Sweet Laurel

by Millie Criswell

  Silently she rose to her feet.

  * * *

  It’s bad luck, that’s what it is, Chance thought, sipping thoughtfully on a mug of steaming coffee as he gazed out the window at the heavy wet snow that had been falling since late last evening.

  It was November, for chrissake! Not even Thanksgiving yet. Snow didn’t usually arrive until January or February, so why did this storm have to come now?

  Bad luck.

  Snow meant fewer customers, less revenue—something a gambling parlor could hardly afford. It also meant that his guests from the previous night’s party would have to remain his guests. He could not in good conscience send Rooster and Gus out in the middle of a blizzard. And judging by the way the wind was howling and the cottonwoods were listing toward the frozen ground, this was definitely a storm of blizzard proportions.

  “Snow ain’t let up yet, I take it,” Rooster said, standing next to Chance to take a look for himself. Wiping the condensation from the glass with the palm of his hand, he shook his head in dismay. “Witherspoon ain’t going to like it if I don’t get back to the Opera House. You know how cantankerous that old bastard can be.”

  “Why don’t you quit that job and do something else, Rooster? You’ve hated it since the day you stepped inside that gawdy brick testament to Tabor’s wealth.”

  “It ain’t the job I hate, it’s Witherspoon. And I figure he can’t last forever. Him and Tabor had a terrible row just last week. He was almost fired then. I figure if I just hang on a bit longer, I might get the bastard’s job. And I figure a married man needs a good job.”

  An icicle broke, hitting the sidewalk and narrowly missing a mangy mutt that had wandered outside to take care of his business.

  Turning to his friend, Chance said, “I hate to be the one to point this out, Rooster, but you’re not married.”

  “Not yet, I ain’t. But the way things are progressing between me and Flora Sue . . .” His smile was boastful. “Well, I expect we’ll be before too long. Flora Sue’s got a hankering for respectability.”

  Flora Sue had a lot of hankerings, that was for certain, but Chance wasn’t quite convinced that respectability was one of them.

  And why would his friend want to get married if he didn’t have to? That was like putting your neck in a noose and asking to be hanged, when you hadn’t even committed a crime. It made no sense to Chance, but he clasped Rooster’s shoulder anyway and offered, “You let me know if there’s anything I can do, Rooster. If you and Flora Sue want to get hitched now and need a loan . . .”

  Rooster shook his head, but his eyes were filled with gratitude. “I appreciate the offer, Chance, but I’m determined to do this on my own. I ain’t never had me so fine a woman as Flora Sue before, and I aim to do right by her.”

  “Well right now you can do right by me and help me get those crates of whiskey out of the storage room and stacked behind the bar. Since you’re stuck here anyway, you might as well make yourself useful.”

  “Heard you and Laurel were doing a bit of inventorying yourselves there last night,” Rooster teased.

  Chance grinned. “Can I help it if the woman can’t keep her hands off me?” Damn! They’d come so close last night. A few more minutes and Laurel would have been his at last. But then Whitey . . .

  He frowned. He hadn’t seen his cousin all morning. “Have you seen Whitey today?” Chance called out to Jup, who shook his head.

  “No, Mr. Chance, can’t say that I have. Bertha was just askin’ me the very same thing. Don’t know where that boy’s run off to.”

  Well, he couldn’t have run very far, Chance figured, stopping at the foot of the stairs. Not with the way the snow was piling up. “Jup, would you help Rooster with the whiskey crates? I’ll run up and check on Whitey. I’m sure he’s still in bed. Maybe he’s embarrassed about what happened last night.” He’d done his best to reassure his cousin that no harm had been done, even though it had. Unfulfilled and stiffer than a two-week old corpse, he hadn’t been able to lie on his stomach the entire night!

  Jup and Rooster left to do his bidding, and Chance took the stairs two at a time, suddenly smiling to himself. Maybe he’d pay a visit to Laurel’s room after he was done checking on his cousin. Maybe the weather was a blessing in disguise. After all, there was nothing cozier than lying in bed during a snowstorm, a fire blazing in the wood stove, two bodies snuggled next to each other for warmth. His grin widened.

