The Gold Ring_The Fifth Day

by Caroline Lee

  Draven still hadn't said anything to her by the time they reached his office, but he hadn't loosened his hold on her either. Pearl didn't mind; he made her feel safe in a way she'd never felt before, not even when she'd had a home and a family.

  She hurried into the office in front of Draven, holding the door to the cell open for him. He deposited the still-unconscious Abernathy on the bench that passed for a bed.

  “It's not comfortable or warm, but he'll live.”

  “Thanks to you,” she said, proud of the decision he’d made.

  But standing in the doorway to the cell, Draven turned and pierced her with a serious look. “No, Pearl, thanks to you. I was ready to kill him, tear him apart for what he’d done to you.” Draven pulled his hat off and slapped it against his thigh a few times in what looked to be agitation. “I was ready to beat the man to death, and you stopped me.”

  She blushed slightly, not sure if he was accusing her, or praising her. “You would have done the right thing without me,” she assured him. “You're a good man.”

  When he moved suddenly towards her, Pearl froze, wondering if this is how his prey had felt for all those years.

  Draven gathered her in his arms, and she went willingly.

  Against her hair, he whispered, “If I'm a good man, Pearl Shelby, it's only because you made me so.”

  His outrageous claim shook her to her core, and she struggled to breathe against his shoulder. How could he say something like that? To be so casual about something so serious?

  “I didn't do anything, Draven,” she reiterated in a shaking voice. “I'm nobody. I'm nothing. I'm just a whore.”

  Her voice caught on the last word, but she managed to stifle the sob which threatened to break free. For a moment, his arms tightened around her, and she wondered if she’d made him angry. But when he spoke, his voice was even.

  “You know, if anyone else had said that about my wife, I'd make him sorry he ever breathed. But since it's you saying it about yourself... I guess I can forgive you just this once. As long as you never say it again.”

  At that moment, Pearl hated him just a little bit, for making her repeat her denial. “I'm not your wife, Draven. Not really.” And she knew she never would be.

  “You could be. Marry me, Pearl.”

  It broke her heart to shake her head, to step out of his embrace, but she had to say it. One of them had to face the truth.

  “More than anything else, more than anything I've ever wanted, I want to say yes. But I can't, Draven, and if you would stop and think for a moment, you would realize how cruel it is of you to ask me again and again for something which will never be.”

  Her breath catching on a sob, Pearl turned and ran through the door into his room.

  She pulled to a stop. This place, more than her room at the La Maison—even more than the small house she’d grown up in—felt like her home. Had she really only been here a few days? There was her dress hanging on a hook, her favorite before Birdie had made the beautiful amethyst creation Pearl now wore. There were the swags and pine boughs she worked so hard on to make Draven’s Christmas celebration feel more traditional. There, drying on the table, was the pie plate she used to make the apple pie he loved so much. It had only been a few days, certainly, but at some point, this place had become…

  Had become her home.

  Numbly, Pearl removed her coat and put her gloves—which Draven had recovered and returned to her—in the pockets, before she hung it up. What to do now? Now that they knew Stiles was really Abernathy—now that they didn't have to fool the railroad representative—she had no reason to stay. No reason not to go back to work, doing what she did best and had come to hate.

  No reason, except her love for Draven. She loved him and couldn't have him. Tears gathered in her eyes as she reached for the rag she'd designated for cleaning. Might as well finish what she started that morning. Maybe then she'd be able to face—

  What’s this?

  The folder with her artwork was sitting on the table, and she reached for it, confused. It hadn't been there this morning when she’d been looking for it, had it? No, surely not. The room wasn't so large she'd miss the kitchen table. Then how…?

  She opened the folder, and her breath caught. That wasn't one of her sketches, was it? Yes, she remembered those lines, that joy of capturing a small town at Christmas, but this was different slightly. The lines weren’t as crisp as she remembered and then, of course, there were the printed words underneath.

  Christmas in Noelle

  December, 1876

  The citizens of Noelle welcome their newest Neighbors with Best Wishes and Fond Hopes for a long future here in town.

  Pearl Shelby

  Pearl Shelby? This was her work, yes, but not her words. On the other hand, whoever had written it had perfectly captured her sentiment. She had been thinking about the new brides’ arrival in town and what it would mean for Noelle, as she'd sketched this on Christmas morning.

  Her hands shook slightly as her fingers tightened on the paper. Who…?

  Draven walked in, holding a piece of paper of his own. She recognized it as one of the wanted posters from his office.

  “I was right,” he said, waving the paper. “Peter Abernathy is wanted in Nebraska, and his bounty should be enough to keep us— Oh.”

  He broke off when he saw what she was holding. If she hadn't been looking directly at him, she would have missed his wince. He dropped the wanted poster on the table and reached for her, but must have thought better of it at the last moment, and his arms fell back to his side.

  “Are you—? What do you—?” He took a deep breath. “Are you angry?”

  “Did you do this?” Her voice shook slightly. “Did you take my work and change it?”

  For the first time ever, she saw Draven look... unsure. After a long moment, he nodded hesitantly. “Yes.”

