The Gold Ring_The Fifth Day

by Caroline Lee

  I didn’t. You didn’t seem to care. “Pearl Shelby,” Pearl answered dully.

  “Pearl!” Maybelle’s tickling laugh was as annoying as the rest of her. “What a clever name! Like you’re a hidden gem or something! What’s your real name?” She waved her teacup dismissively. “Never mind, I don’t care. Anyhow, as I was saying, I looked right into my Horatio’s eyes, and I knew he was the man for me. He’s so handsome, isn’t he?”

  Pearl was still blinking over the casual insult and wondering why it was hard to believe “Pearl” was her real name. Does she expect me to agree with her? It was impossible, since she didn’t find Horatio handsome at all. His perfect smile and fancy suit hid a cruel heart.

  Luckily, Maybelle wasn’t interested in anyone else’s opinion, not when her opinion was so fascinating. She was still going on about Horatio.

  “…and his father is even wealthier than mine, if you can believe it! He’s in San Francisco, a newspaperman himself. Well, he was, until he started making so much money. Now he just owns newspapers, which is ever so much more profitable. My Horatio decided to travel the world, you know. I think he got into a bit of trouble back home, which is why he’s here in this godforsaken little town. Can you imagine actually choosing to live here?” She scoffed. “Only someone completely ignorant would think that living here was preferable to one of the cities we could be living in!”

  Pearl shifted in her seat uncomfortably. She loved the little town of Noelle, for all of its bad memories. She loved the mountains and the river and the clear air and the friends she’d made among the ladies at La Maison. Even if her job hadn’t forced her to remain here, she might’ve chosen this location to make a home.

  Maybelle obviously didn’t realize how rude her comments were, and Pearl decided to forgive her. The Denver socialite would be married to Horatio Smythe soon, and hopefully, Pearl would never have to interact with her again. She seemed the sort to stick her nose high in the air when confronted with a whore, even if that whore had given her comfort and friendship when she’d needed it.

  “In fact,” Maybelle continued, “I doubt very much we shall be staying here long. My Horatio will be coming to escort me on a walk—away from this garish house!—later today, and we shall discuss our living arrangements. He’s already hinted that he wants to return to California, and I don’t blame him. I shall do everything in my power to convince him we need to move back, as soon as possible.”

  Pearl smiled politely, secretly pleased the pair of them—they seemed well-matched!—were thinking about leaving town. She wondered if part of Maybelle’s intense desire to leave had anything to do with the man who’d wanted to marry her for her inheritance. Maybe going to California would be wise, since it was so much further from Denver than Noelle was.

  As long as Maybelle and Horatio stayed ‘til January sixth to meet the town’s deadline, Pearl would gladly help them pack their belongings, just to see the last of them. From what she’d heard, Reverend Hammond and Mr. Penworthy at the land office had made a deal with the railroad: if a dozen new couples were in town on January sixth when the inspector came to town, the proposed railroad spur into town would be built after all. When they’d realized the gold was petering out, the railroad had canceled plans for the spur, claiming the town was dying. But new families—represented by all these brides Reverend Hammond brought in—would mean the town wasn’t dying after all.

  And Pearl didn’t want Noelle to die. If it did, Madame would pack all of her girls up, willing or no, and drag them to another town, and Pearl would never again see the sunrise on these mountains, and never again walk through the valley of wildflowers she loved so much. She’d never again see the man she lo—

  No.

  No, she couldn’t think of him like that. He was just a customer, and she was just a whore.

  Realizing the other woman was still talking, Pearl was surprised to hear Maybelle going on about what her life would be like in San Francisco, if she could convince Horatio to move there. “I’ll be able to wear the latest fashions again without having to wait! And there will be parties and operas even grander than eastern cities!” She sighed happily, finishing her tea. “And Horatio will take over his father’s business, assuming his older brother isn’t in charge already, and he’ll teach our sons how to manage it too!”

  The brunette’s cheeks pinked prettily, and Pearl tried not to have uncharitable thoughts about how someone could manage to be so pretty and so very rude all at once.

