She giggled. “No, I want you to be my junior reporter. And it can be our secret, when the townsfolk are confused because we appear so content, but you continue with your visits to the Boudoir.”
He shook his head in dismay. “Nae, Jessie, I dinna like the idea of them, of anyone, speakin’ poorly of ye. Of thinkin’ I do no’ respect ye as I should. As I do.”
“Wasn’t it you who told me that it doesn’t matter what everyone else thinks? It only matters what we know to be true?”
He nodded, although his body remained tense with reluctance.
“I need to know what happens in the Boudoir during the virgin auction. Because I am a reporter at heart, and I hate being banned. Having you there, someone I trust”—she smiled as his eyes flared with delight at her words—“will ease my torment at being denied entrance.”
He growled and toppled her to her back, looming over her. “Ye will no’ go there during the auction. The men will be fired up enough as it is. I canna protect ye, Jessie, under those circumstances.” His eyes gleamed with fear and passion. “I couldna bear it were something to happen to ye.”
She ran her fingers through the hair that hung over his forehead and then through his beard. “I know.” She leaned up and kissed him. “It’s the only reason why I will promise not to attend.”
He smiled. “Ye promise?”
“Yes, as long as you will act in my stead as my reporter.”
“Aye, ’tis an easy thing to agree to.” He rested his forehead against hers a moment before rolling to his side. Then he whispered, “What is it that ye ken to be true?”
She turned her head and met his guarded gaze. “What?” She ran a finger over his brow, and some of his tension eased. “Oh, … I know many things to be true. That my father never loved me as anything more than a pawn. That my mother’s need for her next bottle of laudanum does not mean she did not love me. That I am a very good journalist.” She took a deep breath, and her voice dropped to a whisper. “I know that I love you. I never knew I could love as much as I do.” She smiled. “I know that I was wrong about many things. The love and support of a good, loving family makes everything better.”
“Jessie,” he rasped, pulling her toward him as he kissed her deeply. “I love ye, almost more than I can bear. The thought of any harm comin’ to ye …” His eyes sparkled with unshed tears. “I canna even bear the thought of it.”
She kissed his jaw and then his cheek. “I know. Because that is exactly how I feel.” She smiled at him. “I never thought my husband could understand me, accept me, even help me with the work I do.” She rubbed her nose against his. “I’m so glad to be proven wrong.”
He chuckled as he pulled her tight against his chest. “I’ll be happy to continue to prove ye wrong for the next fifty years.”
“Only fifty?” she whispered as her smile spread. “I want forever.”
“Gladly,” he agreed before he kissed her.
Sneak Peek At Montana Renegade!
CHAPTER ONE
December 1885, Montana Territory
“When is the virgin auction to take place?” Warren Clark asked. Dusk was falling, and an oil lamp on the corner of his tidy desk cast light onto a small portion of the front room of his office, enhancing the shadows in the corners. A potbellied stove emitted much-needed heat in the frigid December evening. Warren paced behind his desk and kicked one of its legs for good measure. As the only lawyer serving Bear Grass Springs, he was used to knowing all the intricacies of small-town life and little surprised him.
A cold wind howled on this mid-December evening, and snow threatened. The front windows, currently steam covered, prevented any hardy townsfolk from peering inside. Those with sense were home around a warm fire. Those without sense could be found at one of the town’s four saloons. Or at Betty’s Boudoir, the town’s brothel. Warren sighed and scratched at his head. At thirty-seven, he had no hint of gray in his brown hair.
Alistair MacKinnon sat in a chair across from Warren’s desk and rubbed at his temple. “I kent ye’d be shocked. I never thought ye’d be distraught she’d given herself to the Madam.” Alistair, the second of four MacKinnon siblings at thirty-three, ran the livery with his brother, Cailean. The two eldest brothers had left the Isle of Sky thirteen years ago, and, after years traveling around the United States together, they had settled in Bear Grass Springs in 1881. Their two younger siblings—Ewan, thirty; and Sorcha, twenty-four—had followed them to America in the subsequent years. Alistair frowned at his friend as Warren collapsed, holding his head in his hands.
