Sweet Laurel

by Millie Criswell

  “You’ll have to excuse Whitey, Miss Martin. He tends to speak off the top of his head.”

  “I guess that’s better than covering his ears during a performance.” She pushed away her plate, her appetite gone. Somewhere on the other side of the dining room a waiter dropped his tray of dishes, and his curses could be heard above the clatter of broken glassware.

  “Yeah. Well, ah . . . You new in town? I don’t recall seeing you around before.”

  “I arrived two days ago.”

  “Where’re you staying?”

  “I fail to see how that’s any of your business, Mr. Rafferty.” Laurel was beginning to like this handsome man less, the more she got to know him.

  Chance turned on his winning smile, but it didn’t erase Laurel’s frown. His brows drew together as he filed away her very unorthodox response for future reference. Rejection wasn’t something Chance was accustomed to when it came to members of the opposite sex.

  “We just thought you might need an escort back to your hotel, Miss Martin,” he explained. “Sedate as it’s become, Denver can still be a pretty rough-and-tumble place. A lady should take heed where she goes unescorted, especially in this neighborhood.”

  Laurel had already had that lecture from Heather before leaving Kansas but had totally disregarded it, knowing her sister’s overprotective nature. Perhaps there had been some truth in Heather’s warning after all, she decided. And she couldn’t help that she’d been forced to seek accommodations near the Opera House, which was just a few blocks away from the vice dens of the city. Her funds were limited, and she certainly couldn’t afford to put herself up at the ornate and expensive Windsor Hotel.

  “There does seem to be an inordinate number of saloons in this town,” she said, her lip tight. “I can’t believe people don’t have better things to do with their time than sit in a saloon all day long. When on earth do those men have time to get their chores done?”

  Chance swallowed his smile at her naïveté.

  “Chance’s saloon is the best one.”

  Laurel arched a blond eyebrow at the big man’s comment. “You have a saloon, Mr. Rafferty?” She stared at the impeccable cut of his black broadcloth suit, the flashy gold and silver rings on his fingers, the ruby stickpin in his tie, and wondered why she hadn’t put two and two together. “You’re a gambler, aren’t you, Mr. Rafferty?”

  Chance grinned, and her heart nearly flipped over in her chest. “Hell yes, little lady. I’m the proud owner of the Aurora Borealis, the finest gambling and drinking establishment in the whole state of Colorado.”

  “Chance is honest.”

  Chance patted his cousin’s shoulder affectionately. “Thanks, Whitey.” He turned back to Laurel. “I pride myself on running a straight game, ma’am. I don’t water down the drinks, and my dealers don’t cheat the patrons. If a man loses his hard-earned winnings in my place, it’s because he’s not good enough to beat the house.”

  “And do you also pimp, Mr. Rafferty?” Her expression was wide-eyed and innocent as she waited for him to answer, and Chance nearly choked on the water he sipped.

  “No, ma’am.” He shook his head, the dark strands of his hair glinting like brown satin in the sunlight streaming through the window. “The Aurora ain’t a brothel, just a gambling house and saloon. Of course, what the customers do on their own time is their business.” He wasn’t a policeman. If the women in his employ wanted to make a little extra money on the side, who was he to interfere?

  It was hard enough making a living these days, what with those do-gooders from the local temperance league breathing down everyone’s neck.

  The Denver Temperance and Souls in Need League, they called themselves. A bunch of self-righteous, teetotaling hags who had nothing better to do than harass a hardworking saloon owner and his employees and patrons.

  Laurel took a moment to digest all Chance had told her. After a moment she said, “If you’ll excuse me, Mr. Rafferty . . . Whitey,” she smiled kindly at the larger man, “I’d best be on my way. I have hours of practice ahead of me if I’m to audition for Mr. Higgins again.”

  “Did Rooster . . . Mr. Higgins offer you another audition?” Chance was damned surprised to hear that. After all, he’d heard the woman sing, and he knew Witherspoon would never hire her. Not without big bosoms to recommend her.