  Blowing a kiss to Laurel as he passed her room, and vowing silently to return, Chance paused before Whitey’s door, hoping his cousin wasn’t still asleep.

  Pressing his ear to the wood, he listened for the distinctive sound of Whitey’s snoring—snoring that was usually loud enough to wake a deaf man. At the sound of a woman’s low moan, Chance stiffened.

  “That’s it, sugar. That’s a good boy.”

  Pearl’s drawl floated through the closed portal, and Chance almost choked with fury. He pushed the door open so hard it slammed against the wall, startling the couple.

  His green eyes darkened at the sight of Pearl, her robe hanging open, standing at the side of the bed, Whitey’s face pressed to her ample breasts. Her expression was nothing short of triumphant. She had threatened to get even, but he’d never thought she would stoop this low.

  “You goddamn whore!” he bellowed, stepping farther into the room. “Whitey!” he screamed at his cousin. “Let go of that bitch and get yourself dressed.”

  Whitey’s eyes widened with fear. Never in his life had he seen Chance so mad. Not even the times his mama had been mean to him and Chance defended him. “I didn’t do nothing wrong, Chance. Miss Pearl was just letting me suck her titties. She said you do it all the time.”

  “You bitch! I ought to kill you with my bare hands.”

  Malice, not fear, entered the whore’s eyes. “What’s the matter, Chance? Are you jealous?” Though she knew without waiting for his answer that it wasn’t jealousy but hatred that had put that dark, dangerous look on his face.

  She had sullied his precious Whitey. Taken away the one thing he fussed and worried over. Seducing Whitey had been the perfect revenge against Chance’s callous treatment of her. The innocent dimwit was now tarnished in Chance’s eyes, and Pearl reveled in the satisfaction she felt.

  Before Chance could reply, Laurel stuck her head through the doorway and gasped at the sight before her. She hoped that what she suspected was wrong. But from the lethal look on Chance’s face, she wasn’t. Her heart went out to the befuddled man on the bed, who obviously didn’t understand the consequences of his actions.

  “Is Whitey all right?”

  “Sure he is. Ain’t you, sugar?” Pearl’s laughter was snide as she winked at Chance’s cousin. “He was merely testing out his manhood.”

  Laurel’s eyes darted around the room, taking in every sordid detail at once: the seductive smile on Pearl’s face; the way her robe hung open to reveal her nakedness; Whitey’s flushed face and bare chest; Chance’s fists curling and uncurling, as if he were trying to get hold of his temper.

  “How could you, Pearl? You know Whitey’s little more than a child.”

  Belting her robe, the whore shrugged. “I’ve been tutoring him, and he’s been liking his lessons real fine.”

  Chance stepped toward Pearl, a murderous gleam in his eyes, but Laurel, fearing his intent, clasped his arm. “Let her go, Chance. She isn’t worth it.”

  “Is that what he told you? Why, you really are naive.” With that parting shot, Pearl pushed past Laurel and left the room.

  Frightened of Chance’s fierce expression, Whitey pressed back against the headboard, hugging a pillow to his chest. “I didn’t do nothing wrong, did I, Chance?”

  In the space of a few seconds, a million conflicting emotions washed over Chance’s face. Whitey was a child in a man’s body, he told himself. Pearl was to blame for what had happened. But anger and disappointment at Whitey’s behavior still festered inside like a canker. “We’ll talk about this l
ater. Come downstairs after you’ve dressed.” With barely a glance at Laurel or his cousin, Chance stalked out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

  “Chance is mad, mad, mad, Miss Laurel. He doesn’t like me anymore.” Tears filled the big man’s eyes, and Laurel found her throat tightening up.

  “Don’t be silly, Whitey,” she said, taking a seat next to him on the bed, with no thought to propriety. Whitey needed consoling, and she was the only one available at the moment. “Chance is just angry with Pearl and he’s taking it out on you. What Pearl did was wrong. She shouldn’t have . . .” How could she say seduced? He probably didn’t even know what the word meant. “Chance doesn’t like mixing business with pleasure.”

  Whitey scratched his head, clearly confused. “Miss Pearl said Chance touched her titties and that he stuck his Willy deep inside her.”

