A Reason to Believe

by Maureen McKade

  Rye’s eyes burned with moisture as he wrapped his arms around his big brother. The years disappeared and he was a little boy again, seeing their dead mother as he, Creede, and Slater held tight to one another.

  Finally, Creede eased his grip and stepped back, but kept an arm around Rye’s shoulders. “I never thought I’d see you again,” Creede said, his voice rough with emotion.

  Rye cleared his throat. “I looked for you and Slater when I left the orphanage but I didn’t have any luck.”

  “I’m sorry, Rye. I-I did some things I wasn’t very proud of, or I would’ve come back for you and Slater.”

  “We were there only a month when Slater was adopted.”

  Creede swallowed, and it seemed he was fighting the same emotional storm Rye fought. If only Slater was here, too. . . .

  The tall, handsome woman stepped forward, and though she was wiping tears from her cheeks, she was smiling warmly. “I’m Laurel, Creede’s wife, and this is our daughter, Anna.”

  Rye shook her hand and was surprised by her firm handshake. He quickly moved to the wagon and helped his family down. Dulcie’s eyes were as damp as his own. “This is my wife, Dulcie, and Madeline and Collie.”

  For the next few minutes chaos reigned as everybody greeted one another. As soon as there was a lull, Laurel herded the children into the house. Her husband, obviously as in love with his wife as Rye was with his, followed.

  Dulcie joined Rye, who remained standing in the yard.

  “I like them,” she simply said.

  “Me, too,” Rye said, a note of wonder in his voice. “Have you ever felt like you’ve finally come home?”

  Dulcie smiled gently. “When you said you loved me.”

  Rye hugged her, burying his face in her thick, sunlit hair. “I love you, Dulcie Forrester.”

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  NEXT HISTORICAL ROMANCE FROM

  MAUREEN MCKADE

  A Reason to Sin

  COMING SOON FROM BERKLEY SENSATION!

  February 1868

  REBECCA Glory Bowen Colfax was out of options. Her worn out shoes muddy and her cheeks nearly numb, she paused at the corner of the street and brushed back a drooping tendril from her face. Nobody needed a clerk or a waitress or even a laundress, which left few alternatives.

  Rebecca studied the false-fronted buildings interspersed with large canvas tents that lay across the invisible line separating the respectable from the disreputable. Although it was only two in the afternoon, numerous horses were tied to hitching posts, and men wearing battered hats and noisy spurs milled in and out of the saloons. A piano’s off-key notes spilled down the street along with occasional raucous laughter. Rebecca had already experienced too many frontier towns in Kansas, but this one was by far the biggest and wildest.

  The sound of gunfire startled her and she lifted her head sharply. Five men raced down the street, and the horses’ hooves tossed mud clumps in their wake. She covered her ears as more shots rang out and was shocked to see that few people gave the rowdy men more than a cursory glance. The ruffians halted in front of one of the numerous drinking establishments and went inside, shoving and pushing each other like children.

  Her courage wavered and she started back the way she’d come. However, the gravity of her predicament stopped her, reminding her she had no choice. With her heart in her throat, she took a deep breath. Squaring her shoulders, she turned and marched back, crossing the invisible line that would no doubt lead to hell. But she’d made a promise a month ago and even damnation couldn’t stop her from fulfilling it.

  Rebecca held her head high as she sidestepped a grizzled drunk who staggered out of one of the tent saloons.

  “Hey, missy, wanna wet my whistle?” he slurred as he rubbed his crotch.

  She swallowed back the bile that rose in her throat and scurried past him. If she stopped to think about what she was about to do, her courage would desert her and she needed every ounce of strength.

  She arrived at her destination and stopped to stare at the wooden sign that displayed a rendition of a woman’s shapely thigh encircled with a red garter. The Scarlet Garter. A scandalous name but Rebecca had been impressed by the owner, or as impressed as she could be by a man who ran such an establishment.

  The double doors taunted her, dared her to cross the threshold. She smoothed her gloved hands down the front of her once-fashionable skirt. Her heart thudded in her breast, and sweat dared to dampen her palms and underarms. Closing her eyes, she pictured him, her reason for living and doing what she never in her worst nightmares dreamed of doing. The image strengthened her resolve and she opened her eyes. She extended her arm and pushed through the door, stepping onto the layer of sawdust covering the wood floor.

  Inside it smelled of stale alcohol and caustic tobacco, with more than a hint of body odor. Rebecca fought the urge to press a handkerchief to her nose and breathed through her mouth. Yet she knew the Scarlet Garter had a less offensive odor than most other saloons. Her eyes adjusted to the relative dimness, and she sent her gaze around the room. Although there were a couple of dozen tables, only a few were in use. At one table two burly men drank beer and talked in low voices, and at the second, a thin man balanced a fancy lady on his lap while she whispered in his ear.

  Could she do the same if she had to? Rebecca Bowen couldn’t, but Rebecca Colfax had no choice.

  At another table a dark-haired man sat alone with his back to the wall, shuffling a deck of cards then fanning them across the tabletop. Although he wasn’t looking at her, she suspected he’d already catalogued her presence.

  She dragged her attention away from the gambler and searched for the owner, but he wasn’t in sight. Drawing her shoulders back, she crossed to the bar, her skirt hems brushing aside the sawdust.

  “What may I get you, madam?” the bartender asked.

  Startled, Rebecca stared at the man whose body was disproportionately small compared to his head.

  He wiped a towel across the bartop with a short, stubby hand and smiled. “Haven’t you ever espied a dwarf?”

  She snapped her mouth shut and shook her head. “No.”

  “Come closer.”

  Reluctant but curious, she neared the bar and spotted the plank the dwarf stood upon. He was perhaps three feet tall. “Have you always been this way?”

  His eyes twinkled. “When I was eighteen, a barn roof fell upon me.” Her eyes widened, and he shook his head sadly. “It was a very tragic day, indeed.”

  Rebecca suspected he wasn’t speaking the truth, but it was rude to accuse him of lying.

  Suddenly he laughed. “I am sorry for confounding you, madam. Yes, I have always been short of stature.”

  Eased by his sense of humor, Rebecca smiled. “No, I’m sorry for being so ill-mannered.” She sobered. “I’d like to speak with the owner.”

  He eyed her, and Rebecca had the impression he could see more than most people. “I shall get him for you.” The dwarf stepped down onto a chair then the floor and disappeared through a doorway in the back.

  Rebecca’s gaze lit on the nearly life-size portrait of a voluptuous nude hanging on the wall, and her cheeks burned.

  How could she even consider working in such a wicked place? Yet she couldn’t afford to be embarrassed, not with so much riding on her finding Harrison. And to continue her search, she needed money. Badly.

  The owner, donning a suitcoat, followed the bartender through the doorway. He was as she remembered him, a man of medium height with thick, steel gray hair. His white ruffled shirt and black pinstriped suit were of high quality, the quality she’d seen in places like Chicago and New York.

  “Mr. Andrew Kearny, owner of the Scarlet Garter,” the bartender announced.

  “Thank you, Dante,” Kearny said to the dwarf before turning to Rebecca. The owner’s brown eyes surveyed her from head to toe, and there was a hint of a leer in them. “I didn’t expect to see you again,” he said with a faint Southern drawl.

&n
bsp; “I didn’t expect to be here again,” she retorted, hiding her apprehension behind a façade of brashness.

  He came out from behind the bar and leaned against it, loosely clasping his hands across his waist. “I still haven’t seen the man you’re looking for.”

  Although she hadn’t expected anything else, disappointment rolled through her. Two days ago she’d shown Harrison’s picture around in the saloons, but no one had seen him. She buried her frustration. “I’m here to enquire about a position.” He continued to stare at her. “I’m in need of a job.”

  “Perhaps you should try the other side of town.”

  She fought back impatience. “I did.” She glanced down, afraid the moisture stinging her eyes would form tears. “Nobody has anything.”

  “What can you do?” he asked.

  She blinked and brought her head back up to meet his shrewd gaze. No matter what, she couldn’t allow him to see her desperate fear. “I can read and write. I can also play the piano.”

  “I already have a piano player. Can you dance?”

  She felt a twinge of indignation. Back in St. Louis, Rebecca had learned everything a young woman of means needed to know. “Of course. I also sing.”

  He canted an eyebrow. “Well, well. I could use a singer, but it would only be for an hour or two in the evenings. What I really need are more hurdy-gurdy girls.”

  Rebecca had never heard of a hurdy-gurdy girl. What if it was another name for a lady of the evening? “What does a hurdy-gurdy girl do?” she asked warily.

  “They wear short dresses, smile pretty, and dance with the clientele to get them to buy her drinks,” Kearny replied matter-of-factly. “The girls make a nickel for every drink they sell.”

  Although she had her doubts about the short dress, Rebecca could dance and paste on a smile. However, she’d never touched alcohol other than the occasional glass of wine. “Do I have to drink whiskey?”

  Kearny grinned, revealing a gold tooth. “No. The girls drink weak tea, although it comes out of a champagne bottle.”

  It was cheating plain and simple, but Rebecca wasn’t in a position to argue. “Would I be expected to do more than sing and dance?”

  The man shrugged. “I don’t ask you to, but most of my ladies do make extra money on their backs.”

  The crude expression sounded odd with his easy drawl, and the image his words invoked brought burning heat to her face. Although she was willing to do what she had to, the thought of lying beneath a panting foul-breathed man while he used her body made her stomach churn with revulsion. “I—” Her voice broke and she cleared her throat. “I’d prefer to simply sing and dance, Mr. Kearny.”

  A knowing smile touched his lips. “That’s fine. Do you have a name?”

  Rebecca’s tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. “Glory Bowen.”

  “When can you start Miss Glory?”

  “Tomorrow night?”

  He nodded. “That’d be fine. There’s one empty room upstairs—fifty cents a night and it’ll come out of your pay. Do you want it?”

  Relief made Rebecca dizzy. “Yes, I would. When can I move in?”

  “Today, if you’d like.”

  “Thank you.” Suddenly uncertain, Rebecca toyed with the strings of her reticule. “What do I need, for work, I mean?”

  “Each girl supplies her own black stockings and shoes and, of course, underthings.” His eyes glittered with amusement.

  Rebecca wondered if she’d ever stop blushing. “What about dresses?”

  “There’s a room upstairs filled with fancy dresses. I’m sure some will fit you. You’ll want them snug.” Kearny eyed her modest neckline. “You’ll also want cleavage. A man wants to see a woman’s breasts when he dances with her. Each girl is required to wear a red garter, too.”

  Her face burned and she glanced away, only to have her gaze fall on the giggling whore still on the man’s lap. Her dress was hiked up high enough that the red garter was plainly visible on her thigh, and her bosom threatened to spill out of the low décolletage.

  Rebecca quickly turned away. She couldn’t imagine herself acting so brazen yet isn’t that what she’d just agreed to do?

  “Are you sure you want to do this?”

  At his softly worded question, Rebecca looked up at him. For a moment, she was tempted to confess everything, but her pride and apprehension kept her silent. Her stomach queasy, she nodded. “Yes.”

  He shrugged. “If you’re moving in today, you can meet some of the girls this evening. They can answer any questions you have.”

  “When do I start singing?”

  “How about Saturday night? That’ll give you and Simon time to go over some songs.”

  Rebecca’s gaze slid to the empty piano seat.

  “He’ll be here in a couple of hours. You can talk to him before it gets busy.”

  “All right.”

  “I’ll show you out the back door. You can use that to come and go.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Don’t thank me yet. Wait until tomorrow night, after your feet have been stomped on a few dozen times.” He extended an arm. “I’ll walk you out.”

  Projecting a coolness she didn’t feel, Rebecca allowed him to guide her through the back doorway, past an office and a flight of stairs.

  “You can use these stairs when you move your things to your room,” Kearny said.

  Her mouth paper dry, Rebecca nodded.

  Kearny opened the door which led into an alley behind the building. “Last chance. Are you certain you can work in a place like this?”

  No!

  She ignored the silent scream and met his appraising gaze with her own steady one. “I’m certain, Mr. Kearny.”

  He held out his hand and, after a moment’s hesitation, she gripped it. “Welcome to the Scarlet Garter, Miss Glory.”

  Not knowing what else to say, Rebecca walked out. The door closed behind her and she stood silently, the damp cold seeping into her. Her breath misted as she fought tears of helplessness, anger, and panic.

  What have I done?

  You did what you had to for your baby.

  In order to get her infant child out of the orphanage, she had to find her husband and tell him about the son he didn’t know he had. But would Harrison Colfax, who had gambled away her entire inheritance, even care?

  SLATER Forrester shuffled the deck, the motions as familiar to him as shaving. He laid the cards facedown, fanned them across the table, then lifted the end one and brought them back together in his hands. Another shuffle and he dealt four cards face up. All were aces, just as he expected. He smiled to himself.

  You haven’t lost your touch, Forrester.

  He heard the approach of someone and tensed, but immediately relaxed when he recognized the familiar footfalls. Andrew set a cup of steaming coffee down in front of him then pulled out a chair and sat down.

  “Thanks,” Slater said.

  Andrew took a sip from his own coffee then deliberately looked down at the aces. “I thought you didn’t deal a crooked game any more.”

  “I don’t, but it doesn’t hurt to stay in practice.”

  Andrew laughed but sobered a few moments later. “Did you see her?”

  Slater doubted he’d forget her light blonde hair and almost painfully straight backbone. When he’d first seen her enter the saloon, he thought she was lost. But then she’d pulled back her shoulders, displaying a fine set of breasts, and walked right up to the bar. Yet he hadn’t been able to completely shake the protectiveness she’d raised in him. He kept his voice indifferent. “Couldn’t miss her. Dresses nicer than most whores.”

  “According to her she doesn’t do that.”

  “Then why was she here?” Slater picked up his cup and leaned back in his chair, curious despite himself.

  “She wanted a job. Says she can sing and dance.”

  Slater snorted, recalling her shapely figure. “I give her a week before she’s on her back upstairs.”

  A
ndrew shook his head, his expression concerned. “You never used to be so cynical, Slater.”

  Slater quirked his lips upward in a caricature of a smile. “Sure I was. You were just too busy fleecing the sheep to notice.”

  The older man shrugged and glanced down. “I was younger and more foolish. I never thought I’d end up running a straight house.”

  “We both ended up doing things we never thought we’d be doing.” Slater stared into the distance, his thoughts detouring to Andersonville. For a moment, he could hear the endless groans and smell the blood, piss, and misery. His left hand trembled, spilling coffee onto his trouser leg. He set the cup down hastily and shook his head to dislodge the too-real memory.

  “You more than me, my friend,” Andrew said quietly.

  Slater gnashed his teeth, hating the sympathy in Andrew’s face and voice. “Yeah, well, like you always told me, a man makes his own bed.” He grinned lecherously. “Unless he’s got a soft woman to make it for him.”

  “Women, cards, and danger, and not necessarily in that order,” Andrew quoted the description he’d pegged Slater with years ago.

  Slater gathered the cards he’d laid on the table and shuffled them, relieved to see his left hand had stopped shaking. It had taken nearly two years to regain his former weight and strength after he’d been released from the brutal prisoner of war camp. However, despite his left hand looking normal, whenever he was distressed it would tremble like an old man’s. He hated what he’d become.

  “So what’s her name?” Although curious about the new gal, Slater was more interested in changing the subject.

  “Miss Glory.”

  Slater barked a laugh. “With a handle like that, she’s no blushing virgin.”

  “I’d bet my last dollar she’s not a sporting woman. She talks fancy, like she’s been to school.”

  “Must be down on her luck. That’s why women end up in a place like this. And sooner or later, they all end up whores.”

  Andrew glared at him. “It’s not like I force them to prostitute themselves.”