The Gold Ring_The Fifth Day

by Caroline Lee

  Draven normally wouldn’t care about making polite conversation, but he didn’t particularly want to keep talking about not being able to arrest Horatio…especially not when the idea had so much merit. So he hurried to ask, “How’s married life?”

  But Hugh’s scowl only deepened. “It’s not. You know I can’t abide liars, and she’s—never mind.”

  Draven nodded. It wasn’t any of his business. “Good luck, I guess.”

  “Thank you.” The Englishman sighed and pushed his fancy hat back on his forehead. “I suppose we’d better decide what to do soon, what with the railroad representative arriving tonight or tomorrow.”

  “What?” Reverend Hammond shouldered his way back into the conversation. “What do you mean ‘tonight or tomorrow?’ ” He was looking even more panicked than he’d been ten minutes before. “He’s not due until the sixth!”

  “That’s what I thought as well.” Montgomery nodded solemnly. “But it appears we’re out of time, and I’m not married yet.” And then, under his breath, he added, “I’m not even sure I want to be.”

  The preacher was no longer paying attention, he was so wrapped up in his own worry. Pulling his hat completely off his head, he slapped it against his thigh a few times. “Tonight or tomorrow! Where did you hear that?”

  The Englishman nodded back up the street. “Mr. Penworthy received a telegram. I was meeting with him about a…a business concern.”

  “Dangit! This is horrible!” Hammond began to pace. “Well, we just won’t let it happen. They gave us ‘til January sixth.” He appeared to be talking to himself, and Draven wondered how his ears weren’t freezing, the way he was beating his hat against his thigh instead of wearing the thing. “The brides haven’t even been here two days, and I’m the only one married. I wasn’t even supposed to get married!”

  Draven felt his lips twitch again. “Don’t forget Horatio.”

  “Oh, right. Horatio P. Smythe,” Hammond sneered, kicking a snowdrift. “Sure! He’s married, but he’s leaving.”

  “Terribly sorry, Reverend,” The Englishman spoke up, “but he and his bride have left already. I saw them head out of town a while ago.”

  “Consarn it!” The preacher’s shoulders slumped, and he sounded defeated when he said, “We’ve only had two days. Two couples in two days isn’t bad…is it? Even though one couple left?”

  Draven and the Englishman shared a look, and Montgomery shrugged before speaking up.

  “You still have two couples’ names on the marriage ledger, Reverend. I’m sure you could convince the railroad representative to give you the allotted time, since you can prove marriages are happening.”

  “And how do I explain the fact that Horatio and Maybelle aren’t around? It’s not like they would be off camping somewhere.” Hammond gestured to the deep snow surrounding the town.

  But the Englishman shrugged. “Just find a couple and tell the railroad chap they’re Horatio and Maybelle.”

  “Oh, and where are we going to find…?”

  Draven’s eye narrowed. Hugh Montgomery, the man renowned for his honesty, was suggesting the preacher lie?

  And that’s when he realized the other two men were looking at him speculatively, and Montgomery was trying to hide a smile.

  Not evening bothering to dampen his scowl, Draven barked, “What?”

  “Let me get this straight, Hugh…” Hammond was staring at Draven, tapping his hat against his thigh thoughtfully. “You’re suggesting our illustrious sheriff here might pass for a stuck-up society gentleman?”

  Montgomery shrugged, and pretended great interest in the seam of his glove. “I only wonder if the railroad chap knows what Horatio Smythe looks like, or if he’d be happy just seeing a couple and a pair of names in the marriage ledger.”

  “Good point.”

  Draven growled, “What do you mean, ‘good point’? I’m not getting married, preacher. Not for you, or your stupid scheme.”

  “Oh, you don’t need to be married.” Hammond actually looked relieved for some reason. “You just need to claim to be Horatio, after we show the railroad man the latest couple’s marriage record.”

  “Why in the hell would I—”

  Montgomery interrupted. “You’ve forgotten a rather important detail, Reverend. Maybelle. Or rather, his pretend Maybelle.”

  Draven’s grip tightened on his gun belt. It was taking a serious effort to maintain his calm. “Not my Maybelle. I’m not agreeing to this.”

