Not Another New Year's

by Christie Ridgway

  This summer the only difference was in Kitty. What was missing was her fatalistic calm. That was why, when the town's Gold Rush-era living-history district closed its doors on the summer tourist season, Kitty was going to quit playing madam. For good.

  Heat had nothing to do with it. Sweat was a mere inconvenience. But six months ago Kitty had seen how futile that soul-deep ambition of hers was. Though for three-fourths of the year she held the responsible position of "head" of the one-person advertising and PR department of the Hot Water Preservation Society, she'd realized she would never be considered conventional. She'd realized that the two thousand residents of her hometown would always see her as a Wilder—would only see her as a Wilder.

  That was why it was a sadder but wiser Kitty who now pushed a damp lock of hair off her forehead with the back of her wrist, then consulted a mental calendar, ticking off time by touching thumb to forefinger, tall man, ring finger, pinkie, forefinger once more. After today's last tour, she had five weeks left as Hot Water's madam. In five short weeks she'd be pointing her packed car north, because the only way to escape her past was to leave home behind.

  The brothel's front-door hinges squealed. Kitty pushed herself off the parlor's stiff Victorian settee and smoothed the skirt of her off-the-shoulder dress. She tugged up that black lace at the décolletage too, even though the dress's sewed-in stays couldn't manage to thrust her meager breasts into immodest prominence. Its low cut might make the garment cooler than the high-necked, long-sleeved costumes the other women in the living-history district wore, but she never felt completely at ease in it all the same.

  "Kitty?" Sally Sloan, owner of Sloan Tours of San Francisco, poked her head through the front door.

  "Coming," Kitty called. As she hurried across the parlor rug, the wilting black ostrich feather that was poked into her loose topknot of hair waved at the edge of her vision. Kitty batted it back. "Is your group ready?"

  Every Wednesday, Thursday, and Saturday, as part of Sloan Tour's "Golden Age, Golden Country" tour, a 747-sized bus stopped in Hot Water, discharging a bundle of chilled tourists from its luxurious, partly refrigerated confines. Once Kitty led today's group through the brothel, she could leave the madam's clinging dress behind for the day—if not the madam's reputation that clung to her as stubbornly—and curl up in her little house for a quiet evening with a book and a cold glass of lemonade.

  As Kitty reached the wide archway between the parlor and the entry hall, Sally stepped completely inside, shutting the front door behind her. Clutching her customary clipboard and water bottle to her chest, she leaned back against the door and released a long, tired sigh. Her eyes closed.

  Kitty stopped short, surprised by the exhaustion etched on the face of the usually energetic woman. "Sally, what's wrong?"

  One of Sally's eyes opened and she grimaced. "That obvious, huh?"

  Kitty nodded. "That obvious, yes. What's the problem?"

  Sally grimaced again, then pushed her shoulders off the door and met Kitty's gaze squarely. "I hate to tell you this, but I have forty untamed rugby players out there."

  Kitty groaned. "Not today." Not today when it was so hot and so late and she'd already been dreaming of lemonade and her book. "Not rugby players."

  But Sally was nodding her head. "Rugby players."

  "Women rugby players?" Kitty asked hopefully.

  Sally shook her head.

  "A rugby team of retirees, then?"

  "You're grasping at straws, girlfriend. They're male. College age. I hesitate to label them something so grown-up as 'men,' however. You'll see what I mean. You're going to have your hands full."

  Kitty shuddered. "Can't you tell them The Burning Rose is already closed?" she asked, even as the sound of forty untamed rugby players' feet rumbled on the wooden sidewalk outside.

  "No can do." With a sympathetic smile, Sally moved to pull open the door. "They've been looking forward to visiting a brothel all day."

  Kitty groaned one more time as she retreated to the parlor, dreading what lay ahead. She'd experienced tour groups like this before. Young men titillated by the legendary, infamous goings-on at the old brothel. Young men who asked brazen questions and who made outrageous proposals. But she really wasn't serious about refusing them entrance. With temperatures and gas prices at record highs this summer, the Hot Water Preservation Society, which ran the living-history district, rejoiced over each and every admission fee.

