by Renee Rose
“We were walking in the woods and she gave me a bit of sass.” He shrugged. “I can't remember what, exactly. I sat down on a stump and pulled her over my lap.”
He gazed out the window, unseeing, remembering the smell of the trees, and the early summer air.
“I could feel her trembling, though she protested bravely. I kept it light—no more than a dozen slaps. It was the first spanking I'd ever given and,” he swiveled his eyes to look at Cora, giving her a weak smile. “I was practically shaking myself to keep from squirting my load right there.”
She laughed, as he'd known she would. She did understand him.
“Afterward I kissed her and it was as sweet as honey. I was afraid she might be angry, but she just looked up at me with her eyes shining. Big blue eyes—like yours.”
The pain of her loss shot through him, as if it were fresh.
“What happened to her?” Cora asked softly.
“She drowned.”
The worst moment of his entire life. The day fortune turned to failure. Promise of a future turned to the prison of this existence. He had never spoken of it. Not to anyone. Yet now, with Eliza's young doppelganger sitting next to him, the need to tell it, to be free of his worst secret, bubbled up and spilled over until he heard his own voice speaking as if from far away.
“It was on my watch,” he confessed.
His fault.
“We were swimming in the ocean after a picnic. The tide was coming in and it was getting choppy. I'd just told her we ought to head in when a swell took her. Her head smashed on a rock, she took a breath full of water and went under. It all happened so fast—one moment she was laughing, the next she'd disappeared. I dove for her, dragged her to shore, but I couldn't get her to breathe again.”
He sat in silence, listening to the reverberation of his words through Cora's shocked silence.
“So I left everything. Got on a ship for America and disappeared.”
“How long ago?” her voice came softly.
“1840. Before the potato famine that brought all the rest of the Irish over.”
“And your family?”
He shrugged. “I never wrote.”
“Do you think they survived the famine?”
“Oh aye. My father was in the peerage—they wouldn't have suffered much.”
“What's the peerage?”
“It means he was titled, a landed gentleman—a lord in parliament.”
“Oh,” she said, eyes rounding.
They sat together in silence as guilt over the pain he'd probably caused his family by disappearing washed over him, along with the larger guilt over Eliza's death. The shame of it brought on that familiar burden of responsibility he felt for all the women in his life.
“How is Olive?”
“She's all right. The end of her earlobe that was cut off, but it's already healing and it won't show if she lets her curls fall down over it.
“Good. What happened with the Sheriff?”
She shrugged. “Self-defense.”
He nodded. “Are we open right now?”
“Yes,” she said soothingly. “Olive and Hank are keeping everything going smoothly. You just worry about getting well. Do you think you could eat anything?”
He groaned, the thought of food making him feel nauseous. But he should eat. “How long has it been?”
“Three days.”
“Maybe.” He sighed. “Bring me a little orange juice.”
She stood up to get it.
“Water it down by half.”
At the smile on her lips, he demanded, “What?”
Her smile grew wider. “Like Olive said, nothing stops you from giving orders and trying to manage everything yourself.”
He attempted a shrug and winced at the pain in his shoulder. “'Tis my job.”
“Let us care for you for a change,” she said, crossing the room to the door.
Scowling, he lifted his hand to examine it. It felt different since the Chinese doctor had stuck needles in and rubbed it with the liniment—the pain was still intense, but the hand seemed more alive, and the pain spread out, rather than just at the broken bones. A splint crossed his palm to prevent him from bending at the knuckles and two smaller splints straightened the two fingers connected to the broken bones. He attempted to wiggle his fingers but they didn't move.
He sank his head back into the pillows again, feeling nauseated. He knew one thing—if his hand wasn't going to work again, he'd just as soon die. Aye, he'd welcome his death now—he'd been the walking dead for almost fifteen years now, and it was about time the reaper came to claim him.
When he woke his fever was back. His body was burning and he peered at the swimming room like fish in a glass bowl. Big blue eyes appeared before him and a cup pressed to his lips. It was impossibly sweet—the orange juice he'd asked for earlier. He shook his head and let it fall back.
Come reaper. I'm waiting.
He opened his eyes, remembering that he had details to take care of before he died. His girls needed looking after. “Cora,” he croaked.
The eyes appeared again.
“Look under the bed, lass. There's a loose floorboard. Pry it up.”
The eyes disappeared and he vaguely registered the sounds of her banging around underneath him. When she returned, her face was pale and shocked as she held up the prize he'd sent her for: a huge gold nugget, the size of her fist.
“That's for you. If I die, you take that and get yourself out of here. Go back East, find a nice man and get married.”
“Where did you—? What about—?” she trailed off, her hunger for the gold clearly warring with her growing loyalty to the rest of the girls.
“That's for you,” he said firmly. “I'm leaving this place to Olive. She wants her own brothel, she'll have it. She'll take care of everyone else.”
Cora's eyes widened even further. “You know about that?” Then she answered for herself, “Of course—nothing gets by you, does it?”
“Fetch me some paper and I'll put it in writing. Bring Hank up to witness it.”
