by Caroline Lee
Draven shifted uncomfortably, knowing he was the reason the whores had to leave La Maison. “How…” He cleared his throat. “How are they doing?”
Sipping her tea, Pearl shook her head in disappointment. “They’ve brought over enough of their things to at least be comfortable, but…” She sighed. “Madame is ruthless in her anger, and I’m sure she’s taking it out on Angelique. I wish I could protect them all. Even Boum Boum has trouble standing up to Madame when she’s in one of her moods, and I can’t imagine how she’s going to—” She bit her complaints off sharply, shook her head once, and pasted a smile even Draven could tell was forced on her face. “Well, that hardly matters. But how about you? What did you do today?”
He respected her decision to give her colleagues some privacy, and didn’t want to pry, but wasn’t sure he should talk about himself. Normally, he would’ve shrugged off the attempt at small talk, but not tonight. Tonight was special. He was sitting in his home with a woman who made him feel lighter somehow, the perfect little picture of domesticity. Tonight, he was going to try to forget his past, his sins, his face, and focus on this feeling of rightness.
So he told her about his day, and she seemed interested, even about the most mundane details. Her questions were insightful and interesting, and her opinions about the townsfolk made him chuckle again.
“And what about the railroad representative? Did you track him down?”
He shrugged and told her the truth. “No, but I wasn’t trying too hard either.”
Her smile told him she might’ve been worried about finding the man too. “Good. I’m glad.”
“Oh, really?”
“We get another night together.”
Had she enjoyed lying in his arms as much as he’d liked holding her? He wanted to think so, but couldn’t find the words to ask before she continued.
“Besides, we’ll probably have to meet with him soon enough tomorrow.”
That sobering thought stayed with Draven as he swallowed the last of his pie and washed the dishes. He liked working beside her—he liked being beside her—which was a new and not altogether scary development.
After the kitchen was clean again, he left her to get ready for bed alone, just like he had yesterday evening. He took himself out to his office and stared at some wanted posters for what seemed like an eternity. It was only when he found he’d been staring at the same page, without actually seeing it, that he realized he was thinking about Pearl.
Aww, hell.
He’d given her long enough. He wanted to be holding her.
Draven made sure to clear his throat extra-loud before he pushed open the door to his room, just in case she was still getting ready. He needn’t have bothered; she’d turned down the lamp and was already in bed, only the tip of her pale braid visible under the mound of blankets.
He hurried to pull off his boots and suspenders, hoping his trousers—and the union suit underneath—would mask his arousal. He didn’t want her thinking he was only interested in sex, when holding her was pretty nice too.
When he pulled back the covers and slipped in beside her, he was surprised to feel her turn over and come into his arms willingly.
But not nearly as surprised as when he felt the bare skin of her back and realized she was nude.
Damn.
“What are you doing?” he asked gruffly, not sure if he should be grateful or angry.
But she ignored his tone, just snuggling closer. He felt her little hands snake around his chest until she—all of her—was pressed up against him. A man can only take so much.
“What does it feel like I’m doing?”
Had she not heard anything he’d said last night? About not wanting to be “thanked” with her body? About her having worth besides what was between her legs?
He grabbed her wrists and pulled them away from his chest, forcing her to roll off him. She went easily, and he followed, pressing her against the mattress, with her hands on either side of her head.
Looming over her in the faint light, he tried to focus on his irritation, rather than how damn good she looked lying in his bed. So his tone was dangerous when he growled, “It feels like you’re ignoring everything I said last night.”
To his surprise, she smiled slightly, her lids lowering softly. Seductively. She was too good at that, and he felt himself thicken with desire. Lord almighty, he wanted this woman.
“I heard everything you said, Draven, and I appreciate it.”
Hands still wrapped around her wrists, he shook her slightly. “Dammit, woman. I’m not going to pay you for this.”
You’re more than a whore!
But she just wiggled, pressing her hips up against his, and he felt the contact clear into his toes. Her smile grew.