  On the other hand, Chance knew he could use another songbird at his saloon. Even if Laurel Martin’s voice was as grating as sandpaper and shrill as a cat’s in heat, most of his patrons would be too busy gambling and drinking to notice. And her looks would add a breath of fresh air to the place. Most men were suckers for the sweet, innocent-looking types. Most men. But not he.

  “Well . . . no,” she admitted, her smile so sweet he could fairly taste the honey of her lips. “But my mama always said that practice makes perfect, and I know he’ll want to hire me just as soon as I’m able to perform a little better.”

  Hell’d freeze over before that ever happened.

  Wondering how any woman could be so innocent, Chance took Laurel’s hand in his own, and the jolt of electricity shooting up his arm at the contact startled him. Enough to make him say, “Good luck to you, Miss Martin. And if it don’t work out with Rooster, you come see me at the Aurora. We can always use a pretty gal like you to sing for the customers.”

  Whitey nodded enthusiastically, but Laurel found the suggestion shocking, and she yanked her hand away as if she’d been burned. Which she had. Her fingers still tingled from the brief contact.

  “I am a respectable artist, Mr. Rafferty, not some dance-hall girl. I would never consider working in an establishment such as yours.”

  “Never’s a long time, angel. I’m sure you and me will be seeing each other again.” In fact, he’d have been willing to place a pretty hefty wager on it.

  “I wouldn’t hold your breath, Mr. Rafferty.”

  “Chance holds the record for breath holding,” Whitey informed her proudly, looking at his cousin with unconcealed adoration. “Last year at the Fourth of July celebration he held it for two and one-half minutes.”

  Chance smiled smugly at Laurel, tipped his hat, and walked back to his table, leaving the little want-to-be opera singer staring openmouthed after him.

  CHAPTER 2

  His eyes were green. That revelation hit Laurel like a stroke of summer lightning as she stepped into the wide, unpaved street and was nearly run down by a passing beer wagon.

  “Hey, watch where you’re going, lady!” the disgusted driver yelled, shaking a fist in her direction. “Are you trying to get yourself killed?”

  Pale and shaken, Laurel jumped back onto the sidewalk. Her heart was pumping so hard that she could feel each beat in her ears.

  She’d been daydreaming. About him of all people. That man—that Chance Rafferty—was not only rude and obnoxious, he was going to be the death of her if she didn’t pay closer attention to what she was doing.

  And what difference did it make if his eyes were green? She wasn’t going to see him again.

  “Never’s a long time, angel.” His words, uttered with so much self-assurance, made her breath catch in her throat.

  “Stop it, Laurel Martin. You goose!” she muttered as she made another, safer attempt to cross the street, looking both ways this time. “The man is a gambler, for heaven’s sake. And no doubt a defiler of young women, such as yourself.”

  But what a handsome defiler!

  Shaking her head in disgust, Laurel made her way to the imposing tall brick structure she’d spied upon leaving the café. Hudson’s Department Store with its big storefront windows and pretty latticed grillwork was a world apart from Mellon’s Mercantile back home. No doubt the scented soap she adored would be much costlier here. But after using the horrible lye concoction Graber’s Hotel provided, she thought it would be worth paying the difference.

  “May I help you, Miss?” a mustached gentleman inquired as she entered the store. He wore a white carnation in his left lapel and a pair of
round wire-rimmed glasses that magnified his eyes and enhanced his puffy cheeks. He reminded Laurel of Lester, the pet bullfrog Rose Elizabeth used to keep in a box under their bed.

  “Yes, thank you,” she replied, wondering if he just stood at the door all day and directed traffic or performed some other, more useful function. “I’m in need of soap.”

  “Soap, Miss?” He seemed perplexed, as if he’d never heard the word before.

  “I assume people here in Denver use soap to wash, same as they would anywhere else, don’t they?”

  He was about to reply when the bell over the door tinkled and an attractive red-haired woman entered. She was stylishly dressed in a long-sleeved, bustled gown, though her taste in fabric—red satin—seemed a bit garish to Laurel’s eye. She carried a parasol of the same color with pretty white lace edging that Laurel thought was absolutely adorable.

  The doorman’s face immediately flushed and his expression changed to one of disdain. Stepping in front of the woman to prevent her from proceeding into the store, he said, “We don’t allow your kind in here, madam. You’ll have to leave at once.”

  The woman in question looked resigned rather than mortified by his comments, and she gave Laurel an apologetic glance. She couldn’t have been much older than Laurel; if Laurel guessed right, the woman was probably even a couple of years younger.

  As the woman turned to leave without so much as an argument, Laurel blurted, “Wait!” Then turned to the frog-faced man, “Why can’t this woman come in here? Aren’t you open for business?”

  “You don’t understand, Miss,” the doorman explained, his voice lowered to a conspiratorial whisper because the other customers were beginning to stare. “Her kind aren’t welcome here.”

  “ ‘Her kind?’ ” Laurel looked at the woman again but saw nothing unusual about her, other than the flaming color of her hair, which Laurel found very attractive. “Just because she’s got red hair doesn’t mean you shouldn’t allow her to shop here. This is a free country, after all.”

  He sighed deeply. “I wouldn’t expect a lady, such as yourself, to understand, miss, but this woman isn’t fit to be in the same building with a lady.” His bulging eyes seemed to implore her to understand.

  But Laurel didn’t. “Why not? If I don’t object to her being here, why should you?”

  “It’s all right, miss,” the young woman said in a soft voice, reaching out to touch Laurel’s arm. “I can take my business elsewhere.”

  “But why should you? There’s no sign on the door that says redheaded women can’t shop in this establishment. And even if there was, it’d be against the law. Colorado achieved statehood in 1876, which makes it part of these United States. And to the best of my knowledge, that means it’s part of a free country.” Thank goodness Heather had been so insistent that her sisters keep up with current events, Laurel thought. Of course, she hadn’t been so grateful all those evenings when she and Rose had been forced to read the newspaper before going to bed.

  Astonished, the woman stared at Laurel.

  “Miss,” the man said with as much patience as he could muster, placing gloved hands on his slender hips. “This woman is an adventuress.” His gaze skimmed insultingly over the woman, his lips thinning beneath his mustache. “She isn’t fit to consort with decent young ladies like you.”

  Laurel turned to face the woman and had a difficult time believing the man’s accusation. Adventuress meant “whore” where she came from. And this woman looked too sweet and fresh to be any such thing.

  Laurel had seen a whore once, when she was eight and peeked under the swinging doors of the Rusty Nail Saloon. That woman had been fleshy to the point of being fat. Her bosoms had looked like watermelons about to explode, and her face had been painted up like a clown’s.

  No, Laurel thought, this woman couldn’t be a whore. But even if she was, she still had a right to shop wherever she wanted.

  The young woman’s face turned bright red. “He’s right, miss. I shouldn’t have come in here.”

  Ignoring the obviously painful admission, Laurel grasped her hand. “If this woman isn’t welcome in your store, then I shall be forced to take my business elsewhere.”

  “But, miss! Decent department stores don’t allow women of the evening to frequent their establishments. It just isn’t done.”

  “That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard,” Laurel replied, squeezing the woman’s hand to bolster her resolve. “Her money’s as good as the next person’s. What’s her occupation got to do with anything?” Laurel knew it had everything to do with everything—prostitutes weren’t considered socially acceptable in Salina, either—but she was out to make her point. “If I’m not offended by her presence, why should you be?”

  “It’s store policy, miss. I think you should know your facts before you go defending people of her persuasion. You’re obviously new here in Denver.”

  “Obviously I am. But we have adventuresses in Kansas, too, and I never saw Mr. Mellon turn one away from his mercantile. Mr. Mellon’s a practical man, you see, and is of the opinion that if you start turning everyone away that’s committed a sin or two in their lifetime, you’re not going to have much of a clientele to shop in your store.”

  Laurel brushed past the doorman, clutched the startled young woman’s arm, and dragged her into the store with her, completely ignoring the man’s attempts to protest. Fortunately, he was too stunned to stop them and could only emit croaking sounds like the creature he resembled.

