Sweet Laurel

by Millie Criswell

  He couldn’t help the pride he felt each time he watched her speak, though her very words were putting a definite crimp in his business. The crowds at the Aurora had grown smaller every night, the customers fearing public retribution and condemnation for the enjoyments they sought.

  He frowned when a particularly zealous woman threw up her hands in the air and shouted, “Hallelujah, sister!” The crowd joined in, chanting “Glory to God. Praise the Lord,” as they placed money in the wicker basket being passed around.

  The white-ribboned army looked more determined than ever to bring reform to Denver’s red-light district as they marched toward Al Hazen’s establishment.

  “Better him than me,” Chance mumbled and turned away, pulling his hat low over his brow to conceal his identity. He sure as hell didn’t want anyone to think he was part of this fanatical gathering.

  Stepping into the Aurora Borealis he pulled up short at the sight of Bertha coming toward him with a rolling pin. These days he couldn’t be sure that she wouldn’t use the thing as a weapon. The old woman blamed him for Laurel’s leaving and had hardly spoken a word, civil or otherwise, to him these past few weeks.

  “Don’t have no help in the kitchen no more, Mr. Chance,” she stated, accusation bright in her eyes. “Since Miss Laurel up and left, there’s been no one to help me with the cookin’ and cleanin’. Miss Laurel used to do a right fine job of it; yes she did.” She slapped the rolling pin against her left palm, and Chance was tempted to take a step back.

  “Kick his ass, girlie!” Percy squawked loudly.

  Since the incident with the beer mug, the vociferous parrot had stepped up his harassment of Chance. Or so it seemed to the much-abused gambler.

  “Shut up, you stupid bird!” Chance said.

  Bertha smiled. “That bird don’t have a bad idea, Mr. Chance. Some men knows when they’s well off, but not you. You had to run that sweet child off and break my heart.”

  He reached out to the woman, hating to see her so distraught. Bertha had been more of a mother to him than his own, who had died when he was young, or his aunt, who didn’t have the slightest idea of what being a mother entailed.

  He couldn’t remember a time when his aunt had comforted him with loving arms, kissed him to show affection, told him she loved him. He’d been raised without nurturing, without loving, and he guessed it showed.

  It was difficult for him to show emotion, to open himself up to a woman’s tender words and ways. He’d been shown early on that tenderness bred rejection and that heartfelt emotion was scorned as weakness.

  Bertha continued to look at him with condemning eyes.

  “I didn’t chase her off, Bertha. Whitey said some things to Laurel that she misunderstood. If she’d come to me, I could have straightened everything out.”

  “Hmph! And why should she come to you? Did you ever tell her how you felt about her? Did you ever own up to bein’ crazy in love with her?”

  “I’m not in love with anyone.”

  She raised the rolling pin over her head as if she were going to strike, then lowered her arm, shaking her head in disgust. “If I thought this here pin would knock some sense into that thick skull of yours, I’d bash you with it. But I doubt even that’d do any good. You don’t see what’s right before your eyes. Miss Laurel’s in love with you . . . or was. Why you so thick-headed and stupid? I ain’t never seen a man so mulish before.” Turning, Bertha ambled out of the room, leaving Chance staring after her.

  Laurel . . . in love with me?

  “Stupid, Chance! Stupid, Chance!” Percy repeated.

  Falling into the nearest chair, Chance felt as if the air had been kicked out of him. He stared at the bird, but there was no anger in his eyes this time. For once, Percy had said something right. He was probably the stupidest son of a bitch in the world. No. there was no “probably” about it. He was the stupidest son of a bitch, for having allowed Laurel to walk out of his life.

  He’d been on a losing streak ever since she left. Nothing had gone right in his life. Bad luck surrounded him at every turn. And now even the damn parrot had turned against him.

  Laurel was his lucky charm. He needed her, he told himself, not to love or to be loved by, but to bring back his luck.

  Having convinced himself that this was his only motive, Chance set out to do just that.

  * * *

  “The man who drinks the red, red wine

  will never be a beau of mine.

