by Caroline Lee
“Does that bother you?”
“Oh no,” she was quick to say, lifting her head off his shoulder to look into his face. Her expression was earnest, and made him want to smile.
“I have to tell you the truth, Draven. The last few days, living with you, have been like a dream come true. Thank you for letting me share this with you, even if it's just for a short time.”
Something seemed to be clogging his throat. He had to swallow twice before he could answer. “You must have some mighty odd dreams.”
“Why do you say that?”
Her fingers were now tracing the swirls of hair on his chest. He clamped his free hand down over them to keep them still.
“I just mean,” he said gruffly, “that living with a one-eyed old badger like me shouldn't be any woman's idea of a dream come true.”
Something in her expression shifted, and he didn't like it. He knew he wasn't worthy of a woman like her, but he also didn't like to make her sad.
“Sorry,” he mumbled.
That's when she rolled on top of him. Bracing herself on either side of his shoulders, her blonde hair swung down the sides of her face and draped on each side of his head, making a little cave for just the two of them. She smiled.
“I've been in love with you for almost two years, Sheriff Draven.” Her lips seemed to caress the words as she whispered them. “I just wanted you to know that.”
She...she loved him?
Even with his reputation? Even with the way he looked?
He lay there, stunned, until she bounced a little and he remembered the joys of having a nude woman over him.
“Well? Aren't you going to say something?”
His mind worked frantically. He had to say something to prove how he felt about her.
“Gilder.”
She blinked down at him. “Gilder…?”
“That's my name.” He took a deep breath. “Gilder Draven. I've never told anyone else that.”
She smiled slightly, as if she understood the value of his confession. “That's a nice name. Gilder.”
“It's a dumb name,” he scoffed. “But it was my mother's family name, and I was her only child. As she was dying, she put her ring on my finger, and told me to never forget who I was.”
Balancing her weight on one arm, he felt her take his left hand in her free one. Her fingers traced the gold band on his smallest finger, without looking away from his face.
“And who was that?”
“Her Gilder. Her golden child.” Draven remembered the way his mother would stroke his hair and call him that. “She died before that grizzly got me, before everything in my life turned dark.”
Pearl’s fingers threaded through his, and she shifted so she was straddling his hips. A bolt of desire lanced through him, even though he’d so recently been sated.
“Is that what you think?” she asked. “That everything is dark?”
He felt himself smile. He’d smiled more in the last few days than he had in the last twenty years, and it was all thanks to this woman. This woman who could match him passion for passion, and who could teach him things about himself. This woman he loved.
“Well,” he drawled, clamping his free hand on her waist and pulling her against him. “Not everything.”
She was laughing when their lips met, and the sound of her joy made his heart soar.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The fifth day of Christmas
December 29th, 1876
Midday on December twenty-ninth, Pearl hummed while she swept the wooden floor of Draven's home, once again wearing the amethyst dress that made her feel like a real lady. She’d been surprised to find the well-used broom in a corner in his office, but when she thought about it, she realized he kept his space neat. In fact, despite his scarring—which often made him look disheveled or unkempt because his beard couldn’t grow straight—he was always neatly groomed.
It was actually one of the things that had attracted her to him when she first arrived at La Maison. Unlike many of the other male residents of Noelle, his clothes were regularly laundered, and he never stunk of unwashed flesh. It was why she was glad to welcome him to her bed, when the other girls shuddered at his appearance. But when she’d discovered what a fine lover he was, she’d made sure to stake her claim on him from that day forward.
And after the last two nights here in his arms, Pearl had no regrets. Cooking for him, keeping his home, and finding joy in his arms each evening; she hadn’t lied when she’d told him it was a dream come true for her. Oh, she knew she could never be his wife—or anyone's wife, for that matter—thanks to the things she’d had to do to stay alive. But the last few days have given her hope that maybe the life she'd always wanted wasn't impossible. If he would be willing to allow her to stay with him, if he would be willing to be associated with her, despite her past…
But how could she leave La Maison? How could she leave the girls, who always seemed to rely on her, who came to her when they needed to talk, or a shoulder to cry on? If she wasn't there, Madame would run roughshod over all of them.
Pearl swept a little pile of dirt out the door into Draven's office. She'd stopped humming, and was now chewing on her lip.
Could she give up her previous life for Draven?
What a ridiculous question. Of course she could! She would give up almost anything to have a life with him. She would never miss the groping, grunting, heaving humiliation of sharing her body with men she didn't love.
But that same humiliation is what kept her from ever having a life with a good man like Draven.
He’d left early that morning, while she’d been still in bed. They'd made love one more time—and he’d made her body sing, as always—then he’d smacked her rear end, and with a smile, told her to go back to sleep. She’d lazily watched him dress, then followed his instructions.
It wasn't until she was awake and dressed and fixing some tea and toast for herself that she thought to wonder where he'd gone. He wasn't in his office, but some of the things had been moved around, as if he'd been working there. After planning the menu for the day, she’d decided to do a little sketching. After all, it was only four days after Christmas; maybe she could draw something nice as a present for him. A way to say “thank you” for everything he’d done for her these last days.