  “Actually…” Maybelle cleared her throat and sat forward slightly, placing the teacup back on the saucer on the table at her side. She stared down at her hands, which were clasped—prettily of course—in her lap. “That’s one part of this whole marriage I’m not sure about.”

  “You don’t want to have children?” Pearl asked, surprised. She would love to have children, but refused to bring any into the world she occupied. In fact, she took great pains to make sure she never had to make that choice. Children were meant to have loving, stable homes…not traveling from whorehouse to whorehouse, doing odd jobs until they were old enough to make their own way. She tamped down on the shudder that thought caused. No, this was her life now, and she wouldn’t be having children.

  Maybelle, however, had obviously meant something else. “Of course I want to have children, you ninny,” she snapped. “All brides want to have children.” She lifted her chin and sniffed haughtily at Pearl. “I suppose you wouldn’t know anything about that.” And then, as if she wasn’t aware of her harsh insult, Maybelle continued, “It’s the getting of children I’m…less than sure about.”

  Pearl hid her smile behind a sip of tea. It had probably taken a lot for Maybelle to admit she wasn’t completely positive about something, and to a worthless whore no less. But there was no shame in what the other woman was asking. Brides have been coming to whores for this kind of advice for generations, after all.

  But all Pearl said was, “I’d be happy to answer any questions you might have, Maybelle.”

  “Miss Anderson,” Maybelle snapped. “Soon to be Mrs. Symthe, I’ll have you remember.”

  “Of course,” Pearl murmured soothingly. “Do you have any questions about becoming Mrs. Smythe?”

  It was difficult to maintain a calm demeanor with the rude woman, but Pearl reminded herself of the times she’d been alone and afraid. All women needed a friend—or at least a comforting ear—at some point in their lives, and this was why she’d offered to stay at La Maison for a few nights, even if it meant giving up some income. These women needed a friend, and Maybelle was the kind of woman no one else would volunteer to befriend. So Pearl would sit here with her and listen to her, so no one else had to.

  After a long moment, Maybelle’s chin went up farther and her back straightened. “I have heard that—that the marriage bed”—she sneered the words, as if they were naughty—“is sometimes an unpleasant experience. I, of course, have no comparisons, but you, having allowed so many men access to your body, would.”

  Pearl’s fingers clenched around the teacup at the woman’s cruel words, clearly intended as insults. “What is your question?” She was proud of the way her voice didn’t shake.

  “Isn’t it obvious? He can be forgiven for going to paw at you, since he didn’t know he was going to be married to me. You have the experience to tell me—I want to know if my Horatio is a good lover.”

  No. Pearl kept the word from jumping to her lips only by sheer force of will. No, Horatio isn’t a good lover. He was harsh and demanding, and seemed to enjoy humiliating the girls he paid to use. And when Pearl had objected, he’d hit her, and then spread the rumor which was causing her so much distress about her future.

  If none of the men in town requested her company, if none of them wanted to choose her for an hour, then Madame was going to demote her to one of the cribs, and she’d be doomed. There was no regulation in those lowest, filthiest shacks, and she knew she’d be dead before the new year ended.

  Here at
La Maison, she at least had time to enjoy her past-times. She could read, go for walks in the mountains, listen to Angelique play the piano. She was surrounded by her girls, whom she loved and cared for. If she was demoted to the cribs, thanks to Horatio’s cruel rumor, she’d never again have the chance to giggle with Boum Boum over a man’s reaction to her tremendous breasts, or practice her embroidery with Felice.

  And she was sure that, while working in those cribs and servicing any and all men who could afford the few cents she’d become worth, Horatio would return. He’d teach her the lesson he’d threatened all those months ago, and she would have no way to stop it.

  So no, Horatio wasn’t a good lover. There was only one man she’d ever met who could truly be said to be a good lover, and he surely wouldn’t look at her, were she demoted to the cribs.

