by Brenda Joyce
“Lil, follow me,” Mollie said to a tall, willowy brunette.
Lil had been standing in a doorway clad in a sheer wrapper, talking to a plump Mexican and a thin redhead. She obediently followed Mollie and Miranda into a small room containing a bed, a washstand, a chair, and wardrobe.
“Who’s this?” Lil asked curiously, her blue eyes friendly.
“Belle. She needs some care. I want you to fix her up, see if you can’t get her to talk. Maybe she’s deaf and dumb, I don’t know. I don’t think she’s a dimwit, myself. Something so damn empty about those eyes.” Mollie stared at Miranda, scowling. Then, “See she eats, too. I want her fattened up good.” Mollie left. She was disturbed about the girl, and she didn’t like it. She was a business-woman, and a cold one. If she hadn’t been, she’d still be on her back every night like her girls, instead of just when she felt like it.
“Hello, Belle,” Lil tried. “Gee, you are dirty, but truly beautiful. Let’s get you out of these clothes.” She wondered if the girl even heard her. She didn’t seem to, just standing there in the middle of the small room where Mollie had left her.
Lil undressed her after sending for hot water and a tub. The girl was thin and bruised. She felt sorry for her. She knew the girl had been brought here by Chester. She herself had chosen her life, which was different. She sighed and helped Miranda into the tub, talking all the time.
“Things really aren’t so bad here. Mollie pretends to be mean, but she’s not. We have plenty of food and we get one day off a week. Mollie says its important for us to get a day of rest. It’s better for business, she says. She wants us fresh. You’re so pretty you’ll be real popular—well, maybe not. Don’t you ever talk?”
Miranda looked at the woman bathing her, seeing her as if through a haze. The woman was speaking to her, and the words came from a great distance away. She wondered where she was. Oh yes. Galveston. Chester had bought her from the Comanche. Sold her into a brothel—just like Derek had said. Derek. She had never told him how much she loved him—and now he would never know.
“You have such pain in your eyes,” Lil said compassionately. “Did he hurt you?”
It would take too much effort to answer, so she didn’t respond.
Lil washed her with soft caresses, as if she were a frail child. Even her compassionate touch couldn’t stir Miranda from her grief. Lil helped her out of the tub, chattering now about the latest gossip in Galveston, gently toweling her dry. When Lil wrapped her in the thick towel, pushing her onto the bed, Miranda was pliant. Lil began to comb through the tangles of her hair.
“Good Lord! I never seen so much hair on a head! You’re lucky, Belle, do you know that?”
Lil finished and spread Miranda’s hair out along her shoulders to let it dry. She removed the towel, handing her a wrapper, much like the one she was wearing, from the wardrobe. Miranda looked at it without curiosity. It was sheer and hid nothing. It brought home the fact that she was indeed in a brothel. But she slipped it on. She didn’t care—she couldn’t care. Nothing mattered anymore.
Chapter 72
Miranda looked up as Lil returned to the room with a tray of food. Lil smiled brightly. “Hello again, Belle. I’ve brought you some food.”
Food. She wasn’t sure when she had last eaten, but the aroma of chili and beans was pungent, and even though she didn’t care whether she ate or not, her stomach growled. Despite herself, she looked at the tray. She sighed and said to Lil, “My name is Miranda, not Belle.”
Lil’s eyes widened with surprise. “You can talk! Oh, dear, I was so worried about you! Are you all right?”
In answer, Miranda felt tears coming again. From deep inside, deep in her soul. Oh Derek.
“What’s wrong, dear?” Lil’s tone was compassionate.
“My husband.”
Lil sat down on the bed next to her. “Do you want to talk about it? Maybe it would help.”
“It won’t bring him back,” Miranda said softly.
“I’m sorry.”
Miranda shook her head. “I don’t think I can go on without him.” Her voice broke.
Lil put an arm around her. “You’ve got to, honey. If he loved you as much as you loved him, he’d want you to.”
Those words rang true. And there was something else, something she’d avoided thinking about all the time, and her hand went unconsciously to her belly in an age-old protective gesture.
