Yesterday's Roses

by Heather Cullman

  “Fifteen last month.”

  Fifteen and already a seasoned prostitute. The thought made Hallie want to weep. She’d seen many such creatures at the infirmary back home. Riddled with syphilis and broken by life, they were considered old by the age of twenty-five. While many of her fellow doctors refused to treat the women, Hallie reached out to them with compassion. She had cared when others had turned a blind eye, shown mercy while most had condemned, and done her best to give the desperate beings comfort in their otherwise dismal lives. Most important, she had never judged them.

  Hallie drew in a sharp breath when she saw the full extent of Cissy’s injury. Lord! Someone had tried to strangle the poor girl!

  Like an ominous pendant of black, yellow, and purple, livid bruises ringed the slender throat. The marks darkened brutally over the now pounding pulse point and fanned up the sides of her neck in perfect fingerlike impressions.

  “She gonna live, Doc?” inquired the older woman as she lifted her black veil and frowned at the discolored flesh.

  Hallie nodded. “I stitched the cut on her head and splinted her right wrist. The wrist doesn’t appear to be broken, though it is badly sprained. Unfortunately, Cissy wasn’t quite so lucky with her ribs. It appears that two of them were fractured. She’s badly bruised and has had a nasty shock. However, she should be fully recovered in several weeks’ time.”

  “Several weeks? There’s gonna be an awful lot of disappointed fellas in San Francisco. Cissy’s the most popular gal in the house. Real talented, if ya take my meanin’.”

  Hallie did take her meaning, and it was only with the greatest of effort that she managed not to blush. To look at Coralie LaFlume, with her severely coiffed gray hair and demure black gown, one would never have guessed her to be the madame of San Francisco’s most notorious brothel. Why, she looked about as wicked as a grandmother at a church social. Yet there was something in the way she looked at a person, her gray eyes shrewdly assessing, that left little doubt as to the sharpness of the mind beneath the amiable exterior. And those eyes were now as hard as nails as she stared at Hallie.

  “Jist think of the bundle we’ll lose!” she exclaimed. “Ya sure Cissy needs several weeks? After all, she works on her back, if ya take my meanin’.”

  “Uh, yes. I understand Cissy’s—um—duties. However, the ribs will take a while to heal and she shouldn’t be jostled around—if you take my meaning.” Seeing Coralie and Cissy’s faces fall with disappointment, Hallie suggested, “Perhaps, when she feels up to it, Cissy could work at one of the gaming tables downstairs. That shouldn’t do her any harm—provided she sits.”

  Coralie brightened perceptibly at that notion. Carelessly twisting a corner of her veil, she mused, “Smart idea, Doc. The fellas’ll see Cissy dealin’ the cards and they’ll get real itchy. ’Specially when they learn they cain’t have her. Why, after a few weeks of teasin’, they’ll be willin’ ta pay twice her usual price.”

  Cissy smiled and nodded in agreement. The girl actually seemed taken by the idea.

  As she rubbed her hands together in anticipation, the madame chuckled. “Ya know, Doc, if ya ever get tired of pokin’ around that musty old Mission House and want a real excitin’ time, why, ya come talk ta Coralie LaFlume. Sure could be usin’ a smart gal like ya ’round here.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.” Hallie held a measure of laudanum to Cissy’s lips, smiling as the girl obediently drained the cup. As she tucked the blankets around her patient’s shoulders, she asked, “Who did this to you, dear?”

  “Ain’t never seen his face.”

  Hallie let out a snort of disbelief. “How could you—”

  “Strange man, that ’un,” cut in Coralie, sitting on the edge of the bed and patting Cissy’s golden curls in an affectionate manner. “Ain’t none of us seen him. Never comes himself. Sends some nasty-tempered China fella to fetch the gals.”

  “But surely someone has seen his face? I mean considering the intimate nature of your business.”

  “Nah. He always keeps his face covered.” Coralie shook her head in a perplexed manner. “Most fellas like some kissin’. But not this ’un. He likes it quick and with his clothes on. Why, he won’t even let a gal touch his—well, ya know—unless she’s wearin’ special gloves. Red silk ones with fancy diamond buttons.”

