The Gold Ring_The Fifth Day

by Caroline Lee

  December 27th, 1876

  No one seemed to know where the railroad inspector was staying. Percy Penworthy down at the land office confirmed the man—a Mr. Anthony Stiles—had in fact arrived yesterday evening, but wasn't sure where he’d gone after he'd come into town.

  It wasn't like there was a hotel for the man to stay in, so Draven was surprised Stiles hadn't demanded lodging with Penworthy. Of course, anyone who spent more than ten minutes with the annoying and sniveling Penworthy probably would change his mind real quick about lodging with him, so maybe that explained Stiles’ absence.

  How the hell was Draven supposed to convince Stiles he was Horatio and Pearl was Maybelle, without being able to meet the man? And why in tarnation was it his responsibility anyhow?

  When Draven realized that, he gave up his search, and started looking for Reverend Hammond instead. Let him deal with Stiles. When Hammond tracked down the railroad man, then he could come find Draven to lie for him.

  Only problem was, Draven couldn't find the reverend either. And frankly, he wasn’t sure what he should say to the man once he did. Could Draven really claim to be angry about the deception, when he’d agreed to it so quick? And what would the good preacher say, if Draven marched up and shook his hand and said, “Thanks for giving me the best night’s sleep I’ve had in the last fifteen years?”

  Draven paused outside the jailhouse during one of his circuits of the town and placed his gloved palm against the door. She was just inside if not in his office, then in his small room in the back. He knew, because he’d been keeping half an eye on the building all morning. Pearl hadn’t come out, and the thought of her in his home…

  Well, it made him feel warm inside in a way he hadn’t since Mama had been around. In a way no other woman had ever made him feel. Holding Pearl last night, then sitting across from her this morning, eating the most delicious flapjacks he could remember, had made him feel whole. When he was with her, he wasn’t a scarred beast of a man…he was just a man.

  His fingers curled into a fist, and he dropped his hand, wondering what people would think if they saw him standing out here like an idiot. Mooning over a woman. But Pearl wasn’t like all those brides who’d shown up the other night. She was beautiful—sure—and kind-hearted enough, to look at him and not be afraid.

  But she was more than that. She was a survivor. She was brave and strong, and so passionate, Draven had struggled last night, trying to push away the memories of their intimate times together. She was the kind of woman others might ignore—the kind some men might assume was a “cold fish,” the kind to care more about the welfare of her friends than making money—but he admired her.

  And she was broken, just like him. He hadn’t seen it before, when their relationship had been strictly business, but he saw it last night. Last night, when she thought she owed him something and wanted to repay him. She offered her body, because it was the only thing she thought worth anything.

  And the good Lord knew it was a struggle for Draven not to take what she’d offered. But he didn’t want her pity, didn’t want her obligation. He wanted to be inside her, yeah, but not that way.

  Lying there, holding her in his arms, he realized something important: he wanted her body given freely, in celebration. In pleasure. Not because he’d paid for her—like had in the past—or because she felt she owed him.

  He wanted her to want him.

  And that’s about the time he’d called himself ten times a fool, and gone to sleep.

  Still, this morning—during his fruitless search for answers he wasn’t sure he wanted—he couldn’t help but think of the way she’d stood there, unlaced. She’d honestly thought that was the only way to thank him? She thought that was why he’d agreed to this, why he’d shared his home with her?

  Draven cursed under his breath and turned away from the jail building.

  Hell yes, it’s what I want.

  But not that way. He didn’t want her obligated to him. And he didn’t want her to think the only thing she had to offer a man was her body.

  What happened to a simple “thank you?”

  That’s how he knew she was as broken as he was. She didn’t think her verbal thanks was good enough. She didn’t think her laughter, her conversation, her smiles were good enough for him? Bah!

  He needed to come up with a way to show her she was more than “just a whore.

  To him, and if she’d let him, to the world as well. She was a brave, compassionate woman, who apparently was the best artist he’d ever met in his life. She had plenty of worth…and he had to come up with some way to make her see it.

