Sweet Laurel

by Millie Criswell

  Flora patted Laurel’s hand and shook her head. “I don’t know what I’m going to do with you, doll baby. You’re like a little lamb who’s been thrust into a den of wolves. If you’re not careful, you’re going to get eaten alive. Even Sue Ellen, who’s afraid of her own shadow and rarely speaks above a whisper, thinks you’re naive.”

  Laurel tried her best not to feel insulted. Sue Ellen Turner worked alongside Flora Sue and was her best friend. She was a mousy, quiet girl, hardly suited to working in a noisy saloon like the Aurora. But the poor woman had been recently widowed with two small children to care for, and she hadn’t been able to find work anywhere else. Chance had put her on a few weeks back to keep her and her kids from being evicted from their home.

  It had been a nice thing to do, and Laurel realized that Chance often did nice things for others, like that parson’s box he kept for Reverend Baldwin, and the frilly parasol he’d purchased one afternoon for Bertha. The black woman had blubbered like a baby over that blue satin parasol, insisting that it was the finest thing she’d ever owned in her life.

  Remembering Chance’s pleased expression brought a queer ache to Laurel’s chest, and her hand went up to cover her heart.

  “You look like you’re a million miles away, doll baby.” Flora’s comment brought Laurel’s attention back to the conversation at hand.

  “You and Sue Ellen are entitled to your opinions, Flora. But I don’t think you heard a thing Reverend Baldwin said at church services. We’re to love our neighbors, and forgive those who sin against us. Remember?”

  A seductive smile curved Flora’s lips. “Just sitting in that man’s church makes me feel sinful as hell. Gus Baldwin is a handsome man. And so, so dignified.”

  Laurel was shocked. “Is that why you wanted to attend church today? For shame, Flora Sue. The man is a preacher, for heaven’s sake!”

  “It ain’t right for a man to be so moral and upright. I think it’s my duty to introduce the reverend to some of the more delightful things in life . . . like myself.”

  Flora’s smile was so smug that Laurel could only shake her head and laugh. Flora Sue had turned out to be a good friend, and Laurel wasn’t about to ruin that friendship by lecturing to her about things she probably had never been taught as a child.

  It made Laurel all the more grateful for the wonderful upbringing she’d had, and for the loving family who’d always supported, loved, and been there for her. Thinking about her sisters brought a lump to her throat. She missed them something awful, much more than she’d ever thought possible.

  She had been so eager to strike out on her own, but she’d discovered the hard way that independence and loneliness were poor substitutes for the love of a family who cared.

  * * *

  “Am I doing it right, Miss Pearl? Miss Laurel says my F’s are improving.”

  “Pay no mind to what that woman tells you, sugar,” Pearl said, her eyes drifting to Laurel and that traitor, Flora Sue. “I’m your friend and I’m going to teach you the correct way to write the alphabet.” She leaned in closer, so that her hair brushed his cheek.

  “You sure do smell good, Miss Pearl.”

  Pearl’s lips curved in a calculating smile, and she patted Whitey’s slightly flushed cheek, wondering if impressing Chance was really worth all the effort she’d been putting out.

  Teaching an idiot his letters was far beyond the call of duty as far as she was concerned. Though to be honest, Whitey Rafferty was a handsome idiot. There weren’t many men with shoulders as wide or arms as powerful and muscular. He was almost as handsome as Chance, except for that vacant look in his eyes.

  She had always enjoyed teasing Whitey, wondering if he had the same kind of sexual urges as normal men. She had an innate curiosity to see if Whitey’s manhood was as big as the rest of him. But she knew if she overstepped her bounds and tried to find out, Chance would bounce her out on her rear faster than she could bat an eyelash. Chance didn’t allow any woman to get too close to his precious cousin.

  An incident had occurred a while back where one of the serving girls had kissed Whitey full on the lips on a dare made by one of the customers. Chance had witnessed the episode and fired the girl on the spot.

  Pearl had no intention of allowing that to happen to her. She had plans to ensnare Chance Rafferty. And remembering those plans, she plastered a sweet smile on her face and waved at her employer, pleased when he accepted the invitation to join them.

