Sweet Laurel

by Millie Criswell

  “Shut your goddamn big mouth,” Chance yelled, throwing his beer mug directly at Percy’s cage and missing it by a mere fraction. It hit the rack of liquor bottles at the rear of the bar instead, breaking several and releasing the amber liquid onto the floor.

  Percy squawked loudly and repeatedly, flapping his wings against the cage, trying to escape the irate gambler’s anger.

  “I won’t miss next time,” he warned, and the bird miraculously quieted, providing Chance a small measure of satisfaction.

  It was midafternoon and it was quiet. Bertha and Jup had gone to secure provisions for tomorrow’s Thanksgiving feast, Crystal was assisting Gus with the church decorations, Flora Sue had a luncheon engagement with Rooster, and even Whitey had opted for a nap, rather than face Chance’s surly mood.

  His frown deepened, as did his melancholy. Laurel was gone, he’d been on a losing streak ever since, and he could find no enjoyment in the little things that he used to take for granted.

  Keeping the books was a chore without Laurel there to help. She’d always laugh and goad him into finishing his paperwork, then praise him for his efforts, as if she were the teacher and he the student. Dinners were quiet affairs now. There was no lighthearted banter around the table. No good-natured teasing remarks from Bertha, and no covert winks from Laurel. There’d been no new performer to replace his little angel.

  As if anyone could.

  What the hell happened?

  In his mind he’d gone over that morning when he’d found Whitey with Pearl, gone over and over it again, but he couldn’t make sense of what had occurred to drive Laurel from his arms.

  Did she change her mind about making love with me?

  No. He didn’t believe that. She wanted him as much as he wanted her, and nothing could ever convince him otherwise.

  What then? Did Pearl’s disgusting behavior with Whitey shock her sensibilities?

  But he’d fired Pearl that same day, and Laurel knew it.

  He wished he’d fired Pearl months ago, then none of this sordid business would have ever taken place. He’d heard she’d gone to work for Al Hazen. How fitting, Chance thought. Two pieces of slime working together in perfect harmony.

  Tomorrow was Thanksgiving, but in his opinion there was little to be thankful for. Revenues were down, hardly anyone spoke civilly to him anymore, Whitey had grown reclusive since the incident, and the temperance league was stepping up its efforts to rid the town of businesses like his.

  He’d heard from Crystal and Bertha that Laurel was working for them now. In what capacity they didn’t say. He supposed she was doing bookkeeping or some sort of secretarial work. Something respectable and boring. And totally alien to her nature. He knew what performing meant to her. Laurel used to say that a day without singing was like a day without sunshine.

  And he knew what that meant now in spades. He missed her—missed her enchanting smile of innocence, her sweet, seductive jasmine scent that still tormented his senses, her tinkling laughter that cloaked him like warm, loving hands.

  His life was empty without her.

  But does that mean I love her?

  No. He didn’t love her; he couldn’t. He would never love any woman that way.

  But if I don’t love her, then why does my heart hurt so bad?

  And if I don’t love her, then why has the sun stopped shining for me?

  And if I don’t love her, then why can’t I get her out of my mind?

  * * *

  “Rock of ages, cleft for me. Let me hide myself in thee,” the women sang.

  “Holy shit!” Bull swore, staring out the window at the fire-lit processional. “Chance, ” he yelled, “come quick.”

  Staring at the first decent hand he’d had all evening, Chance chomped down on his cheroot. “What is it, Bull? I’m fixing to take these gentlemen to the cleaners.” He smiled through the smoky haze at the other two men at the table, but they obviously didn’t find any humor in his remark.

  “I’ve seen those biddies before, Bull, I’m not interested in seeing them again.”

  “Not these you ain’t. These ones are different.”

  Chance pushed back his chair. “If you gentlemen will excuse me for a moment . . .” He stepped to the window and looked out.

  “What’s so damned important that you had to—” His mouth fell open, the cheroot dropping unnoticed to the floor. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!”

  “I told you, didn’t I? It’s her; it’s Laurel.”

  Even dressed as she was in a plain gown of gray cotton partially covered by the dark woolen cloak he’d helped her pick out, and a bonnet hiding her glorious hair, Chance had little problem recognizing the woman who’d haunted his dreams of late. “I take it she’s not their secretary.”

