by Tess LeSue
“You’re buying one hell of a business,” she told Justine, who was equally transfixed by the ink flowing from the nib of the lawyer’s fancy fountain pen.
“Don’t I know it,” Jussy said. She looked a little green at how much it was costing her. But she was no fool. She was getting the whorehouse at a cut price; if it weren’t for Hec Boehm running Seline out of town, the place would have gone for more. But with a man like Hec snapping at her skirts, Seline was just happy to grab what she could and get gone. Luckily, what she could grab was eye wateringly wonderful.
Mr. Teague put the gold dust in neatly folded brown squares of paper and lined up the rows of bank notes, using the beautiful little gold nuggets to weigh the stacks down.
“You’d best be depositing all of that in the bank, quick smart,” Mr. Teague told her, peering up over his crooked spectacles. “Moke Hill is no place for a . . . ahem . . . lady . . . to be carrying around a fortune like that.”
Seline ignored him. Even if she planned to stay in town—which she didn’t—she didn’t believe in banks. Especially not the one in Mokelumne Hill, which was run by Wilbur Stroud, a man who liked to be tied naked to a chair while Seline’s girls dressed up like nuns and told him that he was a very naughty boy. Sometimes, when business was especially stressful at the bank, he’d even ask the nuns to take a strap to him.
No. Seline would look after her own money, thank you very much.
“Would you like me to read you the documents?” Teague asked.
Seline snatched them off him. Honestly. These men were all alike. They thought being a whore meant you were stupid. How did he think she could run her businesses without reading? She went through the contract first, and then the deeds to the building and the business. Justine peered over her shoulder. They each found a couple of errors, which Teague swiftly corrected and initialed, looking sour.
Seline’s hands were sweaty as she took the corrected documents back from him and checked them one last time. There, in a thicket of fancy legal words, was her freedom. From Hec Boehm and Moke Hill, and, best of all, from whoredom. And right at the bottom of the contract was a space for her to write her name. Her real name. The one she hadn’t used for nigh on twelve years . . .
“You sign first,” she told Justine, her voice a little unsteady. Hell. It was the thought of that name, she supposed. It was like seeing a ghost . . . a ghost that brought with it an ugly mudslide of memories. The weight on her. The pain. The smell of his rank corn liquor sweat. The feel of a hand clamped over her mouth and nose.
She exhaled. She hadn’t been quick enough to get out of the way, that was all. Not then, and not now. Usually, she could jump aside before the memories hit. And there were more memories than she cared to count. The sludge of her past was a relentless tide, an avalanche of shame and fear, prone to sucking her down and drowning her alive.
But they were just memories, she told herself fiercely, as she watched Justine bend over the documents, pen in hand. They were the past. And this, right here, right now, was the beginning of her future.
And her future was going to be a gold-plated beautiful thing.
Justine finished her signature with a flourish and handed the pen to Seline. “All yours, boss.”
“No, honey,” Seline said, shaking off her sludgy past and the whipped little creature she’d been, and adopting her fancy welcome-to-the-whorehouse drawl, “it’s all yours now. Boss.”
And as she signed the deed, her black signature an energetic slash on the page, she signed it with her real name. With the name of the girl who had been left back in Tennessee all those years ago, scared and alone, and with no other option than to let men buy her body by the hour.
Emma Jane Palmer.
She was free.
* * *
• • •
OR, ALMOST FREE. First, she had to get out of town without Hec Boehm or any of his greasy henchmen seeing her.
“He’s got those Koerners parked downstairs waiting for you, and that Dutch thug is watching the back door,” Justine told her. The newly promoted madam was eager to get Emma out of her whorehouse as quickly as possible. She didn’t fancy her expensive business being the target of Hec’s violence—not when she’d just paid her life savings for it.
