by Sandra Brown
Priscilla had seen to it that her reputation flourished. She gave, her customers their money's worth in those days. Sometimes more than they paid for. She was popular. She saved her money. When she had enough, she went to one of her loyal customers, a banker, and had him secretly underwrite her purchase of the saloon. They bought out the former madam and converted it into a high-class pleasure palace that attracted not only the rowdy cowboys but the cattlemen who hired them. No expense was spared and the investment had been a wise one. She paid off the banker in two years. Except for the outrage of the "decent" community, her establishment, located in the area of town known as Hell's Half Acre, had given Priscilla little to worry about financially.
"If you need a job, you can always have one here dealing cards or acting as bouncer."
Jake laughed and set his empty glass on the table beside the chaise. "No thanks, Priscilla. I'm a cowboy. I don't like walls around me. Besides, according to you, if I were here constantly, your girls would stay all aflutter. We can't have that, can we?" he taunted.
Priscilla frowned as she pulled on a black satin dress. The purple plume in her hair had been replaced by a shiny black one anchored by a rhinestone clip. Jake Langston had gotten too big for his britches. She smothered a smile as she "corrected" her thought. Jake Langston had always been too big for his britches. He certainly wasn't deficient when it came to manly endowments.
She eyed him covertly as she pulled on the long black lace gloves that encased her fingers and forearms. He had matured to become too damned attractive. No wonder he was conceited. He had been towheaded in his youth. Now his hair had ripened, but marginally. Those white-blond strands were like a beacon, drawing women to him like moths to a lantern's flame.
His skin had been tanned like leather. Long hours of exposure had turned it a coppery hue that intensified the blue of his eyes. Fine lines were etched around his eyes and down both corners of his mouth. But rather than detracting from his appearance, that weather erosion added a new dimension to his attractiveness that hadn't been there in his youth.
He was ragged. Tough. Latently dangerous. He seemed to have a secret lurking behind his lazy smile. The smile hinted that the secret was naughty and that he was dying to share it. And his cockiness made him a challenge no woman could resist.
Priscilla remembered the boy she had sexually initiated. Their tumbles had been hot and frequent, fierce and hard. What would they be like now? For years he had wanted to know.
"Will you be staying in Fort Worth for a while?"
"I'm on my way to east Texas tonight. I'm taking a late train. Remember the Colemans? Their daughter is getting married tomorrow."
"Coleman? The one from the wagon train? Ross, wasn't it?" She knew well whom he was speaking about, but she wanted to provoke him as much as he always wanted to provoke her. It was a game they played every time they saw each other. "And what was that woman's name? The one he charitably married."
"Lydia," he said tightly.
"Oh, yes, Lydia. She didn't have a last name, did she? I always wondered what she was hiding." laking the stopper out of a crystal perfume bottle, she dabbed it behind her ears, on her neck, her wrists, her breasts. "I hear they've done quite well for themselves with that horse ranch."
"They have. My mother lives on their land. So does my kid brother, Micah."
"That little toddler?"
"He's grown now. One of the best horsemen I've ever seen."
"What happened to Mr. Coleman's baby? The one Lydia wet-nursed before they got married."
Jake pondered a moment, looking for rancor from Priscilla. Finally he answered. "Lee. He and Micah are two of a kind. Always raising hell."
Priscilla contemplated her reflection in the mirror and patted her hair. "And they have a daughter old enough to get married?"
Jake smiled fondly. "Barely. Last time I saw her, she was still in braids, chasing Lee and Micah, begging to go along to round up a rogue stallion."
"A tomboy?" Priscilla asked, pleased. She remembered how Jake used to gaze at Lydia Coleman with calf eyes. All the men on the wagon train had been attracted to her, despite their wives' reluctance to accept her at first. If Lydia hadn't married Ross Coleman, Priscilla would have been insanely jealous of her. She liked to think of Lydia's daughter as an awkward, gangling girl, or a stringy tomboy.
"I guess if she's getting married, she must have changed some since I last saw her."
Priscilla picked up her fan and twirled around in front of him, preening. "Well?"
The bodice of the dress was tightly nipped in at her waist. The neckline was wide and low, barely covering her breasts with a lace as fine as that of her gloves. Its pattern didn't conceal the rouged nipples beneath. In front, the skirt rode the vamp of her black satin slippers and flowed into a short train in back. A modern bustle contributed to the hourglass shape of her figure.
Cynical blue eyes raked her insolently. "Very nice, but then I always did say you were the prettiest whore I ever knew.'' He watched the temper flare in her gray eyes. Laughing softly, he reached for her hand and yanked her down onto the chaise with him. Her fan flew out of her hand and landed softly on the floor. The plume in her hair was knocked awry, but Priscilla didn't object as Jake rolled her beneath him.
"You've been strutting your stuff for me all night, haven't you, Pris? Hm? Well, I reckon it's time I gave you what you've been asking for."
He slanted his mouth hard over hers.
Hungrily her lips opened for the intrusion of his tongue. Her girls hadn't exaggerated. He knew what he was doing. He summoned every feeling place in her body with that kiss and they all responded. His body was hard and rangy. She arched up against him as her fingers tangled in the thick blond hair at his nape.
With a practiced movement his hand found its way beneath her skirts and onto her thigh just above her lacy garter. He stroked the warm, quivering flesh. She raised her knee.
"Hm, yes, Jake, Jake," she whispered as her mouth moved over his.
He wedged his free hand between their bodies. She thought he was adjusting his clothing and looked up at him stupidly when he dangled a pocket watch in front of his eyes and checked the time. "Sorry, Pris." He made an insincere clucking sound with his mouth. "I've got a train to catch."
Furious, she threw him off her. "You bastard!"
Laughing, Jake rolled off the chaise. "Is that any way to talk to an old friend?"
Priscilla did something she rarely did. She lost her temper. "You stupid hillbilly! You dumb lout! Do you really think I wanted to make love to you?"
"Yeah, I really think you did." He winked at her and headed for the parlor. "Sorry to disappoint you."
"Aren't I good enough for you anymore?"
He spun around. "You're good enough. Too good. The best. That's why I don't want you. Because you're the best whore around."
"You sleep with whores all the time. That's all you ever sleep with."
"But if I don't know them, I can pretend it's something else. I can pretend that I'm the only one who's been there. You've been a whore since I've known you. Dozens of men have been in your bed. It kinda takes the romance out of it for me."
Her face went livid and Jake realized just how ugly she could be. "It's your brother, isn't it? You never got over being with me the day he died."
"Shut up."
He said it so emotionlessly that it terrified her. She took a step backward, but didn't relent completely. "You're still a dumb Tennessee hillbilly. Oh, you taught yourself to talk better. Your short temper has won you a reputation that men respect. You know how to please the ladies. But underneath you're still Bubba Langston, a stupid hick."
He stopped at the door. His eyes were no longer alight with mischief, but cold and hard. The skin over his face was stretched taut, the lines on the sides of his mouth more deeply engraved. "No, Priscilla. That boy Bubba vanished a long time ago."
Priscilla's fury subsided. Her eyes narrowed as she gazed up at him. "I'm going to prove to
you that you still want me. That's a promise. One of these days you'll let yourself remember what it was like with us. We were just kid. Lusty, hot, dying for it. It could be that way again." Tilting her head back, she laid her hand on his chest. "I'll have you again, Jake."
Jake remembered too well the first time they had been together. That afternoon was indelibly imprinted on his mind. He removed her hand. "Don't count on it, Priscilla."
He closed the door to her private chamber behind him and stood there a moment meditatively. Business had picked up. The evening's diversions were in full swing. Scantily clad girls drifted through the parlors and gaming rooms, teasing, flirting, displaying their wares to the patrons. Several glanced at him expectantly, breathlessly.
He smiled but didn't offer them any encouragement, It wasn't that he didn't have the urge. He had been several weeks without a woman. While he would never have taken Priscilla, he wasn't made of wood either. The sight of her unclothed, the scent of female flesh, had been a strong stimulant.
One more glass of whiskey? One more game of cards? One hour in one of the upstairs bedrooms, one moment of forgetfulness?
"Hiya, Jake."
One of the whores sidled up to him. "Hi, Sugar." Sugar Dalton had been in Priscilla's employ since Jake had been frequenting the place. "How're things?"
"Can't complain," she replied, smiling thinly through her lie. The lines tracking through her heavy makeup told nun how bad things were and how much she hated her life. But she was pathetically resigned to it and anxious to please. Jake had always felt sorry for her. "I could make you feel good tonight, Jake," she said hopefully.
For her sake, he was almost tempted to take her upstairs. Instead he shook his head no. "But you can fetch my hat and saddlebag for me. Here's the ticket." He fished in his pocket for his claim check and she rushed off. When she came back, he tipped her fifty cents, much more than her errand, which he could just as easily have done for himself, was worth.
"Thanks, Sugar."
"Any time, Jake." She gazed at him with open invitation.
Should he be benevolent to her, kind to his starved body? No. Before he could change his mind he began making his way through me throng toward the front door. He had to catch that last train tonight. He was expected in Larsen tomorrow morning.
Banner Coleman was getting married.
ONE
It was Banner Coleman's wedding day.
She felt every bit a bride as she stood at the back of the church, out of sight behind a flower-bedecked screen, and gazed at the people who had given up a Saturday afternoon to come see her marry Grady Sheldon.
Just about everybody in Larsen had been invited. And it seemed, judging by the crowd that was rapidly filling the pews of the church, that all those who had received an invitation had dressed up in their Sunday finery and were in attendance.
Banner shifted her feet slightly, liking the rustling sound the silk gown made against her legs. The skirt was fashionably narrow and draped over matching satin pumps. The excess fabric was gathered into a soft bustle in the back, which cascaded into a short train. The tulle yoke, which opened high under her chin like the trumpet of a lily, was beaded with tiny pearls. It was sheer to where it met the underlying silk at the gentle slope of her breasts. It was a provocative design, especially since it so snugly fit Banner's shapely figure, but it was sweetly virginal too. The lace veil mat modestly covered her dark hair and her face had been ordered by Larsen's finest seamstress all the way from New York.
Normally Banner liked vibrant colors, but the ivory wedding gown was a perfect contrast for her midnight black hair. Her complexion was the color of ripe apricots, not buttermilk pale, as was the vogue, because she preferred to stay out in the sun without what proper ladies considered the necessary protection of a parasol.
From her mother she had inherited a tendency to freckle across the bridge of her nose. These blemishes were lamented by the ladies in the sewing circles. "Such a pretty little thing, if only she would be more careful of our sun." Banner had come to terms with her face long ago. It wasn't classically pretty, but she rather liked its unconventionality. She couldn't be worried about anything as trivial as a few freckles. Besides, Mama had them. And Mama was beautiful.
From both parents she had gotten her eyes. Papa's were green. Mama's were the color of whiskey. Hers were somewhere in between—gold, shot through with green. "Cat eyes" some would say. But that wasn't quite accurate, for there was no gray in them, only that deep topaz gold swirling through the green.
The crowd was growing expectant and restless. The organist began to play. The pump organ wheezed only slightly. Happiness bubbled inside Banner and tinted her cheeks a peachy hue. She knew she looked lovely. She knew she was loved. She felt like a bride.
Every pew in the church was filled. From the center aisle ushers politely requested that people scoot close together to accommodate the crowd. Thankfully there was a southern breeze coming through the tall stately windows, six on each side of the church, and it gently fanned the wedding guests on mis warm spring afternoon. The gentlemen squirmed and tugged on their uncomfortably tight collars. The ladies, their organdy ruffles fluttering, waved lacy fans and dainty handkerchiefs.
The scent of roses, cut fresh that very morning, filled the air. Dewdrops still clung to the velvety petals. Impartial to any one color, Banner had chosen to use every color of bloom available from ruby red to snowy white. Her three bridesmaids, standing in a small huddle only a few feet in front of her, were dressed in pastel gowns with wide sashes. They looked as fragile as the flowers decorating the church.