  “She’s leading them, for crying out loud. Don’t you see that white ribbon she’s wearing? God, she’s one of them!”

  Before Chance could reply, the door burst open and the group of women entered, Laurel heading up the column.

  “Repent, sinners!” shouted a gray-haired woman with a large black mole on her nose. “Sign a pledge that you’ll abstain from the evils of drink.”

  “Amen! Hallelujah!” chorused the others.

  Laurel stepped farther into the room, scanning the premises until her eyes found Chance, who was standing by the window, a shocked expression on his face. “Mr. Rafferty,” she announced, nodding perfunctorily, trying not to show that seeing him again made her heart ache. “We’ve come to ask your help in ridding this town of sin and corruption. Close down this den of iniquity, or we’ll be forced to take harsher action.”

  Laurel’s zealous speech irritated the hell out of Chance. So did the fact that she looked right through him, unwilling to acknowledge their previous relationship. That hurt, but he grinned to hide it.

  “I liked you better in your red satin gown, angel. It’s a damn shame to hide your legs like that.”

  Mole woman gasped audibly.

  A chorus of male hoots and laughter followed. Then some drunken cowboy remarked, “Hey, it’s the singer. The one with the small tits.”

  Laurel’s face crimsoned. Though she’d mentally prepared herself for such verbal attacks, she hadn’t counted on hearing them from lips she’d so recently kissed. But she held her ground and said, “Ladies, please pass out your pledge cards to these kind gentlemen.”

  Gertie Beecham was obviously uncomfortable at the prospect of walking farther into the room, but she did as she was instructed. Soon the other women followed, mingling with the gamblers and cowboys, passing out pledges, and urging them to sign a vow never to drink again.

  “I recognize some of you men,” Laurel stated. “Most of you have wives at home and little children to care for. Why don’t you go home and be with them now, instead of squandering your money on liquor and cards?”

  “My wife’s a nag,” Herb Porter, the druggist, admitted, taking a swallow of beer and wiping his mouth on his shirtsleeve—something he wasn’t allowed to do when his wife was around. “This is the only taste of freedom I get. A man should be able to relax with a whiskey and a game of cards after a hard day’s work.”

  “Yeah!” Nate Moody pounded a meaty fist on the card table, making the coins scatter every which way. “My woman’s gonna have another kid soon. A man has a right to a little relief, if you get my meaning.”

  Laurel got it all right, and she wasn’t buying it for a second. “Those are poor excuses for doing what you men do. You’ve responsibilities to your wives, and to that unborn child, Nate Moody, and to the ones you have at home. Surely you men wouldn’t want your wives to be out doing the same as you. You shouldn’t have married if you didn’t want to remain faithful and accept the responsibility.” Her gaze fixed on Chance, but if her words hit true, his expression gave no indication.

  “Your speech is very pretty, Miss Martin,” Chance said. “Now why don’t you take your little sewing circle and leave? We’re trying to enjoy ourselves, and I don’t appreciate th
e interruption. I’ve a business to run.”

  “Your business is the corruption of morals, Mr. Rafferty. You prey on the weaknesses of others.”

  “Are you talking about yourself, Miss Martin, or my customers?”

  Laurel did her best to ignore the aspersion that hit too close to the truth. “You men are being victimized by Mr. Rafferty. Go home to your families, to the people who love you. Don’t waste yourselves on a gamble that will never pay off.”

  “Life’s no fun without risk, Laurel. Even you should realize that.”

  “Sometimes a woman needs a man she can count on. One she can trust. One who doesn’t lie at the drop of a hat. A smart woman doesn’t put her faith in a gambling man.”

  Chance’s face paled. It was obvious that she was talking about him, about their relationship, and not about the others in the room. He stepped toward her, eager to find out the reasons behind her declaration, but she turned and fled out the door before he could reach her.

  Bull shut the door behind them. “Good riddance,” he said, wiping his hands back and forth with finality.

  Nate Moody and Herb Porter stood and, with apologetic looks on their faces, headed toward the door, the pledge cards clasped tightly in their hands.

