by Kit Morgan
“But you have a beautiful voice.”
“At home. Not in public.” Ophelia watched Chase unlock their door. “Good night,” she told them. “Thank you for a nice evening.”
“Even though we were short a guest?” Chase asked.
“Of course. Yours and Felicity’s company are enough for me.”
The reverend looked past her to the door down the hall. Ophelia willed herself not to blush. “Well, good night, then. Best unlock your door.”
She nodded and did as he asked. Her room might be separate from theirs, but he was still acting like a protective parent, waiting until she was safe inside. She had a brief vision of Clint Jones doing the same, watching over her like some knight of old. She sighed as she stepped into her room, shut the door and turned the key. A girl could dream.
Ophelia changed into her nightclothes and braided her hair as she went over the day’s events, and realized she’d forgotten to ask Felicity about something. Chase and Mayor Hardt had at one point in the evening been standing on the other side of the cabin – talking about the silver mine, from the sound of it. Then all of a sudden they both burst out laughing. Felicity looked at them, looked at Penny, then shook her head and went back to work. The details of the talent show took precedence for the rest of the evening. She’d ask Felicity in the morning. Maybe Chase had told her what was so amusing.
She put the thought aside and headed for bed, then heard a noise. She went to the window, hoping, and wasn’t disappointed when she opened it and poked her head out. “Mr. Jones, is that you?”
“Good evening, Miss Rathbone,” he said in a low voice. “How do you fare this evening?”
“Very well, thank you.” She hoped she didn’t tumble out the window – if she leaned out any further, it was a distinct possibility. “You?”
“As well as can be expected.”
Her brow knit. What did he mean by that? And why was he whispering? “Is something wrong?”
“I might ask you the same.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Miss Rathbone … I don’t know how else to say this, but are you all right?”
“All right? Of course – why wouldn’t I be?”
He sighed. “Forgive me. Perhaps it’s none of my business.”
She was getting a kink in her neck. She leaned a little further. “Whatever do you mean?”
“Nothing. Clearly I’ve made a mistake.”
“Mr. Jones, you’re not making sense.”
The window to her left suddenly opened. “What’s going on out here?” Chase asked as he popped his head out. “Ophelia?” He leaned out further to see past her. “Mr. Jones?”
“Yes. Sorry to have bothered you –”
“Wait!” Chase called. “I’d like to speak with you, if I may.”
“Now?” Mr. Jones asked in surprise.
“No, tomorrow will do.”
Ophelia’s head swung back and forth. “Well, if you two will excuse me …”
“Miss Rathbone! I …” Mr. Jones stopped. “Tomorrow. Fine.”
“Which one of us are you talking to?” she asked with a little huff.
Mr. Jones looked at them. “Both, I suppose.” He disappeared.
Chase shook his head. “Strange man.”
Ophelia’s heart didn’t think so. It was beating like a thundering herd of horses. He wanted to speak with her and Rev. Hammond? About what? Then she ducked back inside with a gasp. “He couldn’t possibly want to ask … no, that’s silly. I’ve hardly spoken with him.” Yet this was Noelle, and women married fast here, and she was the only eligible female in town …
She went to the bed and sat. “It couldn’t be, could it?”
She stared at the window, realized she’d left it open, got up and closed it, her excitement mounting. Why on Earth was she feeling this way? She should be appalled, not excited! But the thought of Clint Jones asking Rev. Hammond’s permission to marry her wouldn’t leave her brain. “It’s a preposterous idea!” she told herself, but it did no good.
She got up and paced. Was it, really? She’d read about things like this, but never thought it could happen to her – she wasn’t a mail-order bride, after all. Still, she’d certainly taken a fancy to her neighbor.
Ophelia sat on the bed and did her best to calm down. Since she’d been in Noelle she’d felt and experienced things she never had before, or not in such large doses. Some of them were unpleasant: guilt, shame, not measuring up. She’d been comparing herself to Genevieve Kinnison, a woman she’d never met. And in the encounter with the angry “soiled dove,” she felt something she could only describe as cowardice. She should have stood up for her against Mrs. Sharp and Mrs. Stiles, and hadn’t.