  Resigned to the coming ordeal, she flipped the switch on the player piano. The plunking notes of "Clementine" tumbled into the room at the same rate as the rugby players. They were big men, with big, crewcutted heads and big grins. They jostled one another with big elbows and stomped on each other's big toes with their big shoes as they made room for their entire party in the small parlor.

  Only a couple of them inspected the souvenir "passports" in their big, meaty hands, the passports that gave a brief history of the town and listed all of the restored businesses and homes that made up the six-block tourist attraction. The rest inspected her.

  Inhaling a calming breath, Kitty resisted the instinctive urge to tug again on the black lace at her plunging neckline. The trick to handling this kind of crowd, and to maintaining her dignity as well, was to talk fast and to talk all the time. Once she started her spiel, she'd give them as few opportunities to heckle as possible. By keeping her concentration and her word count up, she'd keep the situation under control.

  Rugby players were still cramming into the parlor when the first foray on her composure was made. With a teammate pushing on each side, one young man squirted forward, nearly bowling Kitty over.

  Instead of stepping away or even just apologizing, he widened his grin into a varsity-caliber leer. "Want to go out tonight … madame?"

  Madame. Now that was original. Mentally rolling her eyes, Kitty shook her head. "I don't think so, sonny." Unabashed, he leered once more, then moved back, taking elbow jabs to his mastodon-sized ribs while wearing that same half-wit grin. Then his oh-so-mature buddies launched into a game of rock-paper-scissors. Probably, Kitty thought with a sigh, to decide which of their charming comrades would ask her out next.

  The fact was, she rarely met a man who wanted to go out with Kitty, the flat-chested, ordinary-faced woman whom she greeted in the mirror every morning. Too often, men wanted to go out with Kitty the "madam," or—especially in the past six months—they wanted to date one of the notorious Wilder women.

  Just as another grinning player stepped forward, Sally caught Kitty's eye and nodded, indicating the tour could begin. With a grateful smile, Kitty crossed to the player piano and switched it off. The audience automatically quieted, and before the boys could get rowdy again, she dragged a low footstool to the center of the room and stepped up.

  Now. Kitty inhaled and—

  Something distracted her. He did. Beyond the boxily built men gathered in the parlor, she spotted a tall, lean shadow framed by the open front door. She narrowed her eyes, trying to make out the features of the so unrugby-shaped last arrival. But against the bright yellow sunshine outside, he was only a silhouette, a dark figure centered in the doorway as if determined to prevent an escape.

  Ignoring an odd sense of alarm, she raised her voice. "Sir? Please come in and shut the door. It's time we get going."

  As it happened, though, it was much too late for Kitty to go anywhere.

  Because, after a brief hesitation, the black shadow obeyed. The front door shut and he stepped through the arched entry to the parlor. Behind all those collegiate grins and bristling haircuts, the shadow turned out to be a lean, tough-looking man in black jeans and a black T-shirt, with black, nearly shoulder-length hair.

  Holy bad news, Batman.

  As if her skin were allergic to her sudden, excruciating panic, it broke out in goose bumps like a bad rash. Her bare skin, hidden skin, secret skin, it all prickled in horrified reaction. Her head spun in woozy circles like an ill-weighted merry-go-round.

  Because sh
e knew him. She'd been barely eighteen when she'd last seen him, and on that occasion she hadn't been at her … best. But there was no doubting who he was.

  The man was Dylan Matthews. Those were his dark eyes, his sexy-sulky mouth, his square-cut chin with just a hint of a cleft. Looking as cool as a cucumber and about a zillion times more dangerous.

  Cool as a cucumber, but not the least bit green. No, that was her. Kitty supposed she looked green anyway, because her head and now her stomach were reeling. Dylan was back. Back in Hot Water.

  Worse yet, he was here, in Kitty's place of business.

  Self-protective instincts kicking in at last, Kitty wrenched her gaze off him. Her stomach calmed, but then pitched again as she took in what else was happening around the room.

  There were other people in it. People looking at her. Expectantly. Kitty gazed about, baffled. Then it hit her. The tour!