  Chance, watching them leave, didn’t say a word. A man had to do what a man had to do. He just hated like hell that Laurel had achieved even this minor victory.

  “How come Miss Laurel don’t like us anymore, Chance? She looked mad, mad, mad.”

  Wrapping his arm about Whitey’s shoulder, Chance led him to a quiet table at the rear of the room. “She isn’t mad at you, Whitey. She’s mad at me. But I don’t know why.”

  Whitey hung his head in shame. “I made Miss Laurel cry, Chance. I think she’s mad at me.”

  “What do you mean, you made her cry?”

  “I told her about what Miss Pearl said, about you sticking your Willy inside her every night. It made Miss Laurel cry real hard. But I didn’t mean to make her sad, Chance.”

  “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!” That sure as hell explained a lot of things about Laurel’s behavior. But why would she believe such a lie? Why hadn’t she come to him and asked if it was true? Why had she condemned him without knowing the truth?

  Memories of Aunt Aletha washed over him, and his lips thinned. Aletha had always accused, blaming Chance for everything that went wrong in her life.

  Women were quick to condemn. Chance had foolishly thought Laurel might be different, but she wasn’t. She’d tried and convicted him without so much as hearing his side of the case.

  Damn the woman!

  “Are you mad at me, too, Chance?” Whitey wanted to know, fidgeting nervously with the bone buttons on his shirt. “I didn’t mean to cause no trouble. You still like me, don’t you, Chance?”

  Clasping his cousin’s hand, Chance squeezed it reassuringly. “You’re the only family I’ve got, Whitey. I love you. And though at times I may get upset over something you do . . .”

  “Like what happened with Miss Pearl?”

  Chance nodded, wondering if the talk they’d had about male and female relationships had sunk in. “I’ll always love you. That will never change.”

  “Miss Laurel told me that once. She said that even though people fight, they don’t always mean the bad things they say.”

  “Laurel’s right, Whitey.” Too bad she didn’t take her own advice to heart, Chance thought. For he had no doubt that Laurel meant each and every one of the “bad” things she’d said to him this evening.

  * * *

  Pearl nuzzled Al’s ear, sighing contentedly as she reached inside his shirt to caress his smooth chest. She’d just had the best fuck of her life, having found in Al Hazen a man with her own need for hard, driving sex.

  “Didn’t you get enough, babe?” he said, rolling out of the bed, then bending down to place a kiss on her large erect nipple. “I’ve got to get downstairs. This place doesn’t run itself, you know.”

  “I’ll never get enough of you, Al. You’re the best.”

  “Better than Rafferty?”

  She thought about it for a moment, delighting in the dark look that crossed his face at her hesitation, then smiled. “Much better. Rafferty was too much of a gentleman. I like a real man between my legs.”

  She splayed them to prove her point, and Al’s eyes riveted to the dark thatch of hair that did nothing to hide her blatant femininity. He swallowed with some difficulty, annoyed that the whore could affect him so strongly.

  “I hear Laurel Martin quit and went to work for the temperance league,” he said, to take his mind off Pearl’s tempting flesh.

  Believing herself to be responsible for that occurrence, Pearl’s eyes sparkled with pleasure. “Miss Goody Two-Shoes wasn’t cut out to work in a saloon. Though she liked bedding Chance well enough.” At least Pearl had the satisfaction of knowing that if she couldn’t have Chance Rafferty, no one could.

  “Laurel’s pretty, but she’s got no tits. Don’t know what Rafferty saw in her.”

  “Speaking of Laurel,” Pearl said, “there’s something I’d like to discuss with you.”

  “Oh yeah? And what would that be?”

  “I want to get rid of her, Al. I want Laurel Martin gone from here.”

  “Really? Now that is interesting.” And a downright coincidence, since he himself would have liked nothing better than to get rid of the Martin woman. He’d gone over dozens of ways to do it but hadn’t come up with any plan he felt would be foolproof—a plan that wouldn’t tie him to her death or disappearance. “What’s she done to you anyway?”

  Pearl twisted the corner of the sheet. “My reasons are my own.” She certainly wasn’t going to confide that she’d been jealous of the bitch. “I’d think you’d want to get even with her, Al. After all, it was Laurel who lured Crystal away from you.”

