Sweet Laurel

by Millie Criswell

  “Gambling at your place, I take it?”

  “How’d you know?”

  “Just a lucky guess, Mr. Rafferty. I’m beginning to think that your appearance here this morning wasn’t totally coincidental.”

  “Are you always this suspicious of men?”

  “Most of my beaus back home are gentlemen, Mr. Rafferty. They wouldn’t think to accost a woman in a public place.”

  “No doubt they’re boys still wet behind the ears.” Her cheeks crimsoned, and he laughed. “I take it you haven’t met too many grown men as yet, Miss Martin. Am I your first?”

  She tried to brush past him, but he maneuvered his body so that she couldn’t get by. The feel of his legs against her own made her throat feel tight. “Please let me pass, Mr. Rafferty.”

  “And if I won’t?”

  “Then I’ll be forced to demonstrate just how loud my voice really is.”

  That unpleasant memory was vivid enough to make Chance step back. Not that he was afraid of the consequences, mind you, but he wasn’t sure his ears could stand such punishment first thing in the morning. After all, he’d heard the young lady sing.

  “Your wish is my command, angel.” He bowed in an exaggerated manner, indicating with an outstretched arm that she was free to go.

  Laurel had the urge to kick him right in his pompous backside. She’d never struck another human being in her life—except for Rose Elizabeth when they were children, and that didn’t count—but she was certainly tempted to do bodily harm to the man standing so arrogantly before her. She didn’t know what it was about Chance Rafferty that made him so infuriating, but he definitely had the ability to raise her hackles.

  “If that were true, Mr. Rafferty,” she finally retorted, “you would disappear right off the face of this earth.”

  His eyes twinkled. “Now, angel, is that any way to treat a friend?”

  “We are not friends, Mr. Rafferty, and I sincerely doubt that we’re ever going to be. Never in a million years. Do you hear me, Mr. Rafferty?”

  He grasped hold of the finger pointed at his chest and pulled her to him. “I told you, angel, never’s a long time.” He kissed her long and hard, then he released her.

  Before Laurel could catch her breath long enough to haul off and slap him across his arrogant, delicious mouth, Chance Rafferty had disappeared.

  * * *

  “Why are you wasting my time, Higgins?” Luther Witherspoon demanded, staring up at the stage where Laurel had just completed another audition. He pointed a cigar at Rooster’s chest as if it were an extension of his hand, which it might as well have been, considering the number of cigars the man smoked in a day. “That woman’s voice is atrocious. Mr. Tabor would fire us both if I hired her to perform here.”

  Rooster hated these confrontations with Witherspoon. The man relished making him feel like an incompetent fool, but he couldn’t afford to lose his job. Not unless he wanted to go back to work at the Aurora sweeping up cigarette butts and washing dirty glassware.

  “I feel sorry for her, Mr. Witherspoon. Miss Martin is a very persistent young woman. I’ve given her every excuse I can think of for not hiring her, but she just won’t take no for an answer. She thinks she’ll improve with practice.”

  The manager’s eyes narrowed shrewdly. “I should live so long.” He stared long and hard at the stage, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “She’s too flat-chested,” he said, mostly to himself, but Rooster heard the comment and had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from saying what was uppermost on his mind: Luther Witherspoon was a pig. It was no secret that Witherspoon judged a woman’s talent by the size of her breasts, whether or not she could carry a tune.

  “Miss Martin’s a real lady, Mr. Witherspoon. Very kind and sweet.”

  Witherspoon frowned. “Lady or not, she’s got no tits, she’s got no talent. As far as I’m concerned, she’s got nothing to recommend her. Now get rid of her or I’ll be forced to tell her myself. And I doubt I’ll be as gentle with her as you, Higgins. You’ve got to toughen up if you want to survive in the theater. Send Miss Martin packing.”

  Rooster was incensed by the man’s callousness. “Please, Mr. Witherspoon! Just give her one more try. I tell you Miss Martin’s improving. She’s . . .”

