Love and Adventure Collection - Part 2

by Jennifer Blake

  The man who had come to her rescue was the same one she had nearly collided with earlier. Turning from Pearlie as though he had forgotten she was there, he made his way back to his seat without removing his gaze from Serena there upon the stage. It was gratitude for his intervention, and amazement for its success, that made her send him a warm smile. The look that sprang into his eyes was so diffident and at the same time so admiring and quietly approving that it gave her confidence. Unconsciously, she found her gaze turning in his direction again and again. As she directed her songs to the one man who seemed to appreciate them, she failed to notice the air of rapt attention that had fallen upon her audience, the aching quiet into which her clear and carrying words fell. The miners followed her every movement as if memorizing the details of hair and dress, watching her graceful gestures, taking a collective indrawn breath as she lifted her skirts to take a step, showing the merest glimpse of finely turned ankle and gilt-heeled slippers, then letting it out as the fair sight was covered once more. Her first inkling of her effect came when halfway through the first stanza of “Dixie,” the men began to remove their hats, hold them over their hearts, and come to their feet in respect for the song and the singer. For some reason she could not explain, the sight brought the fullness of tears to her throat. It was with their richness threading her voice that she came at last to an end.

  The whistles, the applause and yells roared against the ceiling. Near the stage a man smacked his lips and nudged the miner beside him in the ribs. In a voice loud enough to be heard clearly he said, “That’s the gal for me. Just like falling into a bed of roses.”

  His companion snorted. “You’re crazy in the head, you drunk galoot. Didn’t you see them gold heels on them slippers she was wearing? She’s too rich for my blood, or yours either. You couldn’t afford her if you high-graded for a month!”

  High-grading meant to take gold-rich ore out of the mines on the sly in lunch pails, pockets, and pants cuffs; to get rich on the side. It was a compliment in its own way. Thinking of Pearlie’s probable reaction to such an attitude from the miners, Serena could not help but be pleased. She was less happy to hear the description applied to her by the miner taken up and repeated by others.

  “Gold Heels,” the first man said with a laugh. “She’s some fancy piece all right. Gold Heels. That’s just the name for her.”

  Sinking into a low curtsy in recognition of the applause, Serena heard the name running like wildfire over the room. It seemed that Ward had been right that night on the prairie so many weeks ago. The miners were quick to bestow a name on anyone who failed to provide one for himself.

  Rising, moving from the stage, Serena vowed she would never answer to this new title, no matter how common it became She had never asked for this kind of notoriety. She had never asked for it nor for the uncertain future to which it led. In spite of Pearlie and Otto, even in spite of Ward, there must be a way out. There must be.

  9

  Otto was waiting for her where the steps leading from the stage descended into the barroom. He held a covered tray in his enormous hands, and there was a crafty look in his eyes.

  “I’ve got your supper here. Pearlie said as how it would be all right with her if you wanted to eat it upstairs.”

  “Thank you. I would prefer that,” Serena said, reaching for the tray.

  Otto did not let go. “I’ll tote it for you. I ain’t got nothing else to do just now.”

  “I can manage for myself.”

  “Nah, I want to do it. Besides, Pearlie said I could keep you company.”

  Retaining her grip on the tray, Serena said carefully, “I appreciate her thoughtfulness, and yours, but I would just as soon be alone.”

  “Can’t allow that,” Otto said with a shake of his big head. “No telling what you was to get up to, if I did. I’ll just go along with you, like I was told.”

  Serena did not like the way he was looking at her, nor the wet sheen on his loose lips. Still, it appeared she had no choice except to make do with his escort if she wanted to eat.

  “Very well.” With her lashes lowered and the high color of anger flushing her cheekbones, she preceded Otto across the room and up the stairs. She indicated a place on the table in her sitting room where she wanted him to set the tray, then seated herself behind it.

  “Now this is something like it,” Otto commented as he flung himself down on the oriental couch across from her.

  “Have you eaten?” she asked with stiff politeness.

  “Yeh, I et long time ago.”