  Al’s eyes darkened, as they did whenever anyone mentioned Crystal. “I’ll think about it.”

  Pearl patted the space next to her, smiling seductively. “I’m sure I can convince you, sugar.”

  “You’re a great whore, you know that, Pearl? A man could almost forget that you make your living on your back and not on the stage. You’re good. Real good.”

  “I’ll be an asset to you, Al. But I want a bigger cut than the other girls. I figure with my experience and looks, I should get at least seventy-five percent of the profits.”

  Buttoning the silver buttons on his red brocade vest, Al threw back his head and laughed. “You’re a good fuck, Pearl, but your pussy’s not lined with gold. You’ll take fifty–fifty like everyone else.”

  “Did Crystal get fifty–fifty? I heard she got a bigger split.”

  “Crystal was different. You’re not like her.” Crystal was a lady, despite the fact that she whored for a living.

  Pearl rose from the bed and walked toward him. “I’m better than her, sugar.” She cupped his genitals, pleased to find him erect and ready. Dropping to her knees, she unfastened his trousers, pressing her mouth to the naked tip of his shaft, and delighting in his low moan of pleasure.

  “I’m not like anyone you’ve ever had before, sugar,” she said, licking her lips. “I want you to remember that.”

  CHAPTER 16

  “Mama always told my papa—‘Ezra,’ she’d say, ‘if God had wanted man to drink alcohol instead of water He’d have put it in the clouds for rain and filled up the rivers and ponds.’

  “To prove her point, she’d walk him out to the barn, where he kept a jug of whiskey hidden in the loft, take it outside, and pour the contents onto a patch of wildflowers. Those flowers would just shrivel up and die; their life sucked dry from the alcohol.

  “And, folks, that’s what alcohol is doing to the citizens of this town. It’s drying up hopes and ambitions and sucking all the good out of decent folks, such as yourselves.”

  The applause surprised Laurel. She hadn’t known what to expect from this crowd that had gathered in front of the Silver Slipper Saloon to hear her
speak, but she was bound and determined that Al Hazen would feel the brunt of her wrath before this day was through. Chance Rafferty wasn’t her only target.

  Every saloon, brothel, and gambling parlor would receive a visit from the Denver Temperance and Souls in Need League. In the past week they’d signed up twenty-two new converts, and that was only the beginning. Soon they’d have hundreds of reformed drunks and gamblers added to their cause. A cause Laurel felt was more justified every time she saw a bruised and battered woman or child.

  One such woman was standing next to her now. Lizzy Maxwell had come to bear witness against the evils of drink. Laurel urged the pregnant woman forward and introduced her to the crowd.

  “My name is Elizabeth Maxwell,” the drawn, older woman began. “Perhaps some of you know my man, Clifford, who used to drive the milk wagon. Clifford used to be a good husband and loving father.” She patted her swollen belly. “But that was before the drink overcame him.

  “We ain’t married no more, ’cause he run off with a painted harlot, leaving me and my two young’ns and this here unborn babe to fend for ourselves.”

  The crowd murmured their sympathy and outrage, and one shrill voice in the back yelled, “Hang Clifford Maxwell!”

  “I guess I should be glad he’s gone, but to tell you the truth, I’m relieved. Hardly a day went by that Clifford didn’t beat me and the young’ns senseless during one of his drunken rages.

  “I bless this league of fine ladies, who’ve lent me a helping hand during my trials, and I hope you’ll listen to what Miss Martin here has to say. Alcohol is poison. I know it for a fact. It killed my family.”

  Giving the courageous woman a heartfelt hug, Laurel thanked her. Then she turned to face the crowd and continued, “Salvation through sobriety is the only way to rid this town of the evils of drink and prostitution. I’ve seen many a married man with family squander his money on liquor, women, and cards, when he should have been paying his rent and putting food into his children’s bellies . . .”

  Chance stood hidden at the back of the crowd, listening in amazement to Laurel’s speech. Her homespun stories and articulate delivery held the crowd spellbound, and he now understood why Hortensia Tungsten had recruited her to spread the word of the league. Laurel was a born orator.