  Witherspoon’s voice turned as glacial as the snow-capped peaks of the Rockies. “If you value your job, Higgins, you’ll do as you’re told. I make the decisions at Tabor’s Opera House, and I’ll decide who’s fit to work here. If you’re not careful, you’ll be out on the street along with your precious Miss Martin.” Witherspoon then yanked the cigar from his mouth, threw it on the floor, and squashed it beneath his shoe like a bug.

  Rooster didn’t miss the implication. He looked with unconcealed disgust at the spittle running down the man’s jowly chins. The bastard enjoyed humiliating people. He thrived on controlling others’ destinies. Rooster hated him, but not enough to quit. And he guessed that showed a lack of character where he was concerned.

  How on earth was he going to tell Miss Martin that Witherspoon wasn’t impressed with either her voice or her figure? The young woman had such hopes and aspirations of becoming an opera singer. How could he squash them and live with himself?

  Rooster sighed, knowing that he would fabricate more excuses to spare Miss Martin’s feelings. He just couldn’t bring himself to tell her the truth. And maybe in time Witherspoon would change his mind.

  That possibility seemed as unlikely as Miss Martin developing larger breasts.

  * * *

  The Reverend Augustus Baldwin was doing his best to look pious, despite the fact he was seated at a card table in the middle of Chance’s saloon, surrounded by half-naked women serving drinks, and holding a pair of queens and three deuces.

  “Come on, Gus,” urged Chance, taking a drag on his cheroot. “We’re all waiting for you to place your bet.”

  Reverend Baldwin’s blue eyes twinkled as he stared at what he knew had to be a winning hand. His gaze lifted to Chance, to the other two men at the table, then down to survey the very handsome pot sitting in the center. “I’ll venture ten dollars,” he said, hoping he’d not just lost all of last Sunday’s contributions. He could ill afford for that to happen, especially considering the poor attendance at services of late.

  Chance whistled. “Sounds like you got some hand there, Reverend.” Chance looked down at his own hand, a full house, then back up at Gus, who was grinning like an errant schoolboy. The man definitely did not have a poker face.

  Knowing that the Reverend Augustus Baldwin gambled only to enhance the meager contributions his church received each Sunday, Chance hated like hell to deprive him of a winning pot. The other two men, he knew, had nothing to speak of. Chance had already calculated the cards they held and decided they weren’t in the running this time around. He was proven correct a few minutes later when they folded.

  It was just he and Gus now, and by his practiced deduction he guessed that old Gus was holding a pair of ladies and three deuces, which wouldn’t be enough to beat his pair of kings and three aces. But he threw in his cards anyway.

  “It’s too rich for my blood, Reverend. I guess you’ll be able to keep that building you laughingly refer to as a church open for another week.”

  “The Lord blesses you, my son,” Gus said, pulling in his winnings and breathing a sigh of relief, hoping God would forgive him for his many transgressions.

  “Looks to me like you’re the one God blessed, Reverend,” Pete Woolsey declared, pushing back his chair. “I don’t much like playing cards with a man of God. It seems you got better connections than most.”

  The blacksmith, Nate Moody, who preferred gambling to holding down a steady job, nodded in agreement. “Me and the missus will see you Sunday, Reverend. But it don’t look like we’ll be putting much in the collection basket, seeing as how you won all my money.”

  Reverend Baldwin’s face filled with concern, and he began to cough—deep racking sounds that shook his entire b
ody. Discreetly he removed a handkerchief from his coat pocket and coughed into it.

  Augustus Baldwin was what was commonly known in those parts as a lunger. The tuberculosis ravaging his body left him weak and pale, but he was determined to overcome the irksome affliction. Three years before, he’d left Boston and his well-paying position as minister of the Redeemer Methodist Church, moving west to the mile-high city of Denver to avail himself of the dry air and sunny climate.

  But Augustus knew, as he sat there breathing in the smoke-filled, rancid air of the saloon, that he wasn’t helping his condition any, only his wallet.

  “If you’re in need, Nate, I’ll be more than happy to give some back to you,” he said when finally he was able to talk.

  Nate shook his head, trying to keep his eyes averted from the bloodstained handkerchief that had become as much a part of the reverend’s costume as his clerical collar. “Nah. I’d just lose it somewheres else, or spend it on some piece of—” He stopped abruptly when he realized what he’d been about to admit to a man of the cloth. A man who knew his wife. “I gots to go, Reverend . . . Chance.” Nate practically ran out the door.