  “What are you up to, Pearl? I never took you for the studious type,” Chance said when he approached, squeezing his cousin’s shoulder affectionately.

  “Why, I’ve volunteered to help Whitey learn his letters. The poor man was so disappointed when Laurel refused to help him anymore that I just had to offer.”

  “But . . .” Whitey began, but Pearl clasped his hand.

  “There’s no need to thank me, sugar. I’m happy to do it. Would you care to sit with us, Chance?”

  Catching sight of Laurel across the room, the gambler shook his head. “No. I’ve got things to attend to.”

  Noting where his attention focused, Pearl smiled smoothly through clenched teeth. “You just run along, then. Me and Whitey have lots of work to do today. Don’t we, sugar?”

  Whitey’s confusion was soon overshadowed by Pearl’s willingness to help, and he nodded. “Yes’m, Miss Pearl. We surely do.”

  Once Chance was out of earshot, Pearl asked, “You like me, don’t you, Whitey?”

  He looked at her with adoration and undying affection, the way a puppy looks at his master. “I like you real fine, Miss Pearl. You’re about the purtiest woman I ever did see.”

  “Does Chance think I’m pretty, too?”

  “Sure he does. He said you got the biggest set of jugs this side of the Mississippi. What does that mean, Miss Pearl?”

  Pearl laughed and squeezed his knee. “Perhaps one day I’ll show you, Whitey. But for now we must continue with our lessons. You do want to learn to write, don’t you?”

  He nodded with childlike enthusiasm. “Yes’m. I want to write my mama a letter.”

  “And will you tell her all about me?”

  “Yes’m. I’m going to tell her about how you taught me to make my letters, and how nice you been to me.”

  “And will you tell Chance, too, Whitey?”

  She waited while he considered the request, knowing that Whitey’s flattering opinion of her was sure to impress his cousin. Chance set great store by Whitey and was always pleased when anyone befriended him. He was sure to think she was far more generous and kind than Laurel.

  “Yes’m, Miss Pearl, if you want me to.”

  “You’re a lot smarter than I gave you credit for, sugar.”

  Whitey beamed under the praise. “Yes’m! I’m smart, smart, smart.”

  * * *

  Gamblers were a superstitious lot, and Chance was no exception. He credited his recent winning streak to having Laurel close by, and it also gave him the opportunity to keep an eye on her, so there wouldn’t be any repeats of what had happened to her the previous week.

  He checked his cards, made his bet, then looked around to locate her. She was seated next to Jupiter on the piano bench, joining the musician in a duet about lost love, or some such drivel, and he breathed a sigh of relief.

  Chance shook his head, wondering why women always had to fill their heads with sentimental bullshit. Prince Charming, my ass. Laurel would be a virgin till the day she died if she waited around for her prince to put in an appearance. And that would be a damn waste of prime womanly flesh.

  “Your bid, Rafferty,” Silas Tucker called out. “You gonna play poker or daydream? I swear I never seen you with your head so far up your ass before.”

  The men at the table laughed, and Chance felt heat rise above his white, starched collar. “I could beat you sorry sons of bitches with one hand tied behind my back and my head clean up my ass.” He bet a twenty-dollar gold piece to prove his point, and somebody whistled shrilly.
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  “Too rich for my blood,” one man claimed.

  “You’re a lucky bastard, Rafferty,” Tucker said, throwing down his cards.

  Chance smiled, his half-smoked cheroot dangling from the corner of his mouth as he pulled in the sizable pot. “Yes, I am, boys. Especially since I bluffed you with a pair of eights and threes. I am one lucky man.”

  * * *

  But the next night, Chance’s luck seemed to have run out. He lost the first three hands in less than an hour, accumulating losses of over three hundred dollars, and he wasn’t at all pleased. He looked to find his lucky charm, but there was no sign of her, and he wondered where she was.

  He’d discovered quite by accident that he seemed to win whenever she was nearby and to lose whenever she left the premises. It was the damnedest thing, but he was superstitious enough not to question it.

  Irritated at having lost again, he threw down his cards, excused himself from the game with a promise to return shortly, and made his way to the bar.