“I hate her mother,” Warren said, provoking a startled laugh from Alistair. “Shouldn’t come as much of a surprise as half the town does too.”
“I’d say ’tis more than half. She’s despised by all, except her sniveling son.” Alistair tapped a finger on the chair’s arm. “As to the auction, ’tis tonight. Seems a few big spenders are in town for the holiday season, and the Madam wants to see how much she can obtain for fresh flesh.” He shrugged at Warren’s daggerlike glare. “Or so says Ewan.”
“And Ewan’s rarely wrong when it comes to the bloody Boudoir,” Warren hissed. Before Ewan’s recent marriage to the town newspaperwoman—Jessamine Phyllis McMahon, nicknamed J.P. by most in town, although called Jessie by her husband—the third MacKinnon brother had been a frequent visitor to the Boudoir, although not a patron. “I hate this.”
Alistair canted forward, his brows furrowed with confusion. “I’ll never understand why ye feel such a … a tenderness for Helen.” He shrugged as Warren stiffened at his word choice. “I’ve seen how ye argue with her, but I can tell when a man is dancing around in the middle of his courtship.”
“You’re insane if you believe I’ve been pining for the likes of Helen Jameson all these years.” The red flush on his neck put the lie to his words.
Alistair studied Warren. “Must have been hard to swallow, watching her throw herself at my brothers and me.” Alistair sobered further when he saw the hastily hidden agony in his friend’s eyes. “Ye ken I never sought her company?” He relaxed when Warren nodded.
Warren rose and paced again. “Why would she go to the Boudoir?” He shook his head. “It makes no sense.”
“From what J.P. learned, Helen had a monstrous fight with her mother after the woman returned from Helena, either leaving or being thrown out of her family’s home. I dinna ken which, and J.P. couldna discover which was true.” He shrugged. “An’ the homeless lass doesna have many friends in town.”
“No,” Warren whispered. He ran a hand through his brown hair. “She has not been so fortunate as to form friendships.” He raised tormented blue eyes to meet Alistair’s confused gaze. “I know you don’t understand my need to aid her.”
“No, I’ve never understood your fascination with her. Since we traveled to Helena this past summer, your interest in her has seemed to only grow.” After a long pause, Alistair asked, “What will ye do?”
Warren eased back into his chair. “What else can I do? Save her. As I should have done years ago.”
Alistair fought, and failed, to hide a smile. “I fear she’ll fight ye tooth and nail. For she seems like one intent on savin’ herself.”
Helen Jameson stood in a small room upstairs in the Boudoir. She had walked past the tiny rooms called cribs where the women lived and entertained the men of the town. She fought nausea as she considered living in such a confined space and sharing her body with another. Anyone other than …
“Get her dressed,” the Madam shrieked, interrupting Helen’s thoughts.
Helen was jerked forward, her arms slung upward, so a flimsy white nightgown could be tugged over her confining corset. Her generous curves were made more abundantly obvious by the tortuous contraption, and she had to fight her natural inclination to cover her breasts with her hands. They seemed about to burst from the corset.
“Perfect,” the Madam said with a sigh. She cinched the nightgown with a red ribbon around the waist, further accent
uating Helen’s bust, small waist and generous hips. She pushed Helen forward until she sat at a vanity table.
A woman dressed in scarlet with a low-cut bodice moved to her side and brushed makeup on her forehead, cheeks and chin. Her gaze flit from Helen to the Madam, her posture relaxing when the Madam left the room for a moment. “Are you sure you want to do this?” the woman whispered.
“I have no choices left,” Helen murmured. She watched the doorway in the mirror.
“There are always choices. But, once you spend a night here, they are drastically reduced,” said the woman with blond hair and brown eyes. “If you stay, pick a name for yourself. I’m Grace. Never use your real name. Never let them touch you in that way.” She met Helen’s terrified gaze. “For they’ll touch you in every other conceivable way.”