  Chance laughed at the man’s nervous antics, and the reverend tsked several times, shaking his head sadly. “I’m afraid I haven’t done a very good job of saving these men’s souls.”

  “Most of ’em don’t want to be saved, Gus. They’re happy like they are.”

  “True. But I doubt we could say the same for their wives and children. And it’s my sworn duty to help those lost souls.” He picked up his whiskey glass and downed it in one gulp, welcoming the burning liquid into his body. Strong drink seemed to quiet the coughing, though he was ashamed to admit it. “Hard to save others when I do such a piss-poor job of saving myself.”

  Jupiter was playing a rousing rendition of “Little Brown Jug,” and Chance kept time to the beat by drumming his fingers on the table. “You’re only human, Gus. Just because you got the calling to serve God don’t mean you don’t have needs and desires same as the next man. God must have had a good reason for putting cards, whiskey, and women on this earth. Besides, if there weren’t no sinners, you’d be out of a job.”

  The reverend smiled thoughtfully. “You’ve missed your calling, son. You should be the one consoling others. You do a pretty good job of it.”

  Chance leaned back in his seat and signaled to the pretty brunette, Flora Sue, to bring over another bottle of whiskey. “I’ve served my share of drinks over the years, Gus, tending bar and serving whiskey to the loneliest cowboys and dirt-digging miners. And I can tell you that there’s nothing more depressing on this earth than talking to a miner whose luck’s run out. I guess I got to be pretty good at what you call consoling. Some people’ve got a gift for doctoring or lawyering, but I got a gift for gab.”

  “I know you let me win tonight, Chance, and I can’t tell you how much I appreciate all you’ve done for me and my poor flock of sinners. Installing that parson’s box by the door was very considerate. Though I’m not sure how many of your customers would willingly part with their winnings, I thank you anyway.”

  Embarrassed, Chance waved away the reverend’s thanks. “Not many in this city would tend to those you do, Gus. I don’t know many preachers who’d allow prostitutes, drunks, or opium addicts to attend their church, but you do. Helping you out now and then is the least I can do. My needs get satisfied. Most of them, anyway.”

  Laurel’s image came to mind. She’d been haunting his dreams at night, filling him with a restless desire until the idea of possessing her consumed him. He’d never backed away from a challenge before, and having Laurel in his bed, passionate and willing, was one challenge he aimed to meet.

  “Heard you been spending more time than usual hanging around the opera house. Heard there’s a new woman in town who’s sparked your interest.”

  “Pretty women always spark my interest, Gus. You know that.”

  “I’ve heard this one’s a lady. That’s not your usual cup of poison, Chance.”

  Damn Rooster, Chance thought. The man has the biggest mouth this side of the Rocky Mountains. “No harm in looking, now, is there?”

  Pushing back his chair, Gus’s piercing blue eyes never left Chance’s face for a moment. It was said that the Reverend Baldwin could stare at a man and see all the way down to his soul. Chance moved restlessly in his chair, giving credence to that notion.

  “I’m not going to preach to you, son. You’ll have to come to church for that. All I’m saying is to let your conscience be your guide. There’re plenty of loose women in this town to occupy yourself with. Leave the nice ones alone. Unless, of course, you’re planning to settle down and get married. That’s not such a bad idea, considering you’re not getting any younger. A good woman can be a real comfort to a man.”

  Chance snorted indignantly, but he didn’t reply that he had absolutely no intention of ever entering into the overrated state of matrimonial bliss. After observing how marriage had turned his uncle Theodore into a spineless shadow of a man, Chance thought he’d sooner have his fingernails plucked out one by one than be saddled with a wife.

  Marriage was a death sentence for all men. Especially being hitched to a good woman. Good women brought responsibility to a man. And change. They were never content to let a man just be. A good woman didn’t allow a man to drink or gamble, or raise hell with the boys. A good woman’s husband became henpecked. He’d seen it happen all too often.

  Hadn’t Aunt Aletha done that very thing to Uncle Teddy?

