by E. E. Burke
“I’ll also speak with Genevieve Kinnison,” Pearl continued. “Perhaps she can rope in those two energetic young women and involve them with planning the new mission that she and Penny are starting here in Noelle. They want to help more women like us find husbands.”
“Women like us?” Jolie scoffed. “You mean prostitutes?”
“Women in trouble, those whom society has rejected, or who’ve been reduced to poverty. Like all those brides Genevieve brought here from the mission in Denver. Don’t you remember?
“How could I forget? They evicted us.”
“Those women didn’t evict us. The pastor and Mr. Hardt thought it best if we moved our business across the street while the single women were staying at La Maison. Which you have to agree was really the only way it would work.”
Jolie halted at the end of the boardwalk. She hated to admit Pearl was right, but she had too much common sense to argue, although, at the time, she’d been resentful. In some cases, downright mean. She winced as she recalled how nasty she’d been to the doctor’s new wife.
“Do you think Felicity Hammond is doing this because of how I treated those women when they moved in?”
“She doesn’t strike me as vindictive,” Pearl mused.
“I wasn’t nice.” Jolie admitted for the first time what she’d been unable to find the courage to say before now. “And I wasn’t very nice to you either, or anyone else. You’re kind and generous, and you know how to make people feel cared for and special. I’m just the opposite. That’s why I had to learn more tricks.”
And that was why she would never have a good man like Hank.
Pearl’s gaze softened. “Jolie, dear, you have a very tender heart. You just need to let people see that.”
Jolie’s eyes started to sting. “Why? So they can crush it?”
She pulled her arm from Pearl’s grasp and ran across the street, nearly colliding with a wagon and drawing a loud curse from the driver. Perhaps being kind worked for Pearl, but Jolie knew better than to think changing her ways would make any difference in how she was perceived. The best she could hope for would be to stay in Noelle and run La Maison, and the sooner she stopped feeling sorry for herself, the better.
As she hurried past the abandoned house, she caught a glimpse of someone entering the front door. Her despair flared into anger. Those two nosy women must’ve come back. She decided she would go over there and give them a piece of her mind.
Jolie slipped inside the old log building that faced La Maison. The inside looked as if little had changed from when she and other girls had been temporary occupants over Christmas; it had the same worn furnishings and chinked walls. She’d heard rumors another brothel would soon open here, but the kind of women she’d seen hanging around weren’t whores.
Mounting the stairs, she followed the sound of voices to an upper room, which had served as an entertaining parlor. She didn’t knock, just walked through the open door.
The faded curtains were drawn back, letting light shine through clean glass panes. Two prim ladies in drab gray gowns perched on the faded red velvet settee. Two younger women, more fashionably attired, occupied cushioned chairs that had seen much use.
The last time Jolie had been in here, a roomful of miners had been chasing her and the other girls around, and one of the chair legs had broken. Someone apparently fixed it since then.
The prudish women on the settee she recognized as Mrs. Sharp and Mrs. Stiles, the wives of two of the influential railroad men who’d been at La Maison the previous night. The younger women were the preacher’s new bride, Felicity Hammond and...Ophelia Rathbone. Had to be. She was the prettiest woman in the room.
The four women stared at Jolie with expressions ranging from horror to surprise to outright curiosity.
“What are you doing here?” Jolie demanded. “This is private property.” The building didn’t belong to her, but it didn’t belong to them either.
Mrs. Hammond was the first to recover her wits. “Yes, we know that. This building belongs to Mr. Hardt. He’s allowed us its use for our meetings.”
“What meetings?”
“A commission to abolish immoral activities that pose a danger to our community,” Mrs. Sharp shot back.
The preacher’s wife leapt to her feet. “Yes, but we aren’t only concerned with improving men’s morals. We must see to the well-being of the women in our community.”
“That’s right! We’re concerned about the plight of the women in Noelle.” Ophelia piped in with a look of wide-eyed innocence.
She really did have lovely eyes, a unique shade of violet-blue. Jolie longed to scratch them out. “You don’t look like you’re suffering from a plight.”