  “How? Why?”

  He ran one hand over his hair. “I used Horatio's hectograph. He’d been storing it and using it in my office for a year now, so I paid attention.” He shrugged. “When I saw that sketch of yours, I was struck by... Look,” he said with a sigh, “it's like you managed to capture all of the best parts about living in Noelle. The mountains, the buildings in the snow...you even added touches that made the whole thing look so...” He shrugged again. “Welcoming. I knew the other women would appreciate that. And they did! They’ve already told me so.”

  Now her whole body began to tremble, the paper in her hands flapping wildly. She couldn't manage more than a whisper when she said, “No one knew. No one knew I liked to sketch, not until Birdie arrived. No one has ever seen any of my pictures. But you shared this one with the whole town?” She was half hurt, half flattered, and completely confused. “Why?” she wailed, desperate to understand.

  Not an hour ago he’d run to her rescue, saving her from Abernathy’s murderous intentions. Right after that, Draven had proposed marriage to her. And last night, he’d told her his real name. None of that was a confession of love, but surely it meant he cared for her, just a bit? Surely it meant he cared about her feelings? Or had he wanted to marry her just so he could have sex with her guilt-free?

  Oh, God. Tears were pooling in her eyes. Why had he done it, if he didn’t understand how special and private her drawings were to her?

  She watched as his hands reached for her, then curled into fists and drop once more to his side. His expression was oddly blank, as if he didn't know how to react to her outburst.

  He took a deep breath as she watched intently. What excuses would he make?

  “I'm sorry, Pearl. I am very, very sorry.” All the air whooshed out of him and his shoulders slumped as he looked away. “My mama tried to raise me right. One of her lessons was about never hurting a woman, and apologizing when you did. So I'm sorry I hurt your feelings.”

  He didn't say it to her, but to the kitchen table. Still, it was the most heartfelt apology Pearl had ever received in her life, so she could forgive
him for not meeting her eyes. Besides, hers were so filled with tears, it wouldn’t have made a difference.

  The last few years of her life had taught her many things about men's intentions and their passions. She knew that an apology was rare, and such a beautiful one, even rarer. She reached for him, intent on telling him so. Intent on thanking him. But before she could, he stepped out of her reach, pretending great interest in the Christmas candles she'd left on the table.

  “I want you to know that I didn't do it to hurt you.” His attention remained on the candles. “I would never do anything to hurt you intentionally. I knew that you'd never shared your artwork with the people in town, but I didn't stop to think why, or how you might react if I did that for you.”

  She was about to ask him why he’d done it in the first place, but he beat her to it.

  He took another deep breath, still not looking at her. “I was just so sick of you thinking of yourself as nothing more than a whore! You are so much more than that, Pearl, and I wanted you... I wanted you to see yourself the way I see you.”

  How much had it taken for him to express himself that way? In the last few days, she'd seen a side of Draven no one else in town ever had. He was thoughtful, well-read, and had a deep respect for his mother that made Pearl love him even more. But this confession, his words, the way he was opening his heart to her...it meant the most of all.

  She moved up behind him, placing her hand on his arm. He didn't acknowledge her presence, but she watched his shoulders straighten.

  She had to ask, or she’d always wonder. “And how is that, Draven? How do you see me?”

  “As a beautiful, talented woman,” he whispered without looking at her. “One who can make a crusty old badger like me celebrate Christmas once more. A woman who makes me contemplate future Christmases with her, and look forward to them. A woman who has opened my eyes, and my heart, to the beauty around me.”

  She startled when he twisted around and grabbed her hand as his dark gaze caught hers.

  “You are an amazingly talented artist, Pearl. I know now I shouldn't have taken your work and shared it without your permission, but I hope you'll forgive me. I wanted everyone else to see that about you.”

  You're more than a whore.

  His claim from earlier in the week had never been far from Pearl's thoughts.

  You're more than a whore.

  Whether it was true or not, it had meant so much to her, because he thought it was true. Could he be right? Could the people of Noelle, Colorado come to think of her as anything other than what she’d been for so long?

  Slowly, she nodded, a tiny glimmer of hope blossoming in her chest. “I forgive you, Draven. It's not how I would have done it, but the fact that you care enough about me and my reputation to do something this crazy...” She lowered her eyes. “Well, it means the world to me.”

  His hand came up and cupped her cheek. “Do you still love me?”

  How could he even ask? She flicked her gaze up to his, then away once more. “Of course. I...I don't think I'll ever stop.”

  The unscarred side of his mouth twitched upward to match the other. How she loved this crooked smile of his he never showed anyone else!

  “Then marry me, Pearl,” he implored gruffly. “Marry me—for real this time—and let me spend the rest of my life showing this town who you really are. Let’s— I don’t know. Let’s continue publishing Horatio’s newspaper or something, but with your sketches this time. Let me show Noelle how talented you are.”

  Her heart sank, and she tried to pull away, but his hand on her cheek stopped her.

  “Why, Pearl?” he asked softly. “Would I make that bad of a husband?”

  “No.” Her voice caught on a sob. “You'd be a wonderful husband, but I'd be a terrible wife!”

