Sweet Laurel

by Millie Criswell

  A moment later Chance appeared. His expression was so lethal it gave Laurel pause, and she swallowed at the sight of the derringer he pointed at Shooter.

  “Are you all right, Laurel?” he asked, his voice as cold as tempered steel. “I heard your screams from downstairs and came as fast as I could.”

  “Yes.” She sighed with relief, finally giving in to the tears of fright hovering in her eyes. “Thanks to Whitey, and now you.” She smiled gratefully at the gentle giant.

  “Did he hurt you, Miss Laurel?” Whitey’s eyes were filled with concern for the woman who had befriended him. “I’ll hurt him bad, if he did.”

  “I didn’t do nothing, Chance,” Shooter declared. “I was only having some fun with the little girl. I heard she wanted to . . .”

  “Shut up, you bastard, or I’ll pull this goddamn trigger.” Chance hauled Shooter to his feet and handed him over to his cousin. “Take this bastard down to the police station, Whitey. Tell them he attacked one of the girls, but don’t tell them which one.” Having Laurel’s name smeared all over the newspapers would serve no purpose, and he wanted to spare her further humiliation.

  Whitey stared wide-eyed at Laurel, who was sobbing and clutching the edges of her gown together. “Is Miss Laurel okay, Chance? She’s crying. Don’t cry, Miss Laurel,” the big man said, trying to comfort her.

  “I’ll tend to her, Whitey. You just take care of that piece of filth.”

  With a final concerned glance at the distraught woman, Whitey hauled Shooter down the stairs.

  Chance knelt before Laurel. “Don’t cry, angel,” he crooned, caressing her cheek with his fingertip as he wiped away her tears—tears that seemed to go straight to his heart. “You’re safe now.” He pulled her into his arms, clutching her tightly to his chest, patting her back and head as if she were a small child. “He can’t hurt you anymore.”

  “I’m . . . I’m all right,” Laurel said, embarrassed to have lost control. “He frightened me, that’s all. I tried to defend myself like Papa taught me, but he was too tall and I couldn’t reach his . . .”

  Chance looked at her in surprise, then hauled Laurel to her feet, noting the rip in her gown. The bodice had been split, exposing her small, pert breasts to his view. The knowledge that Shooter had looked upon those breasts filled him with renewed rage. “Come on. I’ll take you to your room.”

  “He ripped my dress,” she said in a small voice.

  “I’ll buy you another. I’ll buy you a dozen new dresses.”

  “There’s no need. I can sew this one.”

  Pushing open her door, he escorted her inside and deposited her on the bed. “I’m going to burn this dress. I won’t have any memories around to remind you of this night.”

  The vehemence in his voice surprised Laurel, and she looked up to find him staring intently at her. Concern flickered in the depths of his green eyes, as well as anger. But she knew his anger wasn’t directed at her. “I’m all right now, truly I am. He didn’t have time to . . .” She shivered violently, consumed with the aftermath of her ordeal.

  Chance sat down next to her on the bed. “Turn around and I’ll unhook your dress for you. I want you to get into bed.” Laurel shook her head. “It’s all right. I’m not going to do anything. I just want to help you undress.”

  Despite the impropriety of his suggestion, she couldn’t bear the thought of him leaving just yet. He’d been so much kinder than she’d ever thought possible.

  She turned her back to him, allowing him to unhook her gown. When he was finished, she ordered, “Now you turn around, so I can slip on my nightgown.”

  Peeling down the last of her undergarments, Laurel caught Chance’s reflection in the mirror and sucked in her breath, realizing that he’d been watching her the entire time. Her cheeks crimsoned immediately at his ungentlemanly behavior, but her heart couldn’t help but accelerate at the look of pure appreciation on his face. Obviously he liked what he saw.

  Pretending she hadn’t noticed, she slipped beneath the covers and pulled the quilt up to her chin. “All right. You can turn around now. I’m decent.”

  “I’ll stay with you until you fall asleep.”

  This suggestion alarmed her. How on earth could she fall asleep knowing Chance was sitting next to her on the bed? Despite everything that had happened tonight, she was already too aware of him as a man. And as vulnerable as she felt, she didn’t know if she could trust herself not to ask him to stay with her the entire night.

