Caroline Lee's Christmas Collection: Six sweet historical western romances

by Caroline Lee

  Maybelle, however, had obviously meant something else. “Of course I want to have children, you ninny,” she snapped. “All brides want to have children.” She lifted her chin and sniffed haughtily at Pearl. “I suppose you wouldn’t know anything about that.” And then, as if she wasn’t aware of her harsh insult, Maybelle continued, “It’s the getting of children I’m…less than sure about.”

  Pearl hid her smile behind a sip of tea. It had probably taken a lot for Maybelle to admit she wasn’t completely positive about something, and to a worthless whore no less. But there was no shame in what the other woman was asking. Brides have been coming to whores for this kind of advice for generations, after all.

  But all Pearl said was, “I’d be happy to answer any questions you might have, Maybelle.”

  “Miss Anderson,” Maybelle snapped. “Soon to be Mrs. Symthe, I’ll have you remember.”

  “Of course,” Pearl murmured soothingly. “Do you have any questions about becoming Mrs. Smythe?”

  It was difficult to maintain a calm demeanor with the rude woman, but Pearl reminded herself of the times she’d been alone and afraid. All women needed a friend—or at least a comforting ear—at some point in their lives, and this was why she’d offered to stay at La Maison for a few nights, even if it meant giving up some income. These women needed a friend, and Maybelle was the kind of woman no one else would volunteer to befriend. So Pearl would sit here with her and listen to her, so no one else had to.

  After a long moment, Maybelle’s chin went up farther and her back straightened. “I have heard that—that the marriage bed”—she sneered the words, as if they were naughty—“is sometimes an unpleasant experience. I, of course, have no comparisons, but you, having allowed so many men access to your body, would.”

  Pearl’s fingers clenched around the teacup at the woman’s cruel words, clearly intended as insults. “What is your question?” She was proud of the way her voice didn’t shake.

  “Isn’t it obvious? He can be forgiven for going to paw at you, since he didn’t know he was going to be married to me. You have the experience to tell me—I want to know if my Horatio is a good lover.”

  No. Pearl kept the word from jumping to her lips only by sheer force of will. No, Horatio isn’t a good lover. He was harsh and demanding, and seemed to enjoy humiliating the girls he paid to use. And when Pearl had objected, he’d hit her, and then spread the rumor which was causing her so much distress about her future.

  If none of the men in town requested her company, if none of them wanted to choose her for an hour, then Madame was going to demote her to one of the cribs, and she’d be doomed. There was no regulation in those lowest, filthiest shacks, and she knew she’d be dead before the new year ended.

  Here at La Maison, she at least had time to enjoy her past-times. She could read, go for walks in the mountains, listen to Angelique play the piano. She was surrounded by her girls, whom she loved and cared for. If she was demoted to the cribs, thanks to Horatio’s cruel rumor, she’d never again have the chance to giggle with Boum Boum over a man’s reaction to her tremendous breasts, or practice her embroidery with Felice.

  And she was sure that, while working in those cribs and servicing any and all men who could afford the few cents she’d become worth, Horatio would return. He’d teach her the lesson he’d threatened all those months ago, and she would have no way to stop it.

  So no, Horatio wasn’t a good lover. There was only one man she’d ever met who could truly be said to be a good lover, and he surely wouldn’t look at her, were she demoted to the cribs.

  Sheriff Draven had standards, after all. She wasn’t anywhere near those standards even now, but for some reason he still wanted to spend time with her, and she’d long ago fallen in love with him for it. Despite his rough appearance, he treated her body—her—like she was something to be worshiped, and once she’d had a taste of the bliss he shared with her, no other man could possibly compare.

  Pearl’s eyes closed briefly on the pain of that knowledge. Draven had ruined her for all other men, as surely as Horatio Smythe had. I’m a terrible whore.

  “Well?” Maybelle’s strident voice broke through Pearl’s thoughts. “Are you going to answer my question or not?”

  Maybelle was about to become Mrs. Horatio Smythe, and it was in everyone’s best interests that the marriage occur. So Pearl smiled tightly and said only, “I’m sure he will be, once he’s making love to the woman he loves.”

  There. That wasn’t a lie. And judging from the way Maybelle’s expression turned dreamy, and she sighed—prettily, of course—as she sat back in her chair, Pearl had said the right thing. The “making love” part had been truly inspired, because men like Horatio didn’t make love. They did something much, much cruder.

  Draven, on the other hand…he made love. He made love tenderly enough to make Pearl’s body sing.

  No. No. No!

  She again pushed aside thoughts of the sheriff, which was difficult, because he’d been in her dreams all last night after their encounter in the front parlor. Their encounter which had proven to her—with his casual comment about her “working”—that he didn’t see her as anything more than a whore.