  And who was to say that after a few years of marital bliss, any woman he married wouldn’t turn into a prune-faced old biddy like his aunt and expect him to toe the line? He shivered at the thought.

  Flora Sue arrived with the whiskey, and Chance, grateful for the interruption, pulled the buxom brunette down onto his lap, trying to ignore the flighty woman’s annoying giggles and the veiled condemnation in Reverend Baldwin’s words.

  “Like you said, Gus, there’re plenty of women to occupy my time with.”

  CHAPTER 4

  Laurel could barely see through the mist of her tears as she hurried to the Busy Bee Café to keep her luncheon appointment with Crystal.

  Her eighth and, apparently, final audition had just taken place at the Opera House, where the odious Mr. Witherspoon had told her in no uncertain terms that he would never hire her for the opera company. He’d been cruel and condescending and had made several insulting references to her lack of womanly attributes.

  Ever sensitive about being flat-chested, Laurel’s reaction to his insulting remarks had been anything but ladylike. Especially in light of the fact that those remarks had come from someone fat, disgusting, and pompous, who smelled as if he hadn’t bathed for a number of years.

  She wasn’t about to take his verbal abuse, and she’d told him so in no uncertain terms, emphatically and loudly enough to make Mr. Higgins come running to her rescue.

  Fortunately, it had been Mr. Witherspoon who needed rescuing, for she’d bopped him rather soundly on the head with her reticule before dashing out of his office.

  Laurel’s stomach was growling by the time she spotted Crystal at the corner table by the window. She shook her head ruefully, thinking that she might have lost her chance at becoming an opera diva, but she sure hadn’t lost her appetite.

  “Laurel honey, what’s the matter? You look lowlier than a whipped dog. You’re not sick, are you?”

  Laurel wiped her wet cheeks with the back of her hand and took a seat next to her friend. “Nothing as drastic as that. I’ve just been told by Mr. Witherspoon that my chances of getting hired at the Opera House are nil.”

  Crystal placed her hand over Laurel’s in a consoling fashion. “I’m sorry, honey. Witherspoon’s a smelly old goat. I’ll make sure Hattie fixes him real good next time he comes into the Silver Slipper.”

  Laurel’s eyes widened. “You mean he goes there to . . .”

  “I doubt there’s a woman in this city who’d
give it to him for free. I heard that rich wife of his kicked him out of her bed years ago. Can’t say as I blame her, knowing how bad he smells and all.”

  “You’ve never . . . ?”

  “Lord, no!” Crystal said, shaking her head emphatically. “I told Al flat out that I would leave if he ever gave me a customer like that. Hattie’s older and not too thin herself, so she can’t be too choosy about who she lays down for. And she’s got a kid to support.”

  “How dreadful! I can’t imagine having to bed someone I disliked.” At the hurt in Crystal’s eyes, Laurel amended, “I mean, I’ve never even been with someone I like, let alone someone I dislike.”

  “We all have to lose our virginity, Laurel. But we hope when we do it’ll be with someone we care for, or at least like a little bit.”

  “Did you lose yours with someone . . . I mean was it with . . . ?” Blushing, Laurel shook her head. “I’m sorry. It’s really none of my business.”

  “If I told you who took my virginity, I’m sure you’d get sick to your stomach. Nice girls like you, who come from normal families, don’t know about the evils going on in the world, and I’d just as soon you didn’t learn them from me.” Years of sadness hovered in the girl’s eyes.

  Laurel swallowed with a great deal of difficulty and changed the subject. “I guess I’m in a fix now that I have no chance of getting hired by Witherspoon. My money’s almost gone, and I’ve got no skills to speak of.” She paused while the waiter took their order. “I might have to return home to Kansas, though I dread that idea.”

  Farm life bored Laurel to tears. Unlike Rose Elizabeth, who could sit all day and watch wheat grow, Laurel craved excitement and adventure. She wanted a challenging career. Unfortunately, the only challenge she was likely to face now was to make ends meet.

  Crystal appeared horrified by the suggestion. “I don’t want you to leave. You’re the only friend I’ve got besides the girls at the house, and most of them are jealous of me. Isn’t there anything else you can do?”

  “Singing’s about the only thing I’m good at.”