by Caroline Lee
“A grizzly got me.”
His comment, after such a long silence, snapped her attention back to his face.
“A grizzly?” she repeated in a whisper, daring to believe he was confiding in her.
He nodded, his single eye holding hers. “I was fifteen, trapping with my Pa. I found a bear munching on one of my kills, and she didn’t like me disturbing her meal.” The detached way he told the story made it sound as if he was leaving something out. “Pa saved my life that day.”
She blinked at him, amazed to finally have an answer to the question most of the town—most of the West—had wondered about for years. “Oh my,” she finally said.
His frown was fearsome, thanks to his scars. “What?”
“It’s just…” She shrugged. “Surely you know how much people speculate. I’ve heard your scars were a result of a knife fight down in Austin, or a shootout with the entire Quigg gang. Oh! Or that they’re a result of some horrible Indian tradition when you were a child.”
He just looked at her, not giving anything away.
“Are you an Indian?” she pressed.
“No,” he finally said. “Although Pa was raised Blackfoot, and I had some cousins in the tribe. I was born up in Montana.”
She pushed aside the remains of her dinner, far more interested in the man across from her. Propping her chin in one palm, she prompted him, “And he was a trapper?”
He reached for his fork once more, the lamplight once again catching the gleam of gold on his small finger. He sat there, relaxing in the chair and fiddling with that fork, for what seemed like forever. Then he nodded.
“Yep. Taught me everything I know about tracking.”
“Is that why you became a bounty hunter?”
His lips twitched upwards on his left side, and she realized he was smiling. Not a big smile, but a smile nonetheless. “I figured I’d had enough of nature to last a lifetime. And trappin’ men was a lot more interesting than looking for beaver. One time…”
Dinner sat forgotten as he talked, telling her stories she’d never imagined he would share. It was fascinating, listening to him talk about his adventures, and how he’d eventually ended up here in Noelle. She found herself totally engrossed, watching the way his lips moved as he spoke, and how he moved his hands when he described a hunt.
She was still thinking of those hands—and what they were capable of—as they cleaned up from dinner together. She didn’t know his plans for the evening, but at that moment, she didn’t care. The last few hours with him had just reinforced what she’d always known about him…
Sheriff Draven was a good man.
He was disfigured and intimidating, but he’d never hurt a woman as far as she knew—not even when Madame was trying to hurt him. He’d built a life for himself on his skills and his wits, and he knew when to be fierce and when to be gentle.
No wonder she’d lost her heart to him long ago.
Maybe something showed in her expression, because when they were done, he rubbed the back of his neck like he wanted to say something important. She waited, but enough time passed it, began to feel awkward, so she spoke up.
“Thank you for dinner, Sheriff.”
“If we’re pretending to be married, you should probably call me Draven.“
“What’s your first name?” she asked, before she could think better of it.
When he scowled, she knew she shouldn’t have asked.
“I don’t tell anyone that, Miss Pearl. Draven’s good enough.”
She was quick to nod. “Draven it is. And I’ve asked you to call me ‘Pearl’ before.” He’d always insisted on the honorific, although without using her last name, it just reminded her of her lack of propriety. “Of course,” she said, placing one hand on her cocked hip, “if we’re pretending to be married, you should probably call me Maybelle.“
He hooked his thumbs in his gun belt and scowled. “Not if it means you’re gunna call me Horatio. I’ll go to Reverend Hammond and tell him the deal’s off before I let a pretty girl call me by that ass’s name.”
Pearl’s smile wasn’t due to his assessment of the man she hated, although that hadn’t hurt. No, it was because— “Did you just call me pretty?”
“It’s getting late.” He was quick to deflect the question. “I’ll…” Draven’s eye darted around the room, before landing once more on Pearl’s face, then quickly flicking away. “I’ll give you a minute here. Alone. I’ll be…” He gestured lamely towards the door to the jail. “I have to check on…things.”
For the first time, Pearl realized there wasn’t a dressing screen in his little room, and he was trying to give her privacy, though didn’t know how. His awkwardness was endearing, but it was the thought behind it which made her happy.
“Thank you,” she said, granting him a smile that made him hurry out the door.
But not before she saw his scowl.
Why was he scowling? She pondered on it while she hurried through her ablutions. Did he not want her appreciation? Well, that was too bad. He’d opened his home to her—opened part of his life to her—on her urging, and she had every intention of thanking him for it.
The only way she knew how.
She hurried to change, pulling off her skirt and blouse and jacket, then draping them over the back of one of the kitchen chairs. Her stockings she left on for warmth, and because she knew from past encounters Draven found them attractive.
She’d just finished brushing her hair so it hung in waves around her shoulders when he returned.
He stopped in the doorway, his eye raking her from head to toe. She placed one hand on her hip, thrust her breasts against the cotton of her camisole, and gave him the sultry, sensual look she and Jolie had spent hours perfecting in the mirror.
It didn’t work.
“What are you doing?”
His question flustered her. “What does it look like I’m doing?”
He didn’t answer. Instead, he stalked towards her, the heels of his boots echoing on the floorboards beneath them. “I thought you’d be in bed by now, trying to get warm.”
The mound of blankets was appealing, now that the stove’s heat had fizzled out. But she was on a mission, and wasn’t going to let anything get in her way. “I thought of another way to get warm.”
There, that didn’t sound too silly, and it was true. Just the thought of Draven’s hand on her camisole—and on her skin under it—was enough to make her warm.
She began to untie the ribbon at the neck of the undergarment, but to her surprise, her fingers were shaking too much to make sense of the knot.
“Pearl.” He stepped up to her, his large hand covering both of hers at her collarbone. “Stop.”
She tried to smile up at him, but wondered why it felt so watery. “I just…”
I have to thank you.
Shaking off his hand, she managed to untie her camisole. The two sides of the material gaped open, offering him a magnificent view of the inner valleys of her breasts. She held her breath as he stared down at her chest for a long moment. A muscle ticked in the unscarred side of his jaw, and she wondered what he was thinking.
Finally, his gaze lifted to hers, and she didn’t see any of the desire she’d hoped for. Here she was, in this man’s home—the reason she’d forced her way in here—and he couldn’t even summon a smidge of desire for her?
“Pearl,” he repeated, his low and gentle, “what are you doing?”
Oh, God. He looked so fierce and deadly, but when he spoke to her like that—when he treated her like she was something special—her heart always broke from longing.
“I’m thanking you!” she cried, before she could think better of it. “You shared your food with me, you shared your home with me, and you didn’t have to! You didn’t have to do any of this! I just wanted to show you—”
“No.”
This time his voice was harsher, and she bent her head in shame. She deserved his reproach.
To her surprise, his
hands came to the neckline of her camisole, like they’d done so many times before, but instead of pulling the white material apart, instead of exposing her breasts to the cold air and warming them with his tongue, he…he tied the ribbon closed.
He protected her modesty.
And then he placed each of his large hands on her shoulders—close enough she could feel the sides of his thumbs, caressing the skin of her neck—and said, “Look at me, Pearl.”
She did. And when she looked into that dark eye of his, she saw something there she couldn’t identify. It wasn’t pity, and it wasn’t hope, and it wasn’t anger. It was a kind of fierceness she’d never seen on a man’s face before.
“Are you listening?” he snapped.
Mutely, she nodded.
“You are more than a whore, Pearl.” He punctuated each sentence with a little shake. “If you want to thank a man, just thank him. You don’t need to trade your body for—for anything.” He swallowed. “Just say ‘thank you.’ ”
You are more than a whore..
Pearl blinked back tears. “Thank you,” she said thickly, not quite sure anymore what she was thanking him for.
He nodded once, curtly. “Get in bed.”
Was he going to…?
While she climbed under the blankets, he peeled off his vest, unhooked his suspenders and pulled his shirt out of his trousers. Then he lowered himself to the mattress and pulled off his boots, and she heard them clunk against the floor as he reached to dim the lamp.
Once he was in the bed beside her, Pearl held her breath. But all he did was wrap one arm around her and pull her towards himself. He nestled her backside against his front, and she could feel the evidence of how much he wanted her, even through his clothing.
Why did he turn down my offer then?
The warmth of his body was so much better than the meager warmth from the stove, and Pearl felt herself slowly relaxing against him, her muscles loosening bit by bit. His breath tickled her ear, and his hand rested against her stomach, right under her breasts.
It felt good. She’d never been held like this by a man before.
“You know…” His whisper was a faint rumble in her ear. “I’ve always wanted to do this.”
Do what? Should she ask?
Seconds ticked by while she debated asking him for clarification. His breathing evened, and she wondered if she’d lost the chance.
“Do what, Draven?” she whispered into the dark, hoping his answer might maybe, possibly be, “Hold you.”
But instead, all she heard was a snore.
The morning of December twenty-seventh dawned clear and frigid. It was much colder here in Draven’s small room than it was in La Maison. Maybe because there was always entertainment and activity throughout the night at the whorehouse.
Refusing to allow herself to think about that life—the life she had a temporary reprieve from—Pearl slipped out from under the blankets and hurried to dress. She performed her morning duties as quietly as she could and had the water for tea boiling by the time Draven stirred.
When his tousled head poked out from under the mound of blankets, looking equally confused and sexy, Pearl had to bite her lip to hide her smile. Who would’ve thought the big, bad bounty-hunter-turned-sheriff could look so adorable?
This was why she’d suggested she move in with him. She wanted the chance to pretend to be his wife. To make him breakfast and admire his messy morning hair. To be held by him, all night long.
She pushed aside thoughts of the confusing encounter the night before. “Good morning, Draven. I’m going to make flapjacks for breakfast.”
“Flapjacks?” He scrubbed his hand over his face. “Have I died and gone to Heaven then?”
“No,” she answered with a laugh. “Not even close.”
But being here with him did feel a little like Heaven.