“Don’t fret. Teague’s going to tell Hec I’ve sold up. He’s headed there now.” Emma swept her fortune into the saddlebags she had waiting on the floor. The bags were deliciously heavy. She was glad the office had a connecting door to her room, so she didn’t have to go out on the landing to get there, dragging her fortune with her. She knew Kipp Koerner would be watching the office door, probably without blinking. That man was like a tick on a dog when it came to doing Hec’s business. His brother, Carter, on the other hand, was just as liable to be liquored up and counting his coins to do the nasty with JoBeth or Mona. He favored the young-looking ones.
“‘Don’t fret,’ she says,” Justine parroted, following her into the bedroom. “It don’t matter a lick if he knows you sold, so long as you’re here.”
Didn’t Emma know it. She dropped the saddlebags and yanked her carpetbag out from under the bed. “Teague’s also going to tell Mr. Boehm that I’ll receive him tomorrow, at nine P.M. sharp, to give him my decision.” Justine didn’t look reassured. “Teague will also pass on that my answer will, of course, be yes,” Emma told her, as though that solved everything.
Jussy looked less convinced than ever. “And why would you sell this place if you were planning on staying in Moke Hill?”
Emma fluttered her eyelashes. “To devote my full attentions to his pleasure.” She snorted. “Or so Teague will tell him—along with how much it will cost him to have me. He did say he wanted me exclusively. And that sure as hell can’t happen if I’m busy running this joint every night.” It would also flatter his vanity, the thought of having her completely to himself. He’d already offered to set her up in a little place of her own, right on the main street across from the Heart of Gold. She’d be like his personal canary, hung right where everyone could see him, strutting in and out of her gilded cage. He wanted everyone to know that he’d conquered the unconquerable whore. And he wanted to reinforce that she was, when all was said and done, still just a whore.
She’d made the price absolutely ridiculous. She didn’t think Hec would believe any less, considering how much of a stink she’d kicked up over the whole business. Unconsciously, she touched her fingers to her neck. The bruises were just about gone now, but the memory of his hands around her throat was too fresh for comfort.
There was a sharp knock, and she and Justine both jumped. Hell. Was that him now? She’d been sure he’d wait until tomorrow. He was enjoying the theater of her defeat too much to cut it short. Little did the fat pig know, she wasn’t defeated at all. She’d be halfway to Mariposa before he worked out that she wasn’t here.
“Boss?” Virgil’s voice was muffled through the closed door.
“Yes?” Both Emma and Justine answered. Whoops. It was going to take a while to remember that she wasn’t the boss anymore—Justine was. She gave Justine an apologetic look.
“You still want to open at the usual time?” Virge asked through the door.
“God, yes!” Despite her best intentions, Emma couldn’t help responding. Nothing would tip Hec off faster than if the Heart of Gold was shuttered up past opening time. She needed him to think that she was still here. Still here and weeping into her pillow that the mighty Hec Boehm had bested her.
Emma hadn’t turned a trick since she’d stopped her wagons in Moke Hill more than a year ago. She’d been well and truly done letting men paw at her. She’d spent too many years flat on her back for the profit of others; it was her turn to make the money. And she was a good madam. She paid her girls fair and helped them move on as fast as they could. Very few girls liked whoring. It was something a girl did when she was out of options. Emma made sure
that they could do it safely and save their money to start over. She watched them light out after a couple of months, cashed up and free of the trade, and she couldn’t wait to follow in their footsteps. But she was in it to make more than just a handful of cash; the Heart of Gold was her ticket to freedom forever. It took time to build that kind of nest egg; she’d been patient, and now her time had come, and she was glad to say that, since coming to Moke Hill, she’d bought her ticket out of here without letting a single man poke his stick into her. Her body was hers again, and hers alone, and she planned to keep it that way. No matter how much gold the mud-splattered miners offered her, she turned them down. Emma was bright as a peacock, strutting the bar downstairs, teasing and laughing and making sure they all had a good time—but that good time wasn’t going to be with her. Her girls were as fancy as she could make them: scrubbed and scented and dressed to the nines. And the miners were happy enough when she turned them aside, so long as it was into the arms of one of her girls.