  The formalities observed, Serena took the napkin that covered the food and placed it in her lap, then picked up her fork and knife. The meal, consisting of steak with hash-brown potatoes, eggs, and butter-fried bread, was delectable, very nearly worth what it had cost her. She would have enjoyed it more if she had not had an audience, of course. Try as she might, she could not ignore the big man lolling across from her, watching her with all the greedy hunger of an animal watching its prey. His gaze lingered on the bodice of her dress as if he were trying to penetrate the material to her flesh underneath. Every few minutes he would shift in his seat uncomfortably, tugging at his crotch as if he itched. Now and then he would wipe his hand over his mouth, rubbing it down over his thick neck to pull at his collar.

  At last Serena pushed back her plate, though she kept her water glass in her hand. Taking a sip, she swallowed, glancing at Otto. “I suppose I am to put in an appearance downstairs again tonight?”

  “Pearlie didn’t say.” He pushed himself upright and surged to his feet to lumber around the table toward her. Stretching out his hand, he snatched the glass from her fingers and set it to one side, sloshing water over the brim. “She sure don’t expect to see you no time soon.”

  Serena jumped to her feet, brushing at the water that had splashed onto the silk of her dress. “What are you doing.” she exclaimed.

  “I’m doing what I’ve been wanting to do for a long time,” he growled, pushing her chair from his path so that it crashed backward to the floor. “Something I been wanting to do ever since I saw you that night down in the Springs.”

  “You wouldn’t. Lay one hand on me and you’ll be out of a job, if Ward doesn’t kill you!” Despite her brave words, she could not prevent herself from backing away from his steady, arm-swinging advance.

  “Huh. You ain’t Dunbar’s fancy piece any more. He finally got tired and put you out, shoved you downstairs with the rest of the girls.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “I know better. I know, ‘cause Pearlie said it, and she always knows what Dunbar’s thinking. She said nobody was going to care now if I got under your skirts, and that’s just what I mean to do, right here and now.”

  “That’s what you think,” Serena said, her voice hard, Whirling, she darted around the table, threading her way through the couches and ottomans that crowded the small room.

  With a curse, Otto stumbled after her, kicking a table, shoving aside the chair she pushed into his path. The outside door was her objective, and she circled toward it, slipping quickly behind the sandalwood table that sat at the end of a couch. The brass vase of peacock feathers on its surface teetered as she brushed against it. Sending a fleeting glance at Otto, she saw him charging toward her like a rutting animal. Without hesitation, she picked up the vase and threw it at his head.

  It struck in a whirling rain of iridescent feathers. A gash appeared on his forehead, and a red wash of blood flowed into his eyes. Growling, he wiped at it with his sleeve.

  Serena did not stop to watch. She skirted the elephant-foot table with its bowl of waxed fruit, dived for the door, dragged it open, and flung herself out into the hall. Behind her, Otto bellowed in rage. She heard the shuddering thud of his footsteps as he came after her. With her heart pounding in her chest, she ran. It was as though she could feel the hot, fetid breath of the bouncer on the back of her neck. The stairs seemed so far away, far too distant for her to reach.

  And t
hen she was upon them. The banister was under her hand, Her breath rasped in her throat. Below, a pale blur of faces turned toward her, indistinct in the gray pall of smoke.

  There came a thumping crash as Otto leaped down the stairs behind her, taking them three at the time. Cruel fingers sank into her shoulder and she was pulled to a halt, wrenched off balance so that she fell against the barrel chest of the apelike man.

  “No!” she cried, pushing away with all her strength. She swung her hand with pure revulsion, catching him a ringing, stinging blow on his wire-whiskered jaw. He dragged her to him, digging his fingers into her arms, giving her a hard shake that snapped her head forward on her neck. His foul breath was in her face. She felt his long arm encircle her, flattening the slender curves of her body against his paunchy, short-legged frame. She heard his grunt of pleasure, saw his yellow-toothed grin and the dilating of his eyes as he brought his face closer to hers, felt his hard fingers fumble at the silk that covered her breast. In sick rage, she twisted, trying to bring her arms up, to loosen his straining grip. The next moment, the hand that mauled her was jerked away.