  The man who is a whiskey sop

  will never hear my corset pop.”

  Pearl’s lusty parody of the popular temperance ditty brought a chorus of cheers and laughter to the Silver Slipper’s patrons, and a smile to Al’s lips. But that smile was fleeting.

  Looking out the front window at the line of women, their arms linked to form a battering ram of self-righteousness, he frowned deeply. “That bitch!” Staring at the comely blonde in the forefront, his eyes narrowed.

  Laurel Martin would rue the day she singled out the Silver Slipper. There was no way in hell he’d allow her to ruin business for him again. He was still smarting over how much he’d lost when she was singing at the Aurora, and he still resented her influence over Crystal, though the latter seemed less important now that Pearl warmed his bed. But once again the girls were complaining at their lack of customers, and even now, as he glanced about the saloon, it was nearly empty.

  No one wanted to run the gauntlet and become a victim of lashing female tongues.

  “Repent, ye sinners!” they called out, their voices raised as high as the placards and torches they held. “Jezebels, hear our words: You’ll not enter the gates of Heaven by pressing your flesh for worldly goods.”

  “They at it again, sugar?” Pearl asked, coming to stand by the irate saloon owner and looking out at the processional that had become a familiar sight of late. “I see Laurel is right there spurring them on. I told you we needed to get rid of her, Al.”

  “She’ll get hers. Believe me,” Al promised and Pearl’s eyes sparkled with satisfaction. “No one’s going to put us out of business.”

  “I don’t doubt for a moment that Chance put her up to this. He’s always been jealous of you, sugar.” She patted his cheek, pleased to see that her lie had hit its mark.

  Al toyed with his mustache, contemplating. “I’m surprised I didn’t put two and two together before. You’re right. Rafferty probably put his whore up to harassing me. Notice whose saloon the league decided to target.”

  “I wouldn’t let them get away with it, sugar, if it was me. What would we do if those harpies shut us down so we couldn’t make a living?”

  “We’ll be ready for them next time. Laurel Martin and her band of cronies will not get off so easy, ” he promised, his eyes darkening.

  Pearl’s lips curled in a smile of pure delight. Revenge was going to be sweet as spun sugar, she thought. Laurel Martin and Chance Rafferty were going to be the sorriest pair alive on the face of this earth.

  * * *

  Laurel clutched her sister’s letter to her breast and allowed her tears to flow freely. If only Rose were here with her now, she wouldn’t feel this desperate loneliness.

  Christmas was only a couple of weeks away, and she’d no doubt be spending it alone and as miserable as she had been on Thanksgiving.

  What she wouldn’t give for a taste of Rose’s pumpkin pie. The miserable Thanksgiving fare they’d eaten at the boarding hotel was a far cry from the sumptuous holiday dinners she’d shared with her family on the farm. The chicken had been dry and stringy and tasted as if it were older than Mrs. Costello, who had to be nearing eighty! The mashed potatoes had lumps in them the size of boulders, and the rolls were so hard they could have been issued by the army for munitions.

  It hardly seemed possible, but the company was worse than the food. Having to sit across the table from prune-faced Drucilla every morning and evening was enough to give a body indigestion. Laurel experienced heartburn each time the young woman stepped into
the room and opened her mouth.

  Rose’s letter made her homesick and just a bit envious. It sounded as if Heather was deliriously content in San Francisco with the Montgomery family. And even Rose was finding her duke an enjoyable if not exasperating challenge. Rose always did love a challenge, and Laurel feared she’d met her match in Alexander Warrick.

  Laurel needed to reply to Rose’s letter and pen another to Heather. But what could she say? She was miserably unhappy with her present situation, despite the modest success she’d experienced with the temperance league.

  She missed her friends at the Aurora. And she missed its owner as well.

  Did Chance miss her, too?

  Probably not, she thought. Especially since her last visit to his saloon when the ladies got a little carried away with their mission and began dumping the contents of beer mugs and whiskey bottles onto the floor and over customers’ heads.