Miss Rathbone had the audacity to look wounded. “I am suffering just like these other women, and you. We lack personal freedoms and rights that should be ours. We women have no voice because we have no vote. We’re made in God’s image too, and we should be given an equal say in how this town and state, and even this country are run.”
Jolie propped her hands on her hips and aimed her scowl at Ophelia. “What does that have to do with kicking me out of my house?
Ophelia glanced around the room, but no one else seemed interested in explaining. “Brothels are places of bondage where men use women for pleasure. It’s a form of slavery. I should think you would agree?”
“No, I don’t agree,” Jolie fired back. “We have plenty of freedom.” Except for the freedom to fall in love and marry men like Hank. But she’d lost that opportunity due to her own decisions, so she wouldn’t whine about it.
Mrs. Stiles came to her feet and pointed a plump finger at Jolie. “You and those hussies have tempted our husbands and made them fall into sin.”
Jolie snorted. “We don’t make them do anything. They come to us because they want to buy what we have to sell. I suppose they aren’t getting it at home.”
Mrs. Stiles put her hand to her chest as if she was about to swoon, and the woman seated next to her, Mrs. Sharp, helped her sit down. “There, there, Gertie. We’ll be rid of them soon enough.”
Jolie swept a hard gaze over the so-called committee. “If your men are straying, getting rid of us isn’t going to make them stop, and turning us into criminals won’t make you better. You have no idea what it’s like to be abandoned, or to go hungry, or to wonder whether you’ll have a roof over your head, much less a warm, comfortable bed. Whatever we have, we’ve worked hard for it, and I’m not letting meddling biddies like you take everything away without a fight!”
Chapter 6
After selling his inventory, Hank took his money as the shopkeeper counted it out, then folded the greenbacks and pocketed them. “Thank you, Mr. Fulton.”
“Call me Liam. And it’s a pleasure doing business with you, Hank Donovan. If these Valentine cards sell as well as I think they will, we’ll want twice as many for next year.”
“Twice as many?” Hank closed up the empty case on the counter, thanking his lucky stars for aligning. “Of course! I’ll put in your order and personally deliver the next shipment.”
“Maybe you should think of moving your card business here to Noelle,” Liam advised. “This is a good place to raise a family.”
“So I’ve heard.” Hank’s euphoria wavered at the memory of the last thing Jolie had said to him about distracting his future wife by making babies. He wasn’t as excited at the idea as he thought he might be. Once he’d met Ophelia, he might feel differently. “Have a good day, Liam.”
“Good luck with your courting, Hank.”
“How did you know I was...?”
“All that cologne you’re wearing, for one, and word spreads fast around town. I heard you’ll be joining the Hardts and the Hammonds for dinner tonight, and a certain Miss will be in attendance.”
“So they say. I appreciate the well wishes.” Hank closed his empty suitcase and tried to drum up enthusiasm at the idea of meeting Ophelia Rathbone. Instead, his mind kept wandering back to the
alley and the hurt in Jolie’s voice.
“Here let me get the door,” Liam offered. “Nice dog you got there.”
“Thanks for letting me bring him inside. I’d hate to think what might’ve happened to your displays otherwise.”
Liam’s chuckle followed Hank as he left.
He stood at the edge of the sidewalk and recalled the map he’d drawn in his head. Just across the street and a few doors down was the diner. He’d go over there and have some of those tortillas he smelled cooking and share his meal with Bear. The dog had to be hungry. Afterwards, they’d go back to the room and retrieve the card he’d saved for Ophelia, then meet Mr. Hardt outside the Golden Nugget as arranged.
He should be elated. Everything was going not just according to plan, but better than he’d hoped. With the extra income he’d make from a share in the silver mine, he could move his family out here and their card business. His sister could still do the designs, and they could afford to hire other women to help her produce them.
Bear led him safely across the street, and after they’d gone a short distance down the boardwalk, he could make out more people milling about.
“Maybe they’re going to get something to eat too.” He patted his dog.
