Almost a Lady

by Heidi Betts

  "Take your time."

  At the deep male voice, Willow swung around, cracking her head none too gently on me wooden bed frame. “Son of a bitch,” she swore, rubbing what was sure to be a good-sized goose egg in the morning.

  Then her eyes widened as she recognized the man standing just inside her room. The brainless Neanderthal. Six-plus feet of pure masculinity. In the well-lit room, she noticed how truly handsome he was, with dancing green eyes fringed by sharp, defining russet brows. Tight doeskin breeches encased his muscular legs. The white of his shirt peeked through the vee of a buttoned, dark brown jacket. Clean-cut from his short chestnut hair to his spit-shined black boots. A high-class dandy if ever she'd seen one.

  The sight of his yellowish, red-tinged cheekbone made her flinch inwardly. She rarely saw the results of her defense methods.

  It's a coincidence that he's here, she thought. He can't possibly know I'm the person from the alley. Stay calm.

  She smiled. “Can I help you with something, honey?” she asked in her best brothel voice.

  "They told me this is Willow Hastings's room. You must be Willow."

  Panic squeezed through her chest. How does he know who I am? And why is he here? “That's right,” she answered. “And who might you be?"

  "The name's Brandt Donovan. I'm a friend of Lucas and Megan McCain."

  The tension poured out of her body in a wave of relief. “Lucas and Megan,” she said. Her brow creased with sudden dread. “Is something wrong? Oh, please tell me Megan and the baby are all right."

  Brandt watched Willow closely. She seemed truly concerned. He couldn't help but see the irony of the situation. Lucas and Megan were sitting home, frantic over this woman's safety, and here she was, fearing for them.

  "They're all fine.” He saw the lines of worry in her face ease. “Megan's stomach still enters a room ten minutes before the rest of her, but everyone's doing well. They're awfully concerned about you, though."

  "Me?” she asked, perplexed. “Whatever for?"

  "They haven't heard from you in a while, and Megan's gotten it into her head that you're in trouble."

  "Oh, how sweet,” she said. “Tell them I'm fine and that I'll write to them soon. I promise.” She moved toward the door, obviously expecting him to step aside.

  "I'm afraid it's not that simple, Miss Hastings. Lucas and Megan asked me to make sure you're all right. I can't assure them of your safety until I'm sure myself."

  Her face held an odd expression, as though no one had concerned themselves with her welfare in a very long time.

  "Willow, get moving!” a woman shouted from the hall.

  Willow kept her eyes locked with his a moment longer. Then she seemed to shake off whatever emotion kept her silent. “I appreciate the trouble you went through to find me, Mr. . .. Donovan, did you say?"

  He nodded.

  "Well, Mr. Donovan, I do thank you. But if you want any more assurance of my safety, you'll have to wait until later. I've got a show to do."

  "Show?"

  "Yes, a show. You don't think I'm wearing this getup to attract customers, do you?” she asked, tilting a hip seductively.

  One side of Brandt's mouth quirked up in a lascivious grin. His gaze raked down her body. With all the hills and valleys cinched into that tight little dress, that's exactly what he'd thought. Her mouth looked infinitely kissable. Pink and pouting, just begging for a man's attention.

  Although his tastes usually slanted toward blondes, there was something about this curvy brunette that made him want to give up a month's pay to spend one hour in her bed.

  "Yeah,” he admitted. “I guess I did."

  "Tut-tut, Mr. Donovan,” she chastised, walking past him to open the door. “Assumption of a woman's low morals is not an attractive trait in a man.” She stepped into the hall, then stopped and turned back to him. A smile curved her full, rosy lips. “You might want to remember that."

  One brow winged upward as Brandt watched her saunter down the long hall. His gaze slid from the wavy curls of her reddish-brown hair to the narrow nip of her waist, to the exaggerated sway of her hips. For his benefit, no doubt.

  "Hey, Dora,” he heard her call to one of the girls loitering in a paneled doorway. “Those are my shoes.” He glanced toward the floor as Willow bent to retrieve a pair of sapphire slippers from the other woman's feet.

