Bellflower

by Amber Stokes

  Bellflower

  By Amber Stokes

  Copyright Page

  Seasons of a Story Publishing

  www.SeasonsofaStory.blogspot.com

  Kindle Edition

  Bellflower (Prequel to Forget Me Not)

  Copyright © 2014 Amber Christine Stokes

  Fairy Slippers (Companion to Bleeding Heart)

  Copyright © 2014 Amber Christine Stokes

  All Rights Reserved.

  These short stories are works of fiction. Names, characters, places, and events are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Cover design: Lena Goldfinch at Stone Lily Book Designs

  Cover images: Sb Sullivan (Nevada landscape), Candace Hartley (bellflower photo)

  Table of Contents

  Copyright Page

  Table of Contents

  Bellflower: A Retelling of Beauty and the Beast

  Acknowledgements for Bellflower

  Fairy Slippers: A Retelling of Cinderella

  Acknowledgements for Fairy Slippers

  “The Heart’s Spring” Series

  About the Author

  Bellflower: A Retelling of Beauty and the Beast

  Virginia City, Nevada

  Spring 1880

  Annabelle Greer stepped off the train into the welcoming sunlight armed with the one lesson she’d learned from her mother before she passed away: if a woman had beauty, she would never have to be lonely.

  Well, beauty and books. But her mother wouldn’t have understood the addition. Reading was something Annabelle’s father had taught her to appreciate—the only good and proper gift he’d given her.

  Tempted to pull her copy of Northanger Abbey out of her valise and hold it in front of her face to block out the stares, she instead lifted her head high and refused to meet anyone’s gaze as she walked up the hill. It was the same in every town. Everyone seemed to know who she was, how she made her living. She’d studied her features in the mirrors behind the saloon bars countless times—long blond hair, pale blue eyes, slightly upturned nose, unsmiling lips—and had never been able to determine what gave her away. Not every beautiful woman was a prostitute.

  But she was.

  She made her way to C Street, where saloons and shops commingled in an odd, chaotic accord. In a mining town like this, she felt sure she could walk right into the nearest store and simply ask where she might find a local nest of soiled doves. With the barest lift of the corners of her mouth, she did just that.

  A bell rang as she stepped into the general store, and the sound felt like a warning. Her glance skipped over the two women huddled near some lengths of fabric laid out on a table before she caught sight of the main counter. She headed toward it with purpose, preparing herself for the inevitable jeers.

  The door behind the counter stood open, and she stretched out her neck to peek into the shadows. Must be for storage. “Excuse me?”

  One shadow detached itself from the others, rising from a crouched position by some crates to step into the light of the store. “How may I help you?”

  She blinked. The man wasn’t overly large, nor was he the handsomest man she had ever met. Even still, his presence was powerful. Here was a man of authority, and, judging by the gentleness that softened his initially severe expression, he handled his position with fairness. Her eyes flicked over his dark hair, thick brows, near-green gaze, and muscular arms. Her heart didn’t easily melt, but she sensed a dripping in her soul. This man could be the hero of one of the novels she’d read. A veritable Henry Tilney, with thoughtfulness in his eyes and humor waiting for a reason to be freed.

  She took a step back and directed her gaze to the door he had shut behind him, unable to look straight at him while making her request. Her little jest seemed infinitely foolish now. “Might you point me in the direction of”—she coughed into her palm—“the best brothel in town?”

  The man’s eyes widened, and he crossed his arms over his chest while glancing over her figure. She tilted her head to give him an unobstructed view of her neck and cleavage. Her cheeks heated, and she couldn’t seem to fight down the rising red she sensed was tingeing her skin. The blush was unusual. This man would probably think she was new to the life of a prostitute. She often wished she had never known it at all, but such was certainly not the case.

  Growing impatient, she heaved her valise onto the counter and met his stare. “Are you going to help me or not?”

  ***

  Jacob Lawson scratched his chin, wishing he was strong enough to help the woman in the way she needed. But she had intrigued him, and he couldn’t turn those haunting blue eyes away. “Most women wait until night to find me.” He lowered his voice, suddenly aware of how quiet the other two women in the store had become. “Who sent you here?”

  Her brows dropped in confusion. “What do you mean? No one sent me. I only just arrived.”

  He leaned his elbows on the counter. She didn’t pull away.

  “Well, you made a lucky move coming here. I happen to own the very best brothel in town.” A solemn inner prodding stole his smile. “I promise I take good care of my girls.”

  The woman didn’t even flinch. “I’ll give you a week to prove it.”

  He pushed off the counter. She would give him a week? Despite the way the words caused his pride to flare up, he couldn’t help but admire her pluck. And her pretty face. Combined with that spirit, it would be good for business.

  “Come back at sundown, and I’ll show you where you can stay.”

  She nodded once and swiveled on her heel, exiting his store without another word and leaving him feeling strangely bereft.

  ***

  Rufus O’Daniel glanced at his reflection in the window of the general store, raising a hand to smooth back the brown strands that had sprung up from his slicked-back hair. He only paused for a moment, as an O’Daniel was never late for a meeting with his banker. He had ten minutes—plenty of time to uphold his record of punctuality.