  “True,” Hammond said to Montgomery, ignoring Draven completely. “We’ll need a woman who isn’t already claimed.”

  “Hmmm.” Hugh switched his attention to the other glove. “Difficult to find, what with us having to draw straws for the dozen brides, and only ten left.”

  Draven switched his left hand to the comfortable grip of his revolver. “Then I’d advise you to find some other poor sonuvabitch to talk into this scheme. I don’t want—”

  Again, Hammond ignored his protests. “Good point, Hugh. But I wasn’t thinking about one of the brides. I was thinking about…her.”

  He couldn’t help it; Draven spun around to see who the reverend was pointing at.

  Pearl.

  He’d know her silhouette anywhere. After all, it was the same figure that came to him in his dreams, although she usually wasn’t wearing quite so many clothes. Today she was bundled up in a pretty maroon coat and winter bonnet, her hair in a braid over one shoulder. Between that and her rosy cheeks, she looked just like a sweet, innocent schoolgirl out for a stroll.

  His mouth went dry.

  God almighty, he wanted her again already. He didn’t think he’d ever stop wanting her, and that brief conversation he’d had the night before last—Christmas Eve—when he’d stuck his foot in his mouth…it hadn’t been enough. He wanted her constantly.

  So maybe he was talking out of his too-tight trousers when he blurted out, “I’ll do it.”

  Was that distaste he saw in Montgomery’s eyes when Draven turned to see how the men had taken his sudden agreement? The question was answered when the Englishman’s lip curled slightly.

  “Are you sure, Sheriff? Reverend, I’ve heard some rumors…”

  “Rumors?” Hammond asked, before Draven could.

  Montgomery shifted his weight, as if preparing an awkward answer. “Pearl’s a bit of a…cold fish, as it were. She ignores her clients, and prefers to spend time with the other whores.”

  A cold fish.

  Draven took a threatening step towards the man before he’d even thought through his response, but Montgomery lifted his hands and backed away.

  A cold fish? As in, a woman who just…lay there and let a man do what he want to her?

  “She’s a whore.” Draven blurted out. Surely Montgomery couldn’t be that stupid? Why would a whore be a cold fish? Her livelihood relied on her…on her enthusiasm.

  And Draven had never had a more enthusiastic partner than Pearl Shelby. She was about as far from “cold fish” as possible.

  “Where’d you hear that?” Draven growled before he could stop himself.

  The Englishman cleared his throat. “Horatio mentioned it to me a few weeks ago. During his contracted time with Pearl, she just… Well, he said she got lippy—his words, not mine—and then later dragged him away from young Angelique.”

  Sounded to Draven like Pearl might’ve been protecting the young woman, not deliberately ticking Horatio off.

  On the other hand—Draven forced himself to breathe deeply and relax his grip on his revolver—he couldn’t much blame her if she had set out to deliberately irritate that ass.

  Still, none of that made her a cold fish.

  Hammond cleared his throat. “Yes, well…” He shot a glare Montgomery’s way. “Her enthusiasm in bed doesn’t matter, because we’re not expecting Sheriff Draven to sleep with the woman, Lord Hugh. Just pretend to be married to her.”

  Maybe it was the stupid nickname, maybe it was the preacher’s glare. Or maybe it was th
e way Draven was still frowning angrily at him. Either way, Montgomery smiled thinly and backed away.

  “Quite right, quite right. I’ll just…” He glanced over his shoulder. “I’ll just leave you two to the plans. I have my own bride conundrum, after all.”

  When he hurried away, Draven couldn’t say he was sorry to see the man go.

  Cold fish, ha!

  “Miss Pearl!”

  Hammond’s call broke through Draven’s irritation. He tilted his head just enough to see Pearl changing direction. She’d been heading down the street towards La Maison des Chats, but now she crossed the street towards them.

  Was it Draven’s imagination, or did her steps slow slightly as she neared the two men? Was she nervous about something, or still upset at him for whatever he’d said wrong the other night?

  “Miss Pearl,” Hammond said politely, shoving his hat back on his head. “How are you?”