  She closed her eyes, opened them. You're fine, she said to herself, drawing in a deep breath. Just fine.

  In a second she would be, surely. Dylan—no! Head starting that queasy spin again, Kitty resisted even thinking his name. He was her One Silly Mistake. But even with her One Silly Mistake—her teenage, eight-year-old mistake—in the audience, she could get through this tour. With dignity.

  She straightened her shoulders. Rubbed her palms against the satin of her skirt. Cleared her throat, then started her spiel.

  "Welcome," she said—more words tumbled out, as easy as creek water over smooth stones, because she'd said them hundreds of times before—"to this entertainment establishment built for the men who came to Hot Water, California, seeking gold. It was called The…"

  On a roll, she darted a glance at her One Silly Mistake. He still stood in the rear, his face expressionless, his stance relaxed. Certainly nothing more than mere chance had brought him into the brothel, she assured herself, trying to stifle her nagging worry. Most likely he didn't even recognize her as someone he'd known before. Eight years ago she'd been a towheaded beanpole of a girl. There was no reason for him to see any resemblance to the towheaded beanpole of a woman she was now, right?

  She swallowed. "It was called The Burning…"

  Her OSM crossed his arms over his chest.

  Kitty stared."…Biceps."

  The crowd guffawed and Kitty blinked. "Rose," she quickly corrected herself. "The Burning Rose."

  Swallowing again, she hastily focused her gaze on the front row of rugby players, far away from the man behind them who stood out like a lean, lethal dagger in a field of plump Iowa corn. "And my name is—" Wait.

  Think. No matter if his reason for being in the brothel was mere happenstance, it would be safer for her to remain anonymous. She searched her mind for an alias, a nom de guerre of sorts, but the man at the back of the room must have taken another long silence as proof of her complete idiocy.

  "You're Kitty," he called out, with a sort of grim helpfulness. "Kitty Wilder."

  Once again her equilibrium fell, sad but swift, straight onto its overly optimistic fanny.

  She wasn't sure how she got through the next few minutes, struggling as she was to deal with the fact that not only was her OSM in town, he was in The Burning Rose, and perfectly aware of her identity.

  Judging by the college boys' heh-heh-hehs and catcalls, though, she assumed she rattled out her usual description of what went on in the parlor circa 1850: the musical entertainment, the serving of exorbitantly overpriced drinks, the purchasing of wooden disks in the shape of roses that were stamped "Good For One" and allowed a man upstairs for a more private visit.

  The idea of a "private visit" set the rugby boys off again. They laughed. They elbowed one another. They asked, "Good For One is good for what, exactly?" Several wanted to know if Kitty gave out free samples of the house wares like the bakery did.

  But their obnoxiousness didn't even make her blink, not when her brain was so frantically preoccupied with the problem of Dylan Matthews. It wasn't until she was preparing to lead the group to the brothel bedrooms that her agitated mind finally latched onto a sensible, calming thought. Just because her OSM knew who she was, it didn't mean he knew what she'd done.

  As a matter of fact, the more she considered it, the more she could believe that he'd joined the tour out of some offhand, nostalgic curiosity. Likely he was merely reacquainting himself with the town's history following his long absence. After all, Hot Water was his heritage as much as it was hers.

  On that happy thought, she managed not to hesitate before stepping off the footstool and pushing her way through the towering walls of rugby chests in order to reach the narrow stairway. Once at the bottom of the steps, she pinned a gracious smile on her face and lifted a hand. "Gentlemen, please proceed."

  Like a herd of hungry cattle, the boys hurried from the parlor, eager to check out where the "butts hit the bed," as one silver-tongued young man referred to it. When the first size 16 shoe hit the bottom stair tread, Kitty collared Sally. She dragged the tour director toward a far corner of the front hall, removing them both from the proximity of the visitors as if to discuss important business.

  Because even if Dylan's appearance at the brothel was perfectly innocent, when it came to her OSM, Kitty wasn't. So there was no good reason to risk an encounter with him, however casual. Aloof should work. If she treated him like any other tourist, as if she didn't recognize him, then she might encourage early ennui and thus an early—maybe even immediate?—departure from The Burning Rose.

