“Why bother with the dollar?” her friend asked.
“That makes it official, I hear.”
“Seems awfully silly, but that’s fine.”
“You can save each dollar for the next time I see you. Take good care of this place.”
Melisande nodded. “We will.”
“I know.”
“We wanted to ask you something, Bill and I…” Melisande’s eyes flickered toward the front where Bill and Caleb were readying the horses for the trip. “I got a letter from my aunt.”
“Your aunt? I didn’t know you had any family!”
“We lost touch for a while. She fell out with my mother over me, but now…well, I wrote once I’d settled here.”
“I’m glad to hear it. Will she come visit?”
Melisande laughed. “No, she’s vowed to never set foot outside New Orleans and never has. But she did have a thought.”
Jess had rarely seen the woman hesitate over anything, and never for this long. “You sound like me discussing whoring. Spit it out before it turns bitter.”
Her smile was a little shaky this time, but she nodded. “A cousin of mine died. Left two little ones behind. The boy is eleven, old enough to start farming. The girl is only six, but she can help around the kitchen. I thought… Well, Bill and I thought maybe they could come here if you wouldn’t mind.”
“If I wouldn’t mind?” Jess barely got the words out before tears choked her throat. She wasn’t sure who’d started it this time. Melisande’s eyes were damp too, tears of nervousness or hope or excitement.
Jess understood the terror of all those emotions, because she felt them too. A life she’d thought lost to her was opening up, spreading its wings to the sky. Jessica wasn’t sure about children. She wasn’t sure about anything, really, but she felt hope and she could see the same in Melisande’s face.
Jess cleared her throat, trying to let the words free. “Why would I mind?” she finally managed.
“It’s your place.”
“No, it’s your place now. You bring all the family here you want. Make this place alive again. Drive out all the ghosts.”
“Yes.” Melisande dipped her chin in one firm nod. “Let the past be the past. Kids are good at chasing old stuff away.”
She could picture them all come springtime. Bill and a young man half his size, working to expand the cornfield. A miniature of Melisande next to her in the kitchen, learning to bake biscuits just as Jessica had. The idea so thrilled her that she reached for Melisande and pulled her into another hard hug. “I can feel how happy this place will be. How happy you’ll be.”
“You gave this to us,” Melisande whispered.
“No. We did this together. Gave each other a chance.”
Melisande’s cheek rubbed Jess’s hair when she nodded, and then her friend pulled back and swiped at her eyes with an apron. “Let’s go see what the boys are doing.”
Jessica looked around one more time, her gaze touching every memory in the kitchen before she nodded. It felt good to be leaving, but she would miss her best friend.
They found the men huddled together just past the front porch, Caleb drawing something in the dirt. “You can start it before the ground freezes,” Caleb said.
“Start what?” Jessica asked.
He looked up with a half-smile that made her heart turn so fast it hurt. “I was just showing Bill where he could dig an irrigation ditch from the creek.”
“I’m just glad to see you didn’t lose your patience and set off without me.”
“Never,” he said, giving her another crooked smile. “But if you ladies are done with good-byes, we really should get going.”
Jessica hugged Melisande one last time, bid farewell to Bill, then rushed toward her horse before she could cry again.
Caleb helped her up before mounting his own horse. “I like seeing you like that,” he said, his eyes sliding down her hiked skirts.
“Is that why you didn’t buy me a sidesaddle?”
“Naw, I just wanted you to be more comfortable.” He winked, and she giggled, loving how easy it felt now. It wasn’t what they’d had before. It was better.
They waved to Melisande and Bill and set off. Jessica stopped only once to turn the horse and look again. Even if she’d earned it on her back, she’d owned this place. It had belonged to her. Even if she’d hated the very soil beneath her feet, it had been hers.
“Good-bye,” she whispered to the house. Then she urged her horse to a quick trot to catch up with Caleb.
“Ready to see the ocean?” he asked.
She grinned at him. “I’ve seen the ocean before.”
“Not this one,” he reminded her.
“No,” she conceded, “not this one.” And not with Caleb.
“We could still ride north and catch the train. Be in California in a few days’ time.”
“No, I want to see the stars and land and mountains.”
“If you change your mind—”
“I won’t,” she interrupted.
“All right then,” he said, seeming pleased with her answer.
They were almost out of sight of the house when she heard a sound behind her. Jessica didn’t turn around, but Caleb drew his horse to a stop and shaded his eyes. “Melisande is shouting about something.”