Cora put the gold nugget back under the floorboards and then brought the writing utensils and Hank, who stood looking pale under his bushy mustache. He dictated the words to her, and then signed awkwardly with his left hand.
“Hank, I'm leaving it to Olive. Not because I like her any better, but because she wants her own whorehouse. If I left it to anyone else, she'd leave and start her own and I want you all to stick together. We're family, remember?”
Hank swallowed and nodded. “I want you to stay and protect the girls. Help Olive the same way you help me. Will you do that?”
Hank hesitated, and then nodded. “Cora's not staying, though,” he said emphatically. “I've given her the means to get out of here, and I want you to see to it that she does. Understood?” He looked sternly from Hank to Cora.
“Yes, sir,” Hank said.
Cora nodded as well, tears falling down her cheeks.
“That's all, Hank. Thank you,” he said.
Cora blew her nose in a handkerchief as Hank left. Then she glared at him. “You're not going to die, Jake Diggory.”
He patted the bed beside him. “Come here, sweetheart.”
She climbed up next to him, curling under his arm as if she belonged there. She stroked his arm lightly with her fingernails.
“Jake?”
“Mmm?”
“It wasn't your fault, what happened with Eliza.”
He felt his resistance to that statement in the form of a rapid heartbeat, but he didn't waste his energy answering.
“Remember what you told me about becoming a whore? That life is the raging river we get tossed into? Well, life tossed you into the rapids. It wasn't your fault—I don't believe that for one second. It was just what happened—to you and to her. It couldn't be helped.”
His eyes burned with sudden tears and Cora had the wisdom to quietly slip out of the room, leaving him to them.
* * *
“Wh
o appointed her Daddy's personal nurse?”
Cora heard the scathing tone in Marie's voice. Marie had never been kind—resentment had seethed from her since the night Cora first arrived.
“Would you rather she be down here taking all the tricks from us?” Gigi answered in a bored voice.
Olive took notice of Cora's approach and cleared her throat, calling loudly, “How is he?”
She shook her head. “The fever is better since Dr. Yee was here but he's in a horrible mood and the wound still looks infected.”
“I cannot believe you are allowing that Chinaman to put those needles in him. You are probably killing him!”
Cora flushed with anger. “That's not true—he has only improved. And I've done everything Doc Smith ordered as well.” She was going to add that if Marie thought she was a better nurse, she could have a turn, but she held her tongue. She actually didn't want anyone taking her place. In fact, she would put up a fight with anyone who tried to make her leave his side.
“Well,” Olive sighed. “The best thing we can do is keep this place running smoothly for him.”
“How is it going?” Cora asked, looking around. Things seemed relatively normal.
“We're managing. The piano brought in a lot of customers, and we can't very well do our can-can without music.”
Cora chewed her lip and eyed the piano. Could she pluck out the can-can music? Just the basic tune? It was a pretty simple song, with a lot of repetition, really. If this was a way she could pull her weight at Daddy Diggs’, she was up for giving it a shot.
“Is there sheet music for it?”
“Oh, golly. I don't know. He's been playing it without music for as long as I've been here. Why?” she asked, giving her a keen look. “Can you play it?”
She shrugged. “I don't know. I can try.” She sat at the piano and plunked on the notes, trying to find the right ones. She kept at it the rest of the afternoon in between her frequent checks on Daddy Diggs until she had the basic melody. That night, she sat at the piano, warming the audience up singing and playing her rendition of “Oh my darling, Clementine”, the ridiculous song that had somehow sprung up and caught on about a gold rush miner and his daughter. She received a very unenthusiastic response to that attempt, so she took a deep breath and called out, just like Diggory would, “And now, I present to you, Daddy Diggs’ Darlings!” She sat down at the piano and played the melody as loud as she could, to make up for its simplicity. It was enough; the girls' entrance received the usual hoots and hollers, and the focus was on them. She was so engrossed in her playing that she did not notice anyone was near her until suddenly, the low notes were being played. She whipped her head around in surprise, her fingers faltering over the keys for a moment.
“Go on,” Diggory said gruffly. He looked pale and wan, but had somehow put on a boiled shirt and waistcoat. Even as haggard as he looked, he was the most dapper man in the place.
She flashed him a brilliant smile, thrilled to see him up and out of bed and sitting beside her. He winked, continuing his intricate finger work as if it were the easiest thing on earth.
“Go on, lass, I can't play that part.”
“Yes, sir,” she murmured, smiling to herself as she struck up the tune again.
On stage, the girls whirled and kicked, putting on the performance that made Daddy Diggs’ brothel famous. Diggory talked her through the ending, telling her to repeat the chorus, to slow down, to hold the ending note as he filled out the song.
When she turned to him, giddy with pleasure that between the two of them they'd been able to play the song, she saw a sheen of sweat on his forehead, and strained jaw muscles, as if he were gritting his teeth against pain.
Her thrill instantly morphed back to the overriding fear that had racked her since he'd been shot.
“You should get back to bed,” she said anxiously.
His eyebrows drew together. “You are not in charge of me, little girl,” he said very sternly, and then kissed her forehead to soften his words. She watched helplessly as he stood and stiffly walked the length of the room to perch on a bar stool and survey his business. Her belly clenched with worry and a hollowness permeated her soul.