  “Reverend.” She curtsied just like a debutante. “I’ve heard congratulations are in order. From what I know of Felicity, she’s a treasure.”

  “Thank you!” The preacher beamed like an idiot, and Draven resisted the urge to scowl. “I’m rather pleased with her myself.”

  And then she turned to Draven. “Sheriff,” she said, low and demurely, staring firmly at his chest.

  Damn him, he felt himself stir just at her lukewarm greeting. “Miss Pearl,” he managed to acknowledge curtly on his second try.

  The three of them stood in silent tableau for another moment, before Hammond cleared his throat.

  “Miss Pearl, we have rather a unique proposition for you.”

  We? Draven wanted to protest, but he couldn’t. He’d agreed wholeheartedly—or at least, whole-bodily—once he’d known she would be involved.

  For her part, Pearl clasped her gloved hands sweetly in front of her, and blinked politely at Hammond. Draven tightened his hands into fists—feeling the ring digging into his left palm—while he waited for the preacher to explain, and her to laugh it off.

  “You see, we need you to pretend to be Maybelle Anderson.”

  Her response was immediate. “You mean, act like a spoiled and demanding debutante?”

  While Draven snorted at her observation, the preacher clarified. “Ye—No! Well, maybe. That part doesn’t really matter. You see,” he took a deep breath, “Horatio Smythe and Maybelle Anderson were married this morning.”

  “Yes,” she said quietly. “They seemed perfect for one another.”

  Draven snorted again.

  “Perhaps.” The reverend glared at Draven before continuing. “And luckily for the town’s long-term happiness, they’ve decided to leave for San Francisco. But that means we’re down one couple, and with the railroad representative apparently arriving early—as in tonight or tomorrow—we need a couple to pretend to be Horatio and Maybelle, since their marriage is listed in the town’s ledger.”

  Pearl was quiet for a long moment. Finally, her pale blue eyes flicked to Draven, then back to the reverend. “You do have a scarcity of women in town, don’t you? Who will be pretending to be Horatio?”

  Hammond cleared his throat, his eyes flicking to Draven, and Draven thought he suddenly looked uncomfortable with the idea.

  Why? Because he thought Pearl was going to balk, knowing Draven was the other half of this scheme? Maybe she would. Just because she’d been the only woman in years to look at him without pity and revulsion didn’t mean she would suddenly agree to—

  “I’ll do it.”

  Her quiet agreement took both men by surprise, judging from the way Hammond’s head snapped up. Draven, for his part, was too busy staring at her. She’d agreed far too quickly to mean it, hadn’t she? She was willing to pretend to be his wife?

  “Are you sure, Miss Pearl?” Hammond suddenly sounded all protective.

  “She said she’d do it,” Draven all-but-growled, not taking his eye off her. “Let it be.”

  “However,” she began, her chin raising, “I think it’s important to portray a happily married couple. For verisimilitude.”

  The reverend blinked, maybe at the idea of a whore using such a fancy word for truthful. “Yes…indeed. What did you have in mind, exactly?”

  “I think, assuming the sheriff will have me, it would be best if I moved in with him for the duration.”

  Holy mother of God. He’d have her, in his rooms, for at least a few days.

  Hammond’s laugh was forced. “Alright, you two, but no hanky-panky. You’re not really married.” He shook his finger at Pearl. “And you’re not working.”

  Her face paled, and Draven couldn’t stop himself from taking a step towards her. It was instinctual for him to want to help her.

  But her shoulders straightened, her jaw tightened, and she said merely, “I understand, Reverend.”

  Maybe it was some last vestige of the gentlemanly manners his mama had tried so hard to instill in him…Draven turned slightly to put his shoulder between Pearl and the reverend.

  “Are you sure about this, Pearl?” he asked quietly. “You don’t have to do anything you’re uncomfortable with.”

  And for the first time, she looked him square in the eye. Her blue eyes sparkled with something between sadness and mischief, and her beautiful lips curled enigmatically.

  He felt the pull of that smile deep in his chest, just like he always did.

  “Of course I’m sure, Sheriff,” she replied, just as quietly. She laid her hand on his arm, and he felt the warmth of that touch even through her gloves and his coat. “I’m happy to do my part to help the town survive.”