  “There’s no need, Chance. You can go. I’ll be fine now.”

  He kissed her forehead in a brotherly fashion, but his lips soon trailed to her mouth and caressed her lips lightly. When she didn’t protest, he deepened the contact, thrusting his tongue into her mouth. Laurel moaned, and he withdrew, a look of apology on his face.

  “I’ll go now,” he said in a hoarse voice, gathering up the torn dress and heading for the door. “Good night, angel. Sleep tight. I’ll be right down the hall if you need me.”

  Too afraid to speak, lest he hear the desire in her voice, she nodded, watching him slip out the door.

  Closing her eyes, Laurel lay there listening to the sounds coming from the adjoining room where Flora Sue was entertaining her miner friend.

  The headboard banged against the wall, there were cries of ecstasy punctuated by heavy breathing, and the bedsprings were twanging louder than Bert Swanzey’s banjo strings. Laurel covered her ears, willing the noises to stop, praying that the uncomfortable tightening in her loins would go away, for it wasn’t Flora Sue and her miner friend she pictured in the throes of ecstasy.

  It was herself and Chance.

  CHAPTER 8

  She’d almost been raped.

  The image of Shooter with his bearlike hands all over Laurel’s small body still lingered, bringing Chance’s simmering rage to the forefront and making his hands shake with uncontrollable fury.

  The memory of Laurel vulnerable and afraid brought a wealth of protectiveness surging through him. He cared about her, much more than he wanted to admit even to himself. He knew that a woman like Laurel had no business working in a rowdy saloon like the Aurora. Instead, she should be married and have a passel of children clinging to her skirts. He knew instinctively that a nurturing, loving woman like Laurel would want lots of children.

  His frown deepened. Even if he considered taking on the responsibility of a wife, he could never handle having to care for more children. Whitey, who was responsibility enough, was Chance’s first priority. As helpless as his cousin was, he had to be.

  And what kind of husband and father would he make anyway? He was a gambler. His friends were whores, cowboys, and other ne’er-do-wells. His lifestyle didn’t lend itself to providing the right atmosphere for raising a family. And he certainly wasn’t the kind of role model young children needed. Children needed a proper upbringing and a father they could look up to for guidance and respect. And Chance realized that he just wasn’t that someone.

  Gambling as a profession wasn’t something he wanted to pass on to his kids. He didn’t want to fool innocent, impressionable youngsters into thinking they could get by on their wits and skill like he had. He was fast becoming a dinosaur, soon to be extinct. A child growing up these days needed a good education, a vocation, a reliable way to earn a living.

  Times were changing. The temperance movement was proof of that. And the movement was growing stronger, making it increasingly harder for men like him to earn a decent living. Soon, if things continued the way they were, his way of life would cease to exist, and then how would he meet the responsibilities of a wife and family?

  He couldn’t. He wouldn’t. No matter how tempting, how much he desired Laurel, he just wasn’t suited to marriage. But he wanted her, dammit! He wanted her.

  Clutching the neck of a whiskey bottle as if it were a man’s throat, Chance replaced it on the shelf and began to count the liquor stock. But halfway through the first row he lost count and had to start over.

&nbs
p; Memories of last night washed over him again, making his temper flare anew. “Goddamn son of a bitch!” What had possessed Shooter to try such a thing? The man had been drunk, there was no denying that—Shooter drank himself into oblivion almost every night. But he’d never, to the best of Chance’s knowledge, assaulted a woman before. He clawed at their skirts and made rude remarks, but it had never gone beyond that.

  What if I hadn’t heard Laurel’s screams?

  What if Whitey hadn’t arrived in time to prevent Shooter from raping her?

  What if . . . ?

  “Chance.”

  At the sound of the feminine voice, he spun around so quickly that the whiskey bottle he held plummeted to his feet, splashing over his brand new calfskin boots.

  “Laurel. Shit!”

  “Oh! I’m sorry I startled you.” The storage room was dimly lit, casting eerie shadows on the walls and floor, but there was still enough light for her to see Chance’s irritation. He had a peculiar habit of cracking his knuckles when something bothered him, and he was cracking them like walnuts at the moment.

