Sweet Laurel

by Millie Criswell

  “There are lots of saloons and gambling halls in this town that could use a good singer.”

  Laurel swallowed her pride, along with the lump in her throat. She knew of one that was looking for a singer. “Do you know a man by the name of Chance Rafferty?”

  “Intimately.” Crystal’s smile held a great deal of satisfaction. “And I didn’t charge him a thing. Which is one of the reasons Al hates him so.”

  Understanding punched Laurel right between the eyes. “Is your friend Al’s last name Hazen by any chance?”

  “Yes. Do you know him?”

  Wondering how she could possibly have been so stupid not to have put two and two together, Laurel nodded. The facts seemed obvious; Crystal was a prostitute, and Al Hazen was her pimp. “We’ve met,” she finally replied. “And not under the most pleasant of circumstances.”

  Giggling, Crystal covered her mouth. “You must be the one Al told me about—the one Chance defended. That really made Al mad. He doesn’t like to lose, especially to Chance. I think Al’s jealous of him, though he denies it.”

  “The day I made Mr. Hazen’s acquaintance, I met Mr. Rafferty as well. He . . . offered me a job singing in his saloon.”

  Crystal’s face lit with pleasure. “Laurel honey, that’s great! Chance is real nice. He’ll treat you good if you work for him.”

  “If he’s so nice, how come you never worked for him?”

  “Chance doesn’t deal in prostitution, just gambling. Didn’t he tell you?”

  “Yes. But I didn’t know whether or not to believe him. He seems a bit of a scoundrel.” Laurel thought that was the understatement of the century.

  “Laurel honey, you shouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth. If Chance is willing to hire you to sing at the Aurora, you’d be able to do the one thing you love most in the world—entertain. And you wouldn’t have to work on your back the way I do. It’d be strictly legitimate. And I’m sure you’d make lots of money in tips.”

  Taking a bite of ham, Laurel shook her head, uncertainty in her expression. “I don’t know. I’m not sure I’d fit in in a place like that. I’ve been raised on a farm. We don’t even have alcohol in Salina.”

  “Really? How come?” Crystal asked, astonished.

  “They passed a bill in Kansas a couple of years ago prohibiting the sale of it.”

  “What does everyone do for fun?”

  “We go to church socials, barbecues, barn dances, that sort of thing. I guess it’s not too exciting compared to what you’re used to.”

  A wistful sigh passed Crystal’s lips. “I’d give anything to go to a church social with a nice young man. Someone who’d look at me with adoring eyes and love me for who I am, not just what I can give him. But that’ll never be. Not anymore.”

  “You mustn’t say that, Crystal. Just because you’re in this occupation now, doesn’t mean things won’t change in the future.”

  “Laurel, don’t be naive. What man wants a woman for a wife who’s been to bed with so many men she can’t even remember?”

  Laurel considered the question, the anguish on her friend’s face, then replied, “At least you’ve got experience to recommend you. Look at me. I don’t know the first thing about pleasing a man in bed.”

  “But that’s the thing of it, Laurel. Men don’t want wives who are experienced. They want to teach them about love-making themselves.”

  Men were contrary creatures, that was for certain, Laurel decided. “I still say that one day you’ll meet a man who won’t care.”

  “And I say you’d better go over to the Aurora as soon as we’re done with our lunch and tell Chance Rafferty that you’ll accept his job offer.”

  “You don’t understand. I can’t.”

  “You’ve got three choices as I see it, Laurel. One: You can go to work for Chance and earn a decent living. The man’s handsome as all get-out, and it wouldn’t be that difficult a chore seeing him every day. Two: You can hightail it back to Kansas, which doesn’t sound all that exciting a place to be. Or, three: You can lie on your back all day and night like I do.”

  “Oh, I couldn’t do that, Crystal! I’m sure you’re very good at it, but I’d be just terrible. I don’t have any experience, and I’m not much for lying abed all day. It gives me a terrible headache to be in a prone position for too long. I’m sure there must be some other type of job I can get.”

  “Don’t think I didn’t try to find honest work when I first came here. But most men weren’t interested in my skills, only my figure and looks. I’m afraid it’s going to be the same for you. Beauty can be a curse to a nice girl.”

