A Highwayman's Mail Order Bride

by Blythe Carver

  And they were beautiful, for certain. Buxom young things with bright smiles, their waists cinched to nearly nothing in the low-cut corseted dresses they wore. If such revealing garments could be referred to as dresses. He’d seen drawings of ladies’ nightgowns in the mail-order catalog which covered more than this.

  They sat with the men, either at the tables where card games were often played, or at the bar where they encouraged the patrons to drink. That was always the goal, naturally. To encourage the men to spend their money.

  And it normally meant making them feel important. Clever, handsome, and such. Touching an arm, a shoulder, casting lingering looks that any man would mistake for the look of true interest or attraction. Laughing a bit too loudly while leaning forward, exposing more smooth décolletage than before.

  Always while leaning forward, it seemed.

  He sneered at just such a display not far from where he sat at the bar, in a darkened corner where the gaslight did not touch. He preferred it that way while first getting a feel for a room and those in it, especially when a great deal of alcohol was involved.

  It was then that he noticed that one of the girls wasn’t behaving as the others did.

  She stood by the piano, her back to the wall. Her light brown—mostly blond—hair was done in a mass of curls piled high up on her head, a bright red feather sticking up from the side.

  Compared to the others, she was just as beautiful, if not more so. Even from across the room, he could tell that the eyes regarding the patrons with the same bemusement as his own, were green. Her ruby lips, no doubt helped by the same paint the others wore, curved in a wry smile as she watched a hand of cards come to a close with one of the players falling to the floor in a drunken stupor.

  She looked away and their gazes locked for a heartbeat, but she was clearly disinterested, as her eyes moved elsewhere.

  He ought to have taken his from her, certainly. She was not the sort of woman a man ought to spend too much time admiring, for she might decide to take advantage of that admiration.

  That did not stop him, maybe because she didn’t seem like the other girls in the saloon. She held her head higher, looking down on the others.

  How did a girl like her end up in a place like this?

  Chapter 3

  “Belinda!”

  She turned her head at the sound of the owner’s voice. What a small little man, not simply because he was shorter than she. He had a small mind. And one motto. Anything for money.

  “Yes, Mr. Lawrence?” She need not ask. His complaint was always the same.

  “Do you see that man in the corner of the bar, by the wall?” He stood facing her, with his back to the man in question. Yes, she’d noticed him, try though he might to keep himself half-hidden. Who wouldn’t notice the dark hair, the fine-looking clothing?

  He was handsome, indeed, with his sharp jaw and generous mouth, though in the end, it mattered little what a man looked like on the outside. They were all the same under the skin. He might just as well be one of the drunken brutes falling over the table while trying to play a hand of cards.

  “I do,” she answered, noncommittal.

  “Do you know who that is?”

  “I do not. I haven’t seen him here in these last weeks.” It had only been two weeks since she had taken the job at the saloon. In that time, hundreds of men had been through. Travelers from the train and stage, mostly, looking for a drink and a good time with one of the girls.

  He had not been one of them. Belinda would have remembered him.

  “That’s Mark Furnish! You’ve never heard of Mark Furnish?” When she shook her head, Mr. Lawrence shook his as well, with a heavy sigh. “He’s only the richest man in the state, with the biggest ranch this side of the country. And he’s looking at you.”

  The richest man in the state? What difference did that make? Men only spent as much as they could spend on drinking before they passed out. It mattered little how large their account at the bank happened to be.

  Mr. Lawrence glared at her silence, taking it for the response she intended it to be. “We’ve had this discussion before, Belinda. You know what you need to do.”

  “And I have told you, sir, that I will not invite any of the men upstairs,” she hissed. “I did not agree to this position with that sort of work in mind. I’ve never done any such thing, and I have no intention of doing it.”

  “Who do you think you are?” He took her by the arm, pulling her into the corner and pinning her there with a small body which could seem awfully large when he wanted it to. “What makes you think you’re so much better than anybody else here? These girls are just as good as you. No, better, because they know how to listen to the man who pays their wages.”

  She knew this was correct, of course, but when she’d agreed to take the job in the saloon he had certainly not informed her of the… second-floor work.

  He leaned in just a bit closer, his eyes spitting fire behind that ridiculous pince-nez. “Get to work. You know what I mean, girl. I don’t care if you spend all night upstairs on your back, so long as you make the customers happy and keep them coming back for more.”

  If only the patrons knew what the saloon’s jovial owner was truly like.

  He strode away, checking on the condition of a table full of cowboys who seemed intent on drinking the place dry. Before leaving them, Mr. Lawrence cast a meaningful look her way.