  “Let her go. Now.”

  The voice that spoke was neither loud nor harsh; still, it carried the unmistakable stamp of authority, the ring of power. Otto stiffened, a look of uncertainty coming into his face. He seemed reluctant to look at the tall, sandy-haired man in a gray suit that held his arm.

  “I said, let her go.”

  The strength went out of Otto. “Mr. Benedict,” he whined, “you ain’t got no call to do this.”

  “It would be a shame to call in the sheriff, but we can do it that way if you prefer. I will press charges myself.”

  Otto released her so quickly that Serena swayed. There was a grayness before her eyes, and the sickness of reaction rose in her throat. Instantly, the man called Benedict was beside her, the same man who had forced Pearlie to let her sing. Without another glance for Otto and his muttered curses, he supported her down the last stair treads.

  But Serena heard. “Next time,” Otto grated under his breath, “next time you won’t get away.”

  “Would you like something to drink?” the man beside her said, his low voice shaded with concern.

  Serena shook her head. “No, no thank you. If I could have a little fresh air?”

  “Certainly.”

  It was miraculous the way a path was cleared for them as they made for the door. The usual noise and clatter had quieted to scarcely more than a whisper. Someone swung open the heavy outside panel with its red and blue leaded glass panes. The man beside her spoke a word of thanks, and then they were out in the fresh and windy darkness.

  Serena gulped great breaths of the pure air. Her nausea passed only to be replaced by an urgent need to get away from the Eldorado. With no clear idea of where she was going, she started to walk. The effects of the overheated room she had just left were whipped away by the wind. She clasped her arms around her, shivering a little, but she did not stop. The man who had come to her aid for the second time that night kept pace with her. In the back of her mind she was grateful for his presence, grateful also that he did not try to speak or detain her in any way. The cutting edge of the wind grazed her cheeks and tugged at her hair. It irritated her eyes, making them stream tears. It flattened her skirts against her, fluttering and snapping their fullness like a flag. Still she walked.

  Though there were lights and music along the street, they were muffled and distant, behind doors that were tightly shut against the raw weather. There were few people on the street, most preferring to stay inside where there was warmth and cheer, Somewhere a dog barked and a burro brayed. The sullen thrump of machinery came and went with the force of the wind, resounding like a giant heartbeat.

  At a touch on her shoulder, Serena flinched, her eyes wide as she swung to face the man beside her. He drew his hand back at once.

  “Here,” he said, stripping off his coat. “Wear this.”

  When she did not move, he came close to drape the wool jacket about her shoulders. The warmth left from his body enfolded her, along with the scent of pipe tobacco and the faint fragrance of Macassar hair oil.

  “You — you will be cold.” It was as if she was truly aware of him for the first time. She sensed, rather than saw, when he shook his head.

  “I’m used to it.”

  “I appreciate what you did just now. Most men wouldn’t have bothered, not with someone like—”

  “Someone like what? Any man would have been glad to help you.”

  That his words were sincere she could not doubt. Touched in spite of herself she said, “I don’t know you.”

  “Forgive me,” he said. “I should have introduced myself sooner. I’m Nathan Benedict.”

  Nathan Benedict, the Croesus of Cripple Creek, Ward’s friend, the millionaire who had loaned him his private railroad car.

  “You have been kind to me more than once this evening, Mr. Benedict. I am truly grateful.”

  She thought he made a movement toward her, but if so he checked it at once. “No more grateful than I am for your company.”

  Abruptly Serena became aware of moisture against her face. Its touch was cold and faintly stinging. “Rain,” she said, holding out her hand.

  “No,” Nathan Benedict contradicted her. “Look there.”

  Turning to follow the direction he indicated with one out-flung arm, she looked down the alleyway between two buildings toward Bennet Avenue where the only streetlamps in the town shone with a golden light. In their glowing nimbus something swirled, something fine and powdery and white. For long moments Serena watched.

