So that was it. His wife was in labour and she needed help. Was it the thought of a long night ahead that made Ellen feel so disheartened or that not only was this handsome stranger married but he also had a babe on the way?
She shrugged. Well, that was the way of the world. Men and women got wed then had, or tried to have, children. Sometimes it worked out and sometimes it didn’t. For whores like Ellen, most of their good years were spent trying their best to avoid getting with child. She felt the familiar tug at her heart. Even after all these years, she couldn’t shake off the warmth that the thought of being a mother could bring. Foolish for a woman in her position and at twenty-nine she should know better.
“I…I’m leaving in the morning.” Ellen got to her feet then lifted her right leg to adjust her stocking. As she rested her foot on the chair beside her, she heard the young man’s sharp inhalation of breath. She looked down and realised why. He could see right up the leg of her bloomers to the ebony curls at her groin. She smiled. It was kind of nice to have such an effect on this man. The fun she could have with this one.
Most of the regulars at the Gem weren’t much to look at and they didn’t smell too good neither. There was something different about this interloper. Her body sensed it. Her heart knew it. He had her feeling tense and alert. Unless it was the whisky still running through her veins, of course.
Ellen’s inner muscles twitched and her clit tingled. Sensations she hadn’t experienced in a long time. It must be her excitement at the thought of her future freedom. Surely. But she suspected that being close to such a handsome young man had something to do with it. A whole lot more to with it.
“You’re leaving, Miss Finch?”
She looked at him and compassion washed over her at his crestfallen expression. It was as if he’d been given a brand new house then told he had to share it with his hogs.
“Yeah, I’m quitting Deadwood for good.”
“Oh…I see…” He curled the edge of his hat between his fingers.
Ellen’s heart leapt as she looked at his strong, masculine hands. Hands that would be able to cradle even her ample bosoms. Her nipples tightened.
“But I’ll come with ya tonight and see if I can help.”
What are you doing? Fool! Weakened by a good-looking face and a woeful tale.
“Oh thank you so much, Miss Finch!” he exclaimed, his expression lightening. “I’m mighty grateful.”
He was even better looking when he smiled and the cloak of solemnity fell from his features.
Ellen scowled at her own weakness and at the pleasure that his obvious relief brought her. She was being weak. Too soft. As always. “Let me just throw on some clothes…”
“Clothes?” He frowned and she had an urge to reach out and smooth his brow, to lay his head in her lap and shower his face with kisses.
What was in that whisky?
“Yeah.” She gestured at herself, trying to ignore the unfamiliar heat flooding her cheeks. “I can’t really come like this.”
As she walked towards the staircase, she heard him mutter, “You wouldn’t catch me complaining.”
So he was just like all the others. Her foolish heart sank.
No loyalty. No self-control. Just a walking talking horny guy who couldn’t keep his eyes off a whore even when his own dear wife was in the throes of childbirth.
Men were all the same and she had no right reacting to this one in the way she had. No man was going to ruin her plans for the freedom that she’d fought long and hard to earn.
No man!
****
Clayton stood in the bar of the Gem.
Waiting.
He gripped his hat with one hand and drummed the fingers of the other one against his tense thigh. He was vulnerable, exposed, out of his depth.
Up close, Ellen Finch was even more beautiful than he’d imagined. He had first seen her the day he’d arrived in Deadwood, six months past. He had been gathering supplies from the variety of merchant tents in the Main Street when she’d strolled past. His mouth had fallen open and he’d almost dropped his purchases into the mud. A local tradesman had seen his reaction and told him Ellen’s name then made Clayton cringe as he sniggered when he added her occupation.
Overwhelmed by her clear skin, her flashing sapphire eyes and her waist-length ebony hair, aroused by her feminine curves and her sensual, exotic perfume, he had been hooked. Instantly. And desperate to discover more about her.
But she hadn’t even glanced his way. It was as if he didn’t exist or he was merely ordinary, just like the other men bustling about in the ankle-deep mire that pervaded the street after a heavy rain storm.