“Yes,” she answered.
“She’s waving a piece of paper.”
“Is she?” Jessica smiled and kept on riding. Once she was around the curve, Caleb hurried to catch up.
“What was it?” he asked.
Jessica slanted him a quick look. “The deed to the house.”
His eyebrows rose. “The deed?”
“Melisande deserves it. It’s more her place than mine. And I didn’t want it anymore. I didn’t think you’d want it either, if we marry.”
“If we marry,” he repeated carefully, and then his smile wasn’t crooked anymore. It was wide and full and sweet. “We could stop in the next town.”
She’d been thinking it over for the past few days, letting it sit inside her to see how it felt. “No,” she said, “not here. We’ll see how we get on first. But maybe when we get to California…maybe we’ll start again.”
He reached for her hand and bumped his horse against hers so he could pull her close enough to kiss her gloved fingers. “We’ll start for the first time, you mean.”
“How many first times can we have?” she huffed.
“As many as we need to get it right.”
She didn’t need any more new starts. It was right already. Right and good and everything she thought she’d never be again.
They turned away from town, and she knew she’d never return. Her future was in front of her and right beside her, and she meant to live it.
* * *
Thank you for reading Harlot! I hope you enjoyed this little trip to the Old West.
If you’d care to meet another naughty couple, I wrote a short story called “The Wicked West” a few years ago about a sheriff with a secret kink and an English widow who’s happy to indulge him. Find out more about “The Wicked West” here!
You can learn about all of my romances, contemporary and historical, by visiting www.VictoriaDahl.com
And if you’d like to know when my next book is out, please click here!
About the Author
Victoria Dahl lives with her family in a small town high in the Rocky Mountains. During the summer, she hikes and drinks margaritas (usually not at the same time.) During the winter she likes to curl up with a book and a cup of hot cocoa and think about all those poor, freezing skiers working so hard out in the snow. Victoria has published twenty-eight books and novellas, including three USA Today bestsellers, and several of her books have been nominated for the prestigious RITA Award for excellence in the romance genre. Whether she’s working or relaxing, you can find Victoria on Twitter (@VictoriaDahl) being inappropriate twenty-four hours a day.
Her most recent books:
Looking for Tr
ouble, Girls’ Night Out book 1
Flirting with Disaster, Girls’ Night Out book 2
Taking the Heat, Girls’ Night Out book 3
Copyright Information
Harlot
Copyright © 2015 by Victoria Dahl
eBook Edition
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author except in the case of brief quotations used in critical articles or reviews.
Acknowledgments
This book really did take a village. A village of women who know more than I do about publishing and were generous and kind in sharing that knowledge with me.
First, I couldn’t have done this without Jennifer Echols, who was not only my critique partner and copy editor extraordinaire, but also my biggest cheerleader. I loved this story from the start but, as with most books, I developed doubts along the way. Jennifer told me to stop being stupid. I tried my best to take her advice. She’s usually right. Don’t tell her I said that.
A huge thank-you to the women of my secret writing cabal. Secret, but I will name them here. I assume no one is reading this? Bree Bridges received the brunt of the assault because she was too nice to stop answering my questions, even when she was falling asleep. Poor Bree. And Jeri Smith-Ready! Thank you for all the emails and the help with copy. Courtney Milan is an invaluable source of information about self-publishing who’s always generous. And Zoe Archer, Tessa Dare, Lauren Dane, Ann Aguirre, Vivian Arend, Donna Herren, Megan Hart, Julie Leto, Lorelie Brown, and Carly Phillips, thank you for holding my hand, answering my questions, coming up with an amazing title, and putting up with my worries.
Farrah Rochon was kind enough to read an early copy of Harlot and give me her thoughts. Charlotte Stein, Heidi Cullinan, and Alisha Rai always responded to my panicked messages with patience. Kiersten Krum saved me from writing cover copy. Sasha Knight was my wonderful editor and put a polish on this story. And Nathalie Grey of Kanaxa made designing my first cover an amazing, positive experience. I love this cover so much, Nathalie. Thank you for my beautiful harlot.
This is an awesome village. I want to live in this village.
Of course, a big thank you to all my readers! My stories would just be strange, perverted imaginings without you. And thanks to my Twitter friends who encouraged this book. Your support means the world to me.
Lastly, I couldn’t do this without my husband and family. Thank you for all the love. I promise I’ll make a real dinner soon.
Westward ho!
Harlot Page 13