  She wasn’t anything special to Sheriff Draven.

  But as she sat in the parlor, listening to a soon-to-be bride chatter on about her life on Christmas Day, Pearl knew the truth. She wasn’t anything special to him, but he was the only man she’d ever love.

  Chapter 3

  The second day of Christmas

  December 26th, 1876

  “Draven! Draven!”

  His front door slammed open, and Reverend Chase Hammond barreled into the jail building. Draven was on one knee in front of the stove, about to load in more wood, but his free hand instinctively dropped to his revolver grip. When Draven realized who it was who’d startled him, he muttered a curse and went back to his task.

  Hammond, meanwhile, had bent almost double, his hands on his knees, breathing heavily. “Sheriff, you gotta come quick!”

  Draven ignored the man’s agitation. “You mind closing my door?”

  He made sure the fire caught the new wood, and sighed slightly. December twenty-sixth. It’s cold as a witch’s teat out there, and the man leaves my front door open.

  “No time!” Hammond straightened, then started towards him. “I need you to act in your capacity as an appointed law official for Noelle.”

  Draven rose to his feet, his hand resting once more on his gun belt. This sounded interesting. “You mean, you want me to arrest somebody?” he translated.

  The reverend nodded enthusiastically, his breath coming easier now. “Yes. Yes.” He reached for Draven’s elbow, obviously intent on dragging him out of the building that acted as the town’s jail, the sheriff’s office, and Draven’s home.

  Draven’s low growl put a stop to the movement, however, and Hammond snatched his hand back. The other man made a point of brushing that same hand down his coat, like he’d intended to do that all along.

  “Listen, Draven. I just need you to come with me.” He took a step towards the door, obviously beckoning Draven through it.

  Figuring there was nothing else for it, Draven shrugged and pulled his jacket down from the peg by the door. “What's happened? Who's making trouble now?”

  By this time, they were out the door, and Hammond was pulling it closed behind them.

  In the two years Draven had been in Noelle, the town’s only focus had been on the mines and making money. No one had bothered building boardwalks or porches. Mayor Hardt had said those things were on his list, but with the way the gold was petering out, Draven didn't figure it would happen anytime soon. Which meant, for the foreseeable future, he was going to have to deal with slush around his ankles—and deeper, at times—whenever he stepped off the plank that connected the jail to Cobb’s Penn.

  At least those miners Hardt had hired to shovel the snow out of the way had done their jobs. Mostly.

  D
raven scowled down at the dirty slush piled all around, and asked again, “Who do you need me to arrest?”

  Hammond's answer was less than welcome. “Horatio Smythe.”

  Draven’s attention snapped back to the preacher, who was still looking anxiously up and down the Main Street. “You got something against me, Reverend? Did I do something to tick you off?”

  “What? Why?” Hammond was only half paying attention to the conversation.

  “Because I figure only somebody who hated me would ask me to spend a whole day in Horatio's company, him locked in a cell right by my desk...”

  Well, that gained Hammond’s attention, right enough. But the preacher’s reluctant smile still looked a little weak. “Yeah, sorry. I guess I didn't think about that.”

  They were standing in the middle of Noelle, freezing their noses off, and Draven still didn't know why Hammond wanted the newsman locked up. “You got any particular reason for wanting Horatio arrested?”

  The preacher sighed and pulled his hat off to run his hand through his hair. He sure looked worried about something. “Horatio married Miss Maybelle Anderson this morning.”

  Draven didn't know why that was bad news. Isn't that what the reverend wanted? His goal was twelve new couples by next week, so he should be happy about the new marriage.

  “And I heard you married Miss Partridge yesterday evening.” Draven knew no one would expect him to smile, so he didn't bother faking any enthusiasm. “Congratulations.”

  To his surprise, Hammond seem to completely lose his worry for a moment. His face broke into a big grin, and his eyes got a little glassy. “Yeah,” he said in a kinda far-away voice, “I can't believe how happy she makes me.”

  Before Draven could figure out how to respond to that, the preacher blinked twice,, and his shoulders drooped again. “The brides have only been here a few days, I know, but things started off so badly. I'm worried we won't get all of the couples matched by the time the representative from the railroad arrives.”

  “So isn't it a good thing that Horatio got married?”

  “It would be,” the reverend responded, “except he's not planning on sticking around.”

  Draven didn't bother hiding the lightning-fast grin which pulled the left side of his lips up to match the scarred right side. “Well, don't expect me to cry as he leaves. The man's a complete ass.”