It had wounded him. Ridiculous and he knew it. Especially when it was clear that she was a whore. Why on earth would he be attracted to a woman who sold her body to rotten-toothed miners and drunken scoundrels? How many men would have pawed her voluptuous flesh of an evening and emptied their balls into her sweet, warm flesh? He shuddered.
Then there was his past. His responsibilities. His pain. Combine these with his knowledge of her occupation and he knew well enough that he should have left it there. But he had not. He had been drawn to the Gem, eager to seek her out and even pay her for a flop just to get it out of his system. He had been driven mad by the need to see her again, to get her to notice him. It was an itch he couldn’t scratch and he had fought the urge, battled against it with all of his strength until it had all but consumed him. Hard, physical labour as he built his cabin, long evening walks and even the caress of his own, callused hand had brought him no relief from the burning desire to be with this woman.
One evening, just a few weeks ago, he had taken his usual solitary evening stroll through the town and past the Gem, when he had seen Ellen through the window. That had been it. His feet had assumed a life of their own and carried him into the smoky, noisy saloon where he had taken a seat in the corner. Suddenly painfully self-conscious and keen to avoid being noticed, he had tried to blend in, to actually be just like all the other customers.
His day-dreams of marching up to Miss Finch and carrying her upstairs, then taking her roughly – as if to punish her for stealing his sanity and clouding his usually sensible mind – had evaporated as he had observed her. Though men hovered around her like flies, she did not pay any one man attention for too long. She smiled at them, laughed at their jokes and occasionally accepted drinks from them. But that was all. Most of the patrons seemed happy to accept this. It was as if she had an invisible barrier around her that kept them at arm’s length. They could look – and look they did, so much so that it made Clayton’s blood boil – but not touch. And apart from one man, who watched Ellen possessively as if she belonged to him in some way, they seemed content.
It had surprised Clayton. The bar was full of eager whores. Some of them had tried to sit on his knee or take his hand and lead him out back but he shook them off. He had no interest in them. His life, his loss left him no time for the haggard girls with their painted faces and whisky-soaked breath. As a young man, not yet twenty-five, he knew that he should have been interested. He knew it as well as he knew his own name. In his circumstances, it would have been perfectly acceptable to lie with a soiled dove or two.
But he felt nothing but revulsion as they flashed him their breasts or tried to fondle his cock.
Nothing.
Yet Ellen Finch. She stirred him. Why, oh, why he couldn’t explain it. She held herself differently. She laughed differently. She moved differently.
Because she was different. There was a quiet dignity about her that the other girls lacked.
Because she is different.
It had come to him like a crack of thunder. She wasn’t whoring any more. She was a Madame, taking care of the girls and looking out for them. But not taking part in any of the baser activities that occurred in the Gem herself.
The relief that the realisation brought was akin to diving into a mountain spring on an August day. It made his balls tighten and his
cock twitch. His heart leap and his stomach flip.
Ellen was no painted cat. Not anymore.
He had scurried off into the night, his excitement warming him like a dozen shots of whisky. But by the time he’d reached his cabin, disappointment had replaced his jubilation.
What was he thinking? What did he really believe he could have with Ellen Finch? She hadn’t even noticed him and…well…he had his own issues to deal with. His own past sitting like a storm cloud above his left shoulder and a future as dun and murky as a muddy pool. He had no right imagining that there could ever be anything between him and the young woman. No right at all.
He had responsibilities. Provisions to find. A proper home to create. Before the baby came.
So when things didn’t run as smoothly as they’d hoped with the labour and he needed to find someone to help, he had been shocked at his own joy when his neighbour had mentioned Ellen’s name.
He had an excuse to call on her. To ask for her assistance. Sure, it wasn’t the best reason to be knocking on her door in the dead of night…but…hell, it was a reason.
And now she had noticed him. He knew she had.
Even if it wasn’t for the reasons he had hoped.
He glanced up as he heard a door slam at the top of the stairs.
There she was. The woman who had mysteriously captured his complicated, irrational and wounded heart.
Chapter Two
Clayton held the swing doors open for Ellen and she nodded her thanks. She’d dressed in her oldest frock and boots, not wanting to ruin the pretty damask velvet travelling suit she’d bought to wear for her journey when she left Deadwood for good.
The faded green cotton housedress was worn at the hem and armpits but she’d likely end up covered in sweat and blood tonight so it hardly mattered. However, as she’d walked towards Clayton in the bar, she’d felt a twinge of regret that she looked such a mess. She wished that she could see how he would react to her dressed in her new outfit. Would he think, as she did, that the deep red sat well with her pale skin and blue eyes?
She shook her head. Nonsense thoughts. Why on earth was she being so weak? She would help this young man’s wife through her labour then board the train tomorrow and leave this sorry-ass town for good.
She stepped out from beneath the cover of the porch and into the muddy street. Cold rain pelted her hair so she tugged her threadbare grey shawl up over her head.
“Where’s your place?” She raised her voice to be heard above the storm.
“Right up yonder.” Clayton pointed to the far end of the camp. “We’ve a small cabin up near the north hill.”
Ellen ground her teeth together. Why did he have to live so far away? She’d get a drenching now.
She hurried along next to him, struggling to keep up with his long-legged strides. He seemed immune to the rain as he stepped into one muddy puddle after another and his boots and legs were splattered with the red mud of the street. Deadwood had a way of doing that, of staining your clothes like it did your heart and mind. Even if folks were lucky enough to get out, Ellen suspected that the town would haunt them…her…long after she’d washed its physical evidence away.
“You’re sure in a hurry, ain’t ya?” Ellen observed.
He turned to her, his eyes full of concern. “I promised I’d not be gone long. Stella Rose was in a sorry ol’ state.”
So his wife’s name was Stella Rose. Pretty name for a young woman. Ellen bet she was pretty too. A good-looking man like Clayton would surely set himself up with a handsome woman. Like attracted like, right?
“So this is her first baby?” Ellen asked. She shivered as cold rain sneaked under her collar and ran down her spine, soaking into her chemise. When the rain came in Deadwood, it really came, and if you were unlucky enough to have to go out in it, even your undergarments wouldn’t be spared.
“Uh huh!” Clayton nodded. “And there ain’t much of her. I ain’t even sure if she’s due yet.”
Ellen shook her head. So he’d gotten his woman with child and the pair of them had no real idea whether the babe was ready or not. She hoped that this wouldn’t turn into a tragedy. She hated delivering dead infants into the world. Even when the mothers had clearly interfered with them deliberately, in order to avoid the shame of becoming a mother to a bastard child. It was so sad and it just wasn’t right.
No child should be born to die before its time. Yet it happened so often.
“Just up here now, Miss Finch.” Clayton directed Ellen towards a set of wooden steps that had been cut into the hillside. She lifted her skirts then placed her foot on the first step but slipped.
“Darnit!” she snapped, feeling the bite of rocks as they pierced the thin skin covering her kneecaps.
“Miss Finch!” Clayton gasped and rushed to her side. He placed his hands beneath her arms and lifted her to her feet as easily as if she were made of satin and feathers. His touch sent heat hurtling through her body and she gasped as it curled between her legs and tingled there.
Clayton placed her before him and leant forwards to look beneath her wet shawl.
“Are you okay, ma’am?”
She nodded. The concern in his eyes made her heart beat faster and her blush deepen. This was ridiculous. It wasn’t like she was a virgin who’d never felt the touch of a man before. In fact, she’d felt the touch of so many men that she usually experienced no physical reactions at all anymore. But Clayton Kile was…actually penetrating her carefully constructed veneer and affecting her.
This could only end badly.
“You sure? You’re not hurt?” He cupped her face. His hands were those of a working man, callused and large. His skin was cool against her hot cheeks and she wanted to hold onto his hands in order to keep them there. Soothing. Cooling. Offering sweet relief.