  Indeed, the rest of the girls were involved elsewhere. Lila was at the bar, swooning over a braggart’s tall tale. Violet sat between a pair of arm wrestling lumberjacks, making a big show of feeling their bulging muscles. Deena all but draped herself over the back of a poker player, while Carrie was behind one of the other players and whispered in his ear, throwing off his concentration and laughing enticingly as a result.

  Belinda had already seen Sally and Marie escorting their men upstairs.

  That left only her. She was the only one of the group available to entertain the cowboys.

  If only the dreadful corset Deena laced for her that evening wasn’t so tight. She could hardly draw breath between the painful whalebones and the heavy haze of cigar smoke which formed a cloud over the heads of the men she approached.

  “Good evening, gentlemen,” she cooed, favoring them with a wide smile. The sort of smile men enjoyed, thinking it was for them and them alone, even though she was speaking to the entire table.

  “Well, how d’ya do, ma’am?” one of them asked, tipping the hat he had not removed on stepping inside. None of them had. That was one thing her father had always insisted upon, that men remove their hats indoors.

  “You all looked as though you were having a nice time here. I thought I’d join you.” It was all so uncomfortable, so false. Pretending to be more interested in them than she was.

  Which was not at all.

  But this was her job, and she’d taken it knowing at least that she would need to befriend the men and fool them into thinking she liked them.

  Really, she loathed them. Anyone foolish enough to believe a woman in a job such as hers truly liked them was hardly worthy of her contempt.

  But she needed the money. It was as simple as that.

  “You wanna join us, darlin’?” He kicked a chair out for her. “Join us for a drink, then.”

  She sat in the chair, smiling to herself as she imagined what the man would do if she asked him to pull it out rather than kick it away from the table, and accepted one of the short glasses of whiskey lined up along the table.

  She knew Sam watered it down before opening the bar every evening, so she was not surprised when it went down smoother than the un-watered version would have.

  “What’s a pretty thing like you doin’ in a place like this?” The other men began playing a hand of poker, none of them seeming as though they were very interested, while this man did not bother with the pretense of caring at all. He wanted to speak to her.

  The gleam in his gray eyes told her he wanted more than that.


  Why did they assume that just because she worked where she did, dressed as she was, meant she wished for things to go further? She understood how lonely men could get, and how they needed certain things more than women did—another teaching her father had driven into her head—but did they ever think about anything else?

  “Earning a living, enjoying myself,” she replied with a forced smile she hoped looked natural. He stank of whiskey, smoke, leather, and horses. Normally, the smell of leather was a pleasant one, and pipe smoke always brought back memories of quiet evenings in the parsonage.

  Cigar smoke, on the other hand? It turned her stomach, especially when it clogged the air as it did now.

  “You don’t look like you’re enjoying yourself too much,” he leered, his gaze making a slow tour of her body. She’d never felt so exposed.

  “Can I tell you a secret?” she whispered with a sly smile.

  “Of course.”

  “I wasn’t enjoying myself very much until I came over here.”

  This had the desired effect. He did have a nice smile. In fact, if she met him on the street, say as she was leaving the boarding house or the mercantile, she might find him interesting. Attractive, even.

  Now, he was merely a means to an end.

  The end being that she would keep her job one day longer if she simply behaved herself and pretended to find him charming, fascinating. While reminding him from time to time to order more drinks, naturally.

  She looked at the bar, where Sam caught her eye and nodded in understanding before setting up another row of glasses.

  Upon turning back to her new friend, her gaze fell on Mr. Mark Furnish, Mr. Wealthy Rancher.

  Why was he watching her? And why did he not even have the courtesy to look away when their eyes met, so he at least did not look as though he’d been watching? Did being the biggest landowner in Nevada give him the belief that he might stare outright at a woman?

  “You have eyes for every man in this saloon but me,” the cowboy chuckled. “I’m beginnin’ to think you don’t like me very much, darlin’.”

  “How could that possibly be true?” she smiled, all while that insolent rancher’s gaze burned into the side of her head.

  Ignoring him was like trying to ignore an itch. No matter how she fought, she wanted to scratch just to relieve the discomfort.

  But what could she do, even if she did manage to glare in return? He might be the type to take it as an invitation. If he was capable of unnerving her without having said a word or even being within five feet of her, what would he do once he interpreted her attention as something more?

  “I think you need a rest,” the cowboy purred close to her ear. One of the girls, she did not notice which, dropped off their drinks. He tossed back two glasses of whiskey like it was apple cider, then flashed a roguish smile.