  Laurel didn’t need a dictionary to figure out what that meant, and she swallowed hard at the thought of Chance making love to the whore. What Whitey said was undoubtedly true—Flora Sue had said as much—but that had been a long time ago. “I think Pearl’s exaggerating a bit, Whitey. Chance and Pearl are merely friends.”

  “No, ma’am,” he said, shaking his head emphatically. “She said Chance comes to her room almost every night and sticks his Willy in her. That’s why she said it’d be okay if I did. But I didn’t, Miss Laurel. My Willy just wouldn’t work right.”

  Tears filled Laurel’s eyes. Chance had told her only last night that he hadn’t been with another woman since she’d arrived, that he wanted no one else. And like a fool she’d believed him. Wanted to believe him. Needed to believe him. Obviously he’d lied to have his way with her. Whitey was too ingenuous to make up such a fabrication.

  Had Chance gone to Pearl last night to relieve his frustration? Had he finished with Pearl what he’d started with her? And had he been doing so all along?

  “You’re not mad at me too, are you, Miss Laurel? I wouldn’t want you to be mad. Why are you crying, Miss Laurel?” Whitey reached for her hand, patting it, trying to comfort her.

  Like a dull-edged blade, pain knifed through her heart. “I’m not crying,” she lied, pushing herself to her feet. “You’d better get dressed and get downstairs now, Whitey. Chance’s anger is only temporary. He’ll be fine in a little while.”

  “I guess I won’t be getting any more writing lessons from Miss Pearl. Will you help me with my letters, Miss Laurel? I’ve been doing real good. I’m all the way to M now.”

  “I . . .” What could she say? After last night, after almost giving herself to Chance, and now, learning of his intimacy with Pearl, how could she stay on working at the Aurora as if nothing had happened? It would kill her to see Chance with Pearl, to think about them being together every day. Every night.

  “I don’t know, Whitey. We’ll talk about it later.”

  Laurel left Whitey sitting amid his tangled bedsheets, a look of pure confusion on his face, and headed back to her room. She had a lot of thinking to do, plans to make.

  She was uncertain about a great many things, but one thing stood out in her mind with exacting clarity: She was thankful to God that she hadn’t given herself to Chance Rafferty last night. That she hadn’t given him the one gift, the one thing he wanted.

  For what it was worth, she still had her virtue. She still had her pride. And she still had the offer from the Denver Temperance and Souls in Need League to put scoundrels like Chance Rafferty out of business.

  Her mama had always counseled that no good could come of revenge, but Laurel wasn’t listening to her mama’s words right now.

  CHAPTER 15

  “But why are you leaving? I don’t understand. I mean . . . I thought after the other night . . .”

  Laurel was unwilling to think about “the other night” or to put any stock in Chance’s heartfelt expression. “I’ve had another job offer.”

  “From who?” He shook his head, dismissing the question. “No matter. I’ll double their offer, give you a larger room, decrease your working hours.”

  Laurel sighed. “It’s not a singing job, Chance, and I’d prefer not to talk about it.” Gripping her well-worn leather valise until her knuckles turned white, she said, “I’m sorry things didn’t work out.” Sorrier than you’ll ever know.

  “I guess this will leave you short-handed, what with Pearl’s firing and all”—she had found some solace in that knowledge—“but I’m sure it won’t take long to replace me. Singers in a town like Denver are a dime a dozen.” She moved toward the door, then stopped suddenly.

  “No matter what happens, I want you to know that I’m grateful for all you’ve done for me. I . . .” There was so much more to say, but tears clogged her throat and the words couldn’t pass. “Goodbye, Chance.”

  “Laurel, wait! If it was something I said, or did . . .” He held out his hands beseechingly, giving Laurel the satisfaction of seeing him grovel. But she took no pleasure in that.

  “It’s not you, Chance, it’s me. I confused fairy tales with reality. You warned me not to, remember?”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Neither do I.”

  * * *

  And she still didn’t. Not even after spending two weeks brooding over everything that had happened between them.

  And everything that hadn’t.

  “Miss Tungsten would like to see you, Miss Martin,” Drucilla Gottlieb, her new roommate, declared. She wore that smug expression Laurel had grown to hate in the short time she’d been in residence at Josephine Costello’s boarding establishment for indigent women.