  He couldn't contain a chuckle at the sight of her stockinged toes peeking out from beneath the hem of her gown. Would she really have gone on stage in her bare feet?

  Probably.

  He pushed away from the doorjamb, ambling down the hall in the direction in which Willow had gone. He wanted to make sure everything was okay before reporting back to Lucas and Megan. Plus, he grinned ruefully, he'd be damned if he was going to forego the show.

  Brandt took a seat at one of the tables closest to the wide plank platform. He didn't want to miss a note, not an inhaled breath or fluttered eyelash of the woman about to take the stage.

  Voices hummed through the room. Men clustered around the tables, bar, and doorway, filling the Silver Spur near to overflowing. To Brandt's surprise, no women speckled the crowd. Not one feminine form mulled about in an establishment known for its hard liquor and easy women. And, strangest of all, no one seemed to mind.

  Raucous hoots filled the air when a busty woman with wide hips and jet-black hair sauntered onto the stage. Her purple gown clashed brutally against the blood-red curtains that hid the rest of the performance area.

  "All right, all right,” she called over the noise. But her smile said she didn't mind the ruckus a bit. “Hush up, you randy bastards,” she shouted. “Do you want to see the show or not?"

  More catcalls and wild applause greeted her question.

  "All right, then. Here she is, our very own songbird . . . Willow.” She walked off the platform as the curtains parted.

  The piano man tapped out the first tinging notes of an old Missouri favorite, “Flat River Girl,” and a hush fell over the audience.

  Willow stood in the center of the stage, in all her regal splendor. The sapphire blue of her dress shone in the bright luminescence of the chandelier overhead. Auburn highlights streaked through her otherwise light brown hair.

  Brandt watched the rise of her breasts as she took a deep breath and began her song.

  "Come, all you fine young fellows with hearts so warm and true,

  Oh, never believe in a woman, you're lost, boys, if you do;

  But if you ever see one with long brown chestnut curls,

  Just think of Big Jack Haggerty and his Flat River Girl."

  Brandt sat back, in awe of the effect she seemed to have on the audience. A rougher, tougher, more deviant crowd he'd never seen, and yet the gentle caress of her voice lulled them into an almost frightening calm. He would expect this sort of respectful silence from those who frequented the higher-class theaters and opera houses in Boston, New York, or even St. Louis. But in a cowtown like Jefferson City, Missouri? In a brothel by the name of the Silver Spur?

  The song drew to a close, but the room remained cloaked in appreciative quiet. It was obvious they knew there was more to come.

  "I met her on the mountain, and there I took her life," Willow sang sorrowfully, accompanied by the tinny notes of the off-key piano. "I met her on the mountain, and stabbed her with my knife."

  Brandt noticed that her bottom lip trembled just a bit as she began the chorus.

  The tune that followed “Tom Dooley” was another ballad sad enough to tear at even the hardest of hearts.

  "He was just a lonely cowboy

  With a heart so brave and true,

  And he learned to love a maiden

  With eyes of heaven's blue.

  They learned to love each other

  And named their wedding day,

  When a quarrel came between them

  And Jack, he rode away."

  She strode across the stage, smiling wistfully at the audience, making eye contact with th
ose she could see, treating each man like he was the only one in the room.

  Brandt couldn't believe it. When the song ended with Jack's lady on her deathbed, pledging her love to him, Brandt actually thought he saw a few of the men around him dabbing at their eyes. A quick shake of his head failed to dispel the image. He'd have bet a thousand dollars that nothing short of a visit from the devil himself could wrench a tear from these hardened men.

  Suddenly Willow slapped her leg and let out a wild whoop. Two dozen girls, all dressed alike in gaudy, thigh-high red- and white-striped outfits, danced onto the stage behind her. Linked arm in arm, they skittered across the wooden platform, yipping and yawing and singing along—though not always in key—to a loud, lively rendition of “Old Dan Tucker."

  Half an hour later, singing the foot-stomping ditty for the third time in a row, the candy canes—as Brandt had come to think of them—skipped their way off the stage and into the melee of eager cowboys. He watched them for a few minutes, then turned his head back to where Willow stood.