“Ja-zus, would ya look at that thing!” a man exclaimed. “Ugliest beast I ever seen.”
Hank frowned, recognizing the voice as one of the miners who’d been teasing Bear the day before when Hank had gone into the Golden Nugget to inquire about renting a room. The miner and his friends had taunted the dog into reacting, and when Bear growled, they’d complained. The barkeeper had politely asked Hank to take the dog elsewhere.
Best to avoid the troublemaker.
When Hank pulled Bear toward the building, someone in front of them moved quickly and let out a high, fearful cry, alerting Hank to the fact it was a woman.
“He won’t hurt you, ma’am,” Hank assured her. “Is this the diner?”
“Y-yes, it is. They don’t allow dogs inside.”
Hank hoped he could convince the owner to make an exception. He didn’t want to end up falling over a table or knocking someone’s meal into their lap. Hank moved closer and groped for a handle or knob.
From the inside, someone shoved the door outward, sending Hank stumbling backwards, falling back into the woman he’d just met. Bear wedged his body in between them, and the woman’s scream pierced Hank’s ears.
“Hey, get that thing away from her!”
“Help the lady!”
“Watch out, it might bite!”
Men’s voices came from all directions, confusing Hank as to which way he should be facing. “It’s all right,” he called out. “Bear won’t hurt anybody.”
“Ned, git aholt of that beast. Don’t let it bite ya.”
Someone lunged toward Hank and yanked at the dog’s leash.
“Let go,” Hank demanded, holding tight. “I can control him.”
“The hell you can.” The man who’d been jerking on the leash shoved at Hank’s chest, and Bear gave a warning growl.
“Git back! It’s attackin’!”
A shot rang out.
Bear’s yelp of pain sent an ice-cold shock straight through Hank. The leash grew taut, as if the dog had lost his footing.
“No!” Hank dropped to his knees, stretching his arms out, shielding the whimpering dog with his own body. “Stop shooting you idiots! He’s not dangerous!”
Disbelieving murmurs came from the crowd that now hovered around him. The stench of gunpowder mingled with the smell of manure and the faint scent of blood, all of which sent Hank’s stomach roiling.
“For God’s sake...” His voice trembled with rage and fear. “Don’t kill my dog.”
“Looked to me like it was attackin.’ Ned just took hold of the leash and that dog started growlin’.”
The miner. Had he been the one to shoot Bear? Hank longed to throw himself at the wretched scoundrel and beat him to a pulp, but he wasn’t willing to move away from his dog in case someone decided to start shooting again.
“He was trying to protect me, you damn fool!” Hank cradled the big dog protectively. “Could somebody help us?”
He looked around at the retreating figures, hearing ice-encrusted mud crunch as people walked away. They were cowards, or they didn’t care. To hell with them!
Hank stroked Bear’s face and the dog whimpered and licked his hand. God, oh God... Bear could be bleeding to death. Running his fingers over the dog’s thick coat, he anxiously searched for the bullet wound. “Where is it? Where did you get hit?”
“Mister, are you hurt?” A heavy hand clasped Hank shoulder, and the man’s deep voice conveyed concern. Thank God someone had bothered to stop.
“It’s my dog,” Hank choked out. “Some trigger-happy fool shot him, but I can’t see well enough to tell how badly he’s injured.”
“He’s favoring his back leg and there’s blood on his hindquarters. I’ll bet Woody can fix him up. You got a wagon?”
“No.”
“We can load him into mine and take him up to the barn.”
Hank didn’t know a thing about the barn, or Woody, and he wasn’t sure he trusted another stranger after what just happened. If he could just see better, he’d know what to do to help Bear. Jolie could see, and they weren’t that far from the house.
“Take us to La Maison.” Hank slipped his arms beneath Bear and lifted, being as careful as possible. The dog’s legs dangled and he whimpered. “I’ve got you, boy. It’ll be all right.”
“He looks heavy. I could carry him,” the Good Samaritan offered.
Hank secured his hold on the big dog. Did it look like he couldn’t manage on his own? “No, I’ll do it. If you guide me to your wagon, I’ll put him in there and ride with him.”