Lil gasped. “Honey—you’re with child?”
Miranda nodded.
“Then you just have to eat and get on with living,” Lil said firmly.
Miranda knew she was right—but didn’t know if she could. “It’s so hard.”
“No, it’s not.” She set the tray on her lap, and handed Miranda a spoon. “One bite at a time.”
Miranda ate.
“Honey, I’ll see if I can’t get you a few more days to grieve, to pull yourself together, before you have to start working.”
Miranda stopped eating. Fear pierced her numbness. “Lil—I can’t.”
Lil grimaced. “Honey, you’re going to have to earn your keep.”
Miranda shook her head and gulped back a sob, seeing Derek’s golden image. Did it matter? Did anything matter now?
Lil watched her, frowning. She coaxed her through most of the meal, told her to get a good night’s rest, and said she would be in to see her in the morning. She left, and Miranda fell into another light, dozing sleep, broken by nightmares about Derek’s murder. Once she woke up screaming, and Lil rushed in half clad to comfort her.
The next few days passed in a kind of haze. Lil came to visit often, and introduced her to other girls—prostitutes—who seemed kind and cheerful, if curious and sympathetic. Miranda’s grief and lack of animation tugged at everyone’s compassion. She rarely smiled, and when she did, it was soft and slight, barely there, a sad, pain-filled smile. Lil wasn’t the only one to pity her and want to protect her. Most of the other girls did, too.
The day came when Mollie decided that Miranda was ready to work. Lil brought the news that afternoon, and Miranda stared at her with a twinge of fear. “What am I to do?”
“I’ll help you dress,” Lil told her. “You’ll serve drinks downstairs, and when a man wants to take you up to your room, you get the money first, and give it to Cleeve. Never spend more than a half an hour with any man; twenty minutes is better. Soon as he’s done, give him the boot.”
Miranda’s heart started to pound.
Lil hugged her. “You’ll do just fine.”
The dress was a rose satin, faded and worn. It was cut very low, exposing almost all of Miranda’s small bosom. Lil brushed out her hair into a shining, waist-length mass. Because Miranda was so pale, Lil added rouge to her lips and cheeks. Lil regarded her handiwork and thought Miranda looked like a painted porcelain doll. She felt a pang of pity and regret. They went downstairs, Miranda looking more and more frightened every moment.
The saloon was loud with raucous laughter, rank with male body odor and cheap whiskey. Lil felt Miranda stiffen, saw her face pale, and took her hand. “It’s all right.”
Men stopped talking and they all looked at Miranda. She was new, and thus an object of considerable interest. Miranda’s fear increased as the reality of what was happening registered. “Miranda, this is Cleeve,” Lil said. “You bring Cleeve the money, three bits, before you go upstairs,” she repeated.
Cleeve was tall and stocky, balding and mustached. He looked at Miranda. “Hey, she all right, Lil?”
Lil bristled. “She’s fine. Ain’t you, honey?”
Miranda looked at Cleeve, then Lil, scared to death.
A big man in stained buckskins, bearded and with broken teeth, sauntered forward. “Hey, little lady, I’ll be your first.”
Miranda looked at Lil. “Lil—I can’t.”
He reached in his pocket and tossed some coins on the bar, toward Cleeve. “What’s your name?” He grabbed her hand.
Miranda felt his touch and was terrified
. She paled and tried to pull away.
“Her name is Miranda,” Lil said, worried. “It’s all right, honey, you take Moss up to your room. He’ll know what to do.”
Moss laughed, revealing yellow teeth, several missing. He grabbed Miranda by the waist.
Miranda’s heart began to race. She looked at Lil pleadingly, and began to struggle. “No!”
“A fighter!” Moss was delighted. He laughed again and picked her up as if her weight was meaningless to him, carrying her up the stairs. She hadn’t stopped struggling, in fact, she was fighting with hysterical strength. Lil couldn’t stand it.
She raced up the stairs, knowing that she had to stop Moss. She reached them as they went inside Miranda’s bedroom, and followed them. Moss threw Miranda on the bed, reaching for his belt buckle.
“No, Moss,” Lil said. “You don’t want her, you want me.”
“Hell no, Lil. I want the new one. She’s prettier.”
Miranda huddled on the bed, panting and tensed, her painted cheeks stained with rouge and tears.
“She’s been ill,” Lil snapped, and placed herself between Moss and the bed. “We thought she was well enough to work, but she ain’t.”
“Get out of my way,” Moss growled.
Lil struck a provocative pose.
Moss snorted.
Lil gave him a surly look, and began to unhook her gown in the back.
“It won’t work, Lil,” Moss said, but he was hard and grinning.
Lil slid the gown down to her waist, revealing a partial corset that thrust her breasts up, the nipples just visible. “You know how good I am,” she said huskily.
“Damn,” Moss said. His eyes were hot.
Lil slid the gown the rest of the way down. She wore no petticoats—nothing, in fact, but stockings and garters. Moss stared at the hair curling between her thighs, then inhaled sharply as Lil touched herself intimately. “Tell me who you want now, Moss,” she whispered.
He grabbed her. Lil darted free, out the door, and into her room next door. Moss followed.
Lil returned sometime later, and found Miranda still on the bed, her eyes closed. “You all right, honey?” she asked, picking up her dress and slipping it on.
Miranda looked at her with gratitude. “Thank you.”
“I’ve got an idea, Miranda, one to keep you off your back. I’m going to go back downstairs, but I guess you’d better stay here until I talk to the other girls and then to Mollie.”
“You can talk to me now,” Mollie said grimly from the doorway, clad in her usual black satin. Her gown, unlike her girls’, was new. “Why is she cowering up here alone?”
“Mollie, Miranda just lost her man. She’s only a child, look at her! She needs time—”
“She’ll get over it,” Mollie said.
“Yes, she will—with time.” Lil stared, hands on hips.
“Lil, you have gotten too bold,” Mollie said, frowning. “I paid money for her, and I expect her to earn her way.”
“I’ll take up her slack,” Lil said. “If me and the other girls all do one extra trick each night, it’ll be the same as if she was working.”
“The rest of the girls would never agree.”
“I think they would. They all feel for her.”
Mollie hated to admit it, but ever since she had first seen the girl, she had had doubts about buying her, because of her strange mental state. It had made her wonder just what had happened to the girl, that she was so vacant and detached. Now, of course, she knew, for Lil had told everyone. The girl disturbed her and made her feel sympathy—something totally out of character. “If you can talk the other girls into it, we’ll try it for a while. But she still has to serve drinks.”
“We can say she’s your niece,” Lil said eagerly. “And that’s why she’s off limits.”
Mollie just walked away.
Chapter 73
Derek was too weak to search for Miranda, but he set out anyway, while the trail was still fresh. A week had passed since the fever had abated, and he could only guess how many days had gone by before that, since the attack. A week at most, he thought, but with luck only three or four days. Miranda was a week and half or two ahead of him. His wounds were bound tightly, healing, but he was weak and his movements stiff and sore. He was half a man right now, and he knew it. But he had his guns. He could shoot as straight as ever, and he had his eyes—he could track.
Their trail was old, and he lost it time and time again. Because he was weak, he had to travel slowly, stopping often to rest in exhaustion. But he pushed on. There had been six Comanche carcasses around the camp, and he soon saw that he was following six other braves, one riding with extra weight—his wife. He was terribly afraid.
He knew this time was worse than Chavez. Chavez had been obsessed, and had wanted her for himself. He knew it was the Comanche way to rape every female captive, each brave taking a turn if he so desired. What if they killed her from repeated rape? He felt sick inside.
If he ever found her, he would send her back to England. That was where she belonged. She didn’t deserve the punishment this savage land inflicted on its frontiersmen. It was a promise he made to himself, one he would keep.
He also prayed to God, once, before he set out. It was the only time in his life he had ever prayed. He got down on his knees, his hands clasped as he’d seen her do, and closed his eyes. He begged God for her life, for she was pure and good and faithful. He didn’t try to make a bargain, didn’t offer anything in return, he just begged. He had never been so humble.