The fallen woman was as small and delicate-looking as Ophelia – slender, and with brown eyes and a pixie face. Give her wings and she might fly away. But slight as she was, the woman had a fire in her eyes hot enough to burn Noelle to the ground. What Ophelia wouldn’t give to have that kind of fight. But then, she’d never really been put to the test.
Ophelia blew out the lantern and crawled under her blankets. Here in Noelle her own fires would be tested, perhaps soon. Was she willing to fight for what she believed was right like the woman she’d met that afternoon? Come to think of it, what if she was completely mistaken about Clint Jones? What if he wanted to simply ask her or Chase something? She had an attraction to him she could not deny. Was she willing to do something about it?
He was a barbed-wire salesman – he’d told her so the other day during one of their impromptu meetings in the hall. Salesmen didn’t stay in one place long. For all she knew, what he wanted to say to her tomorrow was goodbye.
Ophelia swallowed hard and closed her eyes, her chest tight. This should not be happening – she hardly knew the man! Yet, if she let him go, let him leave town without speaking with him, say something, she’d regret it. She knew she would.
She sighed. “Oh my. This is going to be some conversation tomorrow.” she snuggled deeper under the blankets and tried to go to sleep.
Clint went to Nacho’s for breakfast the next day. He enjoyed talking with him and liked his insights. When he returned to the saloon, it was to find the alleged reverend sitting at a table against one wall, a series of papers spread before him. He shook his head in disgust, but approached nonetheless. “Morning.”
Hammond looked up from his work. “Good morning, Mr. Jones. Care for some coffee?”
He might as well get this over with. He certainly hoped the man wasn’t going to take another stab at getting him a woman for the night. Maybe he should tell the man who he was – wouldn’t that be a shock? “Sure, why not.”
The preacher raised his hand. “Seamus, could you bring this gentleman a cup of coffee?”
“Right away, Reverend,” Seamus replied and headed down the hall behind the bar.
Clint watched him go, then turned back to the preacher. “Been doing business here long?”
The preacher glanced at the papers in front of him. “Well, I just started working on this project.” He glanced around with a smile and lowered his voice. “We’re looking for talent, you see – give the men a chance to really strut their stuff.” He leaned toward him. “For a hundred dollars in gold.”
Clint stiffened. He could take Hammond elsewhere, throttle him quietly, grab Miss Rathbone and get her out of there before anyone else was the wiser. But no, his mind was running away from him. He would just have to face facts. He did his best to keep his jaw from locking, as it often did when he was angry. But he had to know something. “And is Miss Rathbone involved in this?”
“Of course. Who do you think is getting the word out?”
Clint stopped breathing and swallowed hard. “And how long will she be working to do that?”
“Most of the day, I’d imagine. But she and Felicity will have to prepare things first. You know, make everything look pretty enough to attract the men.” He glanced at some old miners across the saloon. “Especiall
y the ones less likely to perform well.”
Clint followed his gaze, his eyebrows heading for the ceiling. “You mean to say that Miss Rathbone and … her friend are going to try to entice all the men in town?”
“Of course,” Hammond said happily. “That’s their job, after all. Besides, they volunteered.”
Clint couldn’t help it. He sat back, looking horrified.
“If we’re really lucky,” the preacher went on, “some of the women in town will join in too.”
Clint heard himself squeak in alarm. Mortified, he stood. “Where is Miss Rathbone now?”
“Out taking care of business. Why?”
“You sent them out to do their … their work?”
“Of course – how else are they to cover all that ground? Not everyone comes in here, you know.”
“Just the two of them?” Clint asked, not caring at this point what expression was on his face.
“Two’s enough. They’re hard workers.”
“Oh good Lord!” Clint pinched the bridge of his nose.
Hammond stood. “Mr. Jones? Are you all right?”