But not Hec Boehm. That man had taken one look at Emma and decided that he was going to be the man to knock her flat on her back and keep her there. He was the kind of man who had to play with other people’s toys, Emma thought sourly, a selfish, spoiled brat of a man. And he had all of Moke Hill in his sweaty fist.
“Will you be down soon?” Virgil asked through the door. “We’re opening up and we need you to play hostess.”
“I’ll be down,” Justine told Virgil firmly. “It’s my place now.”
Emma took the unsubtle hint and left Justine to deal with Virgil. She turned her attention to packing. So long as the place opened as usual, she was happy. She dusted off her carpetbag. It was pitifully small, but she had to travel light. It was such a shame to leave all her pretty dresses behind though, she thought with a sigh. Still, she couldn’t very well wear screaming pink satin now that she wasn’t running a whorehouse. She ran her fingers regretfully over her favorite dress, which was heaped on the chair where she’d left it the night before. No more frills and furbelows for her . . . let alone her peacock feather headdress, which sat in pride of place on her dresser. She felt a pang about leaving it—but what use were peacock feathers now? She was hardly going to wear them baking bread or tending her kitchen garden, was she? She’d have to get herself some nice, simple clothes. Something dowdy and respectable. Gingham, maybe. Hell. Not gingham. She’d rather be dead than wear gingham. If Hec Boehm hadn’t been such a hasty old hog, she would have had time to prepare properly, she thought grumpily, and there would have been no question of resorting to gingham.
“I have to get ready,” Justine said once Virge had gone, “so you’d best stop telling me not to fret and start working out how to deal with Hec Boehm and his boys.”
“You worry too much.” Emma sounded more confident than she felt. “As usual. I’ve already got a plan.”
Justine rolled her eyes. Emma’s plans were notorious. “What plan?”
Emma threw open the big wardrobe opposite her bed and rifled through it. There was a screech of hangers on the metal rod. The wardrobe was stuffed full. This was where she kept the girls’ best gear, as well as her own. She yanked out gowns, tossing them on the bed. Oh, it hurt to leave them behind. Maybe she could just take one . . .
“What plan?” Justine demanded.
“This one.” Emma found what she was looking for and brandished the coat hanger high in triumph. Well, as high as she could. The damn thing weighed a ton. It was like holding up a sack of potatoes. “I’m going to be a nun!”
“You’re not serious.”
“Of course I’m serious! It’s a great plan.” She turned the heavy black habit around and gave it a quick once-over. It was an ugly thing, made of many layers of coarsely woven wool, and it was as heavy as sin. It was like a big, old, black tent. No one would make out her shape under it, and the wimple would hide her blazing red hair perfectly. If she wiped the paint off her face, she was sure no one would recognize her. She looked totally different without the rouge and the kohl. More like a hick straight off a farm than a fancy lady.
“It’s the daftest thing you’ve suggested yet.” Justine sat on the bed and put her face in her hands. “What did I do? Hec’s going to torch this place and you’re dressing up like a nun. I’ve just bought a pile of ashes.”
“Don’t be like that.” Emma wrestled with the habit, trying to get it off the hanger. There were so many bits to it. How in hell did you put it on? No wonder Wilbur never got the girls naked. He wouldn’t have been able to afford the time it took.
“Don’t you think they’ll find it odd to see a nun leaving a whorehouse?” Justine asked, exasperated. “Especially when they didn’t see her enter it?”
Trust Justine to go throwing logic at her.
“It ain’t my fault Hec got all het up and impatient,” Emma told her. “I’m doing the best with what I’ve got.” She tossed the loose bits of the habit over her dressing chair, where the black cloth looked even coarser and uglier against her pink dress. She turned her attention to the biggest, sackiest bit of it, trying to work out which end was the head.
Her instincts told her the nun getup would work, and Emma had learned to trust her instincts. They’d kept her alive this far.
People were nice to nuns. Respectful. She wasn’t likely to be accosted travelling to Mariposa in this getup. It was the safest way to go—especially carrying a fortune in her saddlebags.