  She had heard the note of surprise in his voice, as if he’d just conjured her up because he’d been thinking so hard about her. That notion pleased her. In fact, there was a lot about Chance that pleased her.

  Last night had brought about that realization. And it wasn’t just his handsome looks, the mischievous twinkle in his eyes, or the dimples when he smiled, which was often. Chance had been kind to her in his own way.

  Sure, he teased her a lot. And maybe he didn’t appreciate her singing—she frowned at that—but he had given her a job, a place to live, and a new wardrobe. And he was easy to talk to. Not stuffy or pompous like that smelly Mr. Witherspoon, but genuinely interested in what she had to say.

  Chance had a big heart, though she doubted he’d ever admit it, and she found that awfully appealing in a rough-and-tumble gambling man.

  Still . . . he just wasn’t what a woman like her would consider marriage material. She needed someone hardworking and steadfast. Not a man who lived life according to the roll of the dice.

  “Was there something you needed, angel?”

  “Jup said I could find you here. I wanted to thank you for what you and Whitey did last night.”

  “Thank us?” Incredulous, he shook his head. “For saving you from that animal? That’s hardly necessary. Besides, your screams are what saved you. I doubt I’ll be making any more snide remarks about the shrill pitch of your voice.”

  Laurel should have been insulted, but she smiled instead, remembering how gentle he’d been with her. “I doubt you’ll be able to restrain yourself from making nasty comments, Chance. Rudeness seems ingrained in you.”

  He ignored the jibe. “Are you feeling all right? You weren’t injured . . . or anything?”

  “No. I’m perfectly fine. And I’m even willing to forgive Shooter for what he did. I realize he was drunk last night.”

  “What Shooter did wasn’t like him. Oh, he’s loud and obnoxious, don’t get me wrong. But I’ve never known him to hurt a woman before.”

  “I heard she wanted to . . .” Shooter’s words picked at his memory, and his frown deepened as he tried to make sense of them.

  “He was intoxicated. Mama always said that too much liquor made a good man mean and a mean man too stupid to remember he was mean.”

  He smiled at that. “Are you a lot like your mama, angel? Was she pretty like you?”

  “ ‘Pretty is as pretty does,’ Mama always said. Mama’s prettiness stemmed from within. I guess she was what you’d call a handsome woman. She wasn’t beautiful like my sister Heather, but more substantial like Rose Elizabeth.

  “Rose is the most like Mama. She’s a homebody who’d like nothing better than to stay on the farm and raise a passel of young’ns.” Laurel wondered how her sister was faring with the new owner in residence. No doubt Rose Elizabeth was making his life unpleasant as all get-out. Rose didn’t cotton much to strangers, and she was awfully possessive when it came to the farm.

  Chance took a seat on the edge of the desk, eager to learn more about this enigmatic woman-child who fascinated him so. “But not you?”

  “I wanted a career. Excitement.” She laughed in a self-deprecating manner. “I guess I had my share of that last night.”

  He grasped her hand, pulling her toward him until she was standing between the vee of his legs. “You’re something else, angel, you know that? Most women in similar circumstances would have gone to pieces, but you kept your head and held up admirably under the circumstances.”

  “I screamed my fool head off.”

  “But kept your wits. I seem to recall you saying last night that you had aimed your knee at Shooter’s privates and missed.”

  “Papa taught us girls how to defend ourselves. He also taught us to fish, swear, and play poker. But only Rose Elizabeth curses. I think she does it most for the shock value.”

  “Poker, huh? My, you are full of surprises.”

  “There’s a lot about me that would surprise you.” No doubt it would surprise him to know that warm, tumultuous feelings emerged whenever she was near him. But, of course, she’d rather die than admit that to him.

  Chance thought of the way her naked body had looked in the mirror last night—breasts that were tipped pink as spun cotton candy and probably just as sweet to the taste—and smiled. “You’re right about that, angel. And I’m a man who enjoys a good surprise now and then.” Drawing her into his arms, he kissed her, his lips playing over hers with nibbling caresses.