Five days out of camp he found signs of a Comanche campsite. He saw where the extra-weighted horse had stopped, its rider dismounting, and then the scuffed area where Miranda had obviously been dropped, or had fallen. From there he saw she had been dragged a short distance away, on her back. He could see heel marks and claw marks—her fingers. The spot she had been dragged to was surrounded by footprints, moving back and forth in a circle around her. He was sick, because these signs unfurled the story as if he were seeing it, and he did, with his Apache eye. They had all raped her, there, where he was standing.
There were also signs that two riders had approached, big men on loaded-down horses, at least one of whom was white. One man had worn boots, a man lean and light. A big, heavy man had worn moccasins. There were empty jugs of whiskey scattered around, chewed tobacco, the remains of a fire, and a deer carcass. He understood. Miranda had left with these men, had been sold to them. And these men had walked over to her too, inspecting—and perhaps even raping her.
His resolve outweighed his physical fatigue, and he pushed on, following the two men who had headed south and east. These tracks were easier to follow, for the horses were so heavily burdened. He rode until it was too dark to see, and then he fell from his horse, forcing himself to eat the smoked venison he had brought with him. At dawn he rode again.
Chapter 74
He rode into Galveston with grim determination.
He had lost their trail a day ago, but by that time, there was no doubt in his mind that they were heading for Galveston. They had avoided all other towns, settlements and even farms and ranches. Derek knew why. It was because Miranda was their prisoner.
He was afraid. There was a strong possibility that Miranda wasn’t even there, but had been sold again and shipped south, to a Mexican brothel. He quelled the rising sickness and dread such thinking brought. He knew he must be about a month behind her. He had been making bad time, especially at first, and he had also lost the trail time and time again, having to double back to find it.
He intended to comb every saloon and brothel in Galveston before heading to the waterfront. He had prayed to God before that she was all right. Now he just prayed—to anyone who would listen—that he would find her here.
A few hours later he was at the end of his rope, feeling despair, losing hope, having covered every saloon and brothel except for the two closest to the waterfront. He rode up to the Red Garter as dusk was settling in. The stre
ets were quieting down, but the din from within the saloon was increasing. He slipped off his chestnut gracefully, his stiffness and soreness having gone away. Sometimes at night the stab wound in his back ached when it was damp.
He brushed through the wide swinging doors, scanning the room. Already the saloon was full of rugged, dirty men—sailors and travelers and men in buckskin, shouting and laughing, slamming empty glasses down and demanding more. Three girls floated among the men, serving drinks, all in garish satin dresses revealing almost complete expanses of bosom. He had a sinking feeling, then walked to the bar and found a spot between a sailor who didn’t speak English and a huge man who smelled like bear and grease. The bartender saw him, and came over some moments later.
“A whiskey,” Derek said.
The man poured.
“I’m looking for a woman,” he said as the man pushed the glass at him.
“You’re in the right place.” Cleeve grinned.
“This woman is young, seventeen, with violet eyes and black hair. She’s beautiful, but thin. Her name is Miranda.”
Cleeve squinted, taking the money Derek had flipped onto the bar. “No gal like that here.”
His heart sank.
“Why you looking for this particular one?”
“She’s my wife,” Derek said. “And she was abducted by Comanche, then sold to white slavers.”
Cleeve made a noise of sympathy and walked away to serve another customer.
Bragg gulped the whiskey down in one shot. He had one last place to try. He wouldn’t hang out here, he was impatient. He pressed away from the bar.
And then he saw her coming down the stairs. Miranda.
He froze, taking her in, unable to believe his eyes. She was pale and thin, but breathtakingly lovely in a fragile, delicate way. She was wearing a whore’s red satin dress, and he became angry—angry at what she was showing, angry that she was coming from upstairs; he knew damn well what went on up those stairs. He reached her in four strides, just as she hit the bottom step, and grabbed her, crying, “Miranda!”