But when she went looking, she hadn't been able to find the folder of her artwork. She shrugged, assuming he had moved it somewhere, and decided to clean up in the hopes of finding it. That's when she’d fetched the broom and gone to work on his rooms.
As she swept around his desk, Pearl wondered what Draven was doing today. Was he thinking about her? About what they’d shared last night? Was he remembering her confession? Was he regretting what he told her?
It hadn't taken much bravery for her to confess her love for him. After all, she had a hard time not shouting it from the rooftops every time he was kind to her.
But it was his reaction which intrigued her the most. He hadn't said anything about her words of love… but he had told her his name. In all the time she’d lived in Noelle, in all the years she—and everyone else in the West—had heard of his exploits, his given name had never been mentioned. It was one of the things which fed into his mythology. Too many people assumed he was Indian, or equally savage, because the thought he had no Christian name.
She smiled as she swept her pile of dirt towards the outside door. As it turned out, Draven had a given name just like everyone else…he just thought it was dumb.
“Gilder Draven.” She said the name aloud, then repeated it just for fun. “Gilder Draven.”
His secret was safe with her. She recognized the importance of what he’d told her. He was trusting her with the truth, and to her, that was just as much a declaration as her confession of love had been to him
No matter what happened tomorrow, or even next week after Mr. Stiles had reported back to the Denver and Pacific Railroad, she would always have the memories of these few days.
&nb
sp; Holding the broom in one hand, she reached for the door with the other, hoping it would be possible to open it just enough to sweep the dirt outside, then slam it closed before the cold air rushed in.
But when she pulled the door open, a man stood on the other side.
She squealed in surprise, then berated herself for such a silly reaction. It wasn't until she realized the man staring down at her impassively was Mr. Stiles that she reminded herself of her masquerade. Maybelle definitely would have squealed in surprise, and possibly done more. So she added another little scream and a fluttering hand movement for good measure.
“Mister Stiles! Whatever are you doing, hovering around outside my husband's office?”
It wasn't until Mr. Stiles lowered his arm that Pearl realized he'd been about to knock. Oh well. Maybelle wouldn't be flustered over the mistake. She drew herself up haughtily and glared at him. “Well? Are you just going to stand there or—”
“Get your coat and gloves,” he barked, sounding not at all like the very fine gentlemen Pearl thought him to be yesterday.
No, now he sounded much more threatening.
“Whatever for? My husband will—”
“Just do it,” he growled, glancing over his shoulder as if her mention of Draven had made him nervous. “Don't make me regret taking the time to be polite.”
Commanding her to get her coat was being polite? She couldn’t imagine what her stepping outside had to do with his job from the railroad, but she knew she had to see this masquerade through to the end.
She propped the broom up beside the door, pulled her coat down from the peg, and was shrugging into it as she stepped outside and pulled the door closed behind her.
“Now, Mister Stiles, what's this all about?”
To her surprise, he grabbed her by the elbow and began to walk, forcing her to hurry along beside him.
“Mister Stiles!” She tried to dig in her heels, but he just pulled harder.
“Miss Anderson,” he growled, turning a fierce look to her, “Do not make me use force.”
With his free hand he moved his coat out of the way, and she saw the grip of a pistol poking out of his belt. The blood drained from her face at the realization Draven had been right.
Mr. Stiles was suspicious as hell.
She swallowed and tried to act as harmless as possible. “I—I don’t think I quite understand, Mr. Stiles.”
Why hadn’t anyone stopped them? Usually the streets were teeming with men, but not right now. And besides, even if one of the men from Noelle was watching, he wouldn’t see a lady in need of rescue, but a whore being manhandled by a customer. There’d be no salvation from any of them.
Dread filled her stomach, and acid rose up her throat. What did Mr. Stiles want from her? She slowly pulled her gloves from her pocket with her free hand, but instead of putting them on, dropped one in front of the dry goods store. It was a long shot, but perhaps Draven would see it.
“My name isn’t Anthony Stiles,” her abductor confessed as he yanked her down the street once more. “I just borrowed that name from the poor sod Denver and Pacific is planning on sending to this pitiful little town in January.”
What? He wasn’t actually the representative from the railroad? Why is he here, then?
“I needed an excuse to track you down,” he continued. “I’m really Peter Abernathy.”
He said that name as if she was supposed to recognize it, but Pearl was too busy trying to tamp down on her panic to think it through. “So? Why does that mean you’re dragging me out of—of my husband’s home?” She tossed down the other glove, hoping against hope someone would see it.
He didn’t slow. “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten me already, Maybelle?”
Should she know him? She pressed her lips tight, willing him to tell her more. To her relief, he jerked to a stop, his fingers digging into her arm.
His horrible mustache curled into a sneer. “If you’d only agreed to marry me in the first place, I wouldn’t have had to resort to such trickery. I could’ve courted you properly, like your father wanted.” he dragged her closer, leering at her. “But no. You refused to even meet me, and then you ran off and did something this foolish.”
Understanding bloomed with a slow glow that filled her stomach and eased some of the dread. Stiles—or rather, Abernathy—still thought she was Maybelle. He was the mysterious suitor Maybelle had told her all about.