  And, as she hurried down the street with Reverend Hammond to get a valise with some things from La Maison des Chats, Draven frowned after them. She might only be doing this to help Noelle and the preacher’s marriage scheme, but he wasn’t so sure.

  There’d been something there in her eyes he hadn’t been able to name, but wanted to know all about.

  Soon, he told himself. Soon he’d have Pearl Shelby to himself, and he could figure out why she’d agreed so quickly.

  And God help him if he found out it was only to help the town.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  By the time she’d moved some of her things out of La Maison—nothing much, just the things she would need for a day or two, plus her bundle of pencils and her sketch folder—it was dinner time. Pearl sat, excited and terrified all at once, across the table in Draven’s small home.

  Mayor Hardt had ordered the building built two years before, and it was simple. A larger room up front, divided in half to act as a jail cell and the sheriff’s office, and a smaller room in back. The back room had an oven and a griddle, a table with two rough-hewn chairs—although one looked entirely unused, judging from the shiny seat and back of the other one—a chest, a small table under some hooks by the door, and a bed.

  That bed had seemed to swallow all her attention from the moment she’d stepped into the room; it wasn’t anything more than a mattress placed on the ground, but it was piled high with blankets and pillows and looked like a cozy little nest.

  Not at all how she’d expected a man like Sheriff Draven to live. He’d always enjoyed the comforts of her bed at La Maison, but she’d pictured him rolled up in a buffalo robe on the floor, if anything.

  The sight of those brightly colored blankets made her smile.

  “You like bacon, huh?”

  His question snapped her out of her contemplation, and she hurried to pick up the fork he’d placed beside her plate. “Yes, very much.” Let him think she’d been smiling because of the meal.

  He’d fried up some bacon and served it with bread. That was it. Love of bacon aside, this wasn’t the healthiest dinner. Apparently, despite his bed, the sheriff wasn’t the homey-type after all. She vowed that—assuming she’d still be here—tomorrow she’d cook him a feast worth remembering.

  “Sorry it’s not much.”

  He fiddled with his fork, twisting it back and forth, before stabbing a piece of meat wit
h it to bring to his mouth. Pearl tried not to stare at his lips when they closed around the food, wondering if it was normal for her to be so distracted by memories of him kissing her skin.

  “It’s—” She swallowed and tried again. “It’s wonderful.” She took a dainty bite of the bacon to prove the point, and only felt a little uncomfortable at the way that dark eye watched her. “Thank you for allowing me to stay here with you. I know I forced myself—”

  “It’s fine,” he said, a little too quickly. “I mean…I don’t mind.”

  When he twisted the fork between his fingers once more, the lamplight caught the gleam of gold from his left hand. That small golden ring around the littlest finger had always intrigued her, but she never had the courage to ask why he’d wear a ring so thin. Just like she’d never had the courage to ask about a lot of things.

  When he lifted the fork to his mouth again, she blinked and tore her gaze away from his hand. She searched about for a topic of conversation.

  “Your home is very cozy. Thank you for sharing it with me.”

  He glanced up and shrugged, as if it wasn’t important. But it was important. Being here with him, it was giving her a chance to fulfill a dream she’d had for months and months…

  She realized she was staring at him, and although he continued to chew stoically, it was impossible to miss the way his remaining dark eye watched her…almost worriedly.

  “How’d you get your scar?” she blurted, then winced. Oh, poorly done, girl.

  The parallel scars crossed his face from his left brow bone, across the bridge of his nose and right eye socket, and down his right cheekbone. This meant that his expressions were almost impossible to read, since he was missing so much of his face. But even so, she thought she noticed a twitching of the scar tissue above his remaining eye, as if he was raising his brow at her.

  She winced again, knowing she deserved his disdain. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked. You don’t need to talk about it, if you don’t want to. Sorry,” she apologized again, weakly.

  He carefully placed the fork by his plate and sat back in his chair, studying her. She felt lower than a bug, knowing she made him feel awkward, and twisted her fingers together on her lap as she bowed her head, waiting for his scolding.