  The small hotel was as spartan as Graber’s but much cleaner. Two narrow beds lined bare gray walls, and two faded green wing chairs rested beneath the one, uncurtained window. It was a decorator’s nightmare, and she wondered what Oscar Wilde, the British playwright who’d recently done a series of lectures on the art of interior decoration, would say if he could see it. “Utilitarian,” no doubt.

  She forced a polite smile. “Thank you. I’ll be right down.”

  “You’re never going to learn everything there is to know if you spend all your time staring out that window.”

  “I hardly think that’s any of your business, Drucilla. Besides, I was merely checking the weather.” The brief episode of snow had passed, leaving crisp days and frigid nights. Nights spent in lonely reverie.

  “Miss Tungsten likes punctuality.” Drucilla’s lips pursed tightly, as if she’d just sucked a lemon dry. “I really don’t understand why she chose you, of all people, to represent our cause. Why, you’re nothing more than a—”

  Laurel lifted her chin. “Yes? You were saying?”

  “A saloon singer. Hardly a fit role model for the temperance league.”

  “Perhaps Miss Tungsten wanted someone who could relate to the masses.” She sized up Drucilla Gottlieb and shook her head. “My mama always said that experience was the best teacher, Drucilla. At your young age, you haven’t lived long enough to have any experiences worth sharing.”

  “Just because I’m chaste and prefer to remain that way doesn’t mean . . .”

  “What on earth is going on here?”

  Both women turned to find Hortensia Tungsten standing in the doorway, and their faces reddened. “Your harsh words and very unprofessional manner can be detected all the way down the stairs. Drucilla,” she looked directly at the mousy, brown-haired woman, “please leave your prejudices outside before you enter this house again. I’ll not have dissension in the ranks. We have enough problems to deal with, without fighting among ourselves. Is that clear?”

  It was, and Drucilla left the room, but not before shooting Laurel a look of pure hostility.

  “Perhaps Drucilla is right, Miss Tungsten. Perhaps I’m not the best person for this job.”

  Hortensia shut the door, then took a seat in one of the chairs by the window, urging Laurel to join her. “We’ve been through all this before, dear. You’re perfect for the job, and I’m delighted, as is Miss
Willard, that you’ve agreed to join our noble cause.

  “I realize dealing with narrow-minded young women like Drucilla will be a trial for you, but do try to remember all the good your contribution will bring.”

  Laurel had tried to remind herself of that each and every day for the past two weeks, but there had been no shortage of people trying to dissuade her from her present course.

  Crystal had paid her three visits, urging her to return to the Aurora, citing their friendship and her loneliness. Even Augustus had come—at the urging of Crystal, she was sure—to counsel her against her decision. But the hardest visit had come from Bertha, who’d regaled her with improbable but nonetheless heart-wrenching stories of what her departure had done to Chance.

  The once happy-go-lucky man had apparently turned quiet and sullen, listening to no one and speaking harshly to everyone. Bertha had said that she hardly recognized her boy anymore, and wouldn’t Laurel please find it in her heart to forgive him for whatever he’d done and come back?

  But Laurel couldn’t. It was time for her to face the real world, to quit living a life of daydreams and Prince Charming. Chance had been right about that. There was no such thing.

  “Are you listening to me, Laurel? I said your first temperance demonstration will be this Saturday. Are you ready? And have you decided on a suitable objective?”

  Hortensia’s words forced Laurel to make a decision—a very momentous decision. “Yes. I have. I will lead the ladies to Mr. Rafferty’s gambling parlor, the Aurora Borealis, on Saturday night, Miss Tungsten. There, we will let Mr. Rafferty know that what he is doing to the good citizens of Denver is an abomination.”

  Hortensia’s eyes widened, even as they lit with pleasure. “But, my dear, won’t that be terribly difficult for you? Mr. Rafferty was recently your employer.”

  “Not as difficult as it’s going to be for Mr. Rafferty.”

  * * *

  “Angel’s gone. Angel’s gone.” Squawk. “Lordy be, Mr. Chance. My dick’s hard.” Squawk. “Give me some tongue, babe.”