  “But . . . but what if Mr. Rafferty makes advances toward me?”

  “You can be sure as shooting that he’s going to, Laurel. Chance is a known womanizer in this town. But he usually sticks to whores. He seems to have a thing against decent women. It has something to do with the woman who raised him. I’ve heard him say that marriage and respectability are a one-way ticket to hell.”

  Laurel’s eyes widened at the revelation, and though it did make her feel a tiny bit better, it still didn’t explain anything about that kiss. And she couldn’t bring herself to tell Crystal about it.

  “I don’t know if he’d still be willing to hire me.”

  Crystal laughed. “Honey, if you think that, you don’t know much about men.”

  Amen to that, Laurel thought. She didn’t know a blessed thing when it came to men. And she sure as heck didn’t want Chance Rafferty for a teacher!

  * * *

  “It’s quieter than a cemetery right now, sugar. Why don’t we go upstairs and have us a little fun? You know how good Pearl can make you feel.”

  “My dick’s hard, woman. Give me a poke.”

  Chance reached for the parrot perched near his elbow, ready to throttle him, but Percy was quicker and scampered away, squawking his victory the entire time.

  “Damn bird! See if I ever take in another bird or animal as a wager.” For two years he’d put up with that loudmouthed parrot, and he’d cursed himself daily for his stupidity in taking Percy as a bet from a down-on-his-luck miner. The bird had picked up every ribald expression the miner knew, plus many he’d overheard in the saloon.

  “I bet your dick’s hard as Percy’s,” Pearl remarked, licking her lips suggestively. “I got me a clever tongue, sugar.”

  Chance’s smile never reached his eyes as he undraped the saloon girl’s arm from around his neck and swatted her playfully on the behind. He and Pearl had had a few laughs in the past, and she did know a million and one ways to pleasure a man—some he hadn’t even been acquainted with—but he wasn’t in the mood right now for anything the woman had to offer.

  “Sorry,” he said, “but I’ve got to inventory the liquor supply. This place doesn’t run itself, you know.”

  Her lower lip protruding in a pout, she ran her hand up the inside of his thigh, unwilling to take no for an answer.

  Pearl had her mind set on winning Chance Rafferty. The handsome bachelor had the looks, the money, and the prowess in bed to keep a woman happy for a long, long time, and she was determined to be that woman. She’d thought long and hard about becoming his wife, but decided that there were far more benefits to becoming his mistress: nice clothes, a comfortable house, spending money. And no brats to care for, no meals to cook.

  She had all the assets to interest a man like Chance and she fully intended to use them to her advantage.

  “You don’t mean that, sugar. I can tell you’re hard as a brick for me. Why don’t we go upstairs and take care of it?” She licked the whorls of his ear, but Chance jerked his head and pushed her away.

  “I’m not interested, Pearl. Let someone else take you up on your offer. Besides, I don’t like fraternizing with the help. It’s bad for business.”

  “That’s not what you said a few weeks ago, sugar. You said it was nice having me around.”

  Chance sighed, recalling the incident and how drunk he’d been that night—the same ni
ght he’d made the acquaintance of the little would-be opera singer. “That was then and this is now. I’m busy. Why don’t you go upstairs and take a nap . . . by yourself. It’s going to be busy tonight, and you’re looking a little tired.”

  Her dark eyes sparked fire, and with hands on ample hips, she thrust her breasts in Chance’s direction, giving him an enticing view of the pendulous globes she was famous for. “I look better right now than any of those other cows you’ve got working here, and you know it, sugar.” With a flip of her brassy, shoulder-length blond hair, she marched toward the stairs in a huff, swishing her curvaceous behind as she walked.

  Chance breathed a sigh of relief. Pearl was definitely a hot number in bed, insatiable was more the word, but he didn’t have the time or the energy to devote to her needs, or his own, right now. He was up to his elbows in paperwork and inventory.

  Who would ever have thought, when he’d had the bright idea to go into the saloon business all those years ago, that he’d be pushing a pencil as often as he shuffled a deck of cards? This was the one part of the business he detested.