  “Do you see it?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she whispered. “It’s snowing.”

  The snow fell with soft persistence through the night and into the next day. It sifted from a pale-gray sky, closing in, obscuring the steep slopes of the rocky bowl in which the town nestled. It drifted in the streets, piling against the sides of the buildings, stacking lightly behind their wooden false fronts. Feathery, crystalline, it mounded in the doorways and on the windowsills, shifting, whirling away again in the, wind.

  After her late night, and with the closed-in dimness of the snowfall, Serena slept late. When she awoke, she could not bring herself to make the effort to rise. There was no reason for it. It was so cold in the room and so warm beneath the covers. Beyond the windows, the world was gray-white and still, so hushed she thought she could hear the brush of snowflakes against the glass panes.

  She stretched, shivering a little as she felt the cold reaches of the mattress around the section warmed by her body. The bed, with its crimson brocade hangings, was so large and so empty. Turning her head, she considered the place where Ward usually slept. She smoothed her hand over the undented pillow. It was strange how easy it was to become used to sleeping with a man, to easing against his body, basking in its furnace heat. There was a certain danger in such actions, of course, one she had learned to weigh carefully. Ward was a light sleeper. Drawing close to him was enough to cause him to wake, and turning, close her in his arms. Though generous with his warmth, he often exacted a price. She could hardly complain; the exercise did have the effect of heating her blood.

  With a wry smile curving her lips, she huddled back into her warm spot. She did not miss him, certainly not. It had been pleasant to have the bed to herself, to drift peacefully off to sleep, knowing Ward would not be coming upstairs in the small hours of the morning, throwing back the covers, reaching for her. She did not mind being alone in the least. She looked forward to being able to do as she pleased, when she pleased.

  She closed her eyes, courting sleep once more. It did no good. If Ward were there, he would get up and build a fire in the stove to take the chill from the room before she emerged from under the quilts. There were advantages, she had to admit, to living with a man.

  Gritting her teeth, she flung back the covers and slid from the bed. In a flurry of movement, she ran to the wardrobe and dragged it open, whippe
d out Ward’s heavy quilted dressing gown and swung it around her, then found his woolen slippers, thrusting her feet into them. Shivering with an exaggerated moan, she dived into the sitting room. She piled kindling and chunks of pine wood into the stove, doused the whole with coal oil, and put a match to it, jumping back as the flames leaped high, roaring up the smokestack.

  She had forgotten to open the damper. With a muttered imprecation, she attended to that chore, wiping the tears from the smoke that boiled in the room from her smarting eyes.

  The fire was soon roaring with such a resinous popping and crackling that she had to shut the stove door. For a time she crouched in front of the heat, then as the temperature of the room became bearable, she began to move about, getting into her clothes, making the bed, brushing her hair. Apparently someone had let the fire go out in the boiler downstairs. The water she used to wash her face, all that would come up the pipe, was so cold that slivers of ice ran from the spout into the china washbasin. By the time she had finished her morning ablutions, her complexion was glowing.

  She picked her toothbrush from the glass which held it and began to look around for the Arnica tooth soap. She had just found it, or rather half of the bar, since Ward had divided it into two neat sections, taking half for himself, when she heard the tap of heels along the outside hall. It was Pearlie, no doubt, come to gloat over her victory last night. With a grimace, Serena left the bathroom, hurrying toward the sitting-room door. Quickly and quietly, she moved the table and settee that she had pushed against the panel to bar entry. She had no key to these rooms, something she had discovered to her dismay the night before. Nonetheless, she had no desire to have Pearlie know that she had been frightened to stay alone without the means of locking herself in.

  It was Spanish Connie who stood outside. “Buenos dias,” she said, the corners of her eyes crinkling as she smiled. “I hope I am not too early. I saw the smoke from your fire and knew you were up.”

  “No,” Serena said, surprise making her inarticulate for a moment. “I mean, no, it isn’t too early. Come in.” Standing back, Serena allowed the Spanish girl to enter, then closed the door behind her.