Grace, who would play the role of Helen’s mentor, frowned as she stared at Helen. Grace’s gaze was filled with too much understanding. “You’re playing a dangerous game,” she breathed. She clamped her jaw shut as the Madam bustled in. Grace puckered her lips, nodding with satisfaction when Helen mimicked the movement. Grace slathered on a thick coating of red lipstick to Helen’s mouth and backed away, awaiting the Madam’s verdict.
“More rouge. More kohl around the eyes. We want all the men in the room, even those at the back, to be tantalized by her.” The Madam squeezed Helen’s shoulders as she leaned against her back, meeting Helen’s gaze in the mirror. “You will be my next Charity. You will restore my fortunes, and I will be the talk of the Territory.”
Helen shivered. She knew of Charity, also known as Fidelia Evans. Charity had escaped life in the Boudoir last month when the Madam had bet Charity—and lost her—in a hand of cards. The man who won her, Ewan MacKinnon, saw her as a sister, as his sister-in-law Annabelle was Fidelia’s sibling. Fidelia had been welcomed back into the MacKinnon family with open arms, an uncommon occurrence for a reformed whore.
“Never forget. I own you now. You are nothing without me. You are only as important as the next man who wants you. Tonight, your innocence is what is valued. Tomorrow, I will expect you to learn from those who’ve been here for years.” The Madam patted Helen’s shoulders and departed, calling the names of the other girls to ready them for the procession downstairs.
“I don’t believe in God or good fortune, but, if I did, I’d pray for you,” Grace whispered as she rose. Her work was done, and she exited the room.
Helen sat a moment, staring at a stranger in the mirror with a prostitute’s face paint. “I am a whore,” she whispered to herself. Rather than bolstering her failing nerves, she fought tears. She dug her nails into her palms and rose as the Madam called her name. It was time to face her destiny.
Available May 2018
Montana Renegade (Bear Grass Springs, Book Four)
Afterword
Thank you for reading Montana Maverick! I hope you enjoyed Ewan and Jessamine’s story as much as I enjoyed writing it.
Are you curious about the Fact Or Fiction sections? The idea for this section came about on a plane ride when my brother was bored and he started spinning yarns to kill time. I wrote them down, and I then embellished them and turned them into tales. Thanks, Bar!
There is a legend about Liver Eating Johnson, but from my research it is just that: a legend.
Thank you for reading and I can’t wait to share Warren and Helen’s story with you.
Do you want to learn more about Bear Grass Springs and your favorite characters? Why not join my newsletter to learn more about Montana ghost towns, my research trips around Montana as I search for inspiration, and specials only for my subscribers? You can sign up here:
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All my best and happy reading,
Ramona
Also by Ramona Flightner
Bear Grass Springs Series
Montana Untamed (Bear Grass Springs, Book One)
Montana Grit (Bear Grass Springs, Book Two)
Montana Maverick (Bear Grass Springs, Book Three)
Montana Renegade (Bear Grass Springs, Book Four)- May 2018!
With More To Come!
Banished Saga
Banished Saga, Book 1 &2 (Banished Love and Reclaimed Love
Undaunted Love, Part One (Banished Saga Book 3)
Undaunted Love, Part Two (Banished Saga, Book 3.5)
Discover more at: www.ramonaflightner.com
Join my mailing list to learn more and receive early sneak peeks: Ramona’s newsletter
Acknowledgments
Thanks to the best fans! I love hearing from you and your enthusiasm for my novels keeps me writing.
My beta readers push me to write better and more interesting novels- thank you!
Thank you to my editor, DB. I couldn’t do this without your insight and help.
Jenny Q- you created another beautiful cover- thank you!
I couldn’t do this without the support, faith and encouragement of my family. Thank you!
About the Author
Ramona Flightner is a historical romance author. She lives in Montana, and is the author of the Bear Grass Springs Series and the Banished Saga.
Montana Maverick (Bear Grass Springs Book 3) Page 24