  Bull Collins, the barkeeper, tapped Chance on the shoulder to get his attention, then nodded in the direction of the door. “There’s someone to see you, Chance. She says you and her are acquainted. If that’s the truth, you’re one lucky son of a bitch.”

  Chance looked up from his mound of paperwork and turned to see Laurel Martin standing there. She was fidgeting with the strings of her reticule, looking hopelessly conspicuous and out of place, and he wondered what the hell had brought her to him.

  Pushing himself away from the end of the bar, he walked purposefully in her direction. The closer he got, the redder her cheeks grew. She was gnawing her lower lip nervously, and Chance fought the urge to replace her lips and tongue with his own.

  “Good day to you, Miss Martin. What brings you to this side of town?”

  “How about a poke, sweetie?” Squawk. “Fire in the hole.” Squawk. “My dick’s hard.”

  Shocked by the outrageous comments, Laurel spun around to find a large green parrot perched on the end of the bar. His brightly colored wings were flapping wildly, and she thought that if birds could have a naughty expression, this one did.

  Chance swallowed his smile at her outraged expression. “You’ll have to excuse Percy, Miss Martin. He’s definitely lacking in manners.”

  Considering his owner, Laurel wasn’t at all surprised by that.

  “Percy wants a kiss.” Squawk. “Give me some tongue, sweetie. Spread ’em, sugar.”

  “Shut up, you stupid bird,” Chance ordered. “Bull, take that damn bird and stick him in his cage. And cover him up, for chrissake!”

  “Sure, boss.” Chuckling, Bull grabbed hold of the protesting bird. “Looks like Percy ain’t used to being around ladies,” he said, casting Laurel an apologetic smile.

  Turning his attention to Laurel, who stared after the bird, Chance asked, “What can I do for you?”

  Unsettled by the vulgarity of the parrot, and knowing that was just a sample of what she could expect from working in a saloon, Laurel took a deep, fortifying breath.

  She was unsure of what to say or how to say it. You just didn’t blurt out that you needed a job, especially to someone you’d gone out of your way to insult on numerous occasions.

  Oh, why hadn’t mama and papa blessed her with more tact, like they had Heather? Her sister always knew the right thing to say or do.

  “I . . . I need to talk with you about something, Mr. Rafferty. I hope you don’t mind my intruding on your afternoon.” She looked about, grateful to find that the saloon was relatively empty, save for the barrel-chested bartender and an elderly black man near the piano.

  The Aurora was much nicer than she’d expected. Brass and crystal lighting fixtures cast a warm glow over the paneled walls and long mahogany bar, behind which hung a huge beveled mirror. Colorful oriental carpets covered the areas of shiny oak flooring under the gaming tables. The elevated stage, framed by a red velvet curtain, projected from the far wall, and Laurel knew this was where she’d be expected to perform if she was hired. At the moment, that was a big if.

  “It doesn’t look as if you’re too busy at the moment.”

  “Looks can be deceiving,” he said, thinking of the mountain of paperwork awaiting his attention. He escorted Laurel to a nearby table. “We do most of our business in the evenings, Miss Martin. Contrary to your previous opinion, many of our clientele do work for a living during the day.”

  Her face flushed as her words were thrown back at her. “Work is what I’ve come to talk to you about, Mr. Rafferty. I’m in need of employment, and I seem to recall you offering me a job the first day we met.”

  His eyebrow arched. “I take it your auditions at the Opera House haven’t gone well?”

  “Not well at all, I’m afraid. Mr. Higgins is kindness itself. In fact, we’ve become very good friends. But the other man, Mr. Witherspoon . . .” She shook her head, her lips thinning in disdain. “Let’s just say he didn’t appreciate my talent as a singer.”

  “Luther’s a real hard-ass. He can be a son of a bitch when the occasion calls for it.”

  “He was rude and . . . Why, I’ve never been so insulted.” But she wasn’t about to tell him why.

  “What is it you want from me, Miss Martin? I thought you said you weren’t interested in working in a saloon. How’d you put it—you weren’t some dance-hall girl?”

  “I know what I said, Mr. Rafferty, but that was before, when I thought I could get a job at the Opera House. How was I to know that vile man wouldn’t . . .” She swallowed her anger. “I need a job, Mr. Rafferty, and I have nowhere else to turn. I’m almost out of funds. I have enough money for one or two more night’s lodging at the hotel, then I’ll be put out on the street.”

  Chance leaned back in his chair, his face perfectly schooled not to reflect the exalted emotion he was feeling at the moment. The queen of hearts was in a fix, and she’d come to him for help. That conjured up all kinds of possibilities. “What kind of job are you looking for? You’re a bit . . . ah . . . small to be serving drinks and such. The customers prefer a woman with a bit more—”

  “I want to sing!” she interrupted. “I don’t care to display my wares for your customers. And I can’t help the fact that God chose not to endow me with large . . . bosoms.” There! She’d said it.

  She felt it had been her greatest misfortune in life to have been deprived of the asset of large breasts. Heather had them, even Rose had decent titties, as she called them, but not Laurel. Her breasts were flatter than flapjacks. And she’d done everything in her power to develop them, including the regular ingestion of Egyptian Regulator Tea, but nothing had worked.

  Chance rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “What kind of songs can you sing besides those operatic ones? Do you know anything else? ‘Oh, My Darling Clementine’? ‘She’ll Be Comin’ Round the Mountain’?”

  “Of course I know popular songs, Mr. Rafferty. I merely chose to perform opera because it was what I felt I was best suited for. If you’d rather I sang other tunes, I’d be perfectly willing.”

  “You’d have to wear something more appropriate.” His gaze skimmed over every inch of Laurel as he inventoried her assets, and the admiration she saw reflected in his eyes made her squirm nervously in her seat.

  “Your clothes are better suited for church, not a gambling parlor.” He eyed the green gingham gown, which was hopelessly out of fashion, with a great deal of distaste. “I suppose I could find you a few things to wear.”

  Her eyes widened. “You mean—like what the saloon girls wear? Satins and feathers and all that?”

  “Would you object to showing a little more skin?”

  Her face flamed in mortification. Of course she should object! But she couldn’t. Her finances being what they were, she wasn’t in the most enviable position at the moment. Grateful that her mama wasn’t alive to witness this degradation, Laurel found herself saying, “I sup
pose if it was a required costume, it would be appropriate. After all, the theater requires many different types of costumes.”

  “I guess we could pad you a bit in the front.” He stared at her chest, and Laurel’s face flamed anew. “To make you look a little bit larger.”

  “I fail to see why that’s so important, Mr. Rafferty. I do have other assets to recommend me.”

  He folded his arms across his chest. “Such as?”

  “Well, my hair is rather pretty. It’s long. And I can wear it down if you’d like.”

  “Let’s see it.”

  “You mean now? Right now?”

  Before she could protest, he reached out and pulled the pins from her chignon, releasing the cascade of long honey-blond curls and sifting them through his fingers. It was soft, incredibly soft, like spun gold, and smelled of jasmine. “Hmmm. Very nice, Miss Martin. Very nice indeed.” Thoughts of those soft curls trailing over his naked chest and abdomen were beginning to arouse him.

  “Th-thank you.”

  Clearing his throat, Chance shifted in his seat. “What else?”

  “Well, my voice is very loud. I’ll be able to be heard above the roar of the crowd.”

  No doubt about that, Chance thought, dreading the prospect.

  “How are your legs?”

  “My . . . legs?”

  “You do have legs beneath that dress of yours, don’t you, Miss Martin? There’s nothing deformed about them, is there? The skirts you’ll be required to wear are much shorter than what you’re used to. Perhaps I should take a look at them.”

  Her cheeks turned as red as the ruby in his stickpin. “Really, Mr. Rafferty! I assure you that my legs are perfectly fine. If they don’t meet with your approval when I’m costumed, you may fire me on the spot.”

  He grinned. “Angel, you’ve got about as much grit and sand in your veins as many a miner I’ve met. I was afraid you wouldn’t be able to handle yourself around some of my more enthusiastic customers, but I think you’ll do all right.”

  “I won’t be expected to entertain the customers, other than singing to them, will I? Because I’m telling you here and now, Mr. Rafferty, I won’t prostitute myself under any circumstances.”