“I’m not asking you to.”
That’s when he knew he’d lost his battle to do what was right, what she deserved. With another growl, he lowered his lips to hers, and lost himself in her touch.
Chapter 6
The fourth day of Christmas
December 28th, 1876
The stove in the corner of Draven’s office put out a cheery warmth, which Pearl figured was completely unnecessary. Certainly, it was freezing outside, but she was so nervous right now, her palms—and just about everything else—were sweating. She resisted the urge to wipe them on her new purple dress, not knowing how the material would react.
Birdie Bell, her new friend, had made the dress for her, and it had been the most wonderful surprise. They’d bonded over the design on Christmas Eve, when Pearl had shared her love of sketching, and Birdie had modified an existing dress—of the most beautiful, dark-purple silk—for Pearl.
Pearl had nearly wept when she’d gone back to La Maison early that morning and saw it in her room, along with a beautiful note from Birdie, thanking her for her friendship. It was the most beautiful gown she’d ever owned, and Pearl hoped she had the chance to tell Birdie so.
It also happened to be the perfect costume for a snooty society belle to wear. Pearl had spent a long time getting ready today, knowing what was coming. The deep amethyst made her feel like a princess, so she wore her hair pulled back in pins over her ears, and falling down her back.
Now the beautiful skirts swished as she paced from the large cell’s door to the small window along the front wall, trying to ease some of her tension. Every once in a while, she’d peek through the crack in the shutter, trying to see if Draven was coming.
He’d left her to find the railroad representative, or at least Reverend Hammond, and Pearl had agreed to wait in his office, so the railroad man could interview them here.
“Interview,” she muttered as she paced. They were lying. She didn’t mind, not really; they were helping the town, and it had been the most wonderful lie she’d ever been involved in.
This lie had let her live with the man she loved, even if only for a few days. It let her pretend she was worthy of being his wife, let her cook his meals and keep his home and sleep beside him. Let her dream, at least briefly, that life could be good.
And last night…
Last night had been…
Pearl sighed. She was a whore. She’d had sex with many men over the last few years; some had been hard and rough, most had been forgettable—just interested in a quick poke before they stumbled away from her bed, in some cases blushing and stammering. Those had always been her favorite; they were looking for a little softness and kindness in their lives, and she was good at providing that.
She was a whore. Her livelihood relied on giving men what they wanted, but thanks to the cruel rumor the real Horatio Smythe had started—that she just laid there like a lump of meat in bed—her “forgettable” customers had been dwindling, and she was in danger of losing her spot in La Maison.
And while she never thought she’d miss her boring customers, there was one type she rarely saw at all. Felice had called them “the keepers,” which were customers who cared enough to make sure the woman enjoyed the experi
ence too. Customers who caressed and stroked, rather than groped and squeezed. Customers who could make a whore cry out in unfeigned pleasure.
In all of her life, Pearl had only had one “keeper.” Sheriff Draven, whose touch made her body sing.
And last night…last night it had sung to a tune she’d never heard before. Desperation. Longing. Intensity, resolution, yearning. They’d come together in such fierce gentleness, she had to fight back tears at the way he’d held her afterwards.
It was the most emotional coupling she’d ever experienced, and she’d loved it. More than anything else, she wanted Draven to be the only man who touched her. For the rest of her life.
But her past—and all of the men who’d already touched her—meant that wasn’t going to happen. She’d had a few days of bliss, but would soon be back to her old life, because that’s the only life she was fit for anymore.
Just as soon as she got these lies over with.
As if she conjured them, the front door opened and Draven escorted a stranger through. She was close enough to the chair by his desk to drop into it, smoothing her hands over her skirts and affecting a bored expression, pretending she’d been there for hours.
For the next few minutes, she’d be Maybelle Anderson, and she’d help save Noelle.
Draven had looked her way immediately upon entering, and the way he’d nodded had given her a burst of courage she hadn’t known she needed. As he finished pulling off his jacket, she smiled at him.
“Were you successful?”
He nodded again, curtly, jerking his head towards the stranger. “This is Anthony Stiles, from the Denver and Pacific Railroad. He’s here to make sure Noelle has twelve new marriages. Stiles, my wife, Maybelle.”
Anthony Stiles was a tall, skinny man, with a large waxed mustache and dark eyes, and he was frowning a little too intently at Pearl. Finally he nodded respectfully. “Miss Anders—I mean, Mrs. Smythe. How do you do?”
She smiled haughtily. “I am cold, and this town is a dump, but I am a married woman now, which is more than can be said for my friends back home, so I’m quite happy.” Then, knowing the real Maybelle wouldn’t have let the man get a word in edgewise, she went on the attack. “Why are you here so early? We were told the railroad was giving the town until the sixth.”
Faint lines appeared at the corners of Mr. Stiles’ eyes, as if he was frowning without moving his mustache. “I am aware of the timeline, madam,” he said in a bland voice. “The railroad was promised twelve new couples, which meant twelve new families in the new year.”
“But you weren’t supposed to be here—”
“I said I'm aware of that,” Mr. Stiles snapped. Then he took a deep breath, as if holding on to his temper. “There was a change of plans per my arrival. But I'm willing to grant the town until the agreed upon date. It appears you've had four marriages in the three days since your influx of women, so I suppose I should be lenient and allow you until the original deadline to get them all married.”
Pearl breathed a little sigh of relief she managed to hide behind a huff and an eyeroll. It sounded like the town still had a chance, assuming eight more women married in the next nine days.
She glanced at Draven, hoping to see some pleasure in his expression. After all, they’d just been told the Denver and Pacific Railroad might very well be saving the town after all. Instead, she caught him glaring daggers at Stiles, and she quickly turned back to the railroad man.
“So you've met with the reverend?” Mindful of the role she had to play, she continued before he could answer. “Although I don't think he's a real reverend, because he wears a gun. What kind of preacher can look after the souls of his congregation while carrying a weapon?” She pretended to shudder. “This town is nothing like my beloved Denver. Now there is a magnificent city!”
Stiles’ mustache twitched. “No, but as I’ve not yet seen the actual marriage ledger, I will be sure to follow up with the reverend when I leave here.”
He glanced at Draven, who was standing impassively by the door, his arms folded in front of his chest. “And yes, I was surprised to hear of your marriage, Miss—Mrs. Smythe. Someone with your connections in Denver society should have had no need to go so far afield to find a husband.”
Oh dear. Pearl felt her heart speed up. This man was speaking as if he knew Maybelle personally, or at least as if he were aware of her circumstances. Pearl knew Mr. Stiles was from the Denver office of the Denver and Pacific, so was it possible he'd known Maybelle?
Remembering the spoiled woman's tinkling laugh, Pearl did her best imitation. “Oh, I would have gone anywhere for my Horatio.” She waved one hand languidly towards Draven. “Can you blame me?”
It might have been the wrong thing to say. Stiles eyebrows went up, as if in disbelief, and Draven's scowl deepened.
Oh dear.
Yet it seemed Mr. Stiles was too much of a gentleman to comment on what he probably thought was misplaced praise. Instead he cocked his head to one side and stared at Pearl for a touch longer than was comfortable.
Finally he harrumphed and said,“You don't look anything like your parents.”
Pearl's stomach flipped over. This man knew Maybelle's family? Well, the socialite had said her father was wealthy and well-known. It wasn't unbelievable someone connected to the railroad would know who he was. He hadn’t said he knew she was a fake though, so Pearl knew she had to tread lightly with her answers.
She exchanged a glance with Draven, and from his discreet nod, saw he agreed with her conclusion.