  Or where she'd been standing. He got to his feet, straining his neck for any glimpse of sapphire blue. But all he saw was an empty stage.

  "Damn,” he swore, bumping his way through the crowd, searching for Willow Hastings. But it was no use.

  She was gone.

  Chapter Three

  Dearest Papa,

  Please don't be angry with me, but I've lost Grandfather's gold pocket watch. I know how much the watch meant to you and would do anything to retrieve it. I do believe someone must have interfered with its placement.

  I will continue to search for the watch as I await word from you.

  Your loving daughter,

  Willow

  Willow quickly scrawled her name across the bottom of the page. Sealing it with a smear of melted wax, she tucked the letter beneath a corner of the mattress until she could see it safely posted.

  That done, she gave a calming sigh and moved across the room. She stripped out of her confining show clothes and hung the blue dress in the wardrobe, tossing the matching slippers in after it.

  "Ahh,” she sighed, wiggling her pinched toes. She strode to the bed, tying the sash of her red oriental robe, a seething golden dragon surrounded by exotic flora emblazoned on the back. The robe had been a gift from Robert after one of his many trips overseas.

  Balancing one foot on the high mattress, she slipped the scabbard from her garter. Without concentrating, without even taking aim, she hurtled the knife at the far wall. The dagger hit its mark—a notch left in the rough wood from a time when Willow had been bored enough to practice her marksmanship while hanging upside down over the side of the bed.

  Willow sighed and flung the leather sheath toward her pile of earlier discarded clothes. She slid the dark blue garter past her knee and down the rest of her leg. Then she began rolling the soft silk stocking over the same path.

  As she lifted her other foot to the bed, the red satin of her robe fell away, revealing the length of her leg from ankle to hip.

  "Lovely."

  Willow raised her head, not the least bit surprised to find someone in the doorway of her room. There were no locks on the doors, and Beverly's girls were always popping in to borrow this or that—which was why she hid anything she didn't want them accidentally “discovering."

  What did surprise her was seeing Brandt Donovan standing just inside her room, looking for all the world like he belonged there. She'd forgotten about him during her performance, assuming he would take one of the girls upstairs after the show like the other men did.

  She began to suspect that Brandt Donovan was not at all like other men.

  "I do have impeccable timing,” he said, closing the door behind him. A wolfish gleam shone in his eyes as he stared unabashedly at the ample view of her leg.

  Willow knew he meant to intimidate her with his lustful glare. And if she ever made a habit of anything, it was not backing down.

  She hooked a finger under the tight lace of her garter, dragging it slowly, seductively down her thigh. It caught on the angle of her knee and she leaned forward to help it along, knowing that when she did so, the front of her robe would fall open to reveal a risqué amount of lush flesh. She'd worn no frilly undergarments earlier with her male clothing and hadn't had time to put any on before dressing for her performance. There was nothing beneath the robe that God hadn't given her. She wondered if Brandt could tell.

  The garter fell to her ankle and she slipped it carefully over her foot. “Like what you see, Mr. Donovan?"

  She couldn't help but notice that his gaze had shifted to her bosom. It took him a full minute to respond to her question.

  He cleared his throat, forcing his eyes to her face. “Excuse me?"

  Willow lowered her head, a secret smile playing on her lips. “I asked if you like what you see.” She snapped the garter at him, hoping to catch him off guard.

  The lace band landed against his chest. He caught it with one hand before it could fall to the floor. “Let's just say I have no complaints."

  "I'm glad to hear it.” She rolled the stocking down her calf, letting it fall in a silken heap on the bedspread. No longer having an excuse to tempt him with her bare flesh, she lowered her foot and adjusted the sash at her waist.

  "Was there something you needed?” she asked, well aware of the double entendre in her words.

  He didn't take the bait.

  "I told you I wasn't leaving until I made sure you're all right."

  She put her hands on her hips, throwing back her shoulders so that her breasts pressed firmly against the front of the robe. “Don't I look all right to you, Mr. Donovan?"