After loading Bear into the wagon bed, Hank climbed in. He held the dog partly on his lap to cushion the rough ride. It struck Hank he hadn’t introduced himself. “I’m Hank Donovan. Thank you for your help.”
“Culver Daniels, happy to be of assistance. I’m sorry I arrived too late to stop them from shooting your dog.”
“Bear wouldn’t have hurt anyone. He only growled to warn them off.” He ran his hand over the dog’s silky ears, and an overwhelming grief squeezed his heart, followed by the gut-wrenching awareness of his situation.
Without Culver’s assistance he couldn’t have gotten Bear to safety. What had given him the crazy idea to come out here on his own, or to think that he could be useful to anyone? He couldn’t even protect his own dog.
It took far longer to reach the parlor house by wagon than it had taken Hank to return to town on foot, or maybe fear was making time drag. Whining, Bear twisted in his arms, trying to reach the injury, no doubt to lick at it, as dogs were wont to do.
“Lie still, boy. We’ll soon be somewhere we can get you fixed up.” Hank spoke in low, soothing tones and continued to pet the dog. If a bullet had lodged in Bear’s hindquarters, it would have to be removed, and the wound cleansed and stitched.
“We’re at La Maison,” Culver announced, bringing the wagon to a stop.
Hank climbed out and lifted Bear into his arms. Culver helped guide him to the front door, then knocked. A click sounded, and as the door opened, Hank smelled the faint scent of orange blossoms. Just knowing Jolie was there calmed him.
“Hank?” she gasped. “My God! What happened?”
“Bear’s been shot. We need your help.” He didn’t doubt for a moment she’d help him, even though he’d given her no reason to be gracious.
“Of course, come in!” Jolie moved away from the entrance to let Hank inside. “Can you see me well enough to follow?”
He squinted at the fuzzy outline of her shape. “Yes.”
“We’ll take him to the back parlor. It’s warmer there.”
Hank followed her down the hallway to a room with better lighting. He could see the shapes of other people moving around, and it wasn’t long before he heard a gasp.
&n
bsp; “What are you bringing in here?” a woman’s voice—screechy, like an out-of-tune violin—asked. It appeared another person was with her, but she—or he—didn’t say anything.
“Calm down, Felice. Someone shot Hank’s dog and Bear needs tending.”
Hank brushed against a piece of furniture, but Jolie stayed close enough to prevent him from banging into anything. He felt warmth in the air and then she touched his arm.
“This is a good place,” she said. “Close enough to the wood stove to keep him warm.”
Hank settled the dog onto the carpeted floor and Jolie knelt beside him. “He may be bleeding. I’ll pay to replace the rug.”
“Nonsense. We can clean it if we have to.”
A swish of skirts came from behind them, accompanied by the smell of cloying perfume. “You should’ve taken it to a barn. That creature doesn’t belong in here.”
Hank put the voice with a name Jolie had used previously—Felice. Didn’t that mean happy? Not in this case apparently.
“Be helpful for once,” Jolie responded. “Go get an old blanket, and some water and rags.”
Hank ticked off what else they’d need. “Also small scissors, tweezers, a needle and silk thread, and some of that carbolic acid solution, tincture of opium, if you have it—”
“I’m not a servant,” the other woman snipped. “Ask Angelique.”
“She’s not a servant either, in case that fact happened to slip your mind,” Jolie shot back. “Will you please just get what Hank asked for?”
“You get it. Come on, Angelique. We’ll soon have customers to see to. Let Jolie take care of the dog.”
The uppity whore left the room, and he assumed the silent woman went with her.
Jolie sighed. “Never mind her. I’ll take care of it.”
Hank hadn’t considered how his appearance might disrupt their business, and it humbled him to realize Jolie cared enough to set aside other priorities. “I’m sorry to trouble you. Thank you for helping us.”
“You aren’t troubling me, Hank.” She sounded weary, but sincere. As she stood, her skirt brushed his shoulder. “I’ll go get the water and rags, and the other things you asked for.”