Clint wanted to hit him, and it was all he could do not to. “No,” he snapped. “Good day.” He didn’t dare stay – he’d say something he might regret, and possibly put Miss Rathbone in danger. He strode out of the Golden Nugget to the street. It was long past time he spoke with the sheriff.
Chapter Nine
Sheriff Draven was not what Clint expected. Frankly, the man was terrifying – missing an eye, obviously lost to some wild beast, and with three long scars slashing from his forehead to his jaw. Toss in his working eye’s unwavering glare, his sinewy body and dark hair, and he was an imposing figure. He looked more outlaw than sheriff – and given what Clint had seen of Noelle so far, maybe he was. He’d best proceed with caution. “Sheriff Draven – a word, if I may?”
The sheriff had been eyeing him since he walked through the door. “What can I do for ya?”
“It’s perhaps what I can do for you.”
The sheriff raised an inquisitive eyebrow. “Do tell?” He looked Clint up and down. “I don’t need no barbed wire, Mister.”
Clint blinked a few times. “How did you …?”
“I’m the sheriff. It’s my job to know.”
Clint straightened. He’d dealt with this sort of man before. “Then I assume you also know about your local reverend’s search for … entertainment of various sorts for the men in this town.”
“Of course.”
Clint stared at him a moment. “And you’re not opposed to it?”
“Of course not – why should I be? I think it’s a right fine idea the reverend and the mayor cooked up.”
Not the sheriff too! Clint thought. But then, he certainly looked the type. He wasn’t going to find any help in this town.
“What’s really botherin’ you, Mr. Jones?”
Clint tried not to roll his eyes. Of course the man would know his name. He was no doubt told to watch him, probably by the mayor or that crooked preacher. “Nothing. I …”
“You should get involved,” the sheriff interjected. “Show them what you can do. I’m sure everyone’ll love it, whatever it is.”
This was a dead end. Clint straightened his jacket. “I’ll keep that in mind.” He turned and left the sheriff’s office, crossed the street and headed back toward the Golden Nugget. It was time he spoke again with Miss Rathbone. If they were having him watched, he’d have to be careful and make sure his actions didn’t cause trouble for her. If she gave any hint she was in trouble, he’d get her out of this madhouse of a town as fast as he could.
Who knew how many other women in town had been brought in and forced into the mayor and reverend’s evil scheme? He’d get them all out if he was able, but he was only one man – there was only so much he could do.
Chase Hammond watched Mr. Jones storm out of the sheriff’s office. It wasn’t hard to tell he was mad as a rattler. Chase didn’t want to pry, but if he was to consider the man as a candidate for Miss Rathbone, he had to make sure Mr. Jones was on the up and up. For one, he needed to find out if he planned to settle in Noelle – no sense inviting him to dinner if he was leaving soon. Nor if he kept acting like the entire town was beneath him…
“Ah, there goes the man himself,” a familiar voice said behind him.
Chase turned to find Charlie Hardt on his heels. “Mr. Jones? You mean that’s the fellow you were telling me about last night? The one that acts like …”
“Yep,” the mayor said with a chuckle. “That’s him. He still hasn’t figured things out yet?”
Chase smiled in amusement. “I don’t think so. In fact, I’d guess he believes more than ever that we’re a den of iniquity. Not that he’d actually go so far as to say anything, or even ask, but he’s more than willing to assume.”
Charlie put a hand on Chase’s shoulder. “You scoundrel, you,” he chuckled. “When are you going to clean up this town?”
“Oh, that’s right. He acts like I’m the worst of the lechers. Even though he’s staying right down the hall from me at the Golden Nugget and we’ve spoken a few times.”
“Which means you should inform him what’s really going on. Maybe it’ll be better coming from you.”
Chase shook his head. “He seems like a smart man. How could he possibly think …?”
“Don’t be too hard on him. It happens. Look at Penny and how she assumed she brought everyone bad luck. And she’d believed that for years.”
