But wasn't that what she loved about him? If he had betrayed his best friend without conscience, would she still feel the same way? Would he still be the man who owned her heart? It was a stupid question, one for which she already knew the answer.
"Creed," Seth said, with a serious look, "I want you to be my best man."
Chapter 18
Creed froze. His hand tightened around his glass. "Best man? Moi?"
Seth grinned. "Of course you. Who else would I ask to stand up for me?"
Creed let go of Seth's hand and shot a look at Mariah. She, too, sat perfectly still, lips parted in shock. It gave him little comfort that she hadn't known about this either. The room seemed to shrink with all eyes trained on him. He gripped the edges of the smooth pine table.
"Mon ami, I—" he began haltingly, spreading his hands. "I'm honored that you would ask me, but I—I plan to leave in the morning."
"Leave?" Seth repeated, incredulously. "You just got here."
The muscles in Creed's jaw bunched. "I have some ends to tie up."
"You mean Pierre LaRousse?" Wade asked, tamping down the tobacco in his pipe. Creed nodded.
"But Miss Parsons said she shot him," Jarrod argued, leaning forward. "Maybe by now he's got worms crawlin' in and—"
"Jarrod—" Sadie warned.
"—or maybe another bounty hunter found him and strung him up by his—"
"Jarrod!"
The boy slumped back to his seat. "Aw, shucks. Sorry."
Seth looked back to Creed. "Well, he could be right, you know. Pierre LaRousse may very well be dead. And whatever trail he might have left has long been erased by the snow and rain."
"I know."
"Creed," Seth said gently, "you've been after him for four years. In all that time you've only seen him once. Do you think, if he's alive, he'll be any easier to find this time?"
"Maybe," Jason suggested quietly, "he'll come here, after you."
That pronouncement was met with stunned silence. The possibility had occurred to them all, but none had ventured to say it. Jason sank back in his seat, embarrassed.
"It's a possibility, Jason," Seth admitted, "but he'd be a fool to come near the gulch. People know him, and he's wanted from here to Deer Lodge and God knows where else."
"That's never stopped him before," Creed said.
"I have no argument with your cause, Creed," Seth continued. "You have more reason to go after him than most. But to ride out blind..." He shook his head. "Look, stay the week. You can see how things are going at the store... you are half owner you know and believe it or not, you're doing pretty well, partner."
Mariah drew in a breath. "Partner?"
"Didn't Creed tell you?"
Her golden eyes widened with accusation. "No, he didn't."
"We invested in the store together a few years ago. He's turned a nice profit. We both have."
Partner. Her heart sank. She'd been foolish to expect he'd walk out of their lives, never to be seen again. But a partner? That meant she'd have to see him over and over throughout the years.
The fire crackled in the silent room and the two boys watched the conversation bounce back and forth with eager faces.
"It's just a week, Creed. Stay. It would mean a lot to me if you'd be my best man. I'm sure Mariah feels the same way." He touched her elbow. "Tell him, Mariah. He must be a part of our wedding. After all, without him, we wouldn't be standing here at all. You'd still be on the levee at Benton wondering what had become of me."
She looked uncomfortably from Seth to Creed. Dear God, how different her life might be if only Seth had come for her! If only she had never met Creed and fallen hopelessly in love with him. But there was no help for it now. She moistened her lips with her tongue. "I—um, of course. We want... you to be a part of it." She looked up at him, meeting his gaze. "Please stay, Creed."
Creed's eyes held hers for a long moment, until the pressure in his chest became unbearable. If he didn't get out of here right now, he might hit something.
"I'll sleep on it, mes amis," he answered, getting up from the table. "I took a room down at The Exchange."
"Now what'd you go and do a fool thing like that for?" Seth asked. "You always stay with me above the store."
"Truth is, I needed a bath tonight before I could come near Sadie's dinner table." He clapped Seth on the shoulder. "I'll come by in the morning."
Sadie and Wade stood as he took his hat and coat off the coat tree. Creed bent down to give Sadie's cheek a buss. "Merci, Sadie." He kissed the tips of his fingers. "Delicious as always and kind of you to let me barge in."
