Sahara Splendor

by Charlotte Hubbard

  She looked ready to drop her dress, but Dan knew better than to encourage Miss Spade’s affections. Her breasts rose and fell beneath the low neckline of her gown; her skin was flawless, as pale as cream as she ran her fingers up his shirt to stroke his neck. “I’ll do my best,” he told her in a husky whisper. “Now go on in there, before I forget myself and kiss you. Tell your daddy I’m on my way.”

  He’d settled Miss Jenny so that her “hissy-fit” didn’t disrupt the meal, but by the time he and Spade retired to the study for after-dinner amenities, Madigan realized his arguments were going to fall on closed ears. Horatio Spade was indeed adrift on a sea of fantasy, more lovestruck than a young swain after he’d had his first woman.

  “I’m not sure I can wait until Saturday for this wedding, Dan,” he said in a throaty voice. He lit his cigar with quick sucking noises, chuckling as he blew his match out. “God almighty, when she pointed that pistol at you, I thought I’d explode. Had to leave, or I’d have taken her right then and there. It’s all I can do to stay here while she’s at Zee’s.”

  Madigan’s throat went dry. “Maybe…maybe you should go in and see her. I mean, why marry her, when you can get what you’re after and then not be committed to—”

  “And let other men have a chance at her?” he demanded. “When you get to be my age, boy, you’ll see the advantages of having what you really want in life close by at all times. Fine cigars, gold jewelry, good liquor…”

  Spade rose from his leather chair and went to the array of faceted crystal decanters on the tea cart by the window. His hands shook as he splashed brandy into two snifters and then carried them back to where the two men always talked, separated by the heavy, polished desk that marked them as employer and employee. Master and servant.

  “To life!” he exclaimed as he clinked their glasses together.

  Dan lifted his snifter, his hopes waning. Before he could present another reason this randy old ram should forget about marrying Sahara, Spade was babbling like a man delirious with fever.

  “Have you ever seen a girl who could bluff that way? Pointing a broken pistol—in front of me—and not the least bit intimidated. Not a quiver!” he gushed. “That took balls, Madigan. And the way she looked in that shirt, those firm arms and lean, lovely legs, and just brazen enough to hang out the front of it! And the way Caldwell tells it, she’s a hot little—”

  “Caldwell tends to stretch the truth, sir,” Dan interrupted. “And from what I saw of her in the buggy and at Zerelda’s, she may be…less than what you’re expecting.”

  Horatio’s dark eyes hardened above his brandy glass. “What’re you saying? That she cried and perhaps begged you to let her get away?”

  “Yes, sir. In fact, she took great pains to escape Zee’s before we’d even had breakfast,” he said urgently. He had to play Spade like a fine violin, producing a tune the old blowfish wouldn’t want to hear, or all would be lost. “Miss Caldwell will be a lot of trouble to keep track of. She’s young and flighty, and her lack of proper upbringing was blatantly apparent when—”

  “It’s all part of her game, can’t you see?” his boss asked with an indulgent chuckle. “And who wants a prancing thoroughbred that looks pretty but breaks a leg on the first stone she stumbles over? Sahara’s strong and earthy, not afraid to get dirty…One of the first places I’ll take her is down where the horses breed, where all that power’s turned loose when a proud stallion mounts a mare and—”

  Spade sprang from his chair to pace, stuffing his hands into his trouser pockets and closing his eyes. His dark, thinning hair quivered, and he spoke in halting, breathy phrases. “I’ve imagined her there dozens of times, in the pasture or in the barn,” he rasped. “God, I can smell the sweaty leather and hear it creaking, feel it straining against…the jingle of my spurs when I…”

  Madigan was too sick to finish his brandy. If Spade was so far gone that he was working himself up now, with someone present, the man was too perverted to hear any voice but his own when it concerned Sahara Caldwell. His breathing was ragged, and his florid face suggested a man about to collapse of heart failure.

  “Sir!” Dan rushed to the old man’s side when Spade began to stagger, grabbing his shoulders. “Sir, you should sit down before—you look ready to—”

  Spade’s weight made the seat of his chair whoosh when he landed on it, and then he was laughing. Laughing! “See what a—tonic she’s been—already, Madigan?” he said between chortles. “God, I haven’t come on so strong since—why, I feel thirty years younger! If I pass up this chance to mold Sahara into the woman of my dreams, I’ll be passing up life itself.”

  The man took a deep, shuddering breath and looked Dan in the eye as though he was about to pass along the most precious secret he’d gleaned from his time on earth. “It upsets Jenny terribly, but I—I think that as a man, you understand why I have to have Sahara,” he said softly. “I know what my friends will say, and my daughter will probably never forgive me. But dammit, I’m fifty-six and lonely, with more money than I could possibly spend, and that girl can bring me happiness. Just once before I go, I’d like to be happy”

  Several moments passed, and when Spade lapsed into gazing at the brandy in his glass, Madigan quietly left the room. Things were far worse than he’d imagined.

  Chapter 5

  “Ladies, it’s been quite a week. We’ve watched Miss Caldwell evolve from the grimy little duckling Madigan brought us Monday into the graceful swan you see before you now, and we deserve to celebrate.”

  Sahara laughed nervously as the doves seated around her in the parlor applauded. It was Friday morning, and Blondella was keeping their breakfast warm because Miss Roberts had hurried them all into the gawdy scarlet room for a surprise, before the day’s customers started arriving.

  The madam swayed gracefully over to stand beside her, arrayed in a pearl gray gown that played up her eyes and the streak of silver hair that gave her such an air of sophisticated wisdom. “You’ve been a commendable student, dear,” she continued eloquently, “far surpassing the minimal goals I had hoped we could attain when I first saw you. I’ve rarely worked with hair or a complexion as naturally lovely as yours—”

  The ladies murmured their agreement, and Sahara herself was amazed at what rinses and creams and bath oils had done for an appearance she’d neglected all her life. She felt radiant, confident that with a little practice she could duplicate the elegant, braided upsweep Fanny had fashioned for her.

  “—and under Blondella’s tutelage, you’ve become as adept at setting a perfect table as you are at using each utensil correctly, a skill you’ll need in your new home—”

  Sahara wrinkled her nose when the colored cook wagged a teasing finger at her from the doorway. How many hours had that woman drilled her—once even pricking her wrist, telling her Horatio would pickle her like those beets if she used that fork to serve herself and then ate with it?

  “—and we won’t soon forget your posture exercises,” Miss Roberts added dryly. “What did we have piled on this poor girl’s head last night, three books?”

  “Plus that vase of wilted flowers the sheriff brought me,” Camille piped up. “Too bad it didn’t fall off on that final trip up the steps.”

  They all laughed, and Zerelda squeezed Sahara’s shoulder fondly. “Of course the best part was bringing in the dressmakers, insisting on the finest silks and underthings every new bride wishes she could afford. I hope you’ve learned to appreciate only the best, Sahara, and I hope you’ll become a very, very expensive habit for Mr. Spade to maintain. I’ve asked the seamstresses to keep me informed of your future clothing bills, because we could all retire on what we spent on you this week.”

  Another round of applause and laughter filled the parlor, and Sahara wished she could stay here. These ladies had helped and befriended her, and no matter how society condemned their profession, she’d come to appreciate the way these women held their heads high despite the tawdry treatment from some of their
elite customers. She knew she should feel lucky, going to a fine home like Horatio’s, but she didn’t. And no one here really expected her to.

  “So before Mr. Madigan comes to fetch you, we wanted to have this little…bridal shower,” the madam said in a sly voice. “It’s our way of preparing you for a most unusual relationship, and we hope each time you see our gifts you’ll know we’re thinking of you, wishing you luck. You’ll need it, dear.”

  The whores were slipping packages out from under their dressing gowns, their grins mischievous yet purposeful. Sahara watched them pile the presents at her feet, and saw their expectant faces when they were seated again, waiting.

  “I…I don’t know what to say,” she murmured. “I certainly didn’t expect—”

  “You don’t need to say a thing,” Fanny replied with a kind smile. “Just promise us you’ll use these items when things get a little grisly.”

  The sentiment gave her pause, yet Sahara’s curiosity had her ripping into wrapping paper immediately. On the best Christmases she’d never received so many pretty packages, and when the first box was open she could only stare. “Boots?” she whispered.

  “Put ‘em on! Put ‘em on!” one of the ladies crowed.

  The sweet pungence of leather teased at her nose as she slowly lifted the supple footwear from its wrappings. Made of softest black kid, the boots slipped up over her feet and hugged her calves. She teetered a bit when she stood on the high, narrow heels, but she couldn’t help chuckling at the ladies’ hoots and twitters.

  “That little green box goes with them,” Camille called out. “Every bride needs some jewelry, you know.”

  Sahara opened that gift and gasped.

  “Spurs! How—exquisite!” a black-haired dove exclaimed. “Mine next! It’s got the big pink bow.”

  She was too confused to argue, and as she opened box after box, Sahara wondered if her new friends were playing some sort of twisted trick. A corset wasn’t such an unusual addition to a trousseau, but this one was black leather, with black patterned stockings. And why would they give her handcuffs, and a whip, and a box of bullets? “I…I don’t understand,” she mumbled.

  “I wish you didn’t have to,” Zerelda sighed, “but we like you too much to send you to Horatio Spade’s bedroom unprepared.”

  “These are the little toys I was telling you about,” Fanny added quietly. “Camille has drawers full of this stuff, and if you humor the old goat—show him you’re not scared of him—you’ll stand a better chance. One of these days he’ll be roasting in hell, and you can catch yourself somebody decent.”

  The doves all nodded, murmuring their assent while Sahara shook her head over her pile of gruesome gifts. They could’ve given her train tickets or a vial of poison if they knew Spade to be such a horrid man, yet they still expected her to marry him. “Bullets?” she whimpered. “Are you sure I can’t—”

  “They’re blanks,” the madam explained, and as she reached up under her elegant skirts, Sahara gaped. “This derringer is my personal gift, dear. Tuck it into your stocking top, as I’ve done for years, and brandish it like you know what you’re doing if Spade gets nasty. The shots sound convincing, and they’ll slow him down while you have a few seconds to bolt out of his way.

  “Please take us seriously,” Zerelda added in a strangely wistful voice. “Running off, or defying Spade’s wishes, could get you maimed or killed. I’m sure Mr. Madigan will assist you when he can, but once the bedroom door’s shut, he can’t control what goes on. God be with you, dear. Now, let’s go in to breakfast before Sahara’s escort catches us having this hen party.”

  Madigan stepped up onto the porch of Zerelda’s two-story brick establishment, glancing at the stacked trunks, hat boxes, and tapestry carpetbags. One of the girls must be leaving, or a new one just arrived with more clothes than a member of this profession generally possessed, he mused. When he stepped inside, the madam approached him with a cautious smile, her delicate hand extended.

  “You got an early start, Mr. Madigan,” she purred. “We’ve kept you some biscuits and ham warm, knowing you’d probably like to partake before returning to the ranch.”

  “Horatio was in such a dither I thought he was going to hop into the wagon—”

  “A toad Mr. Spade’s size can’t hop, Dan,” Zerelda teased quietly. “So he’s going through with it? I’d hoped time would bring him to his senses.”

  “Just the opposite. He insists I have Sahara back for dinner, so I’ll have to decline breakfast.” He glanced around the parlor, where two of the ladies were chatting with clients in business suits. “Is she ready?”

  “As ready as we could make her, considering.”

  Madigan scowled. “Did she give you any trouble? I hope you convinced her—”

  “Miss Caldwell was a model student. Were she not otherwise engaged, I’d find her honest employment.”

  Dan was almost hoping his mischievous ward had escaped and was long gone, but she’d apparently heeded their warnings and excelled under Miss Roberts’s strict instruction. The madam had fulfilled her part of the bargain, so now it was up to him to complete the most inappropriate transaction he’d ever witnessed.

  “This is a damn shame!” he muttered. “Spade’s obsessed with the idea that Sahara’s going to bless him with happiness in his old age.”

  “She very well could if he knew the meaning of the word,” Zerelda replied sharply. “If you have any heart whatsoever, you’ll get her out of this mess, Dan.”

  She was echoing the thoughts that had plagued him the whole way into town. There was no need to argue, and no way to assure her he could perform a last-minute miracle. “I’ll load the wagon,” he said quietly. “I’m assuming she got a few new clothes?”

  “They’re on the porch, ready for you.”

  Dan stared at the little woman before him. “It took that many bags to pack—”

  “She came with nothing,” Zerelda pointed out with a catlike grin.

  “But you must’ve spent—”

  “Hundreds. Tens of hundreds. Tell Horatio I had the dressmakers bill him, and that he’ll settle up with me on his next trip to town.”

  The madam was laughing now, a dignified yet taunting sound, and if he weren’t Spade’s bookkeeper, he’d probably be laughing with her. “Spade’ll shit when he sees—”

  “Pardon me, Mr. Madigan, but your vulgar vocabulary is highly offensive,” a haughty voice accosted him from the stairway. “Surely you meant to say that Mr. Spade will…defecate.”

  Dan’s head snapped up, and he slowly removed his Stetson. Could the vision at the top of the stairs be the same urchin he’d brought here a few days ago? Her golden, upswept hair shone like fine jewelry, and in the flounced, flower-print dress she wore, Sahara Caldwell cut a tantalizing figure indeed. She was coming down the stairs slowly, exuding an air of poised elegance despite the little grin that twitched at her lips. And she was watching for his reaction.

  He cleared his throat. “Actually, I believe Spade might just melt at the sight of you. You—you look absolutely stunning.”

  His husky voice sent a thrill through her, but for all the wrong reasons. Dan Madigan’s bronzed face and brown eyes were lit up with approval and something she suspected was desire. What a dream, to be stepping down toward this handsome man, to be alone with him on the long ride home—and what a dangerous thought! “Thank you,” she murmured. “Miss Roberts and the ladies have been wonderful teachers. Mr. Spade owes them a great debt.”

  Somehow the trunks got loaded and Sahara said her goodbyes, and the whores were waving at them from the porch as they started down the street. How these things happened, Dan wasn’t sure, because the young lady beside him seemed to have snatched away his ability to think and speak. They rode out of town in silence, with only the dull clopping of the horses’ hooves on the hard-packed trail heading south.

  Madigan chided himself: this was no foreign dignitary; it was the same tomboy he’d caught rolling down the alley in
a barrel! A few layers of grime scrubbed away and a coat or two of polish didn’t make Sahara his superior, even if she was engaged to Spade. Yet he chose his words carefully so that he wouldn’t sound stupid. “So what did you learn this week? Living in a bordello must’ve been quite an experience.”

  “I’ll shovel out stables any day,” she muttered. “Most of the men I saw have more respect for their horses than they showed for Zerelda’s girls, and I wouldn’t put up with it for one minute!”

  Her voice rang with contempt, so Dan settled back to tease her with a few questions. “And how would you know that?” he asked with a chuckle. “Was peeking through the keyholes part of your training?”

  “Of course not! I—” Sahara realized she’d have to word her replies carefully or she’d let slip about the armoire peephole and what she’d seen through it. Images of Dan’s lithe, unclothed body flitted through her mind, and she shifted on the seat. It wouldn’t do to insult Madigan—or Spade—about one of their favorite pastimes.

  “Maybe it was the way they pawed at the ladies in the parlor,” she said quietly. “Or—or maybe it was those books Zerelda balanced on my head.”

  “Books?” Dan raised his eyebrow.

  Sahara closed her eyes, wishing she’d thought of a better reply. “They have pictures. Of men…with women.”

  Her cheeks flared, and Madigan chuckled. “So you saw Zee’s collection of inspirational art. Did any of the positions strike you as particularly interesting? Did you try any—”

  “If you can’t talk about something socially acceptable, Mr. Madigan, I—I just won’t answer you!”

  She stared pointedly at the passing prairie, recalling how those volumes had kept her awake nights, peering at them by candlelight while imagining how it would feel to share such intimacies with the man beside her. Seeing him with Camille had opened a whole new world of sensuality, had spawned visions that made her heart thump wildly—as it was doing now—and provided escape from the fact that fat old Horatio Spade was the man she’d soon be coupling with.