  “I know!” Hammond agreed with another sigh. “But we need him at least ‘til the sixth. We only had twelve brides, and he was chosen as one of the grooms. Apparently Miss Anderson has convinced him to pick up his last delivery at Peregrines’ and head back home to San Francisco, where his daddy will ensure they live a life totally different from the—and I'm quoting here—‘peasants here in Noelle.’ ”

  Draven snorted. “Sounds like Horatio.”

  “That's only because you haven't met his bride,” Hammond said dryly.

  “So, what?” Draven asked. “You want me to arrest Horatio to keep him here in Noelle?”

  “Just until the railroad man comes next week.” The preacher looked hopeful. “Please?”

  Almost like kicking a puppy. Draven shook his head slowly. “Sorry Reverend, I ain't—” He bit off the word. Mama would skin me alive, she heard me talking like that. “I’m not going to arrest a man just for being an ass. If that was against the law, we'd have to arrest most of the US government.”

  Hammond stared at him a long moment, then his shoulders slumped. “You're right,” he agreed dejectedly. “We can't lock him up for that.” His eyes brightened a bit. “But surely we could come up with some reason?”

  Draven shrugged, resting his thumbs on his gun belt. The bright December sun gleamed off the gold ring on his smallest finger, and he pushed aside the memories it brought back. He wasn't a boy anymore; he was a man…with responsibilities he sometimes didn't want.

  “I don't like the man, true,” he said. “But offhand, I don't know of any laws he's broken. If you've got any good reason to lock him up, you'd best tell me now.”

  “Good afternoon, gentlemen.”

  The greeting caused Reverend Hammond to startle, but Draven didn’t blink. He’d seen Hugh Montgomery’s approach and returned the Englishman’s respectful nod with one of his own. As the town’s assayer, Montgomery’s reputation for strict honesty had earned him Mayor Hardt’s appreciation. But it was the way he’d treated Draven with respect as a fellow learned man—when many others took one look at his disfigured face and assumed he was as brutish as he looked—that had made the sheriff treat him as an equal.

  And there weren’t too many men equal to Draven.

  “’Afternoon, Montgomery.”

  Hammond nodded distractedly. “Hello, your lordship.” He didn’t seem to notice the way the Englishman scowled at the nickname.

  Draven normally wouldn’t care about making polite conversation, but he didn’t particularly want to keep talking about not being able to arrest Horatio…especially not when the idea had so much merit. So he hurried to ask, “How’s married life?”

  But Hugh’s scowl only deepened. “It’s not. You know I can’t abide liars, and she’s—never mind.”

  Draven nodded. It wasn’t any of his business. “Good luck, I guess.”

  “Thank you.” The Englishman sighed and pushed his fancy hat back on his forehead. “I suppose we’d better decide what to do soon, what with the railroad representative arriving tonight or tomorrow.”

  “What?” Reverend Hammond shouldered his way back into the conversation. “What do you mean ‘tonight or tomorrow?’ ” He was looking even more panicked than he’d been ten minutes before. “He’s not due until the sixth!”

  “That’s what I thought as well.” Montgomery nodded solemnly. “But it appears we’re out of time, and I’m not married yet.” And then, under his breath, he added, “I’m not even sure I want to be.”

  The preacher was no longer paying attention, he was so wrapped up in his own worry. Pulling his hat completely off his head, he slapped it against his thigh a few times. “Tonight or tomorrow! Where did you hear that?”

  The Englishman nodded back up the street. “Mr. Penworthy received a telegram. I was meeting with him about a…a business concern.”

  “Dangit! This is horrible!” Hammond began to pace. “Well, we just won’t let it happen. They gave us ‘til January sixth.” He appeared to be talking to himself, and Draven wondered how his ears weren’t freezing, the way he was beating his hat against his thigh instead of wearing the thing. “The brides haven’t even been here two days, and I’m the only one married. I wasn’t even supposed to get married!”

  Draven felt his lips twitch again. “Don’t forget Horatio.”

  “Oh, right. Horatio P. Smythe,” Hammond sneered, kicking a snowdrift. “Sure! He’s married, but he’s leaving.”

  “Terribly sorry, Reverend,” The Englishman spoke up, “but he and his bride have left already. I saw them head out of town a while ago.”

  “Consarn it!” The preacher’s shoulders slumped, and he sounded defeated when he said, “We’ve only had two days. Two couples in two days isn’t bad…is it? Even though one couple left?”

  Draven and the Englishman shared a look, and Montgomery shrugged before speaking up.

  “You still have two couples’ names on the marriage ledger, Reverend. I’m sure you could convince the railroad representative to give you the allotted time, since you can prove marriages are happening.”

  “And how do I explain the fact that Horatio and Maybelle aren’t around? It’s not like they would be off camping somewhere.” Hammond gestured to the deep snow surrounding the town.

  But the Englishman shrