by Caroline Lee
The only way she knew how.
She hurried to change, pulling off her skirt and blouse and jacket, then draping them over the back of one of the kitchen chairs. Her stockings she left on for warmth, and because she knew from past encounters Draven found them attractive.
She’d just finished brushing her hair so it hung in waves around her shoulders when he returned.
He stopped in the doorway, his eye raking her from head to toe. She placed one hand on her hip, thrust her breasts against the cotton of her camisole, and gave him the sultry, sensual look she and Jolie had spent hours perfecting in the mirror.
It didn’t work.
“What are you doing?”
His question flustered her. “What does it look like I’m doing?”
He didn’t answer. Instead, he stalked towards her, the heels of his boots echoing on the floorboards beneath them. “I thought you’d be in bed by now, trying to get warm.”
The mound of blankets was appealing, now that the stove’s heat had fizzled out. But she was on a mission, and wasn’t going to let anything get in her way. “I thought of another way to get warm.”
There, that didn’t sound too silly, and it was true. Just the thought of Draven’s hand on her camisole—and on her skin under it—was enough to make her warm.
She began to untie the ribbon at the neck of the undergarment, but to her surprise, her fingers were shaking too much to make sense of the knot.
“Pearl.” He stepped up to her, his large hand covering both of hers at her collarbone. “Stop.”
She tried to smile up at him, but wondered why it felt so watery. “I just…”
I have to thank you.
Shaking off his hand, she managed to untie her camisole. The two sides of the material gaped open, offering him a magnificent view of the inner valleys of her breasts. She held her breath as he stared down at her chest for a long moment. A muscle ticked in the unscarred side of his jaw, and she wondered what he was thinking.
Finally, his gaze lifted to hers, and she didn’t see any of the desire she’d hoped for. Here she was, in this man’s home—the reason she’d forced her way in here—and he couldn’t even summon a smidge of desire for her?
“Pearl,” he repeated, his low and gentle, “what are you doing?”
Oh, God. He looked so fierce and deadly, but when he spoke to her like that—when he treated her like she was something special—her heart always broke from longing.
“I’m thanking you!” she cried, before she could think better of it. “You shared your food with me, you shared your home with me, and you didn’t have to! You didn’t have to do any of this! I just wanted to show you—”
“No.”
This time his voice was harsher, and she bent her head in shame. She deserved his reproach.
To her surprise, his hands came to the neckline of her camisole, like they’d done so many times before, but instead of pulling the white material apart, instead of exposing her breasts to the cold air and warming them with his tongue, he…he tied the ribbon closed.
He protected her modesty.
And then he placed each of his large hands on her shoulders—close enough she could feel the sides of his thumbs, caressing the skin of her neck—and said, “Look at me, Pearl.”
She did. And when she looked into that dark eye of his, she saw something there she couldn’t identify. It wasn’t pity, and it wasn’t hope, and it wasn’t anger. It was a kind of fierceness she’d never seen on a man’s face before.
“Are you listening?” he snapped.
Mutely, she nodded.
“You are more than a whore, Pearl.” He punctuated each sentence with a little shake. “If you want to thank a man, just thank him. You don’t need to trade your body for—for anything.” He swallowed. “Just say ‘thank you.’ ”
You are more than a whore..
Pearl blinked back tears. “Thank you,” she said thickly, not quite sure anymore what she was thanking him for.
He nodded once, curtly. “Get in bed.”
Was he going to…?
While she climbed under the blankets, he peeled off his vest, unhooked his suspenders and pulled his shirt out of his trousers. Then he lowered himself to the mattress and pulled off his boots, and she heard them clunk against the floor as he reached to dim the lamp.
Once he was in the bed beside her, Pearl held her breath. But all he did was wrap one arm around her and pull her towards himself. He nestled her backside against his front, and she could feel the evidence of how much he wanted her, even through his clothing.
Why did he turn down my offer then?
The warmth of his body was so much better than the meager warmth from the stove, and Pearl felt herself slowly relaxing against him, her muscles loosening bit by bit. His breath tickled her ear, and his hand rested against her stomach, right under her breasts.
It felt good. She’d never been held like this by a man before.
“You know…” His whisper was a faint rumble in her ear. “I’ve always wanted to do this.”
Do what? Should she ask?
Seconds ticked by while she debated asking him for clarification. His breathing evened, and she wondered if she’d lost the chance.
“Do what, Draven?” she whispered into the dark, hoping his answer might maybe, possibly be, “Hold you.”
But instead, all she heard was a snore.
The morning of December twenty-seventh dawned clear and frigid. It was much colder here in Draven’s small room than it was in La Maison. Maybe because there was always entertainment and activity throughout the night at the whorehouse.
Refusing to allow herself to think about that life—the life she had a temporary reprieve from—Pearl slipped out from under the blankets and hurried to dress. She performed her morning duties as quietly as she could and had the water for tea boiling by the time Draven stirred.
When his tousled head poked out from under the mound of blankets, looking equally confused and sexy, Pearl had to bite her lip to hide her smile. Who would’ve thought the big, bad bounty-hunter-turned-sheriff could look so adorable?
This was why she’d suggested she move in with him. She wanted the chance to pretend to be his wife. To make him breakfast and admire his messy morning hair. To be held by him, all night long.
She pushed aside thoughts of the confusing encounter the night before. “Good morning, Draven. I’m going to make flapjacks for breakfast.”
“Flapjacks?” He scrubbed his hand over his face. “Have I died and gone to Heaven then?”
“No,” she answered with a laugh. “Not even close.”
But being here with him did feel a little like Heaven.
He grabbed his clothing off the floor, where he’d dropped it the night before, and clomped out into his office. She didn’t know what he was doing out there, but she could hear him moving around.
She used the time to focus on her mixing. It had been years since she’d had to cook for her family, but the cook at La Maison had always been willing to let her sit and watch her work. She’d learned a lot from the older woman about cooking for a crowd, but she thought she could scale it down for just her and her pretend husband.
As she found her stride, mixing and pouring and frying, Pearl had a startling realization: Draven was right about her. She was more than just a whore. She could cook fairly well, and she was a somewhat passable artist…
She wracked her brain, trying to come up with other attributes besides what she kept between her legs.
She was smart, and well-read…and she cared for the other girls at La Maison and the new brides who came into town. She flattered herself to think she’d made their lives better in some way.
Yes, she did have worth…didn’t she?
You’re more than just a whore.
His words echoed in her head throughout their quiet breakfast. Apparently Draven wasn’t a morning talker, but that was alright. She had too much to think about this morning… Like the humilia
ting way she’d offered herself to him last night, and he’d rejected her.
But she knew he’d wanted her. Had he only rejected her to prove a point? Was it about her worth as a person? Or some other, crueler point?
Looking across the table at him as she had last night, she admitted a stranger would most certainly guess him to be a cruel man. Those long, parallel scars pulled his face into a permanent sneer, and the skin had healed over his empty eye socket in thick lumps. He looked mean, and she supposed he could be, according to his reputation.
But to her, he’d always been gentle. Loving, almost. Surely he wouldn’t have said what he’d said—done what he’d done—last night to be cruel? The memory of his hands over hers as he’d pushed her away and tied up her camisole…it still made her shiver, but she wasn’t sure if it was from shame or desire.
Together, they cleaned up after the meal, just as they’d done the night before. It felt natural, normal. She wanted this life. She wanted to do this for him every day.
“What are your plans for the day?”
His question startled her.
“I’m not sure.” She paused, considering. “The girls know I’m here, but none of them know why. I’m not sure I want to go back to La Maison and interact with the remaining brides.”
Her duty to Doctor Deane and Cara had ended when the two of them had gone out for their walk.
“Why not?” He was moving some of her things around on the chest, presumably so he could reach his own belongings.
She shrugged, keeping her attention on the plate she was drying. “I don’t... I’m not one of them.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “I’m only pretending to be a bride.”
He looked up then and captured her gaze. “And you are embarrassed by that?”
“Yes,” she whispered. “I’m only a…”
She couldn’t say it, but didn’t have to.
He crossed the room, holding her gaze, and stopped just before his chest would brush against her arm. “You’re more than a whore, Pearl. Remember that.”
It took all her strength to nod. Her tongue darted out to wet her lips, and his eye flicked briefly downward. It seemed important to him she hear those words—You’re more than a whore—so she’d do her best to remember them.
“I’ll try,” she promised.
He nodded once, firmly, then cleared his throat. “I’ll be doing my rounds this morning. See if I can talk to Penworthy about when this man from the railroad will arrive—if he hasn’t already. I guess we should make a time to meet with him.”
And after they did, their charade would be over. Pearl nodded slightly and turned back to the dishes, not wanting to think about her time with Draven being over. What could she do to show him her appreciation? Not just for the fact he shared his home with her, but for the way he’d held her last night, and the way he tried to boost her self-worth? She needed to show him, somehow, what he meant to her…
“I might ride up to the mine too, see if I can check on the mayor. No one’s heard from him in a few days. Maybe— Listen, what is this?”
The cloth she was using dropped from her fingers when she looked over to see him holding the folder with her drawings. Before she could stop him, he’d pulled out her most recent one, the sketch of Noelle in the snow.
She heard him suck in a breath and turn slightly, holding the paper closer to his remaining eye and angling it towards the sunlight coming in from the one window.
“This is…” He glanced her way, then back at the sketch. “Did you do this, Pearl?”
No one in Noelle had ever seen her drawings before. In fact, before she’d bonded with Birdie over the woman’s dress designs, Pearl didn’t think anyone had even realized she sketched. But somehow…somehow, Draven knowing didn’t seem like a bad thing. She instinctively knew he wouldn’t mock her.
So she nodded.
“These are Christmas decorations, aren’t they?” he asked, but didn’t wait for an answer. “This reminds me of the etched illustrations you sometimes see in books…”
His observation surprised her. That was, in fact, the feeling she’d been trying to capture in her sketch.
He looked up then and caught her surprised gaze. Was it her imagination, or did he flush slightly, before sliding the sketch carefully back into her folder?
“Yeah, well…” he cleared his throat. “I…”
Apparently at a loss for what to say, he shoved the folder into her hands, then strode across the small room to pull his hat down off the peg. Slamming it onto his head, he said, “Thanks for the flapjacks,” and hurried out the door.
Pearl stood there in his home, holding her sketches, with the scent of melted butter in the air…and smiled.
Chapter 5
The third day of Christmas
December 27th, 1876
No one seemed to know where the railroad inspector was staying. Percy Penworthy down at the land office confirmed the man—a Mr. Anthony Stiles—had in fact arrived yesterday evening, but wasn't sure where he’d gone after he'd come into town.
It wasn't like there was a hotel for the man to stay in, so Draven was surprised Stiles hadn't demanded lodging with Penworthy. Of course, anyone who spent more than ten minutes with the annoying and sniveling Penworthy probably would change his mind real quick about lodging with him, so maybe that explained Stiles’ absence.
How the hell was Draven supposed to convince Stiles he was Horatio and Pearl was Maybelle, without being able to meet the man? And why in tarnation was it his responsibility anyhow?
When Draven realized that, he gave up his search, and started looking for Reverend Hammond instead. Let him deal with Stiles. When Hammond tracked down the railroad man, then he could come find Draven to lie for him.
Only problem was, Draven couldn't find the reverend either. And frankly, he wasn’t sure what he should say to the man once he did. Could Draven really claim to be angry about the deception, when he’d agreed to it so quick? And what would the good preacher say, if Draven marched up and shook his hand and said, “Thanks for giving me the best night’s sleep I’ve had in the last fifteen years?”
Draven paused outside the jailhouse during one of his circuits of the town and placed his gloved palm against the door. She was just inside if not in his office, then in his small room in the back. He knew, because he’d been keeping half an eye on the building all morning. Pearl hadn’t come out, and the thought of her in his home…
Well, it made him feel warm inside in a way he hadn’t since Mama had been around. In a way no other woman had ever made him feel. Holding Pearl last night, then sitting across from her this morning, eating the most delicious flapjacks he could remember, had made him feel whole. When he was with her, he wasn’t a scarred beast of a man…he was just a man.
His fingers curled into a fist, and he dropped his hand, wondering what people would think if they saw him standing out here like an idiot. Mooning over a woman. But Pearl wasn’t like all those brides who’d shown up the other night. She was beautiful—sure—and kind-hearted enough, to look at him and not be afraid.
But she was more than that. She was a survivor. She was brave and strong, and so passionate, Draven had struggled last night, trying to push away the memories of their intimate times together. She was the kind of woman others might ignore—the kind some men might assume was a “cold fish,” the kind to care more about the welfare of her friends than making money—but he admired her.
And she was broken, just like him. He hadn’t seen it before, when their relationship had been strictly business, but he saw it last night. Last night, when she thought she owed him something and wanted to repay him. She offered her body, because it was the only thing she thought worth anything.
And the good Lord knew it was a struggle for Draven not to take what she’d offered. But he didn’t want her pity, didn’t want her obligation. He wanted to be inside her, yeah, but not that way.
Lying there, holding her in his arms, he realized something importa
nt: he wanted her body given freely, in celebration. In pleasure. Not because he’d paid for her—like he had in the past—or because she felt she owed him.
He wanted her to want him.
And that’s about the time he’d called himself ten times a fool, and gone to sleep.
Still, this morning—during his fruitless search for answers he wasn’t sure he wanted—he couldn’t help but think of the way she’d stood there, unlaced. She’d honestly thought that was the only way to thank him? She thought that was why he’d agreed to this, why he’d shared his home with her?
Draven cursed under his breath and turned away from the jail building.
Hell yes, it’s what I want.
But not that way. He didn’t want her obligated to him. And he didn’t want her to think the only thing she had to offer a man was her body.
What happened to a simple “thank you?”
That’s how he knew she was as broken as he was. She didn’t think her verbal thanks was good enough. She didn’t think her laughter, her conversation, her smiles were good enough for him? Bah!
He needed to come up with a way to show her she was more than just a whore.
To him, and if she’d let him, to the world as well. She was a brave, compassionate woman, who apparently was the best artist he’d ever met in his life. She had plenty of worth…and he had to come up with some way to make her see it.
Only problem was, he had no idea how.
So he spent December twenty-seventh getting increasingly frustrated, both over memories of Pearl, and the missing Anthony Stiles.
Oh, he also dealt with the usual issues which faced a town like Noelle: the occasional fist fight among the laid-off miners who’d been hanging around making trouble lately, and helping two more load up their mules to head out of town. Even when there was a dozen men who were willing to sacrifice their futures by getting married for the possibility of saving the town, others were still leaving. Hellfire, even Draven himself had gotten suckered into the reverend’s scheme, and here he was, ready to lie just to convince the railroad to build a spur into town.