She ought to be happy. She ought to be thrilled that Diggory was well enough and that things would now be returning to normal. Except that normal was completely distasteful to her. She didn't want to return to working the floor for money. She didn't want to give up her post beside Jake Diggory's bed, even though she wanted him well. And now that the idea of taking that gold nugget and leaving Dorado Hills had been planted, she didn't want to stay. But she had no choice, did she?
She stood from the piano and squared her shoulders, forcing her feet to carry her through the hall, her hips to sway provocatively and her lips to curve in invitation. She found a miner who lifted a dollar at her, and drew up a chair beside him, providing her companionship as he gambled away his earnings. The emptiness inside her was overwhelming.
It was a familiar feeling. It was the same soulless feeling she'd had since her parents died and Smoochy had put her to work selling her body for money. It was only Jake Diggory who had made her feel alive again. With his piano. With his passion. With his tender punishments. He truly saw her, understood her.
But no… that wasn't right.
He was only kind to her because she looked like his dead fiancée. In fact, he didn't know her at all.
* * *
“Jesus, I wish he'd just spank us all and get it over with,” Olive complained to Gigi and Marie, not knowing he was in his room and could hear every word they spoke from the bunk room. He had admittedly been on a tear—his black mood causing him to lash out at anyone and everyone in his path. It had been weeks since his injury and he'd been in a foul temper every moment of them. He couldn't stand feeling so helpless, unable to use the fingers of his dominant hand.
“Isn't that the problem? He won't be spanking anyone for a long time. At least not with that hand.”
“I don't think it's the spanking so much as the piano playing that he's missing.”
He heard a creak outside his room and then a light tap on his door. He threw it open with a force that caused it to bang against the wall.
Cora jumped back a little, but said nothing, clearly prepared for his ire. She chewed her lip.
“What?” he snarled.
The sound of his voice brought an abrupt halt to the gossip from the bunk room and the girls hurried out and down the stairs, casting him glances under their lashes on their way.
“May I come in?”
His brow wrinkled in surprise, but he stepped back and allowed her to pass. She walked into the room with a swish of skirts, her narrow waist accented in a light blue satin affair. She paced aimlessly through his room, finally coming to sit on his trunk, her two knees pressed primly together in sharp contrast to her revealing costume.
She didn't belong in this hellhole he called his business. He felt an overwhelming urge to press that gold nugget back into her palm and tell her to get herself out of California. He hadn't moved it from the hiding place he'd revealed to her, even knowing she had a propensity to steal. For one thing, he wanted to believe she was trustworthy. But if she disappointed him, well, he'd be glad she got the hell out.
“I truly thought I was going to die that night of the fire,” she said at last.
He didn't answer, but studied her beauty—the smooth, creamy complexion, the shadow of her dimples, the underlying intelligence behind the doll-like face.
“Once I had resigned myself to it, I found I was ready, actually looking forward to it. I wanted to know—you know—about heaven.” She shrugged. “Or hell,” she said in a wry voice that seemed incongruent with her innocent appearance. “I thought I might see my parents again.”
His heart had picked up speed; every part of him was listening intently. She was describing something akin to what he'd experienced after his gunshot wound.
“And then you showed up, and rescued me. And
I hated you for it.”
An unnamed emotion swept through him. He crossed the room and pulled her to her feet. She blinked at him, unafraid. “I hate you for it, too,” he growled.
She nodded, unaffected. “I thought so.”
Then he was kissing her, crushing her lips with his own, plunging his tongue into her mouth with the ferocity of a wild animal. With his good hand, he grasped her hair and pulled her head back. Her mouth opened and she panted, her breath too constricted in her corset to sustain much more excitement. He stared down at her.
This again. This cannot be. He did not have sex with his girls.
Why did she bring out the beast in him? He dragged his lips over her face until he reached her ear, which he nipped with his teeth.
“You make me weak,” he said hoarsely.
“You make me strong.”
She did look strong—not the innocent Eliza, but Cora, brave enduring Cora, who understood what it was like to want to die. They were two of a kind, weren't they? He pulled her head back even further, to expose her neck, which he bit and kissed, working his way lower, down the creamy expanse of her heaving chest. He tugged at her dress, trying to free a breast from her corset, but the fingers of his broken hand wouldn't work, wouldn't move as he commanded them. She started to lift her fingers to help.
“Don't,” he gritted.
She clutched at his arms to steady herself instead, because he refused to let go of her hair to use his good hand. After another moment of struggle with the bodice, he released her all at once in frustration, and they stumbled back from each other. He picked up a book from his trunk and hurled it across the room. It struck the bedside table as it fell, overturning the lantern, which crashed to the floor with a clatter of broken glass.
Cora stared at him, still unafraid in the face of his rage.
“Get out,” he panted. “Please.”
When she didn't move, he shouted, “Get out!”
She drew back and some emotion crossed her face before it went resolutely blank.
“I can't—I don't want this.” He was pleading now, willing her to understand. He knew she could.
She nodded and turned for the door, her back stiff, her head held high.