He grabbed his clothing off the floor, where he’d dropped it the night before, and clomped out into his office. She didn’t know what he was doing out there, but she could hear him moving around.
She used the time to focus on her mixing. It had been years since she’d had to cook for her family, but the cook at La Maison had always been willing to let her sit and watch her work. She’d learned a lot from the older woman about cooking for a crowd, but she thought she could scale it down for just her and her pretend husband.
As she found her stride, mixing and pouring and frying, Pearl had a startling realization: Draven was right about her. She was more than just a whore. She could cook fairly well, and she was a somewhat passable artist…
She wracked her brain, trying to come up with other attributes besides what she kept between her legs.
She was smart, and well-read…and she cared for the other girls at La Maison and the new brides who came into town. She flattered herself to think she’d made their lives better in some way.
Yes, she did have worth…didn’t she?
You’re more than just a whore.
His words echoed in her head throughout their quiet breakfast. Apparently Draven wasn’t a morning talker, but that was alright. She had too much to think about this morning… Like the humiliating way she’d offered herself to him last night, and he’d rejected her.
But she knew he’d wanted her. Had he only rejected her to prove a point? Was it about her worth as a person? Or some other, crueler point?
Looking across the table at him as she had last night, she admitted a stranger would most certainly guess him to be a cruel man. Those long, parallel scars pulled his face into a permanent sneer, and the skin had healed over his empty eye socket in thick lumps. He looked mean, and she supposed he could be, according to his reputation.
But to her, he’d always been gentle. Loving, almost. Surely he wouldn’t have said what he’d said—done what he’d done—last night to be cruel? The memory of his hands over hers as he’d pushed her away and tied up her camisole…it still made her shiver, but she wasn’t sure if it was from shame or desire.
Together, they cleaned up after the meal, just as they’d done the night before. It felt natural, normal. She wanted this life. She wanted to do this for him every day.
“What are your plans for the day?”
His question startled her.
“I’m not sure.” She paused, considering. “The girls know I’m here, but none of them know why. I’m not sure I want to go back to La Maison and interact with the remaining brides.”
Her duty to Doctor Deane and Cara had ended when the two of them had gone out for their walk.
“Why not?” He was moving some of her things around on the chest, presumably so he could reach his own belongings.
She shrugged, keeping her attention on the plate she was drying. “I don’t... I’m not one of them.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “I’m only pretending to be a bride.”
He looked up then and captured her gaze. “And you are embarrassed by that?”
“Yes,” she whispered. “I’m only a…”
She couldn’t say it, but didn’t have to.
He crossed the room, holding her gaze, and stopped just before his chest would brush against her arm. “You’re more than a whore, Pearl. Remember that.”
It took all her strength to nod. Her tongue darted out to wet her lips, and his eye flicked briefly downward. It seemed important to him she hear those words—You’re more than a whore—so she’d do her best to remember them.
“I’ll try,” she promised.
He nodded once, firmly, then cleared his throat. “I’ll be doing my rounds this morning. See if I can talk to Penworthy about when this man from the railroad will arrive—if he hasn’t already. I guess we should make a time to meet with him.”
And after they did, their charade would be over. Pearl nodded slightly and turned back to the dishes, not wanting to think about her time with Draven being over. What could she do to show him her appreciation? Not just for the fact he shared his home with her, but for the way he’d held her last night, and the
way he tried to boost her self-worth? She needed to show him, somehow, what he meant to her…
“I might ride up to the mine too, see if I can check on the mayor. No one’s heard from him in a few days. Maybe— Listen, what is this?”
The cloth she was using dropped from her fingers when she looked over to see him holding the folder with her drawings. Before she could stop him, he’d pulled out her most recent one, the sketch of Noelle in the snow.
She heard him suck in a breath and turn slightly, holding the paper closer to his remaining eye and angling it towards the sunlight coming in from the one window.
“This is…” He glanced her way, then back at the sketch. “Did you do this, Pearl?”
No one in Noelle had ever seen her drawings before. In fact, before she’d bonded with Birdie over the woman’s dress designs, Pearl didn’t think anyone had even realized she sketched. But somehow…somehow, Draven knowing didn’t seem like a bad thing. She instinctively knew he wouldn’t mock her.
So she nodded.
“These are Christmas decorations, aren’t they?” he asked, but didn’t wait for an answer. “This reminds me of the etched illustrations you sometimes see in books…”
His observation surprised her. That was, in fact, the feeling she’d been trying to capture in her sketch.
He looked up then and caught her surprised gaze. Was it her imagination, or did he flush slightly, before sliding the sketch carefully back into her folder?
“Yeah, well…” he cleared his throat. “I…”
Apparently at a loss for what to say, he shoved the folder into her hands, then strode across the small room to pull his hat down off the peg. Slamming it onto his head, he said, “Thanks for the flapjacks,” and hurried out the door.
Pearl stood there in his home, holding her sketches, with the scent of melted butter in the air…and smiled.
CHAPTER FIVE
The third day of Christmas