Sullivan

by Linda Devlin

  Seven nights out of seven Betty sang for her supper—and everything else. She might have been born a poor woman's child whose daddy had left them behind without a second glance, but she'd also been born beautiful. That alone would have been a curse in her world. Beautiful, uneducated, poor women had one option—selling that beauty on the streets or in a house built for such purposes.

  However Betty had an additional asset. She could sing, amazingly well. She might not have been able to read until R.W. taught her or speak like a lady until she'd been with him for three years, but there had been music in her heart and soul, and that, combined with her body and her face, had saved her.

  Betty set about making her ink black hair appear tousled, as if she'd just stepped from the bed of a lover. It didn't take long. Her hair, her curse, had always been riotously curly and unmanageable. Some nights she wanted to pull the waist-length mass into a proper bun to keep the strands out of her eyes. But R.W. would never allow that.

  Her hair hypnotized, he said, and when she pulled it away from her face, she looked too thin, with cheekbones too pronounced, too high. Without her hair as a distraction, her eyes loomed large and black in her pale face, frightening all the customers—or so R.W. insisted.

  Though Betty might look foreign, she was anything but. Born in the bayou, like her mother before her, she shared her mama's dark eyes and hair, but Betty's pale skin reflected the ancestry of a father she'd never known.

  R.W. had hired people to teach her to move like a courtesan and to speak as a member of the Creole elite. In New Orleans, descendants of the early French and Spanish settlers formed a circle whose wealth was based on planting, banking, and brokering sugar and cotton. Their mystique hovered above the city like a cool mist over a heated summer day.

  A Yankee carpetbagger if ever there was one, R.W. had hoped to cash in on the grace and refinement of the upper class. Unfortunately, certain things could not be taught. Betty did her best. She spoke French here and there, and she had always moved as if the music in her heart played to the beat of her feet, but she was a singer who'd come out of the swamp, and there was no changing that no matter how much money R.W. spent.

  She finished dressing in the usual tight, low-cut, jewel-toned gown—this one garnet—then applied powder and lip rouge. Twenty-nine years old, she had a few years left but no illusions that R.W. would keep her around once her age began to show. Beauty without the voice would have gotten her nowhere, just as the voice without the beauty would get her to the same place.

  Betty had been secreting coins for years. She knew better than to pilfer large amounts from the poker table. Such behavior led to apprehension. However, patience led to freedom.

  But her patience was nearly at an end, and she still did not have the funds to get away from New Orleans and start over. She had to do something to save herself from the inevitable, and she had to do it quickly. But what?

  Below stairs her music began. Even though Betty disliked singing for all that she had, the singing itself kept her sane. She took a deep breath, thought of music and only that, and prepared herself for another night as Betty Lillian, the ebony-eyed nightingale of New Orleans.

  * * *

  Hours later, Betty's headache pounded in time with the piano, but no one would ever know by looking at her face. In her lifetime, she'd sung a ditty as men cursed and drank, fought and gambled all around her. She'd given voice to a ballad while half-naked women danced along the bar. Nothing made Betty bat a sooty, long eyelash.

  So even though she'd prefer to lie down and die awhile, she laughed at every stupid joke, smiled seductively at every foolish fellow, and raked in every bit of cash she could as they all looked down her dress and drooled.

  Men. How in hell had they ended up ruling the world?

  The only male she'd ever had any fondness for was Jean Baptiste. Betty dealt another hand, and while her oglers checked their cards, she glanced at the boy playing the piano.

  Two years ago, when she'd been "promoted" from R.W.'s place in Baton Rouge to this one in New Orleans, she'd heard the haunting strains of an unknown melody before she'd even walked through the door. Jean Baptiste had sat alone in the deserted saloon, caressing the keys of the piano as if it were his only friend. When she'd begun to sing, he'd stopped playing as fear filled his eyes. She'd coaxed him to play some more, and when RW. heard the two of them, Jean Baptiste went from floor sweeper to piano player.

  The boy had lived at the saloon for years. No one knew where he'd come from or how he'd learned to play so well. They probably never would, because whenever Jean Baptiste attempted to speak, his stutter was so profound as to be painful.

  For some reason, the young man's affliction annoyed R.W. no end, and he'd forbidden Jean Baptiste to talk to him or the customers. So the child got his meaning across to those who cared enough to "listen" with the use of his eyes and hands and body alone.

  "Miz Lillian, if you don't mind, I'd like two cards."

  Betty dragged her attention back to the table. There was little challenge for her in poker anymore. She could read every nuance of a player's face. Sometimes she wondered if R.W. kept her around more for the money she won at the game than what his place made on entertainment.

  "Certainly." She gave the grubby man from Texas his cards. She could tell by the tiny twitch of his nose that the ones she'd given him weren't the ones he'd wanted.

  With only half her attention, Betty continued with the game. Jean Baptiste finished for the night and drifted over to sit at the next table until she was done. They always shared a drink before retiring. She figured the boy was perhaps fourteen or fifteen years old and should not drink whiskey. But she wasn't his mother, would never be anyone's mother, so she kept her opinions to herself.

  Time passed. Everyone folded but the grubby Texas man and Betty. He frowned at his cards as if he could change them by looking. She could have sworn he had nothing, but if so, then why was he cleaning out his pockets to stay in the game?

  "Are you in, or are you out?" she asked.

  "In. But..." He patted his pockets and shrugged. "This is all I got left."

  A crumpled yellow piece of paper floated gently toward the center of the table. "Rules of the house," she recited before the paper even settled atop the coinage. "Money only. No watches, no rings, no... whatever that is."

  He leaned over, lowering his voice. "Deed to a mighty fine saloon in Texas. Even better than this one. You'd like it, Miz Lillian."

  Meaning to shove the paper back at the man, she froze and considered his words. A quick glance at Jean Baptiste, and he hustled off to keep R.W. out of her way. She'd kept RW. occupied a time or two so Jean Baptiste could do whatever it was he did when he gave her "the look."

  The place was nearly deserted, though the streets still echoed music and laughter. Tomorrow was Fat Tuesday, the busiest night of the year in New Orleans. Some of that merriment always splashed forward onto Monday, since Lent would cast sobriety, or at least a semblance of it, over the city from Ash Wednesday to the rebirth at Easter.

  At the table, just she and Grubby Texas remained—and that deed for a mighty fine saloon. Even if it was located in Nowhere, Texas, it was anywhere but here.

  "Free and clear?" she asked.

  "Yes, ma'am. I got that saloon from my daddy." His gaze shifted from her face to her cleavage. "It's mine."

  Betty resisted the urge to put her finger beneath his chin and raise his gaze, but what would be the point? He'd only ogle again as soon as she released him. They always did.

  There was something odd about this man and his saloon. "If it's so great, why aren't you there?"

  "Me?" The word came out a squeak, and he paled.

  Hmm, probably something odd about Nowhere, Texas, too. "You," she repeated. "Why are you here if your saloon is there?"

  "Oh." He nodded eagerly but kept his gaze on her breasts. "Left the place with a friend."

  "And will I have to put up with you whining about what I've done to the pl
ace?"

  "Me?"

  She started to think of him as Squeaky rather than Grubby, though both names fit so well.

  "No, ma'am. I'm bound for old Mexico tonight. Not goin' back to Texas, no way, not ever."

  Betty nodded. Sounded like Squeaky was in trouble with the law. Not a bad idea to go through New Orleans at Carnival, then off to old Mexico. It would take an excellent tracker to find him that way. Which gave Betty an idea of her own.

  "All right," she acceded. "I'll take that as a call." She laid her cards on the table.

  The man's lips collapsed from a leer to a trembling pout "B-but I've got three jacks."

  "Not enough to keep your saloon." She scooped up the deed along with the money. "Make that my saloon." The deed disappeared into a pocket of her dress as she turned; the money went into her reticule.

  She left the three queens on the table.

  * * *

  Jean Baptiste joined Betty at the bar as she finished a note to R.W. "I need to lie down, sugar. Is that okay?"

  He nodded, though his dark blue eyes welled with disappointment Oh, how she didn't want to leave him, this boy who had become so much more to her than a piano player. Just the thought made her own eyes burn, and Betty had to duck her head and let her hair fall across her face before he saw her tears and wondered.

  Betty rarely cried. What would be the point? In fact, she rarely showed emotion of any kind. Such softness only made for trouble later. She had been denying her feelings for so long, she was surprised she had any left. But Jean Baptiste had slipped beneath her reserve and into her heart. Once she was settled and had more money, she would send for him. The resolution soothed the sadness that had overtaken her at the thought she might never see the boy again.

  "Can you give this to R.W.?" Betty held up her reticule, which bulged with the money she'd won that night. "And this, too?" She handed him the folded piece of paper.

  He turned to do her bidding, and acting on impulse, Betty touched his arm, then kissed his cheek. "You're the sweetest, most talented boy alive, Jean Baptiste. Don't you forget it."

  Before he could question her uncommon expression of affection, Betty fled to her room and locked the door behind her.

  She hoped the amount in her reticule would send R.W. into a fit of euphoria that would counteract his annoyance at her note.

  My headache is worse. I must plead pain and forgo your company in my room tonight. I will make it up to you tomorrow.

  Betty pulled a carpetbag from beneath her bed and packed what she could not leave behind. She smiled as she did so, because by tomorrow she would be gone.

  * * *

  If anyone saw her leave, they would not recognize Betty Lillian. She'd tamed her hair into a severe bun, then covered her face with a Mardi Gras mask. Her dress was one she'd never worn before, because R.W. had taken one look at the garment and declared that it did not reveal enough of the merchandise. Maybe that's why Betty felt better than she ever had, wearing the dress R.W. hated as she escaped right beneath his nose.

  He'd come after her; of that she was certain. But he'd have a hard time tracing a woman wearing a mask and a black dress through streets ripe with carnival. He would have no idea where she was going, and even if he thought to check the stage office, he would find no trace of Betty Lillian.

  She'd always disliked her first name—not flashy enough. Lillian was nice, but too stiff for the stage. Lily, on the other hand, sounded just about right Now all she required was a dazzling new surname.

  Hurrying onward, Betty pondered over a name. She needed to take the first available stagecoach out of New Orleans. She could not risk being caught waiting for a ride. However that became the least of her worries, because by the time Betty reached the stage office, she knew someone had followed her.

  That someone could not be R.W. He would not hide; he would scream and shout and drag her back. And then...

  Well, she wasn't going to think about "then" or she'd be too nervous to get on with "now."

  Betty marched into the stage office and came mask-to-face with—"Jean Baptiste!"

  The shock of seeing him there ahead of her and the fear that he'd brought R.W. along made Betty sway. He grabbed her hand and shook his head frantically, as if he knew what she was thinking.

  "R.W. isn't here?"

  "N-n-n—"

  He struggled gamely until Betty squeezed his hand. "Sugar, I can understand you without the words."

  With a nod, Jean Baptiste grew silent.

  "Does he know I'm gone?"

  His head moved left, right and left again. No.

  Betty let out a sigh of relief, and the world stayed in focus. When Jean Baptiste released her hand, she discovered a smudge of blood across her palm.

  "Did you hurt yourself?" She took his fingers in her own and examined a small slice in his skin.

  He pulled away, wrapped a handkerchief about the wound, then slid a thin knife from his boot.

  "You brought my knife?" He pulled a leather strap from his pocket. "And the sheath. Thank you."

  She had not thought to bring the weapon she sometimes wore strapped to her wrist beneath her dress, a mistake Jean Baptiste had thankfully rectified at the cost of injury to himself. She'd rather the boy had not cut his precious hand on her blade, but she would no doubt find plenty of use for the knife in Nowhere, Texas, U.SA.

  "I have to get on the stage," she whispered. "I was going to send for you later."

  He shook his head. "Yes, I was. Do you think I'd leave you unless I had to? I don't have enough money for us both right now."

  Jean Baptiste raised an eyebrow and withdrew a large roll of cash from his pocket. A slash of blood across the belly of his shirt and a few splotches on his pants disturbed Betty. The poor boy had hurt himself trying to help her.

  She covered the money with her hand and glanced about. But at dawn on Fat Tuesday the stage office was deserted, all revelers sleeping in preparation for the gala street celebration that evening. Even if R.W. noticed her gone this morning, he would be unable to mount any kind of search on the busiest day of the year.

  "I am not even going to ask where you got this."

  Jean Baptiste lowered his brows and scowled. He wasn't going to tell her, either, which was just as well.

  R.W., being R.W., gave Jean Baptiste room and board but little else. He had to have stolen this money, and Betty didn't want to know if he'd stolen it from R.W.

  "All right, I'll need a piano player, and God knows, you can keep a secret. I guess we're in this together." He grinned. "But we're going to have to change our names so R.W. doesn't find us." Jean Baptiste's smile fell. "He'll look, but maybe not too long if we make it hard enough."

  Slowly, he nodded. "I thought I'd be Lily. Do I look like a Lily to you?" In answer, Jean Baptiste cupped her cheek with his good hand. "I'll take that as a yes. But I need a last name. A common name, but pretty. I'll still have to sing wherever we go. It's all I know."

  Jean Baptiste pointed at the wall behind her. Betty turned.

  Edmund Fortier asks all visitors to the city of New Orleans to stop at his restaurant for their evening meal.

  "Fortier? Lily Fortier." Jean Baptiste winked. "And you shall be my brother, Johnny." He frowned. "Jean Baptiste is a beautiful name, and I adore it, but in Texas I think you'll stand out. If you're Johnny, you'll be like any other cowboy."

  He hooked his thumb in his belt and hitched up his pants with a shrug.

  Betty laughed. "You'll fit right in. From now on, I'm Lily, and you're Johnny, alright?" He nodded. "We'll say that the war took your voice. Then there'll be no need for you to speak to strangers until you're ready."

  Gratitude washed over his face. As difficult as it was for him to talk to her, it was even harder for him to talk to those he did not know. Ridicule often followed any attempts at speech, which only made the problem worse.

  "All right, then, let's see if we can get tickets all the way from New Orleans to... Where are we going?" She reached
into her bag and pulled out the deed. "Hmm, never heard of it."

  She crossed to the ticket booth. "My brother and I are going to Rock Creek, Texas."

  Since the publication of her first book in 1994, Linda Winstead Jones, who also writes as Linda Devlin, has published more than sixty novels and novellas. She's a five-time finalist for the Romance Writers of America's RITA Award and—writing as Linda Fallon—winner of the 2004 RITA for paranormal romance.

  Her leisure activities include retail therapy (she never met a shoe she didn't like), easy hiking (as long as it's not too hot or too cold), and, naturally, reading. She attempts to grow things in her garden, occasionally beating out the squirrels for fruit and vegetables. An active member of the Romance Writers of America, she lives in Huntsville, Alabama with her husband of more than thirty-nine years.

  Linda enjoys hearing from her readers. You can visit her at www.lindawinsteadjones.com

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  The Rock Creek Six

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Excerpt from RICO – Book 3 of the Rock Creek Six

  Meet the Author