  That caught Hallie’s attention. “Red silk, you say?”

  Coralie nodded. “With fancy buttons.”

  “And your girls don’t object?”

  “The fella pays real good.” With a sly grin, Coralie added, “’Course, he has ta, considerin’ his special tastes.”

  “Special tastes?”

  “Yep. Likes to be switched, if ya take my meanin’.”

  Hallie certainly did, and it sickened her. Looking up from the bandage she was rolling, she exclaimed, “How can you encourage your girls to do business with such an awful man?”

  “Been harmless enough in the past.” The madame shrugged in a matter-of-fact manner. “’Sides, the gals all like him. Says he talks real cultured-like. Got the manners of a high-flutin’ gentleman, too. Pearl got his clothes half off once, says he’s got a fine-lookin’ body, ’cept for a nasty scar.”

  “Scar? Where?” Hallie’s attention was fully arrested now. She shoved the last of her equipment in her bag and frowned as she waited for Coralie to reply.

  The woman mulled over the question for a moment before shaking her head. “Don’t recall Pearl mentionin’ where. Jist said it was all red and twisted-lookin’.”

  “Could I talk to Pearl?”

  “Pearl run off a few weeks back. Ain’t seen hide nor hair of her since. Treated the gal like a daughter, and she jist takes off without a word.”

  “Would there be anyone else who could tell me about the man?”

  Coralie’s eyes narrowed at the urgency in Hallie’s voice. “Ya seem awful interested in the fella. Care ta tell me why?”

  “A friend of mine was murdered a couple of months ago, and the murderer left marks on her throat similar to those on Cissy. She was also wearing a glove like those you described.” Hallie’s voice rose in desperation. “There might be a connection. You say he’s always been harmless enough in the past. Why would he attack Cissy now?”

  There was a muffled sob from the bed. “He couldn’t git hard. So he started hittin’ me and talkin’ all crude. Claimed it was my fault. Made me git on my knees and beg.”

  Serena’s words echoed through Hallie’s mind. I hate it most when he’s crude. He can’t take his pleasure unless I cry and beg. He blames me if his man’s part can’t—

  “When it stayed all shrunk up, he got crazy.” Cissy’s tone verged on hysteria. “He grabbed my neck and started squeezin’ ’til I couldn’t breathe no more. Don’t remember much else.” She buried her face in the pillow, her shoulders heaving violently as she wept.

  “Yep,” finished Coralie, taking the girl in her arms and stroking her back with maternal expertise. “We found poor Cissy layin’ half dead on our doorstep.”

  “Have you contacted the police?”

  Coralie laughed raucously at that. “The police don’t care about what happens to a whore.”

  “Well, I do,” announced Hallie. “And I’ll be back the day after tomorrow to check on Cissy. You can send for me at the mission if she gets any worse.”

  Coralie looked positively stunned by Hallie’s words. “Really? Ya don’t mind bein’ seen at a whorehouse, Doc?”

  “I’m here, aren’t I?”

  “Yep. But, I mean, them men doctors made it clear they ain’t interested in tendin’ a pack of whores. Don’t approve of our business, if ya take my meanin’.” Coralie’s mouth twisted cynically. “’Course, the old hypocrites ain’t above usin’ our services.”

  Hallie reached out and gave the madame’s shoulder a warm squeeze. “I’ll be glad to help your girls
in any way I can. Sick people are the same no matter who they are or what they do. It’s not my place to judge.”

  Coralie’s eyes were bright with gratitude. “You won’t be sorry. I promise. We’ll pay you real handsome-like, and if anyone says anythin’ bad about you, I’ll have my doorman rough ’em up good.” She slammed her right fist into her left palm to illustrate her point.

  Hallie laughed. “I doubt the roughing-up part will be necessary. However, if you wish to make a donation to the Mission Infirmary, we’ll be more than glad to accept it. I do have one request, though.”

  “Jist ask, Doc.”

  “If you hear anything else about the strange man, or find any clues as to his identity, will you let me know?”

  As Hallie left the brothel, she paused on the front steps to admire the bold artistry of the rising sun. Glorious shades of pink and gold streaked the sky as dawn broke over the city. She should have been exhausted; she should have wanted nothing more than to crawl into her hard little bed and sleep the morning away. But her excitement over what she had learned from Coralie and Cissy overruled her tired body’s commands.

  Carefully avoiding the glass from a shattered liquor bottle, Hallie descended the stairs. She kicked a gaudy slipper out of her path and then stopped to pick up an abandoned piece of mistletoe. Staring at the crushed greenery, she pictured Jake’s beautiful face, and her lips burned at the memory of his kisses.

  It was December 24 and she was in love.

  “Ho, ho, ho, Jake Parrish,” Hallie laughed into the cold morning breeze. “You’re about to get your Christmas wish.”

  Chapter 13

  The face in the mirror looked decidedly worse for wear.

  Damn! That Seth Tyler had a nasty left hook.

  With a grimace, Jake prodded the bruise marring the right side of his jaw. It was ugly and it hurt. Still, it was minor compared to the damage he had suffered at Seth’s hands during the past few months.

  Giving his reflection a lopsided grin, Jake noted with satisfaction that neither eye had been blackened. The days of his crushing defeats were definitely over, as were Seth’s easy victories in the boxing ring. He’d even be willing to bet that his friend was sporting a few colorful marks himself this morning.

  Of course, knowing Seth Tyler as well as he did, Jake had no doubts at all that the man had turned his battered appearance to his own roguish advantage. He was probably lying in the arms of one of his admirers at this very moment, groaning in an exaggerated manner, while the doting young lady held cold compresses to his face. Seth so enjoyed the tender ministrations of his women that he always made sure he received at least one bruise, just so he could play the wounded hero. He claimed that nothing made a woman grow all soft and loving quicker than a man in need of tending.

  When Jake thought about the way Hallie had cared for him after he had been shot, he was inclined to agree. In fact, her tender attention was all he’d thought about during his recent voyage to Panama City.

  Plagued with pain and fatigue, he had lain in his luxurious cabin desperately wishing for his Mission Lady’s gentle touch. He had wanted so badly to feel her calloused little hand against his cheek as she checked him for fever and to see her forehead crease with concentration as she carefully tended his injured side. Why, he would have even welcomed her poking at the sore wound, just to have her near.

  Jake had known upon leaving San Francisco, that he would miss his little doctor friend; he just hadn’t realized how much. Restlessly he had tossed and turned in his spacious bed, calling himself every kind of a fool for thinking he could run away from his growing feelings for her. Every waking moment had been filled with thoughts of Hallie, and when he slept, she had haunted his dreams. By the time he had reached Aspinwall, he’d finally faced the truth: he needed his Mission Lady.

  Still thinking of Hallie, Jake bent closer to the mirror and took an inventory of his injuries. Perhaps he could use some of the good doctor’s loving care now? Aside from the swollen jaw, there was a small cut beneath one bloodshot eye, and another at the corner of his mouth. The dark stubble shadowing his cheeks didn’t do a hell of a lot to improve his appearance either. And his head …

  Jake groaned and rubbed at his temples. Damn! It felt like someone was hammering a staccato inside his brain. At this point he couldn’t be quite sure if the throbbing was due to the pounding he had taken from Seth in the ring or if it was a legacy from the bottle of fine brandy they had consumed afterward. Come to think of it, the only thing he was sure of in regard to last evening was that Seth had been the victor of their contest. But if his memory served him correctly, it had been a close match. Next time he intended to win.

  In the days before the war, Jake’s athletic prowess, coupled with his unblemished record of victory in the ring, had made him a legendary force at the Olympic Club. No one, including Seth, had stood a chance against his raw strength and catlike agility. So formidable an opponent was he that the other members of the club were forced to acknowledge his physical superiority and consequently ceased their jests regarding his too pretty face. Jake was fiercely proud of his hard-won reputation.

  But that was before the battle that robbed him of his athletic ability, leaving him a maimed left leg as a tragic souvenir.

  Jake smiled bitterly at his reflection. He had heard over and over again how lucky he was to have his leg. On good days, when he merely walked with an ungainly limp, he was inclined to agree. But on bad ones, such as today, when he was virtually lame and the improperly healed wound ached unbearably, he seriously questioned his good fortune.

  As he tightly grasped the edge of his ebony dressing table for support, his mood grew foul in the extreme. God, he dreaded these bad days. It wasn’t the pain that made them so awful, it was the debilitating weakness. He hated feeling so helpless and frustrated.

  Wavering unsteadily, Jake decided it was going to be an especially bad day, and he was damn well going to make sure everyone else shared in his misery.

  “Hop Yung!” he bellowed. “Get your worthless hide in here—now!”

  Where was that Chinaman when you wanted him? He was always underfoot until you needed him and then …

  “Hop! Where the hell are you? Just wait until I get my hands—”

  Jake was startled into speechlessness as he lurched around in a fit of fury and almost knocked Hop Yung over. The houseboy was standing behind his employer holding out a robe, his expression bland.

  A shadow of annoyance crossed Jake’s face as he felt his leg give out and he was forced to steady himself against the dressing table again.

  “Where have you been?” he demanded through clenched teeth, skewering the servant with a rancorous stare.

  Hop looked back at him with suppressed amusement, making Jake suddenly aware of what a ridiculous picture he made, standing there stark naked and scowling with menace at a Chinaman half his size.

  With a snort of irritation, he shrugged the emerald-green-and-black-striped dressing gown over his shoulders and belted it at his waist. Running his hand through his sweat-dampened hair in a gesture of ill-tempered agitation, Jake scowled at the now grinning houseboy.

  “Why didn’t you come when I called? And where the hell is my coffee? Damn it, Hop! You know I like my coffee first thing in the morning. And wipe that simple-minded grin off your face. I ought to replace you with an Irishman. I had one come around looking for a job just yesterday. He showed me proper respect. You could afford to take a lesson or two from that man!”

  “Hop best houseboy. Irish houseboy no good. Got meaner head than Mister Jake. You chop-chop-kill each other!” Hop made slashing motions into the air to demonstrate his point. Smirking wickedly, he waited for his employer’s outraged response.

  The scenario was a familiar one, having been played out countless times over the years. Hop, used to his employer’s tirades, had been threatened with the hated Irishman many time
s before, and the threat now failed to have any real impact. Still, mean-head or no, the little man couldn’t imagine working for anyone else. Since that day eight years ago, when Jake Parrish had saved him from being lynched for a crime of which he was innocent, Hop had discovered his rescuer to be a man of fairness and good judgment—despite his tendency to rant and rave. And Hop Yung had vowed to be loyal to Mr. Jake until his dying day.

  “Meaner head, Hop? I’ll show you meaner head if you don’t get my coffee now,” Jake threatened, though his mood was starting to lighten a bit at Hop’s saucy behavior.

  Hop rolled his eyes mournfully and shook his head in mock despair. With an offended air, he gestured behind his employer. “Mister Jake get mean-head, no reason. Coffee on table. Hop best houseboy.”

  And sure enough, the table by the vaulted window was neatly laid out with coffee, toast points, and the morning edition of the Golden Era.

  After accepting his cane from Hop with a curt nod, Jake limped over to the table and eased himself into a high-backed chair. The effort sent a pain radiating through his damaged leg. With a sigh, he rubbed at his thigh until the discomfort had been reduced to a dull throb. It was a bad day indeed, he thought, closing his eyes and leaning his head back in a resigned manner.

  When he heard Hop Yung laying out his shaving implements, Jake opened his eyes and stared at the man. “‘Mean-head’? What the hell kind of language is that? Is that what they taught you at the mission school?” He paused to pour himself a cup of coffee. “You’re going to have to remind me to have a word with Reverend DeYoung. I would hate to think that all the money he’s managed to swindle out of me on behalf of that school has been wasted on teachers who teach phrases like ‘mean-head’.”

  Jake sat back in his chair and took a sip from his cup. He immediately released a loud oath as the hot liquid burned his mouth. Slamming the delicate Limoges cup back on the table, he returned his gaze to the busy houseboy.

  “Hot-tempered, Hop.”

  The little man threw his employer a questioning look.