  His eye widened in surprise. “What do you mean?” With his free hand, he gestured around the room. “The last few days have shown me you're exactly the kind of wife I want.” A twinkle of humor returned to his expression, just for a moment. “And trust me when I tell you, I've never considered what kind of wife I wanted before now.”

  They’d been through this before, and Pearl was frustrated he was making her say it again. “I can't be your wife, Draven,” she said with as much patience as she could muster, “because I'm a—” Remembering what he tried so hard to convince her of, she changed her sentence slightly. “I've been a whore.”

  She took a deep breath. “You're a respected man, a respected bounty hunter, and now a respected sheriff in a town that will be booming again soon. What would it be like—what would people think—how would you maintain respect from the men in this town... if you were married to a woman they’d all—well…a woman like me?”

  Slowly, she watched his expression change. He was never an expressive man, but she knew him well enough. Realization, understanding, and acceptance flickered through his eye after her little speech. And with each change, her heart grew a little emptier.

  When his hand dropped from her cheek, she only kept her tears at bay by reminding herself that this is what she wanted. Draven was the only man she would ever love, and she was determined to protect him from her reputation.

  Without his touch, she felt lost, so she stepped away from him and the table, pretending a need to straighten the already perfect blankets on the bed. Maybe, despite what she’d just told him, he'd allow her to stay here with him in a more informal capacity. No one would judge him then, surely?

  His voice startled her out of her maudlin musings. “Last night,” he began gruffly, “ and this morning... were you thinking of another man?”

  What?

  She spun around “No! How could you ask that?”

  He was still standing beside the table, holding the printed copy of her drawing in one hand, while he watched her.

  “You think of yourself as a whore.” He shrugged. “That means what we did last night—what we've done dozens of times since I met you—you've done with other men. Right?”

  What…?

  Why was he doing this? Was he trying to humiliate her?

  Pearl lifted her chin. “Yes,” she said as smoothly as possible. “That and more.” She hated admitting it, but he had to understand.

  “So the other men in this town, the ones you're worried about thinking poorly of me...were you imagining their touch last night?”

  As if she could! “No.”

  “And when I'm making you scream my name, when you're panting, and begging for me...” His grin turned downright devilish. “Are you thinking about those other fellas?”

  Her cheeks burned, half at his crude words, and half at the memories they evoked. But she answered truthfully. “No.”

  He carefully placed the copy of her sketch on top of her folder and began across the room towards her. She stumbled backward slightly, feeling uncomfortably like his prey again.

  “I want you to know, regardless of whether we're married or not, I still plan on doing all those things to you for many more years.” He shrugged. “And I guess it's up to you if we do those things here in our home, or in the cathouse.”

  Pearl’s heart was beating so loudly, she wondered if he could hear it. She swallowed, not sure if she was nervous or not…but when he stopped in front of her, she didn't back away.

  “And what I want to know is, when I'm making you feel that way—when you're making me feel that way—are you going to be thinking about other men? Will you be thinking about the other men in this town?”

  It was time for her to confess. She sucked in a deep breath, raised her chin, and tried to ignore the pounding of her pulse in her ears.

  “Draven, from the first time you touched me, I have not thought of a single other man. It's always you I'm thinking of. Always.”

  That slow grin pulled up one side of his mouth. “Well then,” he drawled, “I think that's about all the answer I need.” He nodded, but made no move to reach for her. “I don't care what your past is, Pearl. You're the one that taught me to qu
it thinking of myself as the man I used to be. Since I met you, I’ve started thinking of my future, and I want you in it.” His chest expanded with a deep breath. “I want you to start thinking of a future with me. One that doesn't have anything to do with any of the other men in this town, any other man anywhere, and what you might have shared with them.”

  It was... it was everything she'd ever hoped to hear. “But your reputation—” she began tentatively.

  He grabbed her hand, interrupting her. “Do you think I honestly care? Do you think it matters to me? I'm confident enough in myself, and my feelings for you.”

  Feelings? Did that mean…?

  She squeezed his hand. Not because she needed the comfort, but because she felt like she might be drowning, and his grip was the only thing keeping her afloat. “What kind of feelings?”

  He stared at her a long moment, not speaking. His expression was unreadable again, and she didn’t like it.

  Finally, he asked her a question in response. “Who am I?”

  Was he trying to trick her? She thought over the last minutes. “You’re Draven. The most-feared man north of Texas. You probably don’t care what anyone else thinks about you, do you?”

  He shook his head once, curtly. “Who else am I?”

  Without breaking eye contact, he flipped her hand over in his, and began to rub small circles on her palm. Slowly, she felt her grip—all of her—relax. This was the man she’d fallen in love with.

  “You’re Gilder Draven,” she said quietly. “You honor your mother’s memory, even if no one else knows that. You’re well-read, and have opinions on all sorts of subjects. You’re thoughtful enough to come up with a scheme to give me value in the eyes of the new townswomen. And you’re gentle enough to make me fall in love with you.”

  His smile built slowly, but when it came, she knew she'd said the right thing.