  Sheriff Draven had standards, after all. She wasn’t anywhere near those standards even now, but for some reason he still wanted to spend time with her, and she’d long ago fallen in love with him for it. Despite his rough appearance, he treated her body—her—like she was something to be worshiped, and once she’d had a taste of the bliss he shared with her, no other man could possibly compare.

  Pearl’s eyes closed briefly on the pain of that knowledge. Draven had ruined her for all other men, as surely as Horatio Smythe had. I’m a terrible whore.

  “Well?” Maybelle’s strident voice broke through Pearl’s thoughts. “Are you going to answer my question or not?”

  Maybelle was about to become Mrs. Horatio Smythe, and it was in everyone’s best interests that the marriage occur. So Pearl smiled tightly and said only, “I’m sure he will be, once he’s making love to the woman he loves.”

  There. That wasn’t a lie. And judging from the way Maybelle’s expression turned dreamy, and she sighed—prettily, of course—as she sat back in her chair, Pearl had said the right thing. The “making love” part had been truly inspired, because men like Horatio didn’t make love. They did something much, much cruder.

  Draven, on the other hand…he made love. He made love tenderly enough to make Pearl’s body sing.

  No. No. No!

  She again pushed aside thoughts of the sheriff, which was difficult, because he’d been in her dreams all last night after their encounter in the front parlor. Their encounter which had proven to her—with his casual comment about her “working”—that he didn’t see her as anything more than a whore.

  She wasn’t anything special to Sheriff Draven.

  But as she sat in the parlor, listening to a soon-to-be bride chatter on about her life on Christmas Day, Pearl knew the truth. She wasn’t anything special to him, but he was the only man she’d ever love.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The second day of Christmas

  December 26th, 1876

  “Draven! Draven!”

  His front door slammed open, and Reverend Chase Hammond barreled into the jail building. Draven was on one knee in front of the stove, about to load in more wood, but his free hand instinctively dropped to his revolver grip. When Draven realized who it was who’d startled him, he muttered a curse and went back to his task.

  Hammond, meanwhile, had bent almost double, his hands on his knees, breathing heavily. “Sheriff, you gotta come quick!”

  Draven ignored the man’s agitation. “You mind closing my door?”

  He made sure the fire caught the new wood, and sighed slightly. December twenty-sixth. It’s cold as a witch’s teat out there, and the man leaves my front door open.

  “No time!” Hammond straightened, then started towards him. “I need you to act in your capacity as an appointed law official for Noelle.”

  Draven rose to his feet, his hand resting once more on his gun belt. This sounded interesting. “You mean, you want me to arrest somebody?” he translated.

  The reverend nodded enthusiastically, his breath coming easier now. “Yes. Yes.” He reached for Draven’s elbow, obviously intent on dragging him out of the building that acted as the town’s jail, the sheriff’s office, and Draven’s home.

  Draven’s low growl put a stop to the movement, however, and Hammond snatched his hand back. The other man made a point of brushing that same hand down his coat, like he’d intended to do that all along.

  “Listen, Draven. I just need you to come with me.” He took a step towards the door, obviously beckoning Draven through it.

  Figuring there was nothing else for it, Draven shrugged and pulled his jacket down from the peg by the door. “What's happened? Who's making trouble now?”

  By this time, they were out the door, and Hammond was pulling it closed behind them.

  In the two years Draven had been in Noelle, the town’s only focus had been on the mines and making money. No one had bothered building boardwalks or porches. Mayor Hardt had said those things were on his list, but with the way the gold was petering out, Draven didn't figure it would happen anytime soon. Which meant, for the foreseeable future, he was going to have to deal with slush around his ankles—and deeper, at times—whenever he stepped off the plank that connected the jail to Cobb’s Penn.

  At least those miners Hardt had hired to shovel the snow out of the way had done their jobs. Mostly.

  Draven scowled down at the dirty slush piled all around, and asked again, “Who do you need me to arrest?”

  Hammond's answer was less than welcome. “Horatio Smythe.”

  Draven’s attention snapped back to the preacher, who was still looking anxiously up and down the Main Street. “You got something against me, Reverend? Did I do something to tick you off?”

