by Tess LeSue
But not Hec Boehm. That man had taken one look at Seline 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 pieces 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 pieces 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, most sack-like part 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 traveling to Mariposa in this outfit. 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 leaped for the chair, half coming 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 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 tented part of the nun’s habit. She could feel the phantom press of Hec’s hands around her throat. The soo
ner 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.
“How do you put this thing on?” she asked, confounded by the habit. No matter which way she turned, she couldn’t make heads or tails of it.
“Put the shift on first,” Calla told her, stepping up to help. She’d been raised on a mission and threw herself into the role of Mother Superior with vigor when Wilbur came calling. As she helped Emma into the sack-like shift and then lowered the even heavier full body apron over the top, she didn’t bother to ask why her boss was dressing up as a nun. The Heart of Gold was the kind of place where it was best not to ask too many questions.
“How’s a note going to help?”
Unless you were Justine. Justine never stopped asking questions.
“It’s not just about the note,” Emma said, distracted by the contraption Calla was trying to cram onto her head. “It’ll be the whole setup.”
“You know, proper nuns would cut their hair off,” Calla said, as she yanked the white coif down over Emma’s ears.
“Good thing I ain’t a proper nun.” Although she had been wondering how to get the henna out of her hair. Henna didn’t fade. Maybe cutting her hair wasn’t such a bad idea. It could be part of her whole fresh start, and when her hair grew back, it would be her natural color. Emma Jane Palmer’s natural color. She didn’t quite remember what that color was anymore. Reddish. But probably darker now that she was a grown woman.
“What whole setup? You give me such a headache!” Justine was whipping herself into a frenzy. She’d have to learn some serenity if she wanted to survive running this place.
“You should try wearing this thing, if you want to talk headaches.” Emma attempted to wedge her fingers between her forehead and the coif. It was pinching off the blood supply to her brain.
“What whole setup?” Justine was so angry her eyeballs were just about bulging out of her head.
Emma took pity on her and put her out of her misery. “I’ll tell him we’re playing a little game, honey. He likes his games. At least according to the girls. Most of the time I think he’s more interested in playing than in poking.”
“You can say that again,” Calla agreed, hefting the stiff headdress over Emma’s coif. “Sometimes he likes to play hide-and-seek. We leave clothes scattered about like clues, and he has to come find us. We’re supposed to be naked when he does, but often we cheat. He quite likes having a reason to get all angry and give us a spanking.”
“It never ceases to amaze me how many men like spanking,” Emma mused.
“I don’t mind a spanking myself,” Calla admitted. “It’s better than being poked. I don’t mind anything that keeps them busy, to be honest, so long as they poke less.”
“Are you suggesting that you’re going to play hide-and-seek with Hec Boehm?” Justine sounded appalled.
“Of course not. I’m just going to tell him I’m playing hide-and-seek. I’ve already written the note—it’s over there by the peacock feathers.”
Justine all but dove for it. Emma saw her nose wrinkle as she read it.
“Did I lay it on too thick?” Emma asked.
“This is insane,” Justine muttered.
Emma watched her closely. Her gut told her the plan would work. But maybe her gut was an idiot.
Justine looked up. Her dark eyes were frightened. But not as frightened as they had been. “You’re going to send him on a wild-goose chase to Fiebre del Oro?”
“Clever, isn’t it?” Emma couldn’t keep the smugness out of her voice. It wasn’t just clever; it was on the verge of genius. Everyone knew she’d funded Dottie to set up a whorehouse in the gold town up north. It made sense that she’d go there.
Her lusty little note to Hec should prove a successful bit of bait, anyway. He fancied himself a hunter, so she’d play the prey. She’d have the girls set up her room for Hec’s arrival tomorrow. Candlelight, a hot bath, the good Spanish wine set out in the best glasses. Rose petals floating on the surface of the water, she thought in a fit of inspiration. Calla had done that once for the judge, and it had worked a treat. She’d have Gina and JoBeth lead him upstairs, where they would prepare him for her. He’d like that. They could undress him and bathe him, and maybe give his little soldier a tug if that’s what he was up for. They could feed him the wine until he was all hot and pink from it. Towel him down. Then Gina could read him Seline’s note—Gina was the only one of the two of them who could read, so it would have to be her—while JoBeth acted out all the things Seline promised to do to Hec when he finally found her. That note (and JoBeth’s close attentions) should get Hec into the game. Then he could light out the next morning for Dottie’s place at Fiebre del Oro, where Dottie would have another room ready for him, with her home brew instead of Spanish wine, and her German twins instead of Gina and JoBeth. Emma had sent Blossom’s boy, Henry, on to Fiebre del Oro already, with a second note and instructions for Dottie. She’d paid generously for the German girls’ time and included a nice extra chunk of cash for Dottie too. The twins could keep Hec happily entertained for the night, reading Seline’s promises to him, while they used their plump white bodies on him. The note would send him on to Sutter’s Mill next, to a whorehouse named the Silver Tongue. A whorehouse that didn’t actually exist, but it would take Hec a while to realize it. By the time he’d worked out she’d tricked him and he had ridden all the way back to Moke Hill, she’d be safely through Angels Camp and Mariposa, where she’d sell off her shares in her other whorehouses. By the time old Hec reached Angels Camp, she’d be off to San Francisco, to buy herself that nice little house with a view of the bay. And by then she’d be a demure little nobody in gingham—hell, not gingham; surely muslin would be dowdy enough—and men like Hec Boehm wouldn’t look twice at her. She’d be boring Miss Emma Palmer, with reddish hair and not-so-dowdy muslin gowns, tending her cabbage patch and growing freckled in the sun. Hec would be tearing up California looking for a woman who no longer existed.
It was genius.
“Clever!” Justine was shaking. “You think it’s clever?”
Uh-oh. Justine was still mad.
“And what’s he going to do to me when he gets back to Moke Hill?” Justine was looking peaky.
“That’s the cleverest bit!” Emma beamed at her. “That’s when you give him the other note!”
Justine’s hand was starting to clench around the first note, and Emma had to pry it out of her hand. She didn’t fancy rewriting it; she was on a tight schedule. Calla followed her as she moved, jabbing the black nun’s veil into place with hairpins.
“He’ll shoot me before I can give him any more damn notes!” Justine shouted.
“Hush. You don’t want the Koerners to hear you, do you?”
“Tilt your head back,” Calla instructed Emma.
“There’s more to this contraption?” Hell, no wonder nuns were celibate.
Calla laughed and wrapped the wimple-bib around Emma’s neck.
“What’s the other note say?” Justine asked through clenched teeth.
“Just that he’s not to shoot you because you’re going to gi
ve him ten percent of the take from now on.”
“I’m what?!”
“It’s perfect! That man would walk over hot coals to pick up a dropped dime. He ain’t going to hurt you if it hurts business, and as we all know, business at the Heart of Gold is good.”
“That ten percent ain’t yours to give away,” Justine raged. “It’s mine!”
“Fine, don’t give it to him, then. But he might shoot you if’n you don’t.”
Justine cast about to see if there was a weapon handy. But the only one was in Emma’s hot little hand.
“You selfish, two-faced . . .”
“Hush, Justine,” Emma snapped. “Stop talking before you say things you’ll regret. I’ve been good to you, and you know I’ve been good to you. It hurts me that you don’t trust me.”
“Trust you! After this!”
Emma frowned. It didn’t matter how nice you were to people; they always wanted to believe the worst of you. “You honestly think I’d treat you bad? After all we’ve been through together?”
“You just did,” Justine said bitterly.
“No, honey, I just saved you from getting shot by Hec Boehm.” Emma moved to the dresser and opened the top drawer. Buried in her tangle of unmentionables was a sheaf of papers. “If you think I’d steal from one of my girls, you don’t know me at all.” She held the papers out to Justine, who looked at them suspiciously.
“What’s that?”
“My shares in Dottie’s place in Fiebre del Oro. I had Teague put them in your name. It’s a forty percent share. It’ll more than compensate for the ten percent you’ll lose to Hec from this place. It’ll also give you wiggle room if he demands more. You can give him up to forty percent of here, without putting yourself out of pocket. Dottie’s place is the biggest whorehouse in that hellhole; it’s making more than here already. No one but us three here and Dottie need to know you own it. And Calla won’t tell, will you?”
“Nope.” Calla’s voice was muffled. She had her head stuck in the wardrobe. Scavenging through Emma’s gowns, probably, now she knew her ex-boss was leaving town.
