An Unlikely Lady

by Rachelle Morgan

  “Put it this way—if I don’t figure out some way of drumming up business soon, I’ll be closing my doors.”

  Sometimes Honesty wondered if maybe that wouldn’t be the best thing. Her father always said, “Life is like a horse race: sometimes ye draw a quick mount that’ll take ye far, and sometimes ye draw a plug. If that happens, ye don’t waste time kickin’ a dead horse; ye look for a fresh mount.” She supposed that was why they never stayed in one place very long. He’d always promised that they’d settle down one day, but the promise only lasted until a fresher, faster horse came along. And before Honesty could unpack her bags, they’d be off again.

  It used to be exciting—new horizons, fresh adventures, greater opportunities . . . it never mattered where they went, they’d had each other. If over the years she’d found herself yearning more and more often for a place to call her own, she only had to remind herself what would happen if their illicit past caught up to them.

  And one of the things she admired about Rose was her determination to stay in the race, no matter how high the odds stacked against her. Now, though, Honesty wondered if the woman wasn’t kicking a dead horse. “Rose . . . don’t you ever dream of something more than this?”

  The pencil froze in mid-scribble; she glanced up from her books. “More than what?”

  “Being here. Living like this. Not that there’s anything wrong with the Scarlet Rose,” Honesty hastened to add. “But haven’t you ever dreamed of something more?”

  “What do you mean?”

  Honesty shrugged. “I don’t know. Sometimes I dream of a place. It’s green, and blue, and so beautiful it takes my breath away.” Unbidden, an image of Jesse rose in her mind, his eyes green as a meadow one moment, stormy blue the next, and glittering with such raw, naked hunger that the memory alone had the power to clench her stomach and quicken her heartbeat. That look, that longing, had awakened a curiosity she’d buried long ago—what would it be like to share herself with a man? To give herself to him heart, body, and soul, from first breath to last?

  “Sounds like paradise,” Rose said.

  Abruptly Honesty shoved the foolish whimsy aside and leaned forward, clasping her hands on the table. “I’ve never been there, that I can recall. I can feel it pulling at me, though, in my dreams . . . calling my name . . .”

  “But something holds you back.”

  Honesty nodded.

  “I used to have dreams like that all the time,” Rose softly admitted. “Mine were like fairy tales. Prince Charming, castles in the sky, people throwing flower petals at my feet . . .”

  “Don’t you have that dream anymore?”

  An unladylike snort blew through the air. “Dreamin’ is for pretty young skirts like yourself, not frayed old garters like me.”

  “You’re not old, Rose.”

  “I’m twenty-five, and I’ve done a lot and learned a lot and lived a lot in those twenty-five years.”

  More than most, Honesty suspected. Though Rose was only five years older, life had hardened whatever soft edges she might once have had. Once again, Honesty was reminded of how much her father had protected her over the years. “What about love, Rose? Did you ever love during those years, too?”

  She looked suddenly ancient and weary. “More than any woman should have to, darlin’.”

  Again sympathy nearly choked her. Rose once told her she’d gotten into the business after becoming involved with a man of questionable reputation. When he’d left her, she’d turned to the only means of survival available to her at the time—working in the Black Garter for Eli Johnson. When silver was discovered in the nearby hills, Rose used every penny she’d managed to save over the years to buy a plot of land and build the Scarlet Rose. For a while, Last Hope and the Scarlet Rose had thrived.

  “Maybe there’s a reason business isn’t what it used to be,” Honesty suggested. “Maybe Fate is giving you a chance to reach for your dream, but you have to give up the Scarlet Rose to get it.”

  “Oh, no.” Her jaw took on a familiar stubborn set. “I helped found this town, and I built the Scarlet Rose with my own two hands so I’d never be dependent on a man again. I’ll be damned if I let some no-account like Eli Johnson force me into giving up this place without a fight.”

  Honesty refrained from pointing out that whether Rose wanted to or not, her success depended on men—for without them and their baser needs, there would be no reason for places like the Scarlet Rose to exist.