  Only problem was, he had no idea how.

  So he spent December twenty-seventh getting increasingly frustrated, both over memories of Pearl, and the missing Anthony Stiles.

  Oh, he also dealt with the usual issues which faced a town like Noelle: the occasional fist fight among the laid-off miners who’d been hanging around making trouble lately, and helping two more load up their mules to head out of town. Even when there was a dozen men who were willing to sacrifice their futures by getting married for the possibility of saving the town, others were still leaving. Hellfire, even Draven himself had gotten suckered into the reverend’s scheme, and here he was, ready to lie just to convince the railroad to build a spur into town.

  He couldn't decide if Mama would be disappointed or proud. Knowing her and what a stickler she’d been for the truth, while at the same time talking about him getting married someday, she'd probably be both.

  He found the mayor up at his mine, poring over a bundle of papers and muttering to himself about something Draven didn’t care about. But when Hardt noticed him, his face creased into a pleased grin.

  “There’s the man of the hour!”

  The praise startled Draven, and he cocked his head to one side when he asked, “What?”

  “I heard Chase—that sly fox!—talked you into pretending to be happily married, just to save our bacon. Gotta admit, I wouldn’t have guessed you’d be the man to do that…but I also heard Pearl is the one pretending to be Maybelle.”

  The way he said Pearl’s name held just a hint of something Draven couldn’t identify. A knowing? A teasing? He scowled, deciding to ignore it.

  “Yeah, well, did you hear why we had to do it?”

  That sobered the mayor right up.

  “Yes. The man from the Denver and Pacific showed up early.” Hardt frowned. “You know, I didn't think much of that marriage scheme, except...well, it's a useful distraction.”

  “While you look for more gold, you mean.”

  The papers in Hardt’s hand crumpled when he abruptly tightened his hold on them. “We'll strike a new vein soon. In fact, I've got a feeling it'll be today. The Denver and Pacific will see that Noelle is a thriving town, and those poor saps will have gotten married for nothing.” Hardt checked himself, then grinned. “Well, not you, huh? I guess you were smart enough to just be faking it.”

  Later, on his way back to town, his hands in the pockets of his coat and his chin tucked down around his chest for warmth, Draven thought about the mayor’s comment. Draven was just faking his marriage to Pearl…so how come hearing Hardt say it had made him so angry? How come it made him wish he was married to her for real?

  How come he’d started thinking of Culver Daniels and Reverend Hammond as the lucky ones?

  “In here, Draven!”

  Draven’s head snapped up when he heard Doc Deane calling him. The Irishman was gesturing from the front door of his office, so Draven obliged him by stepping inside. The little stove was putting out enough warmth to make him move closer and sigh just slightly. It was cold outside!

  The doctor was bustling around his office, doing something with all of his tools and equipment, but Draven couldn’t tell if the other man was cleaning, organizing, or just picking up stuff and putting it down again. Frankly, he didn’t care.

  “What’s up, Doc?”

  Deane looked over his shoulder at him.
“Did I hear correctly? You’re pretending to be Horatio Smythe to satisfy the railroad representative?”

  Scowling, Draven said, “It’s not going to work if everyone knows about it.”

  “Don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me.” The doctor moved over to his desk, holding something metal and uncomfortable-looking. “You know I’m good with secrets.”

  Draven snorted in agreement. Two years ago, he’d ridden into town with a gunshot wound in his leg that’d turned infectious and damn near killed him. Doc Deane had saved his life, and in return, Draven had torn up the wanted poster with the man’s likeness on it.

  It had been the first time he’d voluntarily passed up on a bounty, and had eventually led to Mayor Hardt hiring Draven as Noelle’s sheriff while he recovered. It marked a moment where Draven had chosen loyalty—and repaying a debt—over money. He figured that was when he’d stopped being a bounty hunter, and had become a sheriff.

  Since then, he’d had an uneasy alliance with the doctor. The man had kept him alive for no reason other than kindness, and Draven had done his best to forget the details on that wanted poster. So, yeah, he knew the man was good at keeping secrets.

