and though the hairs on his neck were standing straight up at attention—the little blonde had hit a note known only to God and his band of angels—as Whitey pointed out, she was a looker.

  She had a face that could soothe the savage beast, and there were plenty of them to be found at the Aurora. Most hair he’d seen of that particular shade of blonde had come straight from a peroxide bottle, but he knew hers was the genuine article.

  Chance prided himself on the fact he could spot a cardsharp, a con artist, or a virgin at first glance. The little woman on stage had virgin written all over her angelic face.

  Damn shame about the tits! A woman needed a healthy pair to interest the customers, especially those inclined to spend their money on drinking and gambling and whatever else took their fancy. Without ’em a woman wasn’t likely to get a job anywhere in the bawdy city of Denver, let alone at the Tabor Opera House.

  Old man Witherspoon was a stuffy, tight-assed son of a bitch, but Chance would have bet his last silver dollar that old Luther liked bodacious women. All women, for that matter.

  Chance shook his head in disgust. Every gambler knew that women were just plain bad luck.

  “You guys better clear out now,” Rooster told Chance. “Miss Martin’s almost finished her song, and Mr. Witherspoon’s due back from the bank at any moment.” He looked over his shoulder toward the rear door of the theater, peering into the darkness. There was no sign of the old bastard yet, and Rooster breathed a sigh of relief.

  Rooster could never figure out what Chance found so damned amusing about these auditions he insisted on attending. It was hard as hell for Rooster, having to tell all those poor unfortunates like Laurel Martin that he wouldn’t be offering them a job with the company.

  Mr. Witherspoon had pointed out numerous times that only the finest voices with absolute clarity and resonance would perform at Tabor’s Grand Opera House. Rooster had heard the cantankerous bastard say it a thousand times if he’d heard him say it once. Of course, if the woman auditioning was willing to give Witherspoon a little “extra attention,” she’d get the job quicker than Rooster could spit. Witherspoon was a lecherous old goat.

  “That’s no way to treat friends, Rooster.” Chance leaned back against the velvet-covered seat and crossed his arms over his chest, as if he had all the time in the world and absolutely no intention of leaving. “If it weren’t for me, and a certain lady opera singer who shall remain nameless, you wouldn’t have your present job.”

  Rooster look chagrined. “I know that, Chance, and I try to accommodate you and Whitey as best I can. But this here ain’t
no meat market. You come in here every week, inspecting these sweet young things like they was sides of beef hanging in Newt Lally’s butcher shop.

  “That ain’t right, Chance. Even Whitey knows it ain’t right, and he don’t know a whole hell of a lot.” The stage manager smiled apologetically at the big man, but fortunately Whitey had taken no offense at the comment.

  Shooting Rooster a disgusted look, Chance made a rude noise, muttered an invective, and stood to leave; like a shadow, Whitey followed his movement.

  At that precise moment the lady on stage hit the final note of her arpeggio, and Chance covered his ears against the screech. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! You’d better shut that woman up, and quick, Rooster,” Chance said loudly enough to be heard above the wail, “or you’re gonna have every goddamn cat and dog within a fifty-mile radius in here.”

  From her position on the stage Laurel peered out over the footlights and barely made out the men who’d been talking during her performance. The rudest of the three had even covered his ears. Of all the nerve!

  She knew that the slight-built man was Mr. Higgins, the stage manager in charge of hiring for the theater, so she couldn’t very well find fault with him. But the other two were as unwelcome and loud as they were big, and she wished they’d just leave.

  Nervous as she was, auditioning for the very first time in her life, Laurel sure didn’t need an audience. And a boisterous one at that.

  She’d arrived in Denver two days before, weary but determined to get hired as an opera singer. She hadn’t taken the time for lessons, certain that she could perform adequately without them. Her many beaus back home had told her that her voice was a gift straight from Heaven.

  For as long as Laurel could remember, singing was all she had wanted to do. Her father’s death last May had been the impetus for her journey west, and she was finding Denver a far cry from the sleepy farming community of Salina, Kansas, where she’d spent the entire twenty years of her life in a ramshackle soddy on the prairie.

  All three of the Martin sisters had respected their father’s deathbed wish that they leave the farm to pursue rich husbands, though none had the least desire to do any such thing.

  The eldest sister, Heather, had gone to San Francisco to find a job as an illustrator. Rose Elizabeth had remained on the farm awaiting the new buyer before attending a finishing school back East. Heather had arranged for her enrollment, much to Rose’s dismay.

  Laurel doubted that Mrs. Caffrey’s School for Young Ladies would have much luck “finishing” Rose. She had so many rough edges that Laurel thought it more likely that it’d be Rose who finished off Mrs. Caffrey instead!

  Having finished her song, Laurel stood waiting nervously, watching with no small amount of disgust as Mr. Higgins pushed the shorter of the two men out the door. A shaft of sunlight poured in as the door opened, and she caught a glimpse of dark hair and broad shoulders. She thought she heard the man bellow something about cats and dogs, but she couldn’t be certain.

  * * *

  Mr. Higgins’s effusive apology for not hiring her for the opera company hadn’t made the rejection any easier for Laurel to accept. She’d been positive that once he heard her sing, he’d fall over himself to sign her to a contract.

  Though the man hadn’t said as much, she thought his refusal to hire her might have had something to do with her lack of experience. She wouldn’t try to fool herself into thinking that her first audition hadn’t revealed a lack of polish. But she was determined to practice and try again.

  “Practice makes perfect,” her mama had always said. It seemed that Mama’d had a trite cliché and adage to suit every occasion.

