by Caroline Lee
Could she give up her previous life for Draven?
What a ridiculous question. Of course she could! She would give up almost anything to have a life with him. She would never miss the groping, grunting, heaving humiliation of sharing her body with men she didn't love.
But that same humiliation is what kept her from ever having a life with a good man like Draven.
He’d left early that morning, while she’d been still in bed. They'd made love one more time—and he’d made her body sing, as always—then he’d smacked her rear end, and with a smile, told her to go back to sleep. She’d lazily watched him dress, then followed his instructions.
It wasn't until she was awake and dressed and fixing some tea and toast for herself that she thought to wonder where he'd gone. He wasn't in his office, but some of the things had been moved around, as if he'd been working there. After planning the menu for the day, she’d decided to do a little sketching. After all, it was only four days after Christmas; maybe she could draw something nice as a present for him. A way to say “thank you” for everything he’d done for her these last days.
But when she went looking, she hadn't been able to find the folder of her artwork. She shrugged, assuming he had moved it somewhere, and decided to clean up in the hopes of finding it. That's when she’d fetched the broom and gone to work on his rooms.
As she swept around his desk, Pearl wondered what Draven was doing today. Was he thinking about her? About what they’d shared last night? Was he remembering her confession? Was he regretting what he told her?
It hadn't taken much bravery for her to confess her love for him. After all, she had a hard time not shouting it from the rooftops every time he was kind to her.
But it was his reaction which intrigued her the most. He hadn't said anything about her words of love… but he had told her his name. In all the time she’d lived in Noelle, in all the years she—and everyone else in the West—had heard of his exploits, his given name had never been mentioned. It was one of the things which fed into his mythology. Too many people assumed he was Indian, or equally savage, because they thought he had no Christian name.
She smiled as she swept her pile of dirt towards the outside door. As it turned out, Draven had a given name just like everyone else…he just thought it was dumb.
“Gilder Draven.” She said the name aloud, then repeated it just for fun. “Gilder Draven.”
His secret was safe with her. She recognized the importance of what he’d told her. He was trusting her with the truth, and to her, that was just as much a declaration as her confession of love had been to him
No matter what happened tomorrow, or even next week after Mr. Stiles had reported back to the Denver and Pacific Railroad, she would always have the memories of these few days.
Holding the broom in one hand, she reached for the door with the other, hoping it would be possible to open it just enough to sweep the dirt outside, then slam it closed before the cold air rushed in.
But when she pulled the door open, a man stood on the other side.
She squealed in surprise, then berated herself for such a silly reaction. It wasn't until she realized the man staring down at her impassively was Mr. Stiles that she reminded herself of her masquerade. Maybelle definitely would have squealed in surprise, and possibly done more. So she added another little scream and a fluttering hand movement for good measure.
“Mister Stiles! Whatever are you doing, hovering around outside my husband's office?”
It wasn't until Mr. Stiles lowered his arm that Pearl realized he'd been about to knock. Oh well. Maybelle wouldn't be flustered over the mistake. She drew herself up haughtily and glared at him. “Well? Are you just going to stand there or—”
“Get your coat and gloves,” he barked, sounding not at all like the very fine gentlemen Pearl thought him to be yesterday.
No, now he sounded much more threatening.
“Whatever for? My husband will—”
“Just do it,” he growled, glancing over his shoulder as if her mention of Draven had made him nervous. “Don't make me regret taking the time to be polite.”
Commanding her to get her coat was being polite? She couldn’t imagine what her stepping outside had to do with his job from the railroad, but she knew she had to see this masquerade through to the end.
She propped the broom up beside the door, pulled her coat down from the peg, and was shrugging into it as she stepped outside and pulled the door closed behind her.
“Now, Mister Stiles, what's this all about?”
To her surprise, he grabbed her by the elbow and began to walk, forcing her to hurry along beside him.
“Mister Stiles!” She tried to dig in her heels, but he just pulled harder.
“Miss Anderson,” he growled, turning a fierce look to her, “Do not make me use force.”
With his free hand he moved his coat out of the way, and she saw the grip of a pistol poking out of his belt. The blood drained from her face at the realization Draven had been right.
Mr. Stiles was suspicious as hell.
She swallowed and tried to act as harmless as possible. “I—I don’t think I quite understand, Mr. Stiles.”
Why hadn’t anyone stopped them? Usually the streets were teeming with men, but not right now. And besides, even if one of the men from Noelle was watching, he wouldn’t see a lady in need of rescue, but a whore being manhandled by a customer. There’d be no salvation from any of them.
Dread filled her stomach, and acid rose up her throat. What did Mr. Stiles want from her? She slowly pulled her gloves from her pocket with her free hand, but instead of putting them on, dropped one in front of the dry goods store. It was a long shot, but perhaps Draven would see it.
“My name isn’t Anthony Stiles,” her abductor confessed as he yanked her down the street once more. “I just borrowed that name from the poor sod Denver and Pacific is planning on sending to this pitiful little town in January.”
What? He wasn’t actually the representative from the railroad? Why is he here, then?
“I needed an excuse to track you down,” he continued. “I’m really Peter Abernathy.”
