Sweet Laurel

by Millie Criswell

  “They are?”

  “I’d like another chance, Laurel. I’d like the opportunity to put my money where my mouth is.”

  If this was a declaration, it was the oddest one she’d ever received. “Excuse me?”

  He took her hand and kissed it. And though the words seemed to choke the very life out of him, he said, “I want to court you proper like, if you’ll let me.”

  “Court? You mean as in keeping company?” She could hardly believe it. Chance Rafferty wanted to court her?

  He was sweating so hard that he had to pull the handkerchief out of his back pocket to wipe up the droplets. “Uh . . . uh-huh.” He nodded.

  Leaning back in her chair, too stunned to speak, Laurel thought of all the ramifications of this turn of events. Chance wanted to court her. Why, he didn’t say. And she lacked the courage to ask if he intended the courtship to lead to marriage.

  And what would the ladies of the temperance league say when they heard she was keeping company with a saloon owner?

  “This declaration is rather sudden, Chance. I’ll have to give it some thought. Our relationship will put me in a very awkward position with the league.”

  “So quit. What do you want to work for them for anyway?”

  Was that why he wanted to court her—so that she would quit? So that she wouldn’t be in a position to demonstrate against him anymore? Well, he was in for a very rude awakening if that was the case. She had no intention of quitting her job with the league, but she had every intention of bringing Chance Rafferty to the altar. To his knees, if need be.

  Rose had been right: She’d given up too easily. Chance Rafferty was only a man. If she could reform drunks and whoremongers, surely she could do the same to one charming gambling man.

  How difficult a task could that be?

  “I won’t quit my job, Chance, but I will accept your calling on me at Mrs. Costello’s boarding hotel.” She smiled so sweetly at him that his heart nearly flipped over in his chest. “But first, I believe we have some unfinished business to discuss.”

  Pearl. The whore’s presence stood between them. He could almost smell her cloying gardenia perfume.

  “Pearl lied to Whitey,” he blurted. “There was never anything between us.”

  Laurel looked skeptical. “Never?”

  He sighed deeply and rubbed the back of his neck. “Just once. But it meant nothing. I was drunk, and Pearl took advantage of the situation. A man’s allowed one indiscretion, isn’t he?”

  “Your own admission is as good an excuse for the prohibition of alcohol as any I’ve heard.”

  “Do you believe me then?”

  She nodded. “Yes. Though I’m not quite sure why.”

  “And you’ll still let me court you?”

  “If you observe all the proprieties. Mrs. Costello is very particular about who comes to call.”

  “We have to keep company under the watchful eyes of all those biddies?” How the hell was he going to bed her under those circumstances? And persuade her to come back to work at the Aurora? This courtship business was going to be a lot tougher than he’d anticipated.

  “I’m sure Mrs. Tungsten will expect us to be chaperoned at all times, considering my position and your occupation. That won’t be a problem, will it?”

  Dismayed, and looking as if he’d just consumed a whole bottle of castor oil, he shook his head.

  “And, of course, we’ll need to attend church every Sunday from now on. Mama always said that couples who prayed together bonded like glue.”

  Hope sprang eternal. “And did your mama say how long it took to consummate . . .” he shook his head, “to complete this bonding process?”

  “Why, that depends entirely on you, Chance,” she said, patting his cheek. “Once your reformation is complete, the bonding can commence.”

  His face whitened. “ ‘Reformation’?”

  She wanted to laugh at the expression on his face. She wanted to shout that for once Chance Rafferty hadn’t gotten the best of her. She wanted to tell him how much she loved him, and that one day he’d thank her for all she intended to do.

  But she didn’t do or say any of those things. Instead, she merely nodded her head, squeezed his hand reassuringly, and said, “Uh . . . uh-huh.”

  CHAPTER 17

  Minerva Whitefish tiptoed up behind Laurel and tapped her lightly on the shoulder. “Excuse me, Miss Martin,” she whispered. “But there are some people at the front door to see you.”

  Feeling irritated, Laurel looked up from the speech she was writing. Minerva never walked, she tiptoed; she never talked, she whispered; and she never said plainly what was on her mind, she just alluded to it.