  The optimistic thought had barely registered before he ran into the door someone had flung open. He stepped back and rubbed his forehead, a growl rumbling in his throat. A young woman stepped around the door and released a small gasp. “I apologize. I didn’t see you there.”

  Her voice, low but most certainly feminine, reached out to him and soothed his anger. He eyed her hair, alluringly swept to one side of her face and shining gold in the desert sun. Her gaze was blue-gray, nearly silver. Silver and gold. They were all that he desired since they’d redeemed him in the years following his nation’s loss in the War Between the States. But they didn’t have to be of the metal variety to pique his interest.

  “My name’s Rufus O’Daniel.” He offered a slight nod, but no recognition crossed her features. He tried again. “You must be new in town. I would remember a face as lovely as yours.”

  Her pretty pink lips never lifted, and her expression never changed. “I’m new, yes. If you’ll excuse me, I have somewhere else to be.”

  So did he, but he didn’t appreciate the rebuff. He caught hold of her arm as she turned to leave. “Have dinner with me.”

  She met his gaze, her eyes appearing bluer now, like the hottest part of a flame. “Perhaps another time.”

  He let her go then—not because he was giving up the fight, but because he wasn’t about to let the woman make him late for his appointment. Their shoulders brushed as he walked past her, and, when he was far enough away, he angled his head slightly so he could catch one last glimpse of her behind him. She shaded her eyes with a hand, watching him leave.

  He smirked as he continued on his way. It was only a matter of time. He knew at some point she would be his.

  ***

  Annabelle spent her day at the cemetery
, having used most of her money on the train ticket and unwilling to endure the speculative whispers of honorable citizens in the town’s respectable businesses anyway. She stayed well away from any visitors, hiding behind an obelisk and leaning against it as she read about Catherine Morland’s adventures—so much more innocent than her own.

  To be a Catherine instead of an Isabella... If her parents had cared for her and each other as much as Catherine’s parents did, perhaps she might have had a chance at a decent life.

  Instead, she spent her days dwelling on fantasies and her nights enduring nightmares.

  As the sun finally fell behind the mountain the town was built upon, she gathered the skirt of her brown traveling dress, stuffed her book back into her valise, and returned to the store. The building appeared empty, but the ding-ding of the bell swaying above the door brought the proprietor back to the counter. His hair looked darker in the twilight shadows, and his expression appeared tighter, his forehead as hopelessly wrinkled as her dress. She tilted her head, waiting. He knew who she was, what she was there for. No use dispensing pleasantries.

  “This way.” His voice was gruff as he disappeared into the storage room. He couldn’t possibly run a brothel in the very same building as his store, could he? Her senses alert, she stepped around the counter and followed him.

  No windows brightened the little room piled with boxes, but a sliver of light peeked through the cracks around yet another door. She held her valise in front of her, prepared to whack the man and run if he turned out to be a liar. Wouldn’t be the first time she’d met one.

  When he opened the door, she took a step sideways and back, wanting a glimpse of what lay beyond, but determined to put some distance between her and this mysterious man. She first saw some wall sconces, where the light appeared to be coming from, and then some more doors lining a hallway that led to a set of stairs.

  “You own both levels of this building?”

  He startled a bit at her voice. “Yes. The top level is for my store on C Street, and the lower floor is for my brothel on D Street.”

  “You must do very well for yourself, providing for such a wide variety of needs.” She bit off the last word, deciding she hated this man. He may have appeared good at first, but he had turned out to be a beast just like every other man she knew.

  He didn’t respond to her remark as he led the way down the short hall and opened a door on his left. “This will be your room.” He held the door open like some hotel bellboy showing her to her fancy, private room. Of all the aspects of that silly comparison, the one she wished was true was the privacy.

  Rolling her foolish daydreams into a tight ball and flinging it down the stairs in her mind, she stepped into the room. Everything seemed to shimmer gold, even though the light fixtures were probably brass and the blanket on the bed was likely a dull brown in the daylight. She turned and found the man still standing in the doorway, filling up the space in a daunting way.

  “Will you have dinner with me?” He spoke casually, but his posture was stiff.

  She repeated the response she had given that man on the street. “Perhaps another time.”

  His green eyes darkened, but she couldn’t tell if it was disappointment or frustration that caused the change. She hurried to fill the silence with different words. “Does the door lock?”

  “Yes. Why won’t you have dinner with me?”

  She took a few steps toward him. “May I have the key?”

  “I always give my girls their own keys.” His gaze never left her face. “Why didn’t you answer my question?”

  Why couldn’t the man understand the obvious? “I’m paid to entertain clients. Not you.”

  He stepped back. “That’s—”

  She slammed the door before he could finish and leaned back against the wood. Hopefully he would give her the key soon.

  ***

  Jacob pounded his fist once against the closed door, anger as hot as the unrelenting summer sun boiling through his bloodstream. Who did this girl think she was? She acted as if he were a monster, when in reality, they were both hiding in darkness, making their living from carnal acts. She may be beautiful, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t just as depraved as he had become on the inside. In fact, he had come to realize that the most beautiful girls he employed were generally the most heartless of them all.