  Though his kiss was gentle, almost restrained, it sent Laurel’s stomach into a wild whirlpool of emotion. She leaned in to him, pressing her aching breasts against his chest, opening her mouth just a fraction to allow his tongue to slide in and mingle with her own. She felt giddy, drunk with passion, as if she’d just consumed the entire liquor supply in the storage shed.

  When his hands molded her breasts, slowly circling the rigid points with his fingertips, Laurel could only gasp at the pleasure his touch elicited. But when they slid lower to cup her buttocks and pull her tighter to him, she felt the evidence of his desire pressing against her own. Sanity returned and she pulled away.

  “You must stop. This . . . What we’re doing is wrong.”

  “It felt pretty right to me, angel. In fact, it felt downright good.”

  She couldn’t deny that. It felt too good even to admit! “Nevertheless, I’m not the type of woman who allows men like you to take liberties.”

  He released her, hugging his arms to his chest, willing his throbbing manhood to be still. He was hornier than he’d felt since he was an untried youth. “Do tell. What type of man am I?”

  “You’re experienced. And used to having women fall all over you. I heard you were insatiable and used to dallying with just about anything in skirts. Contrary to what you may think, I’m not an easy mark, Chance. I want more out of a relationship than a tumble in the hay.”

  The pulse in his neck started throbbing to match the one in his loins. “Really?” Like marriage, no doubt. Decent women always insisted on marriage before pleasure. Why couldn’t a woman just learn to take her pleasure like a man and enjoy it, without the guilt, without the benefit of vows?

  “I’m saving myself for the right man. Somewhere out there is my Prince Charming. I know it sounds silly,” she said when his eyebrow arched so high it nearly touched his hairline, “but I know that someday he’ll come along to sweep me off my feet.”

  “Will he carry a broom, or merely ride in on a white charger?”

  “Now you’re mocking me.”

  “There’s no such thing as Prince Charming, angel. That stuff’s just in fairy tales. I learned a long time ago that you take happiness whenever and wherever you can find it. If you wait for it to come to you, you’ll be waiting the rest of your life.” He caressed her cheek with his fingertip. “We could have a great deal of happiness, if you’d just give in to what you’re feeling—act on your emoti
ons.”

  She stiffened, her hands clenched at her sides. “I guess I don’t equate happiness with a roll in the hay, the way you do.”

  His dimpled smile made her breath catch in her throat. “That’s because you’ve never tried it, angel. There’s much to recommend about a mutually satisfying relationship between a man and a woman.”

  “How would you know I’ve never tried it? A woman doesn’t wear her innocence like a banner, flying behind her in the wind.”

  His laughter made her blood boil. “A man knows when there’s a virgin in his midst. Why in hell do you think Al Hazen was so eager to talk to you that first day? He smelled your innocence clear across the café. A virgin brings a tidy sum to a man in his line of work.”

  “You’re disgusting. And crude.” She turned to leave.

  “Grow up, angel. The world is an ugly place, and if you walk around with your head in the clouds, you’re likely to lose it.”

  Pausing by the door, she turned to look back. “Better to lose my head in the clouds than to lose my virginity to you, Mr. Rafferty.”

  * * *

  “Will you look at the way Pearl’s fawning over Whitey?” Flora Sue remarked to Laurel later that afternoon. They had just returned from church and were seated in the gambling parlor, sharing a pot of tea and a plate of Bertha’s corn muffins left over from last night’s supper.

  Since it was Sunday, the Aurora was closed for business, but those employees who didn’t have families or anywhere else to go generally hung around the saloon to make their own amusements.

  “It appears that she’s trying to teach him his letters,” Laurel replied, unable to keep the hurt out of her voice. “I started to teach him, but then Whitey said Pearl had offered, and he wanted her to do it.”

  Flora snorted. “Pearl thinks Whitey’s as dumb as a box of rocks. The only reason she offered to help is to impress Chance. She’s hot for him. And poor Whitey’s always been a bit infatuated with Pearl. She teases him something awful.”

  “We shouldn’t judge her too harshly, Flora. Perhaps she’s really trying to do some good.” And Whitey seemed to be reveling in the attention. The big man was hanging on her every word.