Sweet Laurel

by Millie Criswell

  “With an ego as big as yours, I doubt you’ll suffer much.” She smiled sweetly, and he threw back his head, laughing loudly at the insult.

  Indignant, Laurel quickly pointed out, “Only a moron laughs when he’s insulted, which doesn’t say much for you.”

  “The way I see it, angel, if you weren’t interested, you wouldn’t be making insults.” He stood to leave. “Don’t tarry now, Laurel. I can’t wait to see you all decked out in your finery again. You’ve got the prettiest pair of—”

  “Really, Mr. Rafferty! Have you no decency?”

  “—legs I’ve ever seen,” he continued without interruption. “And no, angel. I’ve no decency whatsoever. You’d do well to remember that.”

  Insufferable, rude, horrible man! she thought. Grabbing her half-written letter, she proceeded to tell her sister just that.

  * * *

  Laurel paused at the office door and studied Chance as he plowed irritated fingers through his mass of dark hair. He was cursing mildly under his breath, and she knew immediately what had put that frustrated look on his face. He absolutely detested going over the saloon’s receipts and ledgers.

  “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!” he cursed, throwing the pencil at the wall and wadding up the ledger sheet with the columns of figures that didn’t add up.

  “Up to your elbows in paperwork again, I see, and not looking the least bit happy about it,” Laurel remarked with a smile as she stepped into the room.

  “You don’t know how much I hate keeping these books, angel,” he admitted, swiveling about in his chair, his eyes widening at the sight of her. “You look incredibly lovely today. Are you going out?”

  She nodded. “I’m having lunch with Crystal, but we’re not meeting for another hour. I’d be happy to help you with your bookkeeping. I’m very good with figures.”

  The prospect of spending an hour in close proximity to Laurel brought a smile to Chance’s lips. “That’s an offer I couldn’t possibly refuse.” He pulled a chair over for her and pushed the pile of paperwork toward her.

  Leaning back in his chair, he observed the way she nibbled the end of the pencil while she studied the figures; the way she caught the tip of her tongue between her teeth as she added the impossible columns. It was a stimulating sight, making Chance realize how downright erotic bookkeepers could be.

  Bending forward, so that his cheek brushed her own, he asked, “Is there anything you’d like me to do?”

  Laurel shook her head. The enticing fragrance of Chance’s cologne was rendering her light-headed. The brush of his arm against the side of her breast sent waves of awareness darting through the most shocking places.

  Admittedly, she found Chance Rafferty too attractive and altogether too darn appealing, but she had no intention of adding to his pile of winnings, or satisfying that large appetite Pearl claimed he possessed.

  She might be foolish, but felt certain that somewhere out there was her Prince Charming. Someday she would meet the man of her dreams. He would be kind, considerate, and treat her with love and respect. He’d be all the things she’d always dreamed the man she’d marry would be.

  Laurel didn’t know who her Prince Charming was yet, but she was pretty sure that he didn’t own a saloon. And she was darn sure that he didn’t consider women vessels for carnal pleasure and nothing more.

  “That scent you’re wearing is preventing me from concentrating on the work at hand, angel. You know that, don’t you?”

  His lips were so close to her neck and ear that she couldn’t think straight, let alone add up a column of figures. He smelled of tobacco from the cheroots he was fond of smoking, and the manly scent played havoc with her emotions. Swallowing hard, she replied, “Then I shall purchase another kind at once.”

  He blew gently into her ear, and she nearly vaulted over the desk. “Stop that at once, or I’ll be forced to quit this establishment. Do you hear me, Chance Rafferty?”

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

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

  * * *

  Laurel spied Crystal waiting on the corner as soon as she stepped out of the gambling saloon. Waving in greeting, she hurried her steps, wondering at the large, wide-brimmed hat her friend had chosen to wear for their outing. It was plain and rather conservative, not at all in keeping with Crystal’s flamboyant style.

  “Sorry I’m late, but I’ve been helping Chance with his bookkeeping.”

  “I didn’t mind waiting, honey,” Crystal said.

  Focusing on her friend’s face, Laurel gasped. “Crystal! What on earth happened to you? Your eye is black and blue and your cheek is swollen.” She moved to touch the affected area, but Crystal pulled back.

  “It’s nothing. I ran into a door. I’m not usually so clumsy, but . . .” She shrugged. “I guess I wasn’t paying attention. It’ll be fine in a few days.”

  Now Laurel understood the reason for the hat, though she wasn’t sure she believed Crystal’s explanation. Crystal moved with an elegant, catlike grace. There didn’t seem to be a clumsy bone in her entire body, though Laurel had seen evidence before of bruises and lacerations. “Are you sure that’s all it is, Crystal? I’m your friend, and if you need help, you know you can count on me.”

  “There’s nothing you can do. Now, let’s go have lunch. I’m absolutely starved, and I don’t have much time. Al wants me back at the club earlier than usual.”

  “Do you have a . . . ah, a special appointment?” Laurel felt her cheeks warming. Discussing Crystal’s work always left her embarrassed and tongue-tied.

  “Al’s determined to build another saloon. One that will rival Chance’s place. I’m to soften up the mayor, bring him around to Al’s way of thinking, so to speak.”

  Laurel clasped her friend’s arm, halting her in midstride. “You don’t have to continue working for Al if you don’t want to, Crystal. I’m sure Chance would give you a job at the Aurora, no strings attached. I’ll talk to him if you like.”

  Fear entered Crystal’s pale blue eyes, and Laurel cringed in response to it.

  “You mustn’t do that, Laurel. I appreciate your offer of help, but I’m content to stay with Al for the time being. I can handle him. Sometimes his temper gets out of control, but he usually treats me pretty good.”

  She knew Al would never let her go. He’d told her numerous times that he would hunt her down and kill her if she ever tried to leave him. Al was possessive, obsessively so, and she was his most prized possession at the moment. And if she were to leave Al to go to work for Chance, his biggest rival . . . She shuddered, unwilling to imagine the consequences.

  “You didn’t run into a door, did you, Crystal? Al put those bruises on your face, and the others I’ve seen from time to time.”

  Crystal looked embarrassed at having lied to her friend. “Al was angry, but he apologized afterward.” Al was always sorry after the beatings. And though he swore on a stack of Bibles that he’d never lift a hand to her again, the beatings always continued.

  Having never been subjected to such violence, Laurel was uncertain what to say, but she knew someone had to talk sense to Crystal, and she would have to be that someone. “I know you care for Al, Crystal. And maybe you even think you love him. But you can’t allow him to treat you like this. It isn’t right. Perhaps if you leave, he’ll come to his senses and realize what a big mistake he’s made.”

  “I can’t leave Al. Please don’t ask me for details. Just believe me when I say that I have no choice.”

  Laurel’s eyes widened at the implication. “Are you saying that he might do more than beat you if you were to leave?”

  Crystal’s laughter was derisive. “He already hits me, so I guess the next step would be . . .” She paused, for they’d reached the café and there were customers milling about the doorway. “I’m not willing to find out, Laurel, if he’d . . . you know. He’s threatened
as much, but I’m sure he’s just blowing off steam.”

  Nothing else was said about the matter, but Laurel was consumed both with fear for her friend’s safety and with finding a way to get Crystal out of her present predicament and occupation.

  CHAPTER 7

  Al Hazen was having a bad day. Crystal had gone to meet the Martin woman for lunch; the mayor had canceled their meeting for later today; and Rafferty’s business had doubled since the opera singer had gone to work for him.

  Laurel Martin’s fresh-faced innocence and obvious naïveté had attracted customers to the Aurora Borealis in droves. She was a memory of all things pure and unsullied—sisters, mothers, sweethearts—all rolled into one lovely little package. She was the promise of virginity—a rare and valuable commodity in Denver’s tenderloin district. And even her association with Crystal, a known whore, had not besmirched her reputation. If anything, the oddity of their friendship had made her all the more fascinating.

  Al’s frown deepened. Things were not going well at all, and it was Laurel Martin’s fault. Ever since she’d come to town his luck had changed. She was bad luck, that’s what she was. The Martin woman had come to town and taken all his good luck and given it to Rafferty. He gulped down a tumbler of whiskey, ignoring the raucous music of the orchestra in the corner.

  They were playing “Camptown Races” and a couple of the girls were stripping out of their skimpy costumes for the few customers in attendance, but even the sight of their naked breasts and plump behinds couldn’t bring a smile to Al’s face.

  He’d been jinxed, pure and simple. And when a gambling man was jinxed there was only one thing to do: get rid of the curse.

  But with Laurel under Rafferty’s protection, she was out of his grasp for the moment. A head-on confrontation with Rafferty and his giant of a cousin was not his style. He preferred a more underhanded approach to exacting his revenge.

  One day he’d get even with all of them. One day he’d have the Martin woman right where he wanted her—under his thumb. It was only a matter of time and patience.

  Pouring another drink from the half-empty bottle on the table, Al acknowledged the seductive smile of the ebony-skinned whore who strutted her stuff with wild abandon. Her tits were bouncing to beat the band, and she kept rubbing her crotch and smiling at him in invitation.

  He’d never had him a nigger wench before, Al realized, feeling his member harden at the thought of plunging himself between the woman’s firm thighs. His eyes remained glued to her big breasts, and he suddenly had a craving to taste some sweet brown meat.

  Knowing Crystal wouldn’t be back for at least another hour, Al grabbed the whiskey bottle and headed for the stairs, motioning for the woman to follow.

  * * *

  “You’re doing so much better with your letters, Whitey,” Laurel said. “You’ve almost accomplished the D. I think you should feel very proud of yourself.”

  Pearl paused at the top of the stairs and looked down at the two people seated at one of the card tables. Their heads were bent in concentration, and she almost puked at the look of pure adoration she saw on Whitey Rafferty’s face. It was obvious that the dimwit was as taken with Miss Prim and Proper as Chance appeared to be.

  Well, two could play at that game, she thought, a calculating smile transforming her frown. She could just as easily instruct Whitey in learning the alphabet, and at the same time ingratiate herself with his handsome cousin, earning Chance’s undying gratitude and perhaps his love.

  “Looks like you two are hard at work,” she said as she approached the table. “What are you doing, Laurel, making out a grocery list for Bertha?”

  Laurel sucked in her breath, doing her utmost not to lose her temper. She knew she should be used to Pearl’s nasty comments by now, but still the woman managed to get her dander up.

  “Miss Laurel’s teaching me my letters, Miss Pearl. I’m learning to write the alphabet,” Whitey informed her proudly.

  Pearl leaned down close to the man, placing her hand on the back of his neck. “Well isn’t that nice, sugar. But you should have come to me for help, if you wanted to learn your letters.” She toyed with the hair at his nape, then the lobe of his ear, almost laughing aloud when he squirmed restlessly in his seat. “We’ve been friends a whole lot longer, sugar. Pearl would be happy to teach you anything you’d like to learn.”

  Whitey stared at the buxom woman and beamed. “Really, Miss Pearl? You’d do that for me?”

  Patting his cheek, the whore smiled. “Of course, sugar. After all, what are friends for?” With a spiteful smile at Laurel, she spun on her heel and headed for the bar.

  Laurel relaxed the fingers she’d curled into fists as she watched the bar girl walk away. It was all she could do not to say something vile about the woman. But judging by the look of pure delight on Whitey’s face, she doubted that it would make a bit of difference to him. Obviously he was entranced by the woman’s offer of friendship.

  “We’d best get back to work, Whitey,” she urged. “We’ve got lots more work ahead of us.”

  Whitey tore his gaze from Pearl’s retreating figure and nodded. But his concentration was definitely not on learning his letters.

  * * *

  “You did real fine singin’ tonight, Miss Laurel. I finally think you’s gettin’ the hang of this job.”

  Laurel smiled widely at Jupiter, who always went out of his way to praise her efforts, whether they’d been good or bad. Tonight she thought he was telling her the truth. The customers had actually seemed to enjoy her performance, except for the man in the front row who kept shouting vulgarities at her. Laurel frowned, thinking of the bearded giant.

  His name was Shooter Davis, and he’d earned his nickname for shooting off his mouth at the least provocation. He was a frequent customer, always sitting in the row directly in front of the stage, especially on those occasions when Pearl entertained.

  Several times in the past he had tried to grab on to Laurel’s skirts when she ventured too close to the edge, but tonight he had lunged for her, nearly toppling her to the stage floor, and it had taken three men from the audience to haul him back to his seat.

  She’d been terrified, and though Chance had given the man a tongue-lashing and a dire warning, Shooter had been drunk, and Laurel doubted if he’d paid much mind to the rebuke.

  “I’s going to turn in, Miss Laurel. There ain’t many customers left, and Bertha be waiting. That woman can’t keep her hands off me.” Chuckling, Jup winked at Laurel, who couldn’t help smiling as she watched him saunter away.

  Jup and Bertha were truly in love, just like her mama and papa had been, and she hoped someday she’d have the same type of loving relationship with a man. She didn’t intend to settle for anything less.

  A quick glance about the room showed Laurel that Chance was still occupied in a card game with two of the customers. Whitey was standing at the bar talking with Bull, and most of the girls had either retired or had taken up with one of the customers for the evening.

  Laurel considered going to the kitchen for a glass of milk and some of Bertha’s oatmeal cookies, then decided instead to go upstairs and rest.

  Tomorrow was Sunday, and she’d promised Flora Sue she would attend Reverend Baldwin’s church service with her. Actually the invitation to church had surprised Laurel, for she didn’t think Flora Sue was the spiritual type. The woman had practically gushed at the prospect of earning thirty dollars to spend the entire night with a miner.

  Immersed in thought about her evening’s performance, Laurel climbed the stairs. As her foot hit the top step, she was suddenly hauled up against a rock-hard chest and flattened against the wall, her mouth covered by a whiskey-smelling, callused hand. The man’s beard brushed against her cheek, and she was immediately consumed by fear, for Laurel knew without a doubt that Shooter Davis had been lying in wait for her.

  Panicked, she twisted her head from side to side, attempting to break the contact. She would not allow this foul-smelling
creature to touch her.

  “Calm down, little girl. Shooter just wants a peek at your titties. That ain’t too much to ask for, now, is it? All them other girls show ’em to me. Don’t think you’re too good for Shooter, ’cause you ain’t. And I know you’ve been wanting me to take a look-see.”

  With his free hand he began to tug on the bodice of her gown, and Laurel heard the material rip as he yanked harder on it. Bile rose thickly in her throat.

  He was going to rape her. If she didn’t do something, he was going to rape her. Trying to remember all the things her papa had taught her about defending herself, Laurel brought her knee up, attempting to thrust it into the man’s groin. It didn’t hit the mark, but Shooter was startled enough to release her momentarily, which gave Laurel the chance to scream.

  And scream she did. She screamed loud, long, and hard, praying that her voice, which had been accused of being able to wake the dead, now would.

  “Shut up, little girl.” Shooter tried to smother her cries with his lips, and Laurel tasted stale cigars and whiskey and thought she was going to retch. Twisting her head from side to side, she kicked at the man’s legs, fighting him with every ounce of strength she possessed.

  Why, oh why, didn’t anyone hear her? There were people inside these rooms, yet no one came out to help. As if he could read her mind, Shooter laughed, placing his hand over her mouth again.

  “They’re all screwing their brains out, little girl. Just like you and me are going to be doing in a minute. I can’t wait to get my hands inside that sweet little crotch of yours. I heard you ain’t never been with a man, and I can’t wait to bust your cherry.” He reached up under her dress to cup her mound, and Laurel squeezed her eyes shut, shaking her head and silently screaming, No!

  In the next instant, she found herself tossed flat on her back, and Shooter was no longer touching her. She opened her eyes to see Whitey holding him down, his knee lodged against the man’s throat.

  “You shouldn’t be bothering Miss Laurel, Shooter,” she heard the big man say.