  “By ‘people,’ do you mean ladies or gentlemen, Minerva?”

  The slight woman wrung her hands nervously. “Well, they don’t look quite like ladies, Miss Martin. They’ve got paint on their faces, and their bosoms are clearly displayed, and it’s not even noon.”

  Smiling widely, for she now had an inkling of who had come to visit, Laurel patted Minerva’s hand. “There’s no need to be upset, Minnie. I believe the ladies you refer to are my friends Crystal and Flora Sue, from the Aurora.”

  Minerva’s eyes bulged behind her thick-rimmed glasses. “Friends? Oh, my goodness!” She patted her cheek. “They look . . .” her voice lowered and Laurel had to crane her neck to hear, “disreputable.”

  “Having been in dire straits myself at one time, Minnie, I never judge others. One never knows when one might be required to—”

  The woman’s gasp was louder than any sound Laurel had previously heard from her. “I would never!” She shook her head emphatically. “I’d rather die first than lie with a man in sin.”

  Laurel suspected that the spinster would rather die than lie with any man, in sin or otherwise. “I truly think you would, Minnie. Yes, I do,” Laurel said, smiling to herself as she made her way to the front door.

  Opening it, the greeting she was given startled her momentarily. “We’re freezing our asses off out here,” Flora Sue declared, stomping her feet to get the circulation flowing to her toes. “Doesn’t that dried-up prune know it’s winter?”

  Laurel’s eyes twinkled. Crystal and Flora Sue were a sight for her tired eyes. God, she’d missed them! “Come in . . . come in. Minerva isn’t used to entertaining guests.”

  “Judging from the looks of her, she ain’t used to doing much of anything,” Flora Sue concluded, stepping into the parlor.

  Crystal giggled. “Shame on you, Flora Sue. Remember what Augustus said about speaking ill of others.”

  “Just because Augustus Baldwin is keeping your fires banked this winter, don’t mean I can’t speak the honest-to-God truth.”

  Laughing at her friends’ bickering, Laurel held out her hands to both women. “I’ve missed you.”

  “We’ve missed you too, Laurel honey. Things just aren’t the same at the Aurora without you. And the entertainment stinks. Bert Swanzey’s delivery of ‘Camptown Races’ sets dogs to howling over a five-mile radius. Chance never did replace you.”

  Laurel was inordinately pleased to hear that. “What brings you two out on such a dreary day? I expect we’ll have snow before this evening.” The sky had darkened considerably since morning, the clouds now ominous and heavy with moisture.

  “Bertha said as much. And,” Flora Sue added with a searching look, “she also said you and Chance had yourselves a meeting yesterday. We came over to find out if that was true, and if you’re coming back to the saloon like she’s predicting.”

  “Bertha’s getting ahead of herself, I’m afraid. It’s true, Chance and I did meet for lunch.” She looked about to make sure Drucilla wasn’t eavesdropping; the woman was a notorious snoop. “But I’m not going back to work for him.”

  Crystal’s face fell. “But why? It’s almost Christmas, and I was hoping all of us could be together again. Gus is going to give a wonderful Christmas Eve sermon, and Bertha’s planning to make a feast to end all feasts
. Please say you’ll come.”

  The league was having a big temperance rally on Christmas Eve. Frances Willard, the driving force behind the WCTU and its president since 1879, was expected to speak. She was currently touring the West with her secretary, Anna Gordon, and was considered the foremost female speaker of the day.

  Laurel’s presence would be expected for such an important event, and she was admittedly curious about the woman who inspired such devotion from her followers. Hortensia and Gertie hung on her every word and deed, and even dour Drucilla appeared awed when speaking about her.

  “The league has something planned that night, but if it’s possible, I’ll sneak away to join you.”

  “You look happier than the last time we saw you,” Flora Sue commented. “Did something happen between you and Chance?” She leaned forward and lowered her voice in a conspiratorial fashion. “Something physical, I hope?”

  Feeling heat creep up her neck, Laurel shook her head. “No. Nothing like that. But Chance has declared himself.”

  Crystal screeched, then covered her mouth. “He’s asked you to marry him?”

  “Not exactly. But he has asked to court me. I guess that’s a start.”