Sadie's expression was serious for once when she took his hands in hers. "Creed, yer always welcome, you know that. We're just glad yer back safe."
"Merci." He nodded and reached for his hat and coat. "See you and Mariah in the morning, Seth, oui?"
"Oui, mon ami," Seth answered with a slight frown.
Mariah felt the word goodbye form a lump in her throat. She simply watched Creed walk out the door, leaving only the cold air to swirl in his wake and seep into her soul.
She looked up to find Sadie watching her curiously again, a sympathetic smile touching the corners of her mouth. Mariah forced a bright smile back, but it occurred to her that it was much easier to keep secrets from men than from a woman like Sadie.
"C'mon, dearie," Sadie murmured, threading her arm through Mariah's. "What say I show you how to make a pot of coffee?"
* * *
Sleep held no solace for Creed. Nor did the half-empty bottle of red-eye, he decided, but he poured another glassful until the amber liquid spilled over the brim. Staring blearily at the widening circle of moisture spreading on the green felt table, he wondered how much more he'd have to drink before he stopped thinking altogether.
The bar, which occupied the bottom level of the California Exchange Hotel, was filled with loud voices, choking with smoke, and stifling with the odors of hard-working miners who struck gold more often than they took baths. Streams of men trickled in and out of the Hurdy-Gurdy in the back room where the chesty, blond-haired women, known to the locals as "Teutons" for their Germanic origins, danced with a man for four-bits a ticket and if he was lucky, he got an evening of sport later on at some other location.
Creed closed his eyes, listening to the wheeze of the hurdy-gurdy man's concertina and the peculiar harmonies of a jug blower. He recognized a slightly off-key rendition of "Joe Bowers" and what Creed thought might be "Seeing the Elephant"—a forty-niner's song about coming around the Horn.
Creed slugged down his drink and poured another. He had decided against going to his room. He had no wish to be utterly alone tonight. However, neither had he invited company. His table was empty but for him, and that was the way he wanted it.
Creed tipped his chair back on two legs, leaning into the corner. The room seemed to sway a little with the motion.
"Can I interest ya'll in a game of chance, suh?"
Creed rolled his head toward the sound. His narrowed gaze fell on the man standing near his table holding a deck of cards fanned open. His brocaded silk waistcoat with its over-sized gold watch fob, his slicked-back hair, neatly trimmed goatee, and charming smile all labeled him a card sharp.
He'd seen the type before. Mining camps like Virginia attracted them by the dozens, all of them waiting to bilk some poor miner out of his hard-earned dust. In fact, he'd watched this one do just that for the past hour or so.
"Erastus Field is mah name," the man drawled. "Five card stud? Monte? You call it, I play it."
"'Zat right?" Creed slurred, slugging down the last of his drink. "I just bet you do."
"Ahhh," the man sighed expansively. "A gentleman of the French-Canadian persuasion. Am I right, suh?"
Creed lowered his chair to the floor, glaring. "My origins are none of your business, monsieur."
Field's gilded southern smile faded slightly. "Why, all I meant to infer, suh, is that they'uh excellent card players. Nothing more. I,
myself, have been up against some of the most talented French Canadians in these here parts."
"Not interested." He tipped the bottle once more and filled the glass to the rim. The man was beginning to irritate him.
"I beg to differ, but you look like a man in need of a diversion. And I have just the one close at hand, if you catch my meanin'."
"Perhaps your diversions are better left up your sleeve," Creed replied, pinning him with a deliberate look.
The gambler snapped his deck of cards shut with a scowl that reddened his pale face. "Are you calling me a cheat, suh?"
"I am not calling you anything. Yet." Creed stood up and banged his thigh against the table, off balance. The noise of the saloon drowned their voices and not a man noticed the escalating violence.
Field took a step closer, glaring. "A gentleman does not take such charges lightly."
Feeling reckless, Creed replied, "Pistols at dawn, monsieur?"
Field paled. "Duelin' has been outlawed, suh, in case it hadn't come to your attention. Though that wouldn't greatly surprise me." His gaze fell to the beaded choker at Creed's throat and his fringed buckskin trousers. "It appears you've been spendin' your time with Injuns more than with decent white folk."
Creed's fist gathered at his side. It itched to connect with the holier-than-thou expression on Erastus Field's face. He didn't need any more excuse than he already had. "Field," he said, stepping around the edge of the table, swaying again from the delayed but potent effects of the red-eye, "I suggest you walk away while you still can, because I'm about to hit you."
Field foolishly laughed and raised his clenched fists, taking a ridiculous bent-knee stance. "You could try. Bettah men than you have. But I hardly think a drunken Indian-lover has much chance of—"
Creed slammed a fist into the other man's jaw before he could dodge the punch. Erastus Field hung suspended in the air for a prolonged second, eyes glazed by shock, then pitched backward like a pole-axed deer, crashing into the center of the card game behind him.
Chips flew and the table broke in half with a splintering explosion. When the dust cleared, the room had grown deafeningly silent. On another day, such an event would have been an invitation to a brawl. But as Creed stood over the man, flexing his bleeding hand, his thunderous expression dared anyone to repeat the challenge.
There were no takers.
Creed couldn't be sure if he was relieved or disappointed, but he backed out of The Exchange, throwing a five-dollar gold piece on the bar for the damages, and slammed out of the swinging louvered doors. By the time they'd swung shut, the noise within resumed as if it had never abated.
Ten minutes later, he found himself staring at the red-painted double door entrance to The Nightingale. Through the waxed muslin windows, which adorned most of the hastily built structures in town, he could hear the sound of mens' laughter and the plinkety-plink of the piano Desiree had shipped clear from Salt Lake last spring. It was the only one in town and drew its fair share of music-hungry men, but clearly wasn't The Nightingale's strongest hold card.
The doors burst open, washing Creed in golden light as a man and a scantily clad blonde tumbled out the door, laughing.
"All night, Proctor? Are you sure she said all night?"
"Sweetcakes, with the color I just struck, I could keep you all week."
The woman squealed and the pair disappeared into the shadows. Creed stepped around the sawdust-filled brass spittoon that decorated the muddy stoop and entered the brothel.
The parlor was crowded with whores—Chinese, American, French—lounging beside men on velvet covered settees and ottomans. Two muscle-bound bouncers stood with arms folded across their chests, eyeing Creed. In the back corner, the gray-haired Negro piano-player, Oleander Smith, looked up and tipped his chin up in acknowledgement. Creed nodded back.
An S-shaped tete-a-tete, fringed extravagantly in the same deep red as the rest of the upholstery, held two couples getting better acquainted. Spittoons punctuated each corner and the Persian carpet Desiree had shipped from New York City covered the center of the floor.
"Wipe yore feet, handsome."
The husky sound of a woman's voice came from behind him. He turned to see Lula Mae, a voluptuous brunette whose once-pretty face had been scarred by smallpox. Her costume never changed: black net stockings, red silk bloomers, and a suggestively-laced corset over her filmy chemise. Lula Mae smiled seductively while he wiped his feet on the dog-shaped boot scraper by the door.
"It's been a long time, honey," she crooned, her red lips set in a fetching pout. She took a step in his direction. "Where've you been?"
"Around." Her heavy perfume wafted around her like an evening mist. It wasn't unpleasant exactly, but he preferred something more subtle. Unbidden, Mariah's sweet scent filled his memory and his body tightened all over.
"I don't suppose I can talk you into tryin' me out tonight instead of Miss Desiree," she murmured. Spreading her arms wide she twirled slowly for his inspection. "It just so happens my dance card is wide open." Laughing, she draped herself across his side and pressed her breasts up against his chest.
He swayed slightly with her assault, feeling the effects of his drinking, then extricated himself. "Not tonight, cherie."
"Ooh," she crooned with a wink, "I lo-oove it when you talk French to me, Devereaux."
He couldn't help but smile at her persistence. "Is Miss Desiree... entertaining, Lula Mae?"
With a frown, she plucked at the laces on her satin-edged corset. "Well-l-l..."
"Depends on 'oo ees asking, blonde," came a heavily accented voice behind him.
Creed turned to find Desiree smiling genteelly at him from beside a pair of heavy velvet drapes. Dressed to the nines in her signature red silk gown, Desiree Lupone bore little resemblance to the whores she employed. Her apparel set her apart from the others as surely as her beauty did and he wondered for the hundredth time what a woman like her was doing in this kind of a life.
Though her piled-high hair was tinted a brassy red, her pale, freckled skin proved it had once been genuine. She wasn't much older than he—thirty-three or four at most—but the life had aged her, hardened what he imagined had once been soft and innocent.
Despite that, her makeup wasn't garish or overdone, nor was that of any of her girls. The kohl around her eyes was applied with a light hand, as was the lip tint that reddened her mouth. He supposed the class she lent to the place was one of the reasons why The Nightingale had grown into one of the most popular brothels in the Gulch.
"Desiree." Creed stepped forward to take her outstretched hands. "You look beautiful... as always."
Her gaze raked and read him in the same instant. He'd known she would. He'd never been able to keep anything from her. "And you... mon ami," she returned, "you are too 'andsome for the world's good, as always."
She tossed a look at Lula Mae and continued in French. "Shall we... go somewhere more private?" Nodding toward the whore who was feigning indifference, she added, "You know what they say about little jugs having big ears? Little whores are worse."
He followed her, somewhat unsteadily, upstairs to her private bedroom, a place where he knew few men were ever allowed. The comfortable room, done in muted blues and greens with tasteful furnishings and a minimum of clutter, was in direct contrast to the rest of the house with its garish trims and colors. Her only concession was the intricate brass bed that was, by design, the focal point of the room.
He stared at it, for the first time uncertain why he'd come. He swayed indecisively, then took off his hat and hung it on the brass ball of the bedstead.
"It's been a long time, Creed," she continued in French. Desiree stopped in front of him and slid her hands inside his capote, spreading her fingers across the wall of his chest.
He allowed the touch, sucked it in the way a parched man would rain. He felt the room tilt, and with it went perception. The red-eye surged through his veins, heating his blood. Suddenly, it wasn't Desiree's brassy red h
air he saw, but the burnished chestnut color of Mariah's; sable eyes turned whiskey-colored and guileless. His muscles felt aflame with his aching need and his heart thudded heavily against her fingertips.
Brushing the V of hair-dusted skin at his throat, she undid the sash that tied his capote. Sliding the garment off his shoulders, it landed in a heavy heap on the floor.
"You're cold, mon chou," she whispered against his skin. "But you don't need that coat to warm you."
Her touch sent passion through him, exploding in his blood like a brushfire. His body tightened as she pressed herself against him, purring like a hungry cat.
Without thought, Creed cupped her face with both his hands and pulled her mouth up to his. There was no gentleness in his kiss. It was a hard, volatile plunder—tongue, lips, teeth grinding together in a seeking, mindless need. It had been building in him all night and even smashing his fist into Erastus Field's face hadn't assuaged it. He wanted to show her, prove to her, beg her...
She tightened her arms around him, pulling him closer. Creed's breath came ragged and hot. With a moan, he slid one hand down her back to her derriere, forcing her hips against his and filling his other hand with her breast.
No, wait. Just wait a goddamn minute.
Pulling back a fraction, he gave himself a mental shake.
That's wrong. His sodden brain struggled with the situation. The breast in his hand was more voluptuous, the figure fuller, the lips not nearly soft enough. Realization struck him like a bucket of icy water.
Creed jerked back and took her wrists in his hands, pulling them away from him. His breath ground in his chest like the wheels of a runaway train. Desiree was staring at him, her open mouth still bruised by his kiss, a half-lidded expression of surprise and hurt in her eyes.
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