  “Where’d Laurel go, Bull? Isn’t she supposed to be on stage soon?” He snapped open his pocket watch and realized she still had thirty minutes before her performance.

  “Said she was hungry,” the bartender explained over his shoulder, pouring two fingers of whiskey into a glass and pushing it across the bar toward a customer. “She’s gone to the kitchen for something to eat.”

  That small woman could eat more than a herd of hungry bison, Chance thought, worried about how long she would be gone. “Well, fetch her quick. I’m losing my ass over yonder.” He indicated the poker table by the window.

  Bull scratched his head, a puzzled look on his face as he gazed across the smoke-clouded room, wondering why Chance was so on edge tonight. Business was good. The saloon was packed, with hardly an empty chair in sight, and the roulette wheel spun continuously, the click of the ball a reassuring sound. And liquor sales were brisk. They were making money hand over fist, as the saying went.

  “What’s Laurel got to do with your losing?”

  Chance sighed, not about to reveal his latest eccentricity. “Just get her. I need to talk to her.”

  “You’re the boss.”

  A few minutes later, Laurel stood to the left of Chance’s shoulder, looking terribly ill-at-ease. “Bull said you wanted to talk to me.”

  “Just stand there a minute. I’m almost done with this hand.”

  “But I’ve really got to go, Chance.” She shifted impatiently from one foot to the other, but Chance gave no indication that he noticed her discomfort.

  Apologizing to the other players at the table, he leaned over to whisper to Laurel, “You can’t go. I need to win this hand, and I want you here for luck.”

  “I’m flattered. Truly I am. But I wasn’t kidding. I really have to go.” She implored him to understand, biting her lower lip in anguish. If she didn’t get to the privy soon . . .

  “You can’t leave!”

  He turned back to the game, and Laurel stared daggers at his back, crossing her ankles to alleviate some of the pressure. She had to go. And she had to go now.

  “I’ll be right back,” she said, dashing toward the rear of the building.

  “Laurel!” Chance called out, cursing under his breath when his winning hand suddenly fizzled right before his eyes. “Goddammit,” he cursed, shaking his head and ignoring the curious glances in his direction.

  “Women!” They didn’t understand a damn thing about poker.

  * * *

  “I refuse to stand here one more minute, Chance Rafferty,” Laurel said four nights later. “This nonsense about me being tied to your luck has got to stop.”

  Everyone at the Aurora had gotten a real hoot out of Chance’s latest superstition. Everyone except Laurel, who resented being tied to Chance’s side night after night like a token cube of dice.

  “Just keep quiet and blow on the cards for luck.”

  “I’ll do no such thing! Why, that’s disgusting. Not to mention downright ridiculous,” she said.

  Excusing himself from the game, Chance grasped Laurel by the arm and dragged her through the front door to stand outside on the sidewalk. The night air was chilled. Autumn had arrived and with it cooler days and brisk evenings. “I’m paying your wages, angel. I’m the boss, remember? What I say goes.”

  “You’re paying me to sing for your customers, not to blow on cards and act stupid.” Laurel shivered, rubbing at the gooseflesh sprouting over her arms, and cursed the skimpiness of her costume.

  “Angel,” he said, caressing her cheek, his voice full of entreaty. “A gambler’s luck hinges on many things. Right now mine’s hinging on you. Can’t you just humor me for a while? I can’t afford to lose. You wouldn’t want me to have to get rid of some of the girls because I couldn’t afford to pay their wages, now, would you?”

  Sparks of blue fire flashed from Laurel’s eyes. “That’s blackmail, Rafferty. You’re just trying to play on my sympathies to get your own way.”

  He picked up her hand, and Laurel’s breath quickened. “Please, angel. I’m sure my winning streak can’t last forever, and it’s a small enough favor to ask. After all, I did come to your rescue not long ago.”

  She pulled her hand out of his grasp and stifled the urge to kick him where she tried to kick Shooter Davis. “Oh, all right. But I’m not going to blow on the cards. I’ll stand at your side, place your bets for you. I’ll even whisper sweet nothings in your ear. But I’ll be damned if I’ll blow on your stupid cards.”