  It was only after the police had been summoned and they’d all been dragged bodily into the street that she’d seen Chance crack a smile. Of course, she’d been sitting in a mud puddle the size of the Pacific Ocean at the time.

  The absurdity of the whole situation made her smile, and she tucked Rose’s letter away in the drawer of her nightstand, vowing to answer it before the night was through.

  A knock sounded on the door, and she tensed, then immediately relaxed, realizing the knock was too quiet and timid to be Drucilla’s, who fairly pounded on the wood before she entered. “Yes?” she said.

  Gertie Beecham stuck her head through the doorway, looking none too pleased at her mission. “A bouquet of flowers has just arrived for you, Laurel.” She produced the arrangement from behind her back. “Hortensia asked me to bring them up.”

  “They’re beautiful.” Laurel eyed the mass of carnations and roses, a look of pure wonder on her face. “Who would have sent such a nice surprise?”

  Gertie pursed her lips, her distaste clearly evident. “Since I’m not a reader of minds, I couldn’t tell you. But there is a card attached.” Handing her the bouquet, the older woman shut the door behind her.

  Laurel sighed at the woman’s odd behavior, then chalked it up to Gertie’s penchant for propriety. No doubt the thought of a single woman receiving a gift from a stranger sent her sensibilities into an uproar. Gertie’s rules of decorum had come straight from a book she’d purchased on the subject, and she never lost a chance to quote from it when the opportunity presented itself:

  In the presence of others sing not to yourself with a humming voice, nor drum with your fingers or feet.

  Turn not your back to others, especially in speaking; jog not the table or desk on which another reads or writes; lean not on anyone.

  Use no reproachful language against anyone, neither curses nor revilings.

  Laurel especially liked the last one, considering the fact that Gertie had taken it upon herself to call poor Bull, the bartender at the Aurora, “a whoremonging, egg-sucking dog whose veins are flushed with sinful spirits.”

  Setting the flowers carefully on the chair, Laurel removed the tiny card attached to one of the stems. Never in her life had she received such a lovely gift, such an expensive gift, for she knew those roses and carnations would have to have come from a hot house. It was too cold in Denver to grow such plants outdoors.

  “I want to see you,” the card read. It was signed Chance.

  * * *

  Chance paced nervously in front of the Busy Bee Café, waiting for Laurel to make an appearance. Her note said twelve o’clock, but according to his gold pocket watch, which he’d checked five times in just as many minutes, it was ten minutes after the hour, and he’d half convinced himself she wasn’t going to show.

  A moment later he saw her rounding the corner, and he chided himself for acting like a schoolboy in the throes of his first passion. He was a businessman, for chrissake! An adult.

  So why were his palms sweating?

  “Sorry I’m late.” Laurel held out her hand formally, as if they were meeting for the very first time. Then, realizing how stupid the gesture was, considering how many times his hand had caressed her naked breasts and other parts of her anatomy, she pulled her hand back sharply.

  “There was a meeting of the board this morning, and it ran over.” Mostly due to Hortensia’s penchant for talking about things that weren’t remotely related to temperance-league business.

  “You look well,” he remarked, then felt foolish at making the inane comment. Of course she looked well. She looked goddamn beautiful. And no doubt she knew it.

  Entering the restaurant, they were seated in a secluded corner at the rear of the room. As she took her chair, Laurel felt relieved that no one from the league would be able to see whom she was dining with.

  It wouldn’t do to be seen in public with the owner of one of Denver’s most popular gambling parlors. Hortensia would clearly disapprove, and Gertie would no doubt have herself a fit of the vapors.

  To spare their sensibilities, and her own hide, Laurel had made up a lame excuse about picking up more pledge cards from the printer, though she wasn’t certain that Hortensia believed the fabrication.

  She’d never been a good liar, Laurel reminded herself.

  “I wasn’t sure you’d come.”

  Laurel glanced up from her menu to find Chance staring strangely at her, and her cheeks warmed. “Thank you for the flowers. They were most unexpected, especially considering the fact that some of my ladies got a little carried away at the Aurora the other night.”

  “Did you ever warm up?” he asked, grinning. “I imagine your backside was cooler than an ice cube after sitting in that mud puddle. A vigorous massage would have warmed you right up.” And he was just the man to administer it.

  As if she could read his lurid thoughts, Laurel shifted restlessly in her chair. “A hot bath achieved much the same result, but thank you for asking.”

  “I was hoping the flowers might be considered a peace offering of sorts. I’d like to be friends.”

  Friends. Lovers. But nothing more. Laurel willed away the moisture welling in her eyes. “Of course we can be friends. Haven’t we always been?”

  We’ve been much more than friends. We’ve almost been lovers, for chrissake! But he didn’t dispute her contention. “I guess.”

  “How is everyone at the Aurora? I miss them all terribly.”

  “Do you?” And do you miss me, too? He sure as hell missed her. But of course he wasn’t about to admit that.

  “Bertha’s given me what-for about your leaving, and Crystal only speaks to me when she has to.”

  “There’s something to be said for loyalty.”

  “I guess,” he said, choking back the bitter retort on the tip of his tongue. “How do you like your new job? I didn’t think you’d enjoy a position that didn’t afford you the opportunity to sing.”

  “Singing songs other than Christian hymns is an abomination unto our Lord.” Drucilla’s words rang loudly in her ears and made her frown. “The position offers other rewards. I enjoy helping others too weak to help themselves.”

  “That’s noble of you.”

  “I’m not doing it to be noble, Chance. I’m doing it because . . .” Why? Why was she doing something so alien to her? She’d never been involved in causes before. She’d never thought of herself as the preachy type to shout about fire and brimstone.

  “Because?” he prompted, his eyebrow arching in question.

  Because revenge seemed sweet at the time, she wanted to shout. Because you hurt me, as no one has ever hurt me before. Because I wanted you to love me and you didn’t. Because you took my dreams of a Prince Charming and snuffed them out like one of your wretched cheroots.

  “Excessive alcohol is ruinous to a person’s health. It destroys families and brings unhappiness to a great many people.”

  “Now you sound like one of your pamphlets.”

  Her shoulders lifted, then sagged. “I’m being paid to spread the word of the league, and that’s
what I intend to do. And I also believe it to be a just cause.”

  “My luck’s run out since you left, angel.”

  She still thought his belief silly. “I can’t believe a grown man would be so superstitious. You were lucky before I came; you’ll be lucky again. It’s just the whim of the cards.”

  He shook his head. “I’ve gambled too many years to know the signs. Once your luck starts petering out like mine has, you never get it back. I need you, angel. I need you back with me.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “To bring back your luck?”

  “Among other things.”

  Her heart hammered against her ribs. “Such as?”

  He banged his hand down hard on the table, upsetting their water glasses, which fortunately were empty, and drawing unwanted attention their way. “I miss you, goddammit! Things haven’t been the same since you left.”

  Her heart smiled this time, she was sure of it. “You don’t have to sound so unhappy about it.”

  “Well, I am unhappy. I want you to come back to work at the Aurora.”

  Her joy faded a bit. “Back to work at the Aurora? Singing in a saloon?”

  He nodded. “Everything will be just the same as it was. Bertha and Crystal will be happy. Whitey can continue with his writing lessons; he talks about you all the time. And we can pick up where we left off.”

  “You mean—I can become your lover, your kept woman, your whore?” She pushed back her chair, intending to end their conversation.

  “Wait?” he said, reaching for her arm. “You misunderstand. I wouldn’t expect anything like that from you.” He wanted it, but he wouldn’t expect it.

  Noting the desperation in his voice, Laurel relented and sat back down. “Chance, don’t you understand? We can never go back to the way we were. Things are different now, I’m different. I want more out of life. I was never cut out to be a saloon singer.” Or a gambler’s whore.

  He was losing her again, dammit. And this time if she left he’d never see her again. She’d walk out of his life forever. He couldn’t let that happen. So he said, “My intentions are strictly honorable.”