  “What makes you say that?” she giggled, batting her eyelashes for effect. “I could just see the look on Mr. Lawrence’s face if I decided to take a nap on the job.”

  “I wasn’t talkin’ about nappin’, darlin’.” He leaned nearer, the smell of whiskey all but overpowering her as his breath hit her face. “I was talkin’ about goin’ upstairs and gettin’ into bed.”

  She swallowed over the lump of discomfort suddenly lodged square in the center of her throat. This was exactly what she did not want.

  He placed his hand upon hers, fingers closing around her smaller ones.

  Smile. Do not offend him. “I don’t know about that,” she whispered, casting her eyes downward. Would the fresh-and-innocent act work?

  It ought to, since it wasn’t an act. She had never debased herself and had no intention of doing so.

  “What’s the matter?” he asked. “My money not good enough? It’s sure as shootin’ good enough when I’m in here any other time. And I’ve sure spent enough already on this watered-down whiskey. But it’s not good enough when I wanna get what I came in for.”

  She stood, knees shaking beneath her lace-trimmed skirts and petticoats. “If—if you want that sort of entertainment today, I’m sure one of the other girls—”

  “I want you.” He stood so fast and so suddenly, he all but knocked his chair to the floor. In an instant, one arm was around her waist, pulling her to him while he held her head still with the other hand and covered her mouth with his.

  She screamed, but that scream was lost in his mouth as he thrust his tongue between her lips. Her hands against his chest, she shoved as hard as she could. For all her effort, he did not budge an inch.

  She may as well have been shoving a brick wall.

  “Hey!”

  Just like that, it ended. She fell backward when the cowboy’s arm suddenly released her, landing on a chair as two men faced off.

  One was the cowboy.

  The other, Mark Furnish.

  “She said she was not interested, sir.” He bent at the waist to pick the cowboy’s hat up from where it had fallen off, onto the floor. Brushing it off before returning it, he added, “One of the other girls in the saloon is sure to accept your offer.”

  “I didn’t ask you,” the cowboy snarled, taking back his hat and thrusting it onto his head. “Mind your own business, and don’t get between a man and the woman he’s paying for.”

  The saloon went silent, even the music from the piano ceasing as the men stood face-to-face. Both were impressively built, tall and broad-shouldered, their bodies taut with muscle thanks to the work they did outdoors.

  It could very well be an all-out brawl, especially seeing as how the cowboy’s friends were now standing to take his side in the fight which was sure to ensue.

  “You have not paid for this woman,” Mark reminded him. For his part, he managed to sound cool and calm. That boded well.

  “I had planned to. Now, get out of the way and let me get on with it!” He tried to push past Mark. He failed. The man did not budge.

  Belinda bit back a gasp.

  Time slowed down, at least in her mind. The cowboy’s upper lip curled in a snarl as one of his hands curled into a fist. He cocked that fist, ready to strike a blow.

  Mark threw up his left arm to block the punch while delivering a sharp blow to the cowboy’s chin. The man fell backward into the table, breaking it, the cards and glasses falling to the floor with him on top of them.

  “What is this?” Mr. Lawrence demanded, running into the room from somewhere in the back. “This is not an establishment where men resort to fisticuffs!”

  That was a lie. She’d seen three fist fights in two weeks.

  The owner peered at Mark Furnish through his glasses. “Out. I want you out, now.”

  Then, he turned his attention to her. “You, too. Out. Don’t ever come back here. You’re more trouble than you’re worth.”

  Belinda’s heart sank faster than a stone. “But—but, Mr. Lawrence!”

  “She didn’t do anything,” Mark insisted.

  “I told you to get out of here. I don’t care who you are. I don’t want the patronage of somebody who thinks he can break my place up,” Mr. Lawrence spat, shooting bullets at Mark through his eyes.

  Mark pulled a wad of bills out from the pocket of his coat and peeled several off, handing them over. “For the damages.”

  Belinda stood, tears welling in her eyes. Everyone was staring at her. Maybe they would believe the flush of her cheeks was rouge instead of near-crippling embarrassment.

  “Get out and don’t ever let me see either of you again!” Mr. Lawrence screamed as she pushed her way through the swinging doors and out into the night.

  She no longer had a job.

  She had no way to live.

  All thanks to Mark Furnish.

  I hope you enjoyed

  A Highwayman’s Mail Order Bride!

  Next in the series...

  A Rancher’s Pretend Mail Order Bride!

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  Copyright © 2018 by Blythe Carver

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