  Having worked up an enormous appetite, Laurel went to the Busy Bee Café for lunch. Her large appetite was incongruous with her small frame, and her papa used to remark teasingly that filling her up was like filling a silo with grain. Smiling sadly as she remembered her father’s words, Laurel seated herself at one of the blue-gingham-covered tables by the window. A terra-cotta vase graced the center, holding a lovely bouquet of wildflowers.

  The restaurant was fairly crowded and hummed with the chitchat of enthusiastic diners. If the delicious odors she smelled were an indication of the food, she was in for a treat. Fresh-brewed coffee filled the air with a heady aroma, and the scents of cinnamon and nutmeg held the promise of apple pie for dessert. Her stomach growled loudly at the thought, and she glanced about to make sure no one else had heard it.

  Laurel had just taken her first bite of steak and gravy-covered mashed potatoes when a nattily garbed gentleman in a garish green suit approached her table. A gold watchfob was attached to his red brocade vest. He had a thin, black mustache, and he stared down at her with the most peculiar look on his face, sort of like a predatory animal on the prowl. Immediately she chastised herself for the unkind thought.

  “Excuse me, ma’am,” he said in a very nasal tone. “But I was wondering if we could chat for a moment?”

  Laurel had been warned not to talk to strangers, but this man looked harmless enough. He had asked politely, and they were in a very public place. Deciding to throw caution to the wind now that she was on her own, Laurel inclined her head and smiled. “Of course. Please have a seat. I hope you don’t mind if I continue eating my lunch, but I’m absolutely famished.”

  Across the room, Whitey caught sight of the pretty lady from the Opera House and knocked Chance in the arm. “Look at that lady over there. It’s the purty one from the thee-á-ter.”

  Chance’s eyes narrowed at the sight of Albert Hazen, Denver’s most notorious pimp. No doubt he’d smelled the woman’s virginity from clear across the restaurant. She’d make an attractive addition to the slimy bastard’s stable of whores; there was little doubt about that.

  Hating to be interrupted during the best fried chicken dinner he’d eaten in a month of Sundays, Chance heaved a deep sigh and shook his head. It seemed that an aura of bad luck surrounded him. Like scum skimming the surface of water, it needed removing at once. If there was one thing a gambler didn’t need, it was bad luck.

  “I doubt that little gal knows what she’s letting herself in for, Whitey. We’d best go over and get rid of the creep.”

  Approaching the table, Chance placed a warning hand on the man’s shoulder, touching the brim of his hat with the other in greeting to Laurel. “Beat it, Hazen. The lady’s eating her supper, and I don’t believe she wants your company.”

  Laurel stared wide-eyed at the giant who accompanied the handsome, dark-haired man. She’d never in all her born days seen hair as white as that. It was as if the sun had bleached all the color out of it, like wheat left too long in the field.

  “That’s all right,” she said, realizing that she was staring quite rudely. “I was just explaining to this gentleman that if he wanted to talk, he’d have to do it while I ate. I’m quite hungry.”

  “Who I talk to is really none of your damn business, Rafferty. Now why don’t you . . .”

  As Whitey took a menacing step forward, Al Hazen shut his mouth and pushed back his chair, trying to ignore the drops of nervous sweat trickling onto his mustache. Turning toward Laurel, he bowed his head in apology. “Sorry about the intrusion, ma’am. Perhaps we’ll meet another time.”

  “Over my dead body, Hazen.” Chance’s voice rang cold and deadly as the derringer in his coat pocket.

  “That can be easily arranged, Rafferty.” The man smiled maliciously before walking away, and Laurel gasped aloud, her hands flying up to cover her cheeks.

  “My goodness gracious! I guess I should thank you, Mister . . . Rafferty. But that man wasn’t really bothering me. He just wanted to talk. I realize I shouldn’t have spoken to someone I hadn’t been properly introduced to, but he seemed harmless enough and very polite.”

  “So you won’t make the same mistake twice, ma’am, my name’s Chance Rafferty, and this is my cousin, Whitey. And you’re . . . ?”

  “Laurel Martin.”

  “Now that we’ve
been properly introduced, Miss Martin, I thought you might like to know that the man you were conversing with so politely is the biggest pimp in the state of Colorado.”

  “Pimp?” Laurel stared blankly, shaking her head. “I’m afraid I don’t . . .”

  Chance looked up at Whitey, shrugged in disbelief, then sat down at the table. “Ma’am, a pimp is someone who procures whores,” he said quietly. When there was still no reaction, he added, “You know—prostitutes? Women who sell themselves for money.”

  “I had no idea. Why . . . how dreadful!” As the meaning of his words grew clear, Laurel’s big blue eyes widened. “You mean that nice man thought I was . . .” Intensely mortified she felt her cheeks redden.

  Chance shook his head. “No. He was hoping you’d want to come to work for him, though.”

  “But that’s preposterous! Why on earth would I want to do that? I don’t even know how to be a prostitute. And besides, I’ve come here to sing at the Opera House.”

  A virgin, just as I figured, Chance thought.

  “We know,” Whitey blurted before Chance could signal him with a kick in the shins. “We heard you singin’ today.”

  Laurel studied the two men closely. She couldn’t recall having met them before, but there was no mistaking Chance Rafferty’s massive shoulders. She was positive she’d seen them before, and she suddenly knew where. “That was you!” There was definite accusation in her tone, and her eyes narrowed slightly.

  Chance had the grace to look embarrassed. “That your first time auditioning at the Opera House?” he said, trying to change the subject. The comely blonde was definitely not cut out to be an opera singer. Her voice was too grating—earthy, even. He could picture her belting out a barroom ditty. But an aria from Aida? He thought not.

  “You sure sing loud,” Whitey remarked, and received a scathing look from his cousin.