  But that was neither here nor there. “You got something you need to tell me?”

  Deane shrugged. “I met Mr. Stiles this morning. He came in here looking for information about the town and the marriages. I…” The doctor shifted uncomfortably, not looking Draven in the eye. “He knows I’m supposed to be one of the grooms.”

  “Supposed to be?” Why the hell hadn’t any of these men gotten married like they’d promised?

  “Cara—that’s my bride, the pretty little Irish maid—she and I…” He cleared his throat. “She knows everything. About my past, I mean.”

  Huh.

  Draven shoved his hands into his coat’s pockets. “Yeah, I can see how that would be difficult, talking her into marrying you.”

  The doctor took a deep breath and nodded. “But I told Mr. Stiles that the wedding would happen before the deadline. I mean, what else was I supposed to say? I can’t tell him I’m going to be the town’s weak link. That would mean we wouldn’t meet the twelve-new-couples requirement!”

  “Good luck.” Draven really didn’t care whether or not the railroad representative believed Deane, or even if he thought the town was worthy of a new spur. He was just doing this for—

  Why was he doing this?

  Yesterday had been something of a blur, between Hammond and Montgomery and Pearl. Pearl. Oh yeah, he’d agreed to this stupid scheme because it meant a chance to be near Pearl.

  And he was finding out all sorts of things about her, wasn’t he? Dammit, how could he convince her she was special? How could he—

  “Anyhow,” Deane interrupted his thoughts, “Stiles wasn’t interested in me. He asked all sorts of questions about you, though.”

  “Me?” Draven’s instincts slammed into high alert.

  Doc shrugged. “Well, not you. Horatio. He wanted to know all about Horatio and Maybelle, and where they were living and where he could find them, and if they seemed happy and what kind of woman she was.”

  Hmmmm. “Did he ask those questions about anyone else?”

  “Not a one. Didn’t even care about the reverend and his new Mrs. Hammond.”

  That was suspicious. “What did you tell Stiles?”

  Another shrug. “Not much of anything. You know I can keep a secret. But I’m not sure about everyone else he’s going to ask. You might want to track him down and meet with him yourself.”

  That’s the plan. Draven nodded. “I’ll do that. Thanks, Doc.”

  The two men shook hands and said their goodbyes. Draven stepped out of the office with his chin tucked against his chest, wondering what the doctor’s information meant.

  Why would the representative from the Denver and Pacific Railroad care so much about Horatio and his bride? And what would Draven and Pearl have to do to be convincing?

  And would he enjoy it?

  He was stepping around the land office when he saw Storm Thornton heading towards Culver Daniels’ smithy with his horse. But it wasn’t until he’d hailed the half-breed that Draven saw Storm’s thunderous look.

  “What’s the matter? Married life not agreeing with you?”

  Storm’s scowl deepened. “I’m not married yet. Not sure I want to be, not to that woman.”

  “Well, that’s better than ‘I don’t want to be,’ I guess.”

  The other man grunted and turned his attention back to his horse. “She’s not so bad, I guess. It’s the goose following her everywhere I mind.”

  Draven’s lips tugged upwards. “You got the goose-girl? Why not serve the thing up for Epiphany dinner?”

  “Because I heard a rumor she tried to kill the last man who wanted to cook her goose.”

  Draven snorted. “And here I thought you were worried about her feelings, not your own hide.”

  He could see his sometimes-friend was anxious to get back to his ranch, so he quit his mocking and left Storm to figure out his feelings for the goose-girl.

  It wasn’t until he was at the door to the jail building late that afternoon that his words to Storm came back to him.

  Do I care about Pearl’s feelings?

  Hell, he’d been trying to build her self-worth, for cryin’ out loud. Sounds like maybe he did care about her feelings, at least a little.

  Bah! This was just a pretend marriage. It’d be over as soon as they could track down the elusive Anthony Stiles, and show him the entry in the marriage ledger.