He said that name as if she was supposed to recognize it, but Pearl was too busy trying to tamp down on her panic to think it through. “So? Why does that mean you’re dragging me out of—of my husband’s home?” She tossed down the other glove, hoping against hope someone would see it.
He didn’t slow. “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten me already, Maybelle?”
Should she know him? She pressed her lips tight, willing him to tell her more. To her relief, he jerked to a stop, his fingers digging into her arm.
His horrible mustache curled into a sneer. “If you’d only agreed to marry me in the first place, I wouldn’t have had to resort to such trickery. I could’ve courted you properly, like your father wanted.” he dragged her closer, leering at her. “But no. You refused to even meet me, and then you ran off and did something this foolish.”
Understanding bloomed with a slow glow that filled her stomach and eased some of the dread. Stiles—or rather, Abernathy—still thought she was Maybelle. He was the mysterious suitor Maybelle had told her all about.
That seemed like a lifetime ago, but when she counted back Pearl realized it had only been five days.
While she'd been distracted, Abernathy decided to continue his flight and jerked her forward into a stumbling walk. The panic returned with the realization this man—this crazy man—was determined to marry her. Unbidden, a laugh rose up inside her. Imagine! A fine gentleman kidnapping her for marriage! Had he known she was a whore, he likely wouldn’t have ever touched her.
He objected to her laughter.
“Stop it!” he hissed, yanking cruelly on her arm. “Why are you laughing?”
The pain quickly subdued Pearl’s helpless mirth, but she couldn't stop herself from asking, “So…what? Your plan is to drag me to Denver? To marry me? You seem to have conveniently forgotten
I'm already married.”
At this point, the only thing she could think of to discourage his plan was to lie—to remind him of her supposed marriage to a man as intimidating as Draven.
Without slowing, Abernathy pulled aside his jacket again. This time, rather than focusing on the gun, Pearl noticed the little book shoved into his waistband beside it.
“That looks like…”
“This dumb little town’s marriage ledger,” Abernathy confirmed. “Without it, there's no record of your marriage. I'm fairly certain with the right bit of persuasion, you’ll learn how to keep your mouth shut.”
The way he said it left no doubt as to what kind of persuasion he meant. Pearl’s chest felt as if a giant weight was resting on it—not out of fear of what Abernathy had planned for her, but concern for the town. Without that ledger, the town would have no way to prove to the real Mr. Stiles—and the Denver and Pacific Railroad—they could meet the deadline.
They were almost to the outskirts of town. They’d passed the blacksmith and Mr. Penworthy’s land office, and were heading west towards the pass where the brides had come through only a few days ago when Pearl’s panic became even more real. Abernathy was about to single-handedly doom Noelle’s chances of bringing a railroad spur in, thus ensuring the town's future.
“Wait!” she shouted, digging in her feet and pulling Abernathy to a stop. “What about my husband? Even without the ledger, you can't just ignore the fact I'm married already.” She wasn't sure how much longer to keep up the pretext of being Maybelle, but Draven was the only card she could think to play right now. “He's going to come after me.”
“Your husband?” Abernathy's harsh bark of laughter startled her as much as his yank on her elbow. “I'm counting on it!” He reached inside his jacket and wrapped his fingers around the grip of his gun.
Instead of frightening her, however, Abernathy's bold claim made her want to laugh again. There was no way he'd be able to stand, not against her Draven.
Abernathy must’ve noticed her mirth, because he shook her again. Rather than cowing her, his action made her laughter burst forth, and he threw her away from him. Unable to stop her panicked giggles, Pearl fell into a snowbank, catching herself on her hands and knees.
It wasn’t the sight of his gun—in his hand, not by his side—that sobered her, but the sound her beautiful purple gown made as it caught on her heel and ripped.
This wasn’t funny. It had never been funny.
Abernathy was sneering down at her. “Get up! Get up and tell me why you think this is so funny, you—you—you—whore.”
Oh dear. Now that was a little funny.
Still on her hands and knees, Pearl managed a small, shaky smile. “Since you’ve confessed the truth of your name to me, Mr. Abernathy, I think you deserve the same in return.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” The gun in his hand wobbled slightly. “Get up and explain yourself!”
She slowly stood, trying not to wince at the pain in her legs and palms from the snow and gravel. “It’s just this: you’re an impostor, right?”
He glared in response.
“Well…” Pearl shrugged. “So are we.”
He frowned. “Excuse me?”
“I’m not Maybelle Anderson. And my— And the man pretending to be my husband isn’t Horatio Smythe.”
“What?” The man’s gun wavered again, as if he was trying to decide what to do with it. “Why would you…?”
She shrugged, clenching her stinging hands into fists, wishing she had her gloves. “We were trying to fool the real Mr. Stiles into giving the town until the agreed-upon deadline. With the real Horatio and Maybelle’s marriage recorded in the ledger, and us here pretending to be them, we hoped the railroad would count us towards the official required number of married couples.”
“So you’re saying you’re not Maybelle Anderson?” His voice had gone low and deadly. “You tricked me?”