  “Miss, you really shouldn’t have done that,” the woman claimed, staring over her shoulder at the furious man standing guard at the door. “You’re probably going to get thrown out of here with me.”

  Laurel shrugged. “I don’t really care. I only came in to buy a bar of soap, and I can probably find that just about anywhere.”

  The young woman smiled gratefully. “My name’s Crystal . . . Crystal Cummings. And I thank you from the bottom of my heart. No one’s ever taken up for me like that before.”

  “Really?” Laurel shook her head, as if the notion were completely impossible to believe. “Where I come from, people treat each other a little bit nicer. I’m not saying there aren’t those who are narrow-minded and rude, like Mr. Frog Face over yonder. But they’d rather talk behind your back than in front of your face.” Euphenmia Bloodsworth came to mind. Old beak-nosed Bloodsworth, the sisters had called her—Salina’s most notorious gossip.

  Crystal giggled, and that made Laurel smile. “My name’s Laurel Martin.” She held out her hand. “I’m new in town and I can use all the friends I can get.”

  “But, Miss Martin,” Crystal whispered, clearly taken aback by the offer of friendship, “you’re a lady. And ladies don’t consort with women of my kind.”

  “I don’t know a soul in this town, save for Mr. Higgins at the Opera House and another gentleman,” she frowned, “who I’m sure has known his share of many different kinds of women. I doubt either one of them will mind that we are consorting. At any rate, I don’t really care. I judge people for who they are and how they treat me, not for what they do to make a living.” It was a lesson she’d learned from her parents, one of many she’d taken to heart.

  When they finally reached the counter that contained various soaps and cosmetics, Laurel began picking up bars of soap and sniffing them. Then Crystal reached out, choosing one with pretty floral paper wrapped around it.

  “Try this one. It’s imported all the way from Paris, France, and it smells divine.”

  As Laurel inhaled the enticing fragrance of jasmine, her face lit with pleasure. The scent evoked images of the elegantly gowned southern belles she’d read about in books; of warm summer evenings in Salina, sitting on the old wooden glider her father had lovingly fashioned for his three daughters; of the sachet her mama had hidden in her unmentionables drawer and thought no one knew about.

  “I love it,” she sighed. Then she saw the price sign marking it at fifty cents, and her smile melted slightly. “Bu
t it’s rather expensive.”

  “Al . . . that’s my, er, friend . . . always says that you got to pay for quality.”

  Laurel wasn’t sure whether Crystal’s friend had been referring to soap, considering the woman’s occupation, but she refrained from saying so. “I’m sure that’s wise advice. I’ll get this one.”

  Laurel made her purchase, then the two women headed for the door. When they reached the doorman, who still stared daggers at them, Laurel turned on a brilliant smile, which threw him completely off guard.

  “Thank you so much for your help, sir.” She patted his arm. “You’ve been more than kind.”

  “Of . . . of course, miss,” he stammered.

  Laurel didn’t burst out laughing until they reached the wooden sidewalk. “I don’t think Monsieur Froggy knows what to make of me.”

  Crystal’s eyes widened in admiration. “You speak French? How elegant. One of the girls I work with, Monique, claims to be from France. But I heard she’s really from the French Quarter in New Orleans.”

  “I don’t really speak French. But I want to sing opera one day, and they’re sung in all sorts of foreign languages—French, I-talian—so whenever I can use a foreign word, I do. Practice makes perfect, you know.”

  “Do you have a place to stay? Because I’m sure my friend will put you up if you need a room.” Seeing Laurel’s cheeks fill with color, Crystal added, “I know you aren’t walking the line, Miss Martin. You wouldn’t have to work off your room and board. I’m offering as a friend, to repay you for your kindness.”

  Swallowing her embarrassment, Laurel smiled in gratitude. “That’s really very kind of you, but I have a room at Graber’s Hotel.”

  “That place is a dump, if you don’t mind me saying so, Miss Martin.” Crystal wrinkled her nose in disgust.

  “Please, call me Laurel. And no, I don’t mind you saying so. It’s the truth. But my funds are limited and it was the cheapest and closest hotel to the Opera House I could find.”