  A part of him—buried deep under his scars and his years of living alone—shouted, I don’t want it to be over! But he swallowed it down.

  …right up until he pushed open the door between his office and his home, and stopped short, struck with a visceral memory so strong, he almost dropped to his knees. There was a set of fancy candles sending a cheery glow over the table, which was laden with food. Scents of cinnamon and sugar, and spices he couldn’t name but remembered from his mama’s cooking, wafted through the air, mixing with the faint whiff of pine from the boughs over the back window and the doorway he was standing in. The whole place had been scrubbed until it gleamed, and the green curtains and tablecloth were new.

  And there, standing in the middle of it all, was the woman who’d made him remember it was Christmas. Right then and there, Draven opened his heart to that little part of him that was telling him he didn’t want this to end, and it became a big part. He didn’t want this…this…subterfuge to end.

  Ever.

  “Do you like it?”

  Something in Draven’s chest clenched to hear her hesitation, as if she was afraid of his answer.

  So he tried his best smile—still not great, judging from the way her eyes widened—and stepped into the room, shutting the door behind him.

  “I do.” He nodded once, to show he was serious, as he crossed to her. “How’d you get it so warm in here?”

  “I’ve been baking for hours. Your timing is perfect, because everything is ready—”

  That’s when he kissed her.

  They’d kissed before, sure, at La Maison. But this time…

  This time…

  Pearl lifted herself on her toes and threw her arms around his neck, and he wrapped his arms around her waist to pull her against him.

  This kiss felt right. Special. Like she was kissing him because she wanted to be, not because she’d been paid for it. Like she’d spent hours making her man’s home into something out of a Christmas memory, and was now happy to see him.

  She kissed him as if, maybe…maybe she cared for him.

  God almighty, it felt good.

  When he realized he was a few heartbeats from laying her down on his bed and throwing up her skirts, Draven forced himself to let her loose. She slid down his body—when had he lifted her off the ground?—and held onto his arms while she steadied herself.

  He tried not to smile at that.

  “I�
�” She ran her hand along the side of her head, smoothing little blonde fly-away hairs back into her bun. “I… Oh my.”

  His lips twitched, and when she saw that, she blushed and cleared her throat.

  “Dinner’s getting cold.”

  He swatted her rear end playfully. “Then let’s eat.”

  She’d made chicken pot pie, and he couldn’t help the groan that escaped his lips when he bit into that first steaming bite.

  “What is it?” she asked anxiously. “Is it too hot? I have some cold water if you need some.”

  His eye was shut, and his mouth was too full of blissful memories to answer. So he just shook his head. “Mm-ummm.”

  When he swallowed and opened his eye, she was twisting her napkin in her hands. He wondered if she knew how domestic she looked, her hair all pinned up like that and her blouse sprinkled with flour.

  She looked like somebody’s wife.

  He managed a nod. “Thank you.” His voice was more gravelly than he’d intended. “That’s real—I mean, very good. Just like my mother used to make.”

  A smile lit her face, melting away the worry lines. She smoothed her napkin over her lap once more and picked up her fork. “I’m glad you like it. I haven’t baked it in years. It was my mother’s recipe too.”

  “Where’d you grow up? You never talk about—” He used his fork to gesture, trying to encompass not just his home, but the town and the cathouse too.

  Maybe it worked, because her smile tightened slightly, and she looked down at her plate. “I was born and raised in Houston. My parents passed away in the same fire that took my younger brothers.”

  “Sorry,” he said around a mouthful of pie.

  She shrugged. “Thank you. I…” She fiddled with her fork. “I was engaged to be married, but after I ‘gave up the goods’ to him, as he called it, he informed me he’d be marrying another young lady. One who still had a family, and property to her name.”

  The pie turned ashy in his mouth, and Draven forced himself to swallow. “So you turned to prostitution?”

  Another shrug. “I’d already traded my body for security once, and even though it hadn’t worked, I knew it was an option. It was all I had to barter with.”