“No.” Her voice was weak. “I’m…I’m okay.”
She gazed into the dark brown eyes holding hers, trembling as she began to sink into their depths. This could not be. She raised her hands to cover his. Then she pulled them from her face. Gently. But away from her skin. She wasn’t used to being touched with such tenderness and concern and it wouldn’t do to start enjoying it now.
“Which one?” She gestured at the cabins, taking a step sideways to put space between them but Clayton reached for her arm. She stared at his hand where it burnt through the thin material of her sleeve.
“Don’t want you slipping down the mountainside and breaking somethin’.” He smiled. He looked innocent but Ellen wondered if he was aware of the effect he was having. Either way, he wasn’t going to let her arm go without wanting an explanation, so she’d just as well go along with it. She was well aware of how much men liked being in control.
She allowed him to guide her up the steps then across a crudely carved path, past several small scruffy cabins and through an archway of trees. Just beyond them stood a sturdy-looking log cabin. It was small but well built. Made to resist the extremes of the weather.
“Is that yours?”
“It is.” Clayton smiled and pride filled his face. “Built with my own hands. It was a struggle through the winter months living in a tent…what with Stella Rose being with child an’ all, but I worked quickly to put this roof over our heads.”
Ellen cast a glance at the hand that still held onto her arm. It was large and strong. A workingman’s hand. The hand of a real man. A fleeting image of it running over her naked skin teased her and she shivered. So many had touched her flesh but few had roused it. She suspected that Clayton would be able to.
In fact, she knew, deep down, that he would be able to. Something deep inside her had recognised something in him when he had appeared at the Gem and, try as she might, she was unable to squash it. Her years of experience dealing with men seemed to count for nothing, though she’d been with Clayton for less than an hour. She would have to be very careful around him. He was married and she would not come betwixt husband and wife. As a whore at the Gem, she’d done her job, earned h
er money at an establishment where morals were left at the door. But here, she was about to enter his home and when she stepped over his threshold, she would do so as midwife and nothing else.
A sudden scream shook her from her thoughts.
The woman in labour.
Clayton turned eyes full of fear to Ellen and she attempted a reassuring smile.
“It’s natural to experience pain in childbirth,” she explained. “It can be numbed with opium but that dulls the other senses and really…should only be used as a last resort. She’ll need her wits about her tonight.”
He nodded.
“Best get in to her then.” Ellen wiped a raindrop from her cheek.
Clayton pushed the wooden door open and Ellen stepped past him into a room that smelt of blood, sweat and humanity.
****
Clayton wrinkled his nose at the stench from within the cabin. Surely it hadn’t been that bad before he went for help?
Now the smell was so thick he could almost see it swirling around the confined living area like a red fog. He shuddered.
Please let it all be okay. Let Stella Rose and the babe come through this safely. I will never forgive myself if she comes to harm.
He shook all over as he moved into the living area and peered through the gloom. The fire still burned and the kerosene lamp on the table cast a feeble yellow circle of light. He watched as Ellen removed her wet shawl and hung it over a chair then rolled up her sleeves.
“Where is she?” The concern in her blue eyes warmed him right through in spite of his damp clothing.
“Through there.” He pointed at the door at the rear of the room. “There’s a small bedroom.”
Ellen nodded. She pulled a scarf from her pocket and tied it around her head then tucked her black hair beneath it. Even with her ebony mane hidden, she was beautiful. Clayton was overwhelmed by the surge of desire that washed over him. He’d heard about the local midwife’s skills from his neighbour, when he’d gone to find someone to help with Stella Rose’s labour. But he’d been expecting to be directed towards a dried-up old hag, not Ms Finch from the Gem. Not Ellen…a young woman with skin the colour of fresh milk, eyes the colour of sapphires and a mouth like a rosebud about to bloom. He had to battle the urge to pull her towards him to kiss the rosebud so that it opened beneath his lips. He bet she tasted as sweet as honey.
Scandal Page 2