  Flora Sue’s eyes widened. “Chance Rafferty asked to court you? I find that hard to believe, doll baby. That man is scared of anything smacking of commitment. He told Rooster he’d never marry, told him marriage was a death sentence for all men.”

  Crystal cast her companion a sharp look. “Hush, Flora Sue! Men have been known to change their minds. Look at Rooster. Who would have ever guessed he’d be whipped as bad as he is. The poor man practically drools every time you walk into the room.”

  Smiling like the cat who just swallowed the canary, Flora Sue patted her hair. “I know how to make my little Rooster crow, girls.”

  Laurel laughed. “I’m not offended by what Flora says. I’m well aware of Chance’s sad upbringing, though I’ve not been privy to other details of his private life.”

  “No one knows much about those, doll baby. Chance has always been closemouthed about his past.”

  “And about his present, apparently. If we hadn’t overheard Bertha grilling him after he came back from your luncheon, we wouldn’t have known he went,” Crystal confided.

  “How are you planning to keep company with Chance under the noses of all these proper ladies?” Flora Sue wanted to know. “You’ll never be alone to . . .” She patted Laurel’s hand, hoping to spare her friend embarrassment. Laurel wasn’t like the other women she knew; she was what her mama would call “decent.” “Well . . . you know.”

  “I’m not planning to ‘you know’ until we’re married. If Chance wants to bed me, he’s going to have to put a ring on my finger.”

  “But not before you put one through his nose,” Crystal added, giggling.

  “Mama always said there was more than one way to skin a cat. I’ll handle Hortensia and the other ladies of the league my own way.” A secretive smile crossed her lips. “And I have some very definite ideas about the way to handle Chance.”

  Never having heard anything so outlandish before, Flora Sue decided to set Laurel straight about the ways of men, decent or not. “I don’t understand how you can handle him if you’re not fixin’ to bed him. Surely you know that the way to a man’s heart is straight to his crotch, doll baby. They do anything for you, once you give them a taste of the honey pot.”

  Before Laurel had a chance to respond, Crystal said, “Flora Sue does have a point. Chance is a man used to dealing in carnal delights, so to speak. It’s going to be very difficult to keep such a man at bay.”

  “I realize you two have a different perspective on such matters, due to your extensive experience. But my mama always said that abstinence makes the heart grow fonder. She used to say that a man who had too many tastes of the honey pot usually got a stomachache from too much sweetness.”

  “But if that’s the case, Laurel honey, why did Flora Sue and I have so many repeat and satisfied customers? That don’t make a lick of sense.”

  The more Laurel thought about it, the less she understood, and the deeper her frown grew. Finally, she shrugged. “Mama didn’t say anything about that.”

  Flora Sue laughed. “No, I bet she didn’t. Because she wanted to keep you and your sisters drawers up for as long as she could. Your mama wasn’t used to dealing with a man like Chance. His six-shooter’s loaded and ready for bear, and it’s pointing right between your legs, doll baby.”

  * * *

  Untying the ribbons of Laurel’s chemise, Chance nuzzled her soft breasts, placing kisses on her pert, rosy nipples. His fingers toyed with the waistband of her drawers, insinuating themselves lower and lower as he reached for . . .

  “Isn’t Augustus a wonderful speaker, Chance? I’m so pleased you consented to attend church service with me today.”

  Chance swallowed, expecting to be struck down by a bolt of God’s vengeance. Here he was, seated in a house of worship, or in this case, Gus’s makeshift church, thinking about making love to Laurel. He shifted to ease the growing discomfort between his legs, and a sharp splinter went right into his backside from the rough-hewn boards he sat on.

  “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!”

  Laurel smiled contentedly and patted his hand. “You really are in the spirit today. Augustus will be so pleased.”

  “Isn’t he ever going to shut up? He’s been talking for almost an hour. I never figured Gus for such a windbag.”

  “Ssh! He’s going to make an announcement about our next temperance meeting.”

  He leaned over to whisper in her ear, purposely placing his lips against the sensitive flesh, and was pleased when he heard her sharp intake of breath. “I’m inclined to believe that sin is a whole lot more fun than salvation, angel.”