  A wishful hope that Sally instantly dispelled. "Who the heck is that?" she demanded, her finger quivering as it pointed to a figure in black climbing the stairs, not heading out the front door.

  "I don't know," Kitty lied.

  "But he knows you."

  Those panicky goose bumps prickled her skin again. "He used to live in town."

  Sally frowned. "You just said you didn't know him."

  Kitty turned her back to the stairs and fiddled with her dress. "He hasn't been home in eight years," she mumbled, vainly tugging upward to add more coverage. "I don't really know him."

  It was an honest answer. Although she'd recognized him at once, the tough-looking Dylan ascending the brothel stairway right this minute little resembled the handsome, good-natured young man the entire town had always admired and loved. Eight years ago he had already been changing, understandably affected by the tragedy that had marked them all that June, but the hardness Kitty saw in him now made her stomach knot.

  Either that, or it was her guilty conscience.

  Sally propped her hands on her hips. "What is this? Are you holding out on me?" she huffed. "I demand the scoop. Right now."

  Since the "scoop" was something Kitty had managed to keep to herself for the past eight years, she edged away. "I've got to get upstairs," she said.

  Sally grabbed her arm. "Come on. Give me something. Does he have a job? Kids? Wife?"

  "Yes, job. No, kids." Kitty slipped free of her friend's hold and hurried to the stairway.

  Sally's loud whisper drifted after her. "Okay, but what about a wife?"

  Kitty pretended not to hear.

  Keeping a close eye out for the dangerous man in black, she followed the last of the rugby players upstairs, then lingered at the top landing as the men shuffled in and out of the five bedrooms on display. In each were feminine toiletry articles, lingerie, and hand-lettered lists of the men purported to have taken their ease at The Burning Rose.

  The first madam herself had entertained two governors, a future senator, and a banker who went on to build a prestigious university. Of course, there had also been a passel of customers identified only by bawdy nicknames like "Long Owen," "Handy John," and "Quick Pete." Despite vigorous appeals from the crewcutted crowd, Kitty, as usual, refused to speculate about such nicknames.

  "While they aren't original to The Burning Rose," she commented instead, "the furniture, wall coverings, and curtains are in keeping with the period. They're similar to those described in letters the Hot Water P
reservation Society has in its collection."

  As she suspected, the rugby team didn't seem much interested in the bedrooms' decor, only in the bedroom doings. For herself, Kitty liked to imagine that Rose, the first madam, had possessed better, less obvious taste than the red velvet bed hangings and matching, gold-embroidered curtains. But the committee in charge of decorating had, when it came to The Burning Rose, opted for sex over subtlety.

  From the corner of her eye, Kitty caught sight of her OSM exiting one of the rooms and heading straight for her. Her voice squeaky with anxiety, she immediately urged the young men to follow her back to the parlor. To hasten them along, she grabbed the nearest brawny wrist and dragged the young man attached to it downstairs with her.

  In minutes they were all back in place, Kitty standing on a stool up front, the man in black in the rear, and that comforting, wide buffer of beefy college boys in between. Just a moment more, she thought, and the tour would be wrapped up.

  She risked another glance at her OSM, and though he still appeared steely, she decided he didn't look stormy. Regardless of that, her quivering sense of danger in the offing didn't entirely disappear. Not until she got through the good-byes and got him out of here would she know her secret was one hundred percent safe.

  "Well, that's it." Kitty pasted on a smile. "Unless there's anything else I can tell you, I'd like to thank you and—"

  "What's that?"

  Her here's-your-hat-what's-your-hurry speech was interrupted by a rugby team member she hadn't noticed before. Understandably, because he was a spider monkey to their standard King Kong size. His hair was styled in the prerequisite crew cut, but apart from that, he was short, skinny, and wore a pair of wire-rimmed glasses. He took them off, using one stem to point at a gilt-edged frame sitting atop the player piano.

  "That?" Kitty repeated. Inside the frame was a needlework piece dated 1852. She thought it really belonged in her great-aunt's house, preferably buried in a box in the attic, but Aunt Cat always insisted it be displayed in the brothel parlor.