“You’ve got to stop looking for problems,” she told Justine as she wedged the habit under her arm and hunted through the bottom of the wardrobe for her old black boots, “and start thinking in terms of solutions.”
“This ain’t a solution! It’s just plain crazy.”
“Hush.” Emma crawled backward out of the wardrobe, boots in hand. “What’s crazy is nagging me when it ain’t my fault. You want to go nagging someone, go nag old Hec. He’s the reason for all this fuss and bother.” She dropped the boots on the floor by the chair and turned her back to Justine. “Unbutton me, will you?” She heard Jussy sigh as she got to her feet. “You worry too much,” Emma said kindly as Justine started on the little buttons running down the back of the purple taffeta gown. Emma played with the precious little scalloped frill on her sleeve. How was she going to leave this behind? She loved this dress. It had a double layer of fancy flouncing near the hem that had taken her forever to sew. And it looked so nice with those peacock feathers.
Justine ignored her and kept on with the buttons.
They were totally unprepared when the door burst open.
Justine shrieked and Emma leapt for the chair, coming half out of her purple dress in the process. Her gun was somewhere under the pink satin gown, where she’d left it the night before. Stupid. She should have kept it close.
She snatched up the Colt, turning it on the intruder.
“Goddamn it, Calla!” she swore when she saw who had burst in. “I mighta shot you!”
Calla was staring wide-eyed at the pistol, which was still pointed at her chest. “Why in hell are you wanting to shoot me?”
“Didn’t anyone ever tell you to knock?”
The Mexican girl pulled a face. “No one ever told me I’d be shot for not knocking.”
“Well, I’m telling you now.” Emma’s hand was shaking as she lowered the pistol. “Now close that door, can’t you see I ain’t entirely decent?”
“I’ve got a letter for you,” Calla said as she closed the door. She was mighty calm for someone who’d almost been shot. But then, in Moke Hill, almost getting shot happened on a weekly basis. “Virge said to bring it straight up. It’s from Hec Boehm.”
Justine snatched it out of her hand. “You can go now,” she said shortly.
Emma snatched the note off Justine. “You can go too,” she suggested.
“No.” Justine and Calla spoke in unison, equally annoyed.
Emma kept hold of the pistol
as she read the note. She was shaking something fierce now. She turned her back on the girls so they couldn’t see. The letters swam before her eyes as she struggled to read Hec’s crabbed handwriting.
“It’s a love letter,” she said, feeling weak with relief. Oh thank God. The idiot had believed her when she’d said she would think about becoming his mistress. And he’d clearly believed Teague that she was looking to say yes.
“A love letter?” Justine sounded disbelieving. “From Hec Boehm?”
“Well, a love letter of sorts.” It was more of a detailed map of what he was going to do to her. That was about as loving as a man like Hec Boehm was likely to get. He seemed to think she’d enjoy his—what did he call it?—manly persuasion. She thrust the note at Justine and wriggled out of her purple taffeta dress. It rustled as it fell to the floor. Emma jumped over the skirts and snatched up the tenty bit of the nun’s habit. She could feel the phantom press of Hec’s hands around her throat. The sooner she was out of here, the better.
“Oh Lord.” Justine sounded ill. “This is worse than I thought. He’s a lot more than keen on you; he’s besotted. What’s he going to do when he finds you’ve gone? He’ll kill me.”
Emma had worried about that. But she had a plan. “I’ll leave him a note.”
“A note?”
Emma was glad Justine wasn’t the one with the gun. She was looking a little murderous. “Listen before you judge,” she cautioned. Why didn’t people ever trust her? Hadn’t she shown herself to be a sensible woman? Hadn’t she brought a couple of wagonloads of whores two thousand miles from Missouri, across those horrid plains, without losing a single one to disease or disaster? Hadn’t she built a thriving business? In fact, not one thriving business, but three? But people still treated her like she didn’t know what she was doing.