Chase nodded. Charlie had helped his wife overcome that lie. Her story was a good lesson in what could happen when people assumed wrongly – and started getting everyone around them to. Before you knew it, chaos, ruined reputations, damage untold. “Poor man. I wonder what he talked with Sheriff Draven about?”
“Draven?” Charlie said in surprise. “Is that who he was visiting?” He burst into laughter.
“Oh no. Now what?”
Charlie did his best to stifle his chuckling. “I’m sorry, I can’t help it. I ran into Draven this morning and told him what the man thought about you.”
Chase blanched, then smiled. “All right, but the fun has to end. That poor man can’t go on thinking we’re all a bunch of depraved lunatics. I can only imagine what Draven told him.”
“Well, he might have told him the truth,” Charlie said.
“I doubt it, or Mr. Jones would’ve looked happier when he left. But he didn’t even look like he’d eaten a good slice of humble pie – he was in high dudgeon.”
“Yeah, I guess we’d better end this before it goes too far. I suppose I should have said something to him yesterday, but by the time I stopped laughing he was long gone. I thought he might come back, but he didn’t.”
“That’s okay, you needed a good laugh after all the new people coming into town itching to get their claws into your silver mine.”
“True. But not at the expense of poor Mr. Jones.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll take care of it.”
Charlie smiled. “Thanks, friend. Now I’d best go see if I can’t talk Nacho into providing some refreshments for the talent show.”
“I’ll take care of my business at the sheriff’s office, then find poor Mr. Jones and get him straight.”
“What do you need to speak with Draven about?”
Chase smiled. “Not Draven – his wife. I thought it would be nice if she sketched someone on stage for the talent show.”
“Good idea,” Charlie said. “See you later and good luck.”
Chase smiled and waved. “Thanks.” He turned toward the sheriff’s office. “I have a feeling I’m going to need it.”
Miss Rathbone had just come out of Cobb’s Penn as Clint crossed the street. “Miss Rathbone!”
She turned and smiled. “Mr. Jones, how are you?”
He joined her in front of the dry goods store. “I’m fine,” he said, then thought better of it. “No, that’s not true.” He looked into her eyes, searching for any sign of
distress. “I find I’m not all right.”
She stared back. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
He took a step closer, then another. “Miss Rathbone, I must know something.” He couldn’t help but notice her chest rising and falling, her soft, pink lips, the curve of her jaw and slender neck … good heavens, he was getting as bad as those miners! “Now, you mustn’t think of me as …”
“As what?” she asked, leaning slightly toward him.
He stepped away. “I don’t wish to add to your …”
“Ophey! There you are,” her friend Felicity said as she exited Cobb’s. “We still have three more stops.” She glanced at him. “Why, hello, Mr. Jones.”
He nodded in greeting.
“Three? That’s not so bad,” Miss Rathbone commented. She turned to him. “I’m sorry Mr. Jones, but I’m afraid I have to go. We’re quite busy.”
“Yes, I know,” he said sullenly and studied them both. “You’ve been working all morning?”
“Yes, we have,” she said with a smile. “Oh, what were you saying?”
He shook his head. “It’s nothing. For the moment.”
Her brow knit in puzzlement as Felicity took her by the arm. “Come along, we need to get done.”
Miss Rathbone let the other woman lead her away, giving him one last look over her shoulder before turning to head down the street. Only then did he notice the sheaf of papers in her hand, and some in Felicity’s too. What could they be? He’d never heard of a brothel having to pass out flyers.
A man and woman came out of the dry goods store, chatting excitedly – he looked more like a rancher than a miner, and she, presumably his wife, was heavy with child. And they were looking at a piece of paper just like the ones Miss Rathbone and her co-worker carried. “Excuse me,” he said to the couple.
“Hello,” the gentlemen said. “What can I help you with, sir?”
“That paper in your hand – did you get it from those women?” he asked, pointing down the street.
“Yes,” the woman said and fidgeted. “Didn’t you get one?”
“No, I’m afraid not. May I see yours?”