“Yes,” she said, smoothing her palms over the fine material of her skirt—oh dear, would that ruin the silk?—as her mind whirled in a dozen directions. What to say that would sound reasonable, but not out of character? “I get that a lot. It was one of the reasons I decided to leave, you know. I just didn't feel like I fit in there.”
There. That sounded reasonable.
Stiles’ eyes narrowed as he looked her up and down. Did he believe her? Had she added just the right amount of haughtiness to sound like Maybelle, while still maintaining her air of vulnerability?
When the man's attention turned to Draven, Pearl let out the tiniest little sigh of relief. She’d fooled him!
“You, Horatio.” A muscle in Stiles jaw tightened, like he found speaking to Draven distasteful. “You're the newspaperman?”
“And sheriff.” Draven kept his face impassive, his stance intimidating.
Pearl fought to keep her expression blank as well. What was Draven doing, claiming a job besides Horatio's?
“You're the sheriff as well?” Stiles eyebrows went up.
“Yeah,” drawled Draven. “Neither job is too taxing.”
He jerked his thumb towards the corner of his office, where a metal contraption sat on the table. Pearl had noticed it before, but hadn’t known what it was. Actually, what had really caught her attention was the pile of paper in the crate underneath. At the time, she wondered if it had to do with printing, but the metal thing was too small to be a press.
Stiles eyes narrowed. “What's that?”
“A hectograph,” Draven answered blandly. “ ‘S how I print our newspaper.”
The air crackled between the two men as they tried to stare one another down. Stiles seemed used to getting his way, but Pearl knew her Draven would win. How could he not? He was wonderfully intimidating.
Sure enough, Stiles blinked and looked away first. “You're quite the liar, aren't you, Mr. Smythe?”
Draven's hand dropped to his weapon. “What's that supposed to mean?”
“You lied in your letters, sir. You lied to this fine lady, and her even finer family.”
Pearl could tell Draven wanted to ask for details, but also didn't want to prolong their interview with the man. But Stiles’ accusation bothered her more than she would have imagined. She hated someone calling Draven a liar, even if he was currently hiding his identity and…
Alright, even if he was lying.
“In what way
is my husband a liar, Mr. Stiles?”
The man turned his attention to her, which wasn't exactly comforting. “He never said anything about being a sheriff. And he referred to himself as handsome. In fact, he claimed to be the most handsome man in all of Noelle.”
Pearls stomach flipped over again. Mr. Stiles had read Maybelle's letters? All of them? Had her family shared them with him? Why would they do that?
Mr. Stiles must be very well-connected in Denver society.
She forced a smile. “My husband didn't lie to me, Mr. Stiles.” When she turned slightly to meet Draven's eyes, she remembered the way he’d held her last night, the way he’d looked at her when he'd surrendered to the inevitable and lowered his skin to hers, and her smile turned genuine. “He is the most handsome man in Noelle.”
But instead of teasing a rare smile out of Draven, her comment seemed to have the opposite effect. His scowl dropped completely, until his expression turned carefully blank. He turned his head slightly, so she could no longer see his eye, but wasn’t sure if he was looking away from her for some horrible reason, or if he was just trying to focus on Stiles.
When he spoke though, it was to the railroad representative. “Who else have you interviewed?”
Stiles blinked. “What?”
“Which of the other couples have you met with and bombarded with questions? And were you as well-informed of all of their personal lives as you are my wife’s?”
The tall man’s mustache twitched as if he was opening and closing his mouth. Finally, he said, “You are my first interview, and my level of knowledge is not your concern. You should know that I take my job very seriously.”
Draven’s voice hardened even more, if that was possible. “As do I.”
“Felicity!” Pearl had to do something to break the tension, and grasped the first thing that came to mind. “Felicity Partridge married Reverend Hammond, and she’s from a nice family in Denver. Do you know them?”
For the first time, Mr. Stiles looked uncomfortable. “Ah, yes. The Partridges. Yes.” He cleared his throat. “Excellent suggestion, Mrs. Smythe. I’ll meet with her and Reverend Hammond next.”