  But she was hardly in any position to judge, when she was sitting on the same two-edged sword. Wasn’t she counting on a male to keep her safe in her quest to find the truth?

  “Is there anything I can do to help?”

  Rose laughed. “Start prayin’ for a miracle—or we’re both sunk.”

  No sooner were the words out of her mouth than the front doors opened and Jesse filled the room with his presence. “Ladies, it looks like you’ll be stuck with me a bit longer than planned.”

  Chapter 4

  “Well, look what the wind blew in,” Rose drawled. “I thought we’d seen the last of you.”

  “So did I.”

  “That horse of yours still gimpin’?”

  “Unfortunately. It’s not too serious, but I’d rather not take any chances.”

  “Well, the two of you are welcome to stay as long as you need. I’ll even have Honesty put clean sheets on your bed,” she added with a wink.

  His gaze slid to the woman sitting next to Scarlet, her hands clasped tightly in her lap, those glossy dark blonde curls he’d buried his fingers in last night tied with a ribbon and falling freely down her back. From the moment he’d walked into the saloon, she’d avoided looking at him; the expression on her face puzzled him. Was she hoping he’d stay, or praying he wouldn’t?

  “Honesty, would you mind dishin’ up Mr. Jones a plate of those biscuits and gravy I left on the stove? The man’s bound to have worked himself up an appetite.”

  As if waiting for any excuse to escape, Honesty jumped up from her seat and fled to the kitchen.

  “So how long you think you’ll be staying with us?” Rose asked after he’d taken a seat in the chair Honesty had vacated.

  “It’s hard to say. I do need to send a telegram, though. I’m running a bit short on funds and if I’m going to stay here, I’ll need to wire for more.”

  “Not from around here, you won’t. The telegraph office closed down six months ago, the hotel a month before that, and the post office burned down last year when Skeeter Malone decided to see for himself if gunpowder really did explode.”

  Wonderful. A lame horse, less than two dollars in his pocket, and no way to wire the agency for more. At Rose’s prices, he had enough to cover lodging for a night or two, but that would leave him nothing for supplies. Even if she could afford it, his pride wouldn’t allow him to ask for a room on charity. “Then I’ll just have to find myself a job. I’m good with cattle and horses. Good with my hands, too.”

  “I don’t doubt that,” she countered with bawdy humor. “Unfortunately, there’s not much call around here for a man of your abilities.”

  “What about here? Maybe you’ve got something that needs doing?”

  “Sorry, sugar.” She dashed his hopes again. “I’ve already got more hired hands than I do jobs. My uncles, Joe and Jake, take turns coining down from the mountain to help with the heavy work, and Honesty handles the day-to-day chores.”

  His shoulders slumped. Normally he wouldn’t have given a second thought to sleeping on the ground under the stars, but the weather was turning ugly. And the prospect of that soft bed upstairs had just been too appealing to resist. He refused to consider that a particular brown-eyed beauty might have anything to do with his longing to stay here.

  As if thinking about her could make her appear, she emerged from the kitchen, a cup of coffee in one hand, a plate piled high with fluffy white biscuits smothered in white gravy in the other. Jesse didn’t realize how hungry he was until she set the food in fro
nt of him. When was the last time he’d sat down to a meal?

  “I’ll be upstairs if you need anything, Rose.”

  And before Jesse could thank her, she was gone.

  “I wish I could help you out, Jesse, but the truth is, I’m scraping the bottom of the barrel to get by as it is. The only thing I need is more business, so unless you’ve got piano playing in that bag of tricks—”

  He stopped in mid-chew, swerved around, and for the first time noticed a dusty black object tucked in a corner by the stage. The bottom seemed to fall out of his stomach, and an old, familiar resentment flared in his gullet.

  “Do you play?”

  Years peeled away in Jesse’s mind. He’d been five years old the day the piano had arrived for his mother, and he’d sat down, felt the keys beneath his fingers, and played Mozart. No one, least of all him, could explain how or why he was able to play an instrument he’d never set eyes on before, or to recognize the notes of his mother’s favorite song. The music instructors his father hired soon after called him a prodigy. A musical genius.

  Jesse hadn’t realized then that it had just been a curse.

  He swallowed a mouthful of biscuit and it hit the bottom of his stomach like a bar of lead. “Not anymore,” he answered bitterly.

  “But you can.”

  Fifteen years had gone by since he’d last set fingers to keys, and another fifteen could go by, for all he cared. But yes, he could play. Jesse set the fork down and pushed the plate away, his appetite gone. “It’s been a long time.”

  “Maybe we can make a trade.”

  The glitter in her eyes sent a sudden shiver of foreboding up his spine. “What did you have in mind?”

  “Let’s see what you can drag out of the old ivories. Then we’ll talk.”

  The instant Honesty made it to her room, she shut the door tightly behind her and pressed herself against it. Her heart thundered in her chest, her hands trembled. Oh, heavens. When Rose said to start praying for a miracle, surely she hadn’t meant Jesse! Why had he come back? Surely he wasn’t planning on staying. Or was he?

  She started pacing the floor and nibbling on her thumbnail. Shoot, she hadn’t thought to see him ever again! What if he expected her to . . . what if he wanted . . .

  Oh, dear. Just the thought of him touching her the way he had last night sent a rush of heat into her cheeks. Getting away with her ruse for one night was possible. But for two?

  Or more?

  Or what if he discovered that she’d lied about it, and that he’d forked over three dollars for nothing? What would he do?

  Well, she wasn’t about to stick around and find out. Men did not like being made out to be fools; some even thought it an offense so great, they were willing to commit cold-blooded murder.

  Spurred on by the thought, Honesty made a beeline for the armoire in the corner, threw open the doors, and dragged out a carpetbag that had seen more travels than Gulliver. She’d wasted too much time in Last Hope, anyway. A suitable escort was not going to show up, no matter how much she wished it. If she hoped to find someone willing to help her search for the flowing stones, she’d have to go elsewhere.

  After tossing the carpetbag on the bed, Honesty began clearing her belongings out of the armoire. She didn’t know how she would tell Rose. After their conversation this morning, the thought of leaving her to shoulder the burdens of her situation alone just didn’t feel right.

  But what else could she do? She’d spent almost three weeks in Last Hope and was no closer to solving the riddle her father had left her than she’d been the day he died. She couldn’t hide out here forever. Surely the men after her would either have found her by now or given up the chase.

  As she swept her arm across the bottom of the cabinet for any garments she might have missed, the red satin evening costume she’d worn last night fell to the floor. Honesty paused, then bent to pick it up. Thoughts she’d kept at bay all afternoon came rushing back as the scents of patchouli soap and a manly essence that was Jesse’s alone rose up from the fabric. She buried her nose in the scent and closed her eyes. Once again she felt Jesse’s strength wrap around her, could almost feel the power of his arms and the bliss of his touch . . .

  Honesty swallowed the lump of regret in her throat. She should have let him bed her when she’d had the chance.

  Oh, now, there’s a sensible thought. Yes-siree, just give yourself to the first man who turns your head. She didn’t have much anymore, but she still had her virginity. If she ever did give herself to a man—and that was a very big if—it would be to one who put a ring on her finger, not coins in her palm.

  She almost laughed at the irony of it. Working in a saloon, playing the part of a well-versed doxy, and here she was, worrying about being ruined before the “I do’s”. But she had no intention of marrying for marrying’s sake. The only way she’d ever consider tying herself to a man was if she found one with honor, courage, and unwavering devotion. Someone she could trust never to hurt her or use her. Someone who could make her heart laugh and her soul sing.

  A man like her father.

  Good cow feathers, this was ridiculous. She was acting like a smitten fool, and it had to stop. Her life was complicated enough without throwing some devilish drifter into the mix.

  She crumpled the dress into a ball and tossed it into a corner of the armoire. The last thing she needed to take with her was any reminder of her folly.

  She finished shoving the last of her garments into the bag and was just about to buckle the strap when a sweet tinkling sound drifted up the staircase. She froze, then lifted her head.

  The piano? Who on earth . . . ?