That seemed like a lifetime ago, but when she counted back Pearl realized it had only been five days.
While she'd been distracted, Abernathy decided to continue his flight and jerked her forward into a stumbling walk. The panic returned with the realization this man—this crazy man—was determined to marry her. Unbidden, a laugh rose up inside her. Imagine! A fine gentleman kidnapping her for marriage! Had he known she was a whore, he likely wouldn’t have ever touched her.
He objected to her laughter.
“Stop it!” he hissed, yanking cruelly on her arm. “Why are you laughing?”
The pain quickly subdued Pearl’s helpless mirth, but she couldn't stop herself from asking, “So…what? Your plan is to drag me to Denver? To marry me? You seem to have conveniently forgotten I'm already married.”
At this point, the only thing she could think of to discourage his plan to lie—to remind him of her supposed marriage to a man as intimidating as Draven.
Without slowing, Abernathy pulled aside his jacket again. This time, rather than focusing on the gun, Pearl noticed the little book shoved into his waistband beside it.
“That looks like…”
“This dumb little town’s marriage ledger,” Abernathy confirmed. “Without it, there's no record of your marriage. I'm fairly certain with the right bit of persuasion, you’ll learn how to keep your mouth shut.”
The way he said it left no doubt as to what kind of persuasion he meant. Pearl’s chest felt as if a giant weight was resting on it—not out of fear of what Abernathy had planned for her, but concern for the town. Without that ledger, the town would have no way to prove to the real Mr. Stiles—and the Denver and Pacific Railroad—they could meet the deadline.
They were almost to the outskirts of town. They’d passed the blacksmith and Mr. Penworthy’s land office, and were heading west towards the pass where the brides had come through only a few days ago when Pearl’s panic became even more real. Abernathy was about to single-handedly doom Noelle’s chances of bringing a railroad spur in, thus ensuring the town's future.
“Wait!” she shouted, digging in her feet and pulling Abernathy to a stop. “What about my husband? Even without the ledger, you can't just ignore the fact I'm married already.” She wasn't sure how much longer to keep up the pretext of being Maybelle, but Draven was the only card she could think to play right now. “He's going to come after me.”
“Your husband?” Abernathy's harsh bark of laughter startled her as much as his yank on her elbow. “I'm counting on it!” He reached inside his jacket and wrapped his fingers around the grip of his gun.
Instead of frightening her, however, Abernathy's bold claim made her want to laugh again. There was no way he'd be able to stand, not against her Draven.
Abernathy must’ve noticed her mirth, because he shook her again. Rather than cowing her, his action made her laughter burst forth, and he threw her away from him. Unable to stop her panicked giggles, Pearl fell into a snowbank, catching herself on her hands and knees.
It wasn’t the sight of his gun—in his hand, not by his side—that sobered her, but the sound her beautiful purple gown made as it caught on her heel and ripped.
This wasn’t funny. It had never been funny.
Abernathy was sneering down at her. “Get up! Get up and tell me why you think this is so funny, you—you—you—whore.”
Oh dear. Now that was a little funny.
Still on her hands and knees, Pearl managed a small, shaky smile. “Since you’ve confessed the truth of your name to me, Mr. Abernathy, I think you deserve t
he same in return.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” The gun in his hand wobbled slightly. “Get up and explain yourself!”
She slowly stood, trying not to wince at the pain in her legs and palms from the snow and gravel. “It’s just this: you’re an impostor, right?”
He glared in response.
“Well…” Pearl shrugged. “So are we.”
He frowned. “Excuse me?”
“I’m not Maybelle Anderson. And my— And the man pretending to be my husband isn’t Horatio Smythe.”
“What?” The man’s gun wavered again, as if he was trying to decide what to do with it. “Why would you…?”
She shrugged, clenching her stinging hands into fists, wishing she had her gloves. “We were trying to fool the real Mr. Stiles into giving the town until the agreed-upon deadline. With the real Horatio and Maybelle’s marriage recorded in the ledger, and us here pretending to be them, we hoped the railroad would count us towards the official required number of married couples.”
“So you’re saying you’re not Maybelle Anderson?” His voice had gone low and deadly. “You tricked me?”
She shrugged, pretending bravery she didn’t feel. “Well, to be fair, you tricked us first.”
“Where’s Maybelle and her inheritance?”
If nothing else, she could discourage Mr. Abernathy from tracking down Maybelle. “She really did marry Horatio Smythe, just as the ledger says.” Pearl nodded to the small book. “But Horatio is very wealthy”—and an ass—“so they’re already traveling to his family’s home, where I imagine they’ll be well-protected.”
Abernathy cursed, loud and long, and kicked the snowbank beside him. Pearl watched him warily for an opening, wondering if she could run back to safety. To Draven.
She began cautiously. “So how about I just go back into Noelle, and we’ll forget this ever happened? You can be long gone before my pretend husband comes looking for me.” She prayed Draven was even now looking for her—that he cared enough about her to look for her.
Unfortunately, it looked like her time was up. Between one heartbeat and the next, Abernathy’s gun was no longer wobbling in his hand—it was pointed straight at her head.