  “What? Why?” Hammond was only half paying attention to the conversation.

  “Because I figure only somebody who hated me would ask me to spend a whole day in Horatio's company, him locked in a cell right by my desk...”

  Well, that gained Hammond’s attention, right enough. But the preacher’s reluctant smile still looked a little weak. “Yeah, sorry. I guess I didn't think about that.”

  They were standing in the middle of Noelle, freezing their noses off, and Draven still didn't know why Hammond wanted the newsman locked up. “You got any particular reason for wanting Horatio arrested?”

  The preacher sighed and pulled his hat off to run his hand through his hair. He sure looked worried about something. “Horatio married Miss Maybelle Anderson this morning.”

  Draven didn't know why that was bad news. Isn't that what the reverend wanted? His goal was twelve new couples by next week, so he should be happy about the new marriage.

  “And I heard you married Miss Partridge yesterday evening.” Draven knew no one would expect him to smile, so he didn't bother faking any enthusiasm. “Congratulations.”

  To his surprise, Hammond seem to completely lose his worry for a moment. His face broke into a big grin, and his eyes got a little glassy. “Yeah,” he said in a kinda far-away voice, “I can't believe how happy she makes me.”

  Before Draven could figure out how to respond to that, the preacher blinked twice,, and his shoulders drooped again. “The brides have only been here a few days, I know, but things started off so badly. I'm worried we won't get all of the couples matched by the time the representative from the railroad arrives.”

  “So isn't it a good thing that Horatio got married?”

  “It would be,” the reverend responded, “except he's not planning on sticking around.”

  Draven didn't bother hiding the lightning-fast grin which pulled the left side of his lips up to match the scarred right side. “Well, don't expect me to cry as he leaves. The man's a complete ass.”

  “I know!” Hammond agreed with another sigh. “But we need him at least ‘til the sixth. We only had twelve brides, and he was chosen as one of the grooms. Apparently Miss Anderson has convinced him to pick up his last delivery at Peregrines’ and head back home to San Francisco, where his daddy will ensure they live a life totally different from the—and I'm quoting here—‘peasants here in Noelle.’ ”

 
; Draven snorted. “Sounds like Horatio.”

  “That's only because you haven't met his bride,” Hammond said dryly.

  “So, what?” Draven asked. “You want me to arrest Horatio to keep him here in Noelle?”

  “Just until the railroad man comes next week.” The preacher looked hopeful. “Please?”

  Almost like kicking a puppy. Draven shook his head slowly. “Sorry Reverend, I ain't—” He bit off the word. Mama would skin me alive, she heard me talking like that. “I’m not going to arrest a man just for being an ass. If that was against the law, we'd have to arrest most of the US government.”

  Hammond stared at him a long moment, then his shoulders slumped. “You're right,” he agreed dejectedly. “We can't lock him up for that.” His eyes brightened a bit. “But surely we could come up with some reason?”

  Draven shrugged, resting his thumbs on his gun belt. The bright December sun gleamed off the gold ring on his smallest finger, and he pushed aside the memories it brought back. He wasn't a boy anymore; he was a man…with responsibilities he sometimes didn't want.

  “I don't like the man, true,” he said. “But offhand, I don't know of any laws he's broken. If you've got any good reason to lock him up, you'd best tell me now.”

  “Good afternoon, gentlemen.”

  The greeting caused Reverend Hammond to startle, but Draven didn’t blink. He’d seen Hugh Montgomery’s approach and returned the Englishman’s respectful nod with one of his own. As the town’s assayer, Montgomery’s reputation for strict honesty had earned him Mayor Hardt’s appreciation. But it was the way he’d treated Draven with respect as a fellow learned man—when many others took one look at his disfigured face and assumed he was as brutish as he looked—that had made the sheriff treat him as an equal.

  And there weren’t too many men equal to Draven.

  “’Afternoon, Montgomery.”

  Hammond nodded distractedly. “Hello, your lordship.” He didn’t seem to notice the way the Englishman scowled at the nickname.