  With a shake of his head, he headed down the stairs. Luella and Cassandra were already at the bar, like bright-feathered birds preening on a branch. Luella scowled at him, while Cassandra studied him through her lashes, a seductive smile painted on her face.

  He thought of the woman upstairs. She was familiar with this way of life, but she didn’t act like these two. She seemed hardened, yet something subtle and innocent shone from her blue gaze, like a surviving piece of her childhood begged for her life to be nothing but a horrible dream that would end with the first blush of day. It made him think of the two sisters he never really knew—the stillborn girl who would have been three years younger than he, and the baby girl born two years later who never saw her first birthday. In some ways, he was glad they weren’t here to see him now. A terrible part of him was relieved he would never have to shield them from the life he had chosen, nor protect them from the sort of men who frequented his establishment.

  “Where ya been, Jacob?” Cassandra simpered, leaning over the bar so that he had a full view of her cleavage. He averted his eyes, glancing back at the stairs. Cassandra’s thin brows lowered, but he didn’t explain, and the entrance of their piano player distracted the girls.

  As the night wore on and his girls came and went from their rooms, men trailing after them or dancing with them or sharing a drink with them at the bar, he kept silent about the newest member of their “family.” He sent no one up to her room, and she never came down once during the night.

  ***

  Annabelle heard a distant thunder. She groaned, rolling over onto the book she still clutched to her chest. The rumble continued, until it hit her that the sound wasn’t coming from outside, but from her door. She startled and jumped to her feet, swaying with grogginess. What time was it? How long had she been asleep on the floor?

  The door flew open, and there stood the brothel owner. His hair hung over his forehead, his face dark. His bloodshot eyes suggested that he was either drunk or had little sleep. She gripped her book, ready to use it as a weapon in case intoxication was the culprit.

  “I was worried.” He glanced around the small room, as if expecting men to come crawling out from under the bed. His green gaze finally rested on her, dropping down to the book in her hands. “You read?”

  “Yes.” When he didn’t respond, she asked, “Why did you let me sleep all night?” The light barely seeping through the shades on the lone window suggested morning had dawned.

  He walked toward her, and she shuffled back until her legs hit the edge of the bed. She sat, wondering if he would claim her as his own. “Will you still pay me?”

  He dodged her question. “Give me your hand.”

  She squinted at him, hesitantly reaching out. He dropped a key into her palm, curling her fingers over it and keeping her hand enclosed in his. His grip was warm, comforting. Not demanding. The gentle gesture stole her breath and caused her eyes to burn with unwanted tears as she stared at their joined hands.

  “I’ll get you something to eat.”

  She didn’t look up, unwilling to break the moment or his hold. “I can fix myself something, or just wait until the next meal.”

  He withdrew his hand, and she set her own back on the book in her lap, running her knuckles over the leather cover to keep from reaching for him again. Perhaps she should look for work in a different brothel. It was dangerous to feel attracted to a man like this one.

  “Please don’t leave the room.”

  She tilted her head, wary. His hands were now fidgety, and she wondered again if he had been drinking or partaking of something even stronger.

  “I’m not your pri
soner. I can find employment somewhere else, you know.”

  A hint of panic flickered in his eyes. That settled the matter. This man was too overbearing, too possessive. She had enough trouble with the clients—she didn’t need to worry about fending off the brothel owner, too.

  “You said you’d give me a week.” He smiled then, in apparent relief. Did he really think so highly of her character, that a woman like her would keep her word? One corner of her mouth lifted slightly in response.

  “I’ll bring you some food—and another book, if you’d like.”

  She couldn’t resist the offer. She nodded and held the key close to her heart, feeling uncommonly calm as the door clicked shut.

  ***

  Jacob couldn’t keep from looking back at the storage room that led to the hallway where his new girl was staying. My girl. If he wasn’t so tired, he would smile.

  “Man alive, ya look like you could drop right behind the counter and sleep for a week.” Joe Clifton grinned widely, apparently amused by Jacob’s state. “Did the devil get to you last night?”

  Jacob leveled a glare on the boy. “Your brother wouldn’t tolerate such language, and I won’t either.” Joe reminded Jacob of himself at that age—going on eighteen and ready to be accepted as a man. Problem was, the boy had no idea what real manhood required.

  At thirty-two, Jacob wondered if even he had figured it out after all this time.

  He yawned wide, too exhausted to care what the handful of customers wandering the store might think of his manners. He needed to sleep if he hoped to stay awake tonight. And he desperately wanted to.

  Another yawn took over. Joe laughed. “I can watch the store for ya. I’ve been working here for nearly a year, ya know. I know how to handle things.”

  Jacob nodded. “I know you do.” He knew the boy’s brother disapproved of his time in town, and of his work at the store—namely because it was Jacob’s store. Joe never spoke directly of the brothel below, and Jacob never volunteered any information. It was a strange friendship, but Jacob was grateful for it all the same, for the chance to get to know someone beyond his corrupt circle of influence, someone who didn’t judge him and even, possibly, looked up to him.