  Laurel stared straight ahead, hoping the tingling feeling between her legs would cease, and fearing that Chance might be right: Eternal damnation loomed sharply on the horizon.

  * * *

  “Well, Mr. Rafferty, we meet at last. I’m Hortensia Tungsten, but I’m sure Miss Martin has already spoken to you of me.”

  From his position on the horsehair sofa in the parlor of Costellos’ boarding hotel, Chance summed up his adversary: Formidable. Large. Homely as a bullfrog. Hortensia Tungsten looked like she ate steel for breakfast and spat out nails.

  The delicate chair she sat upon was sure to collapse at any moment. Her generous derriere spilled over the sides of it like foam overflowing a beer mug.

  Laurel, seated next to him on the sofa, looked anxious but hopeful that he wasn’t going to say something totally outrageous. He was tempted, goddammit.

  “Pleased to make your acquaintance.” He smiled his most charming smile, wondering if the old blubber-gut could be sweet-talked.

  “Laurel tells me that we may be seeing a bit more of you around here, Mr. Rafferty. That you have declared yourself a suitor.” Though she tried to keep her voice impassive, Chance didn’t miss the underlying disdain.

  “I have. And Laurel has consented to my suit.” He winked at Laurel, ignoring Mrs. Tungsten’s gasp.

  “I’m sure you’ll understand when I say that your present occupation leaves cause for skepticism where Miss Martin is concerned. We’re doing our best to improve upon her previous reputation as a saloon singer, and I’m not sure her keeping company with a gambler is going to enhance that.”

  Laurel braced herself for the outburst, but all she heard was Chance’s polite chuckle. “Come now, Mrs. Tungsten, even a gambling man has a right to reform. Laurel told me as much. Isn’t that right, an— my dear?”

  She nodded, wondering if Gus’s sermon this morning really had made an impact on Chance. He certainly acted odd.

  “Am I to understand that you will be shutting down your saloon, Mr. Rafferty?”

  Chance nearly choked on the wretched tea he was sipping. A good shot of bourbon would have done a lot to improve the flavor. “Close the Aurora?” He shook his head. “No, ma�
�am. That wouldn’t be possible. You see, it’s how I make my living, and many people depend on me for their livelihood.”

  “But . . . but, Mr. Rafferty, how can you possibly court our Miss Martin if you’re not intending to cease and desist your present avocation? I cannot allow her to sully our cause and confuse the issue.”

  Noting the reddening of Chance’s cheeks, Laurel decided it was time to have her say. “Mr. Rafferty’s reformation is likely to take some time, Hortensia. Rome wasn’t built in a day, as you are so fond of saying.” She smiled sweetly at the older woman. “Mr. Rafferty needs time to ascertain that what we’re doing is the right thing for him.”

  Double chins shook as Hortensia wagged her head in confusion. “But, Laurel dear! He’s a gambler, and you’re a temperance worker. I fail to see how the two of you can reconcile such an impossible arrangement.”

  “You hired me to bring reformation to Denver’s masses, Hortensia. Think of what others will say if I am able to reform Mr. Rafferty to our way of thinking.”

  When pigs fly, Chance thought, though he could see that the argument held great appeal for the older woman.

  “Is Mr. Rafferty willing to be reformed? That is what I want to know before I give my blessing to this courtship.”

  Both heads turned to stare sharply at Chance, who was doing his best to look serious and repentant, as was expected of him. “I’m willing to do whatever it takes to make Laurel mine. I want her, Mrs. Tungsten.” In the most elemental way. “And I’m willing to turn over a new leaf to achieve my objective.”

  Laurel’s eyes softened, and she smiled tentatively.

  Hortensia, however, was not so easily won over. “Mr. Rafferty, I fear that you will need to upend the entire tree. A leopard does not readily change his spots.”

  Chance did his best to look offended, though he really wanted nothing more than to dump the fat cow into the nearest river and drown her. No doubt she’d float!

  “I must say I’m shocked, Mrs. Tungsten, that you put so little faith in Miss Martin’s abilities. I happen to know that she possesses certain attributes”—soft skin, pert breasts, kissable lips—“to bring a man like me to heel.”