She shrugged, pretending bravery she didn’t feel. “Well, to be fair, you tricked us first.”
“Where’s Maybelle and her inheritance?”
If nothing else, she could discourage Mr. Abernathy from tracking down Maybelle. “She really did marry Horatio Smythe, just as the ledger says.” Pearl nodded to the small book. “But Horatio is very wealthy”—and an ass—“so they’re already traveling to his family’s home, where I imagine they’ll be well-protected.”
Abernathy cursed, loud and long, and kicked the snowbank beside him. Pearl watched him warily for an opening, wondering if she could run back to safety. To Draven.
She began cautiously. “So how about I just go back into Noelle, and we’ll forget this ever happened? You can be long gone before my pretend husband comes looking for me.” She prayed Draven was even now looking for her—that he cared enough about her to look for her.
Unfortunately, it looked like her time was up. Between one heartbeat and the next, Abernathy’s gun was no longer wobbling in his hand—it was pointed straight at her head.
“How about,” he mocked in a sing-song voice, “I just take you out into the woods and kill you? Pile some snow on top of your body, and I’ll be long gone before anyone comes looking for me.”
Oh God. Pearl’s knees went weak as the blood drained out of her face. He was serious? Who would’ve thought a simple masquerade could result in her death? There was so much she needed to say to Draven before she died.
“Good.” His mustache sneered cruelly. “You’re scared.” He gestured with his gun. “Get moving. I think I’m going to get something out of you before you die, after all.” His leer left nothing to the imagination. “I think you owe me.”
Numbly, she stared at him. “You think you can take me out of town, and he won’t notice? He won’t care?”
God, please let Draven notice. Please let him care.
“He? He who?”
“The man pretending to be my husband. Sheriff Draven.”
Abernathy cursed, his gun lowering slightly. “Draven?” he finally repeated, incredulously. “He’s the one—? You think he’ll—?”
He couldn’t seem to form a coherent sentence, and Pearl wondered if that was a good sign or not. Had she just saved herself, by revealing Draven’s name?
She gripped her cold hands together—although that didn’t help the shaking—and prayed she’d said the right thing.
“He’ll come after me,” she managed to choke out, despite it feeling like her stomach had climbed into her throat. “He’ll find me.”
Please God please God please God. The chant pounded in her head, keeping time with her frantic pulse.
But God must not’ve been listening. Abernathy swallowed, and raised the gun ‘til it was pointed directly at her head.
“Then I’d better give him something to find.”
His finger tightened on the trigger, his evil intent clear in his expression.
As the shot rang out, Pearl fell into the snowbank.
Chapter 9
Draven was nervous. For the first time in twenty years—for the first time since he watched that grizzly take a chunk out of Pa’s chest; for the first time since he picked up Pa’s rifle, half blinded by blood and fear, and avenged both of them—Draven was nervous.
Last night, after Pearl had fallen asleep, Draven climbed out of bed, careful not to disturb her. He’d taken her folder of artwork out to his office, where he carefully—so carefully—traced her sketch of Christmastime in Noelle onto hectograph paper. It wasn't as perfect as the original, but he thought the copies—with the title and little caption he’d printed underneath—would do well enough.
Then after, he held her as he fell asleep, nervous even then. What would she say when she found out what he’d done? Would she be hurt he’d invaded her privacy like that? Or would she see it for what it was: an attempt to prove to her she had worth. Worth as a woman, as an artist. She was so much more than her past.
God, I hope so.
This morning he’d been so nervous
he almost hadn’t gone through with the plan. He was sure she would noticed something was wrong with him, but she hadn’t said anything about it. She had smiled shyly at him as he got dressed, and he wondered if she was thinking about her declaration last night.
I've been in love with you for almost two years, Sheriff Draven.
When she'd said those words, he’d been humbled and thrilled all at once, and determined to make a better life for her.
Now, he was done distributing the copies of her sketch. He’d made a point to find the brides who had already married, who would be staying in Noelle for good. That Gypsy gal Culver married had thanked him real nicely, but it was Meizhen—who was living with Woody in the loft above his animals—who reacted the way he'd hoped.
“This is lovely,” she’d said, holding the artwork out so she could see it in the light. “Whoever did this has a true grasp of perspective, and an understanding of nature. I will look forward to hanging this in the fine new home my husband will build for me in the spring. It will remind me of my first Christmas in Noelle, and will bring me much joy for many years.”
Draven had been glad for her praise, but had just nodded gruffly. Hopefully, Pearl would hear some of that praise, and understand why he’d done it.
But when he pushed open the door to his home, Pearl wasn't there. Part of him was a little relieved he wouldn't have to face her reaction just yet, and he dropped her folder of art on the table. But when he stepped back into his office, his instincts went on alert.
Something was wrong.
The broom, which should have been standing neatly in the corner, was propped against the outer door. And beside it was a pile of dirt and debris, as if someone had been interrupted in the middle of sweeping.
The back of his neck prickled in a way he hadn’t felt since he’d been tracking the Quigg gang. Something was wrong here, and Draven didn’t like that he couldn’t figure it out. He stalked across the room and snatched up the broom, peering at it like it might have the answers.