  “I could think of something downright outrageous to say right about now, angel, but I doubt you’d understand.” She had a mouth meant for pleasure, there was no denying that.

  “I’m not sure I understand you at all, Chance Rafferty, and I’m not entirely certain that I want to.”

  His laughter followed her all the way back to the table.

  * * *

  Chance’s winnings over the next few weeks added some “improvements” to the Aurora. Or so he thought.

  Laurel certainly did not approve of the five-foot-long oil painting of a naked woman that hung on the back wall, right next to the sign that read: THESE DICE GUARANTEED TO BE SQUARE. She felt mortified every time she passed it on her way up the stairs.

  There was also the matter of the stereoscopic device, which had just arrived. It was without a doubt the most shocking piece of equipment Laurel had ever laid eyes on.

  If one looked through the eyepiece, which she had unknowingly done, much to Chance’s utter delight and amusement, three-dimensional pictures appeared. Obscene pictures of naked women in various erotic poses.

  “What do you think, angel? Isn’t this the most splendid invention? You seem to be as taken with it as I am.” He dusted the apparatus with his hankie, as if it were some prized piece of art from a museum.

  Laurel’s face flamed. “You are a vile human being, Chance Rafferty. Have you no shame? No morals? Why—there are naked women in those pictures!”

  He’d seemed inordinately pleased by her observation. “Prime womanly flesh, each and every one.”

  “The men are going to love it, Laurel,” Bull assured her, taking Chance’s side as he always did when they disagreed in front of him.

  “If this is what your good luck buys, Chance, then I’ll be no part of it,” she said with disgust, holding herself righteously erect. “I intend to inform the reverend about your depravity.”

  Both men laughed uproariously, fueling Laurel’s temper even more, and she marched down to the makeshift church to make good on her threat.

  CHAPTER 9

  “Well, look who’s here.” Laurel was unable to keep the smug tone out of her voice as she watched Reverend Baldwin stroll into the Aurora.

  The clergyman had been a good listener when she’d visited his church the previous day, and Laurel had no doubt that the good reverend would be able to persuade Chance to get rid of the hated stereoscopic device.

  Having been raised a Christian, Laurel felt it was her duty to save
the souls of those unwitting individuals who might be exposed to Chance’s obscene painting and pornographic photos. It was one thing to condone gambling and drinking, but obscenity—never!

  Although he’d made no guarantees of success in influencing Chance, she felt confident that the clergyman could make the gambler see the error of his ways.

  Reverend Baldwin had a way with people. Even when he was shouting fire and brimstone from his pulpit, which was really just a modified beer barrel—the church was housed in an old, abandoned liquor warehouse—his parishioners knew he was their friend. He had a comforting, caring demeanor that Laurel found oddly refreshing in a man of the cloth.

  Pastor Bergman back in Salina was so intimidating that no sinner would ever dare admit a transgression to him for the pastor was likely to condemn the sinner to eternal damnation. Pastor Bergman was very big on eternal damnation.

  “Afternoon, Gus.” Chance motioned the man forward to the bar. “Care for a drink?”

  Removing his coat and tossing it on a nearby chair, Gus was about to reply in the affirmative when his gaze caught the painting Laurel was so incensed about. The subject of the painting, a well-endowed, fleshy woman reclined on a daybed of red velvet, wearing nothing more than a seductive smile. She reminded Gus of the subjects the Flemish painter Rubens had captured.

  “I see you’ve acquired some artwork, Chance,” Gus remarked, lifting his brow ever so slightly as he continued to study the painting, his hands clenched behind his back.

  “I believe you’ll agree with me, Reverend, that that horrible painting and awful device will corrupt the mind and soul of everyone who comes in contact with them. And I . . .” Before Laurel could say another word, Percy the parrot squawked loudly, flapping his wings against the cage.

  “Naked women!” Squawk. “Look at those tits. My dick’s hard.” Squawk.

  “Shut up, you stupid bird,” Laurel shouted, her face flaming as the bird’s comments grew more outrageous.

  “Smart-ass virgin.” Squawk. “Smart-ass virgin.” Squawk.