  His eyes raked down her body. An amused grin curved his lips. “You look like a woman who could get herself into a boatload of trouble."

  She chuckled. “I admit to stirring things up once in a while, but I assure you, sir, I am in no danger whatsoever."

  "And what am I supposed to tell Megan and Lucas?"

  "Tell them I'm fine. Tell them you saw me with your own two eyes and that I looked perfectly healthy. Better yet,” she offered, an idea dawning on her, “I'll write a quick note for you to deliver to them. That ought to put their minds at ease.” She moved to the bureau, pulling a sheet of paper out of the top drawer.

  "Dear Megan and Lucas," she wrote, speaking aloud for Brandt's benefit "Your friend . . . How do you spell your name?” she asked.

  "B-r-a-n-d-t."

  "How original.” She quickly scrawled his name on the page. "Your friend, Brandt Donovan, is hovering over me as I write this at the Silver Spur in Jefferson City, Missouri. I like to let them know where I am,” she said, casting a glance in his direction. "I'm sorry I didn't write sooner, but please rest assured that I am fine and in no danger. I simply got sidetracked and forgot to answer your last letter. I feel terrible that I worried you so.

  "Still no word from Jeremy, and no new information about his whereabouts. I will write again as soon as I can. Until then, please know that I am safe.

  "Megan, please take care of yourself, and let me know when the baby arrives. Love to all. There.” She signed it and handed the letter to Brandt. “Does that meet with your approval?"

  His eyes scanned the note. “Who's Jeremy?"

  "My brother,” she told him, avoiding eye contact by busying herself with straightening the pile of stationery in the dresser drawer.

  "The one who's missing?"

  "I only have one brother, Mr. Donovan. And, yes, he's been missing for several years now."

  "Maybe he doesn't want to be found."

  She turned to meet his gaze. “Perhaps. But I don't intend to stop looking."

  When he spoke again, his tone was soft. “There's always a chance that he met up with something he couldn't handle."

  "What you mean to say is that there's a chance he's dead—has been all along."

  Brandt looked away. “It's a possibility."

  "Don't you think I've considered that?” she asked q
uietly. “But even if it's true, I at least want to find out what happened. I have a right to know."

  "Then I wish you luck."

  "Thank you."

  "But I'm not returning to Leavenworth,” Brandt said, handing the letter back to her. “I'm moving on to Boston. I was supposed to telegraph Lucas and Megan when I found you."

  "Well, then,” she said, stuffing the paper into an envelope. “You can tell them in your telegram that I'm fine, and that they should be getting a letter from me soon.” She waved the sealed letter in front of him. “You saw me write it, after all. And I promise to post it first thing in the morning."

  Brandt shrugged. “Fair enough."

  "Now, I've written to Lucas and Meg, you're going to telegraph them in the morning, and you've seen for yourself that I am in perfect health. I think that takes care of just about all your concerns."

  "Guess so,” he said, but made no move to leave.

  "Then why are you still here?” she asked bluntly.

  He took a step forward. And then another, backing her up against the edge of the bed. His arm snaked around her waist, pulling her flush with his tall form. “I was thinking, as long as I'm here, that we might see just how healthy you really are."

  "That's a lovely offer,” she said, ignoring the heat that seemed to envelop her body at his nearness. “But I really must decline."

  A thick, dark eyebrow quirked upwards. “Why is that?"

  She ran a slim finger over his swollen cheekbone. The skin, beginning to bruise, was now tinged a sickly shade of purplish-blue. “Because it looks like you've already tangled with one wildcat tonight” She pressed her lips softly to his and whispered, “I'd hate to do you any more damage."

  Brandt leaned back in the stiffly uncomfortable train seat. He punched at his rolled-up jacket, hoping to transform it into some type of makeshift pillow. Cursing under his breath, shifting position, he admitted that his discomfort had less than nothing to do with his jacket, the train seat, or the woman snoring noisily across the aisle from him.

  No, his mood didn't hinge on any of these small annoyances. It was due much more to the fact that his body had yet to cool down after such close contact with one Willow Hastings.