It was about the most perfect wedding Banner Coleman could imagine.
"Are you ready, Princess?"
She turned her head and looked through her veil at her father. She hadn't heard him moving to take his place beside her. "Papa, you look so handsome!"
Ross Coleman flashed her a smile that had stilled the hearts of scores of women. Maturity only heightened his attractiveness. There were now silver strands at his temples and in his wide, lavish mustache. At fifty-two, he was as tall and broad-shouldered as ever. Hard work had kept him trim and lean. Dressed in a dark suit and white shirt with a high collar, he was as handsome as a bride could wish her father to be.
"Thank you," he said, bowing slightly.
"It's no wonder Mama married you. Did you look this handsome on your wedding day?"
His eyes flickered away from her for a moment. "Best as I recollect, I didn't." It had rained that day. He recalled a soggy group of migrants gathered outside his wagon, a frightened Lydia looking like she was going to bolt at any moment, and himself resentful and angry. He had been roped into marrying her and he'd been furious. Little had he known that it would prove to be the best thing he'd ever done in his life. He had begun to change his mind about her when the preacher said, "You may now kiss your bride," and he had kissed her for the first time.
"You got married on the wagon train."
"Yes."
"I'll bet Mama didn't mind if you weren't so dressed up."
"I guess she didn't," he said with soft gruffness.
His eyes scanned the front of the church until they lighted on the woman who had been escorted to the front row just a few minutes before.
"She looks beautiful today," Banner said, following the direction of his gaze. Lydia was dressed in a beaded gown of honey-colored silk. Sunlight slanting through one of the windows caught the reddish glints in her hair.
"Yes, she does."
Banner nudged him teasingly with her elbow. "You always think she looks beautiful."
Ross's eyes came back to his daughter. "I always think you do too." He studied her carefully, taking in the gown and veil that made her somehow untouchable. She would soon belong to someone else. He would no longer be the most important man in her life.
It brought an ache to his throat to acknowledge that then-relationship would forever change after today. He wanted her to be a little girl still, his prince
ss. "You're a beautiful bride, Banner. Your mother and I love you. We don't give you up lightly, even to a fine young man like Grady."
"I know, Papa." Tears clouded her eyes. Coming up on her toes, she lifted the veil and kissed his hard cheek. "I love you too. You know how much I must love Grady if I'd leave you and Mama to marry him."
Her eyes sought the front of the church just as the door behind the choir loft opened. Their minister, Grady, and his three groomsmen solemnly filed out and took their places beneath the arch of garlands and flowers.
Her tears dried instantly and Banner's mouth widened in a smile of sheer gladness. Grady looked very handsome in his dark suit. His chestnut hair had been brushed until it gleamed. He stood straight and tall, if a bit rigid.
He had stood much like that the first time Banner ever saw him. It was at his father's funeral. She hadn't known the Sheldons. Grady's mother had died before they moved to Larsen and started their lumber business. Mr. Sheldon's death meant no more to Banner than an inconvenience when her parents had told her she had to accompany them to the funeral. That meant spending a day in a dress rather than the pants she wore around the ranch, and going to church rather than watching the cowboys break a frisky mare. She had been fourteen. Clearly she remembered being impressed by Grady, then twenty, who had stood so stoically at the grave site. He was all alone in the world now. To Banner, who was surrounded by people who loved her, such a thing was unthinkable. The worst that could happen to a person was to be alone and without love. In retrospect she thought she must have started loving Grady then for his courage.
Every chance she got, she accompanied Ross to the timber mill. It wasn't until about a year ago that Grady seemed to notice her. He did a double take the day she went into the lumberyard with Lee and Micah. At first mistaking her for a boy, since she was dressed like one, his mouth had fallen open in shock when she whisked her hat off and a mass of black hair had tumbled down around her shoulders and over breasts that gave shape to the otherwise shapeless cotton shirt.