  With a puzzled frown, she slipped out her door and went down the hall to the balcony overlooking the main room. An angel sat at the piano—an angel with streaked golden hair spilling past a set of broad shoulders . . .

  Jesse?

  Astonished, she could do nothing more than gaze down at him as his long fingers glided over the dingy keys. It took her a moment to recognize the tune, but once she did, it knocked the breath out of her.

  “Lorena.” One of Deuce’s favorites.

  Honesty closed her eyes against the swell of bittersweet memories. Of riding with her father across windswept prairies, of roasting chestnuts over a mountain lodge cookstove. Of curling up in his big arms on a cold November night, his deep voice lulling her to sleep.

  Of their own will, the words of the second stanza slid from her mouth. “A hundred months have passed since, Lorena, since last I held that hand in mine, and felt the pulse beat fast, Lorena, though mine beat faster far than thine . . .”

  She hardly noticed when Jesse’s playing slowed, but she knew the instant he turned his head in her direction. Their eyes locked, and as she sang the lyrics of a lover who’d lost his one true love to duty, their connection became a tangible thread, drawing her down the staircase. Memories of her father dimmed. In Jesse’s eyes, she watched last night replay itself, and felt as if he were seducing her all over again. Not with his eyes and hands and mouth, but with his music, melody and harmony blending together in a mating of such poignancy that it pierced her to her soul.

  With the last note still fading, they continued to stare at one another. The air hummed with an awareness that transcended the physical attraction she’d felt last night, a longing bordering on pain. Her eyes shimmered, turning the interior of the Scarlet Rose into shades of green and blue. And in the back of her mind, she could hear a small voice calling out her name . . .

  Clapping broke the spell. Honesty swung toward the bar, where Rose was slapping her hands together with such enthusiasm that it made her cheeks burn.

  “That was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard in my life,” Rose declared, then dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief. “Honesty, why didn’t you tell me you could sing? With a voice like that, you could make a for—” She gasped. “That’s it! Oh, I knew if I waited long enough, the solution would drop into my lap!”

  The solutio
n to what? Honesty wondered.

  “How long did you say you planned on staying, Jesse?” Rose asked.

  “I’m not sure. A couple days, a week, maybe. Depends on how long it takes my horse’s leg to mend. Why?”

  Absently Rose tapped her lips with steepled fingers. “That don’t give us much time . . .”

  “Much time for what?” Honesty asked.

  “Why, to rehearse, or course!”

  “What are you talking about, Scarlet?” Jesse asked.

  Dread curled up Honesty’s spine as Rose turned to him with a calculated gleam in her eye. “I want you and Honesty to perform for the Durango-Denver passengers this Saturday.”

  Stunned silence fell on the air like iron notes.

  Honesty’s attention swung from Rose to Jesse, then back again. “You can’t be serious!” she declared, once she found her voice.

  “Serious as an April blizzard. Between your singing and Jesse’s playing, folks will be lining the street, beggin’ us to take their money!”

  Her and Jesse, performing together? In public? She struggled to catch the breath caught in her throat.

  “Hold on there, Scarlet,” Jesse interjected. “Playing for you is one thing; playing for a bunch of strangers is something else.”

  “Look, you wanted a job, I’m offering you one.

  “This was not what I had in mind.”

  “Maybe not, but you just said you couldn’t leave till your horse mends, so what’s the harm? The way I see it, you’ve got nothing to lose.”

  “What about her?” he countered, gesturing toward Honesty. “Has she ever even sung for a crowd before? How do you know she can do it? What if she gets up on stage and freezes?”

  Honesty didn’t know whether to laugh or cry at his attempt to help her. If he had any idea how many times she’d literally had to sing for her and Deuce’s supper . . . but she hadn’t done so since that horrible night when her world had crumpled at her feet.

  “Honesty, not be able to sing for a crowd? This girl was made for the stage!” Rose crossed the few feet between them and clasped the girl’s hands in her own. “Hon, you know the position I’m in. If I don’t do something to attract business, it’ll be the end of the Scarlet Rose. I’m not asking for much—just one night. And in return, I’ll cut you both in on ten percent of the profits.”