by Caroline Lee
Pearl.
He’d know her silhouette anywhere. After all, it was the same figure that came to him in his dreams, although she usually wasn’t wearing quite so many clothes. Today she was bundled up in a pretty maroon coat and winter bonnet, her hair in a braid over one shoulder. Between that and her rosy cheeks, she looked just like a sweet, innocent schoolgirl out for a stroll.
His mouth went dry.
God almighty, he wanted her again already. He didn’t think he’d ever stop wanting her, and that brief conversation he’d had the night before last—Christmas Eve—when he’d stuck his foot in his mouth…it hadn’t been enough. He wanted her constantly.
So maybe he was talking out of his too-tight trousers when he blurted out, “I’ll do it.”
Was that distaste he saw in Montgomery’s eyes when Draven turned to see how the men had taken his sudden agreement? The question was answered when the Englishman’s lip curled slightly.
“Are you sure, Sheriff? Reverend, I’ve heard some rumors…”
“Rumors?” Hammond asked, before Draven could.
Montgomery shifted his weight, as if preparing an awkward answer. “Pearl’s a bit of a…cold fish, as it were. She ignores her clients, and prefers to spend time with the other whores.”
A cold fish.
Draven took a threatening step towards the man before he’d even thought through his response, but Montgomery lifted his hands and backed away.
A cold fish? As in, a woman who just…lay there and let a man do what he want to her?
“She’s a whore.” Draven blurted out. Surely Montgomery couldn’t be that stupid? Why would a whore be a cold fish? Her livelihood relied on her…on her enthusiasm.
And Draven had never had a more enthusiastic partner than Pearl Shelby. She was about as far from “cold fish” as possible.
“Where’d you hear that?” Draven growled before he could stop himself.
The Englishman cleared his throat. “Horatio mentioned it to me a few weeks ago. During his contracted time with Pearl, she just… Well, he said she got lippy—his words, not mine—and then later dragged him away from young Angelique.”
Sounded to Draven like Pearl might’ve been protecting the young woman, not deliberately ticking Horatio off.
On the other hand—Draven forced himself to breathe deeply and relax his grip on his revolver—he couldn’t much blame her if she had set out to deliberately irritate that ass.
Still, none of that made her a cold fish.
Hammond cleared his throat. “Yes, well…” He shot a glare Montgomery’s way. “Her enthusiasm in bed doesn’t matter, because we’re not expecting Sheriff Draven to sleep with the woman, Lord Hugh. Just pretend to be married to her.”
Maybe it was the stupid nickname, maybe it was the preacher’s glare. Or maybe it was the way Draven was still frowning angrily at him. Either way, Montgomery smiled thinly and backed away.
“Quite right, quite right. I’ll just…” He glanced over his shoulder. “I’ll just leave you two to the plans. I have my own bride conundrum, after all.”
When he hurried away, Draven couldn’t say he was sorry to see the man go.
Cold fish, ha!
“Miss Pearl!”
Hammond’s call broke through Draven’s irritation. He tilted his head just enough to see Pearl changing direction. She’d been heading down the street towards La Maison des Chats, but now she crossed the street towards them.
Was it Draven’s imagination, or did her steps slow slightly as she neared the two men? Was she nervous about something, or still upset at him for whatever he’d said wrong the other night?
“Miss Pearl,” Hammond said politely, shoving his hat back on his head. “How are you?”
“Reverend.” She curtsied just like a debutante. “I’ve heard congratulations are in order. From what I know of Felicity, she’s a treasure.”
“Thank you!” The preacher beamed like an idiot, and Draven resisted the urge to scowl. “I’m rather pleased with her myself.”
And then she turned to Draven. “Sheriff,” she said, low and demurely, staring firmly at his chest.
Damn him, he felt himself stir just at her lukewarm greeting. “Miss Pearl,” he managed to acknowledge curtly on his second try.
The three of them stood in silent tableau for another moment, before Hammond cleared his throat.
“Miss Pearl, we have rather a unique proposition for you.”
We? Draven wanted to protest, but he couldn’t. He’d agreed wholeheartedly—or at least, whole-bodily—once he’d known she would be involved.
For her part, Pearl clasped her gloved hands sweetly in front of her, and blinked politely at Hammond. Draven tightened his hands into fists—feeling the ring digging into his left palm—while he waited for the preacher to explain, and her to laugh it off.
“You see, we need you to pretend to be Maybelle Anderson.”
Her response was immediate. “You mean, act like a spoiled and demanding debutante?”
While Draven snorted at her observation, the preacher clarified. “Ye—No! Well, maybe. That part doesn’t really matter. You see,” he took a deep breath, “Horatio Smythe and Maybelle Anderson were married this morning.”
“Yes,” she said quietly. “They seemed perfect for one another.”
Draven snorted again.
“Perhaps.” The reverend glared at Draven before continuing. “And luckily for the town’s long-term happiness, they’ve decided to leave for San Francisco. But that means we’re down one couple, and with the railroad representative apparently arriving early—as in tonight or tomorrow—we need a couple to pretend to be Horatio and Maybelle, since their marriage is listed in the town’s ledger.”
Pearl was quiet for a long moment. Finally, her pale blue eyes flicked to Draven, then back to the reverend. “You do have a scarcity of women in town, don’t you? Who will be pretending to be Horatio?”
Hammond cleared his throat, his eyes flicking to Draven, and Draven thought he suddenly looked uncomfortable with the idea.
Why? Because he thought Pearl was going to balk, knowing Draven was the other half of this scheme? Maybe she would. Just because she’d been the only woman in years to look at him without pity and revulsion didn’t mean she would suddenly agree to—
“I’ll do it.”
Her quiet agreement took both men by surprise, judging from the way Hammond’s head snapped up. Draven, for his part, was too busy staring at her. She’d agreed far too quickly to mean it, hadn’t she? She was willing to pretend to be his wife?
“Are you sure, Miss Pearl?” Hammond suddenly sounded all protective.
“She said she’d do it,” Draven all-but-growled, not taking his eye off her. “Let it be.”
“However,” she began, her chin raising, “I think it’s important to portray a happily married couple. For verisimilitude.”
The reverend blinked, maybe at the idea of a whore using such a fancy word for truthful. “Yes…indeed. What did you have in mind, exactly?”
“I think, assuming the sheriff will have me, it would be best if I moved in with him for the duration.”
Holy mother of God. He’d have her, in his rooms, for at least a few days.
Hammond’s laugh was forced. “Alright, you two, but no hanky-panky. You’re not really married.” He shook his finger at Pearl. “And you’re not working.”
Her face paled, and Draven couldn’t stop himself from taking a step towards her. It was instinctual for him to want to help her.
But her shoulders straightened, her jaw tightened, and she said merely, “I understand, Reverend.”
Maybe it was some last vestige of the gentlemanly manners his mama had tried so hard to instill in him…Draven turned slightly to put his shoulder between Pearl and the reverend.
“Are you sure about this, Pearl?” he asked quietly. “You don’t have to do anything you’re uncomfortable with.”
And for the first time, she looked him squ
are in the eye. Her blue eyes sparkled with something between sadness and mischief, and her beautiful lips curled enigmatically.
He felt the pull of that smile deep in his chest, just like he always did.
“Of course I’m sure, Sheriff,” she replied, just as quietly. She laid her hand on his arm, and he felt the warmth of that touch even through her gloves and his coat. “I’m happy to do my part to help the town survive.”
And, as she hurried down the street with Reverend Hammond to get a valise with some things from La Maison des Chats, Draven frowned after them. She might only be doing this to help Noelle and the preacher’s marriage scheme, but he wasn’t so sure.
There’d been something there in her eyes he hadn’t been able to name, but wanted to know all about.
Soon, he told himself. Soon he’d have Pearl Shelby to himself, and he could figure out why she’d agreed so quickly.
And God help him if he found out it was only to help the town.
Chapter 4
By the time she’d moved some of her things out of La Maison—nothing much, just the things she would need for a day or two, plus her bundle of pencils and her sketch folder—it was dinner time. Pearl sat, excited and terrified all at once, across the table in Draven’s small home.
Mayor Hardt had ordered the building built two years before, and it was simple. A larger room up front, divided in half to act as a jail cell and the sheriff’s office, and a smaller room in back. The back room had an oven and a griddle, a table with two rough-hewn chairs—although one looked entirely unused, judging from the shiny seat and back of the other one—a chest, a small table under some hooks by the door, and a bed.
That bed had seemed to swallow all her attention from the moment she’d stepped into the room; it wasn’t anything more than a mattress placed on the ground, but it was piled high with blankets and pillows and looked like a cozy little nest.
Not at all how she’d expected a man like Sheriff Draven to live. He’d always enjoyed the comforts of her bed at La Maison, but she’d pictured him rolled up in a buffalo robe on the floor, if anything.
The sight of those brightly colored blankets made her smile.
“You like bacon, huh?”
His question snapped her out of her contemplation, and she hurried to pick up the fork he’d placed beside her plate. “Yes, very much.” Let him think she’d been smiling because of the meal.
He’d fried up some bacon and served it with bread. That was it. Love of bacon aside, this wasn’t the healthiest dinner. Apparently, despite his bed, the sheriff wasn’t the homey-type after all. She vowed that—assuming she’d still be here—tomorrow she’d cook him a feast worth remembering.
“Sorry it’s not much.”
He fiddled with his fork, twisting it back and forth, before stabbing a piece of meat with it to bring to his mouth. Pearl tried not to stare at his lips when they closed around the food, wondering if it was normal for her to be so distracted by memories of him kissing her skin.
“It’s—” She swallowed and tried again. “It’s wonderful.” She took a dainty bite of the bacon to prove the point, and only felt a little uncomfortable at the way that dark eye watched her. “Thank you for allowing me to stay here with you. I know I forced myself—”
“It’s fine,” he said, a little too quickly. “I mean…I don’t mind.”
When he twisted the fork between his fingers once more, the lamplight caught the gleam of gold from his left hand. That small golden ring around the littlest finger had always intrigued her, but she never had the courage to ask why he’d wear a ring so thin. Just like she’d never had the courage to ask about a lot of things.
When he lifted the fork to his mouth again, she blinked and tore her gaze away from his hand. She searched about for a topic of conversation.
“Your home is very cozy. Thank you for sharing it with me.”
He glanced up and shrugged, as if it wasn’t important. But it was important. Being here with him, it was giving her a chance to fulfill a dream she’d had for months and months…
She realized she was staring at him, and although he continued to chew stoically, it was impossible to miss the way his remaining dark eye watched her…almost worriedly.
“How’d you get your scar?” she blurted, then winced. Oh, poorly done, girl.
The parallel scars crossed his face from his left brow bone, across the bridge of his nose and right eye socket, and down his right cheekbone. This meant that his expressions were almost impossible to read, since he was missing so much of his face. But even so, she thought she noticed a twitching of the scar tissue above his remaining eye, as if he was raising his brow at her.
She winced again, knowing she deserved his disdain. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked. You don’t need to talk about it, if you don’t want to. Sorry,” she apologized again, weakly.
He carefully placed the fork by his plate and sat back in his chair, studying her. She felt lower than a bug, knowing she made him feel awkward, and twisted her fingers together on her lap as she bowed her head, waiting for his scolding.
“A grizzly got me.”
His comment, after such a long silence, snapped her attention back to his face.
“A grizzly?” she repeated in a whisper, daring to believe he was confiding in her.
He nodded, his single eye holding hers. “I was fifteen, trapping with my Pa. I found a bear munching on one of my kills, and she didn’t like me disturbing her meal.” The detached way he told the story made it sound as if he was leaving something out. “Pa saved my life that day.”
She blinked at him, amazed to finally have an answer to the question most of the town—most of the West—had wondered about for years. “Oh my,” she finally said.
His frown was fearsome, thanks to his scars. “What?”
“It’s just…” She shrugged. “Surely you know how much people speculate. I’ve heard your scars were a result of a knife fight down in Austin, or a shootout with the entire Quigg gang. Oh! Or that they’re a result of some horrible Indian tradition when you were a child.”
He just looked at her, not giving anything away.
“Are you an Indian?” she pressed.
“No,” he finally said. “Although Pa was raised Blackfoot, and I had some cousins in the tribe. I was born up in Montana.”
She pushed aside the remains of her dinner, far more interested in the man across from her. Propping her chin in one palm, she prompted him, “And he was a trapper?”
He reached for his fork once more, the lamplight once again catching the gleam of gold on his small finger. He sat there, relaxing in the chair and fiddling with that fork, for what seemed like forever. Then he nodded.
“Yep. Taught me everything I know about tracking.”
“Is that why you became a bounty hunter?”
His lips twitched upwards on his left side, and she realized he was smiling. Not a big smile, but a smile nonetheless. “I figured I’d had enough of nature to last a lifetime. And trappin’ men was a lot more interesting than looking for beaver. One time…”
Dinner sat forgotten as he talked, telling her stories she’d never imagined he would share. It was fascinating, listening to him talk about his adventures, and how he’d eventually ended up here in Noelle. She found herself totally engrossed, watching the way his lips moved as he spoke, and how he moved his hands when he described a hunt.
She was still thinking of those hands—and what they were capable of—as they cleaned up from dinner together. She didn’t know his plans for the evening, but at that moment, she didn’t care. The last few hours with him had just reinforced what she’d always known about him…
Sheriff Draven was a good man.
He was disfigured and intimidating, but he’d never hurt a woman as far as she knew—not even when Madame was trying to hurt him. He’d built a life for himself on his skills and his wits, and he knew when to be fierce and when to be gentle.
No wonder she’d lost he
r heart to him long ago.
Maybe something showed in her expression, because when they were done, he rubbed the back of his neck like he wanted to say something important. She waited, but enough time passed it, began to feel awkward, so she spoke up.
“Thank you for dinner, Sheriff.”
“If we’re pretending to be married, you should probably call me Draven.“
“What’s your first name?” she asked, before she could think better of it.
When he scowled, she knew she shouldn’t have asked.
“I don’t tell anyone that, Miss Pearl. Draven’s good enough.”
She was quick to nod. “Draven it is. And I’ve asked you to call me ‘Pearl’ before.” He’d always insisted on the honorific, although without using her last name, it just reminded her of her lack of propriety. “Of course,” she said, placing one hand on her cocked hip, “if we’re pretending to be married, you should probably call me Maybelle.“
He hooked his thumbs in his gun belt and scowled. “Not if it means you’re gunna call me Horatio. I’ll go to Reverend Hammond and tell him the deal’s off before I let a pretty girl call me by that ass’s name.”
Pearl’s smile wasn’t due to his assessment of the man she hated, although that hadn’t hurt. No, it was because— “Did you just call me pretty?”
“It’s getting late.” He was quick to deflect the question. “I’ll…” Draven’s eye darted around the room, before landing once more on Pearl’s face, then quickly flicking away. “I’ll give you a minute here. Alone. I’ll be…” He gestured lamely towards the door to the jail. “I have to check on…things.”
For the first time, Pearl realized there wasn’t a dressing screen in his little room, and he was trying to give her privacy, though didn’t know how. His awkwardness was endearing, but it was the thought behind it which made her happy.
“Thank you,” she said, granting him a smile that made him hurry out the door.
But not before she saw his scowl.
Why was he scowling? She pondered on it while she hurried through her ablutions. Did he not want her appreciation? Well, that was too bad. He’d opened his home to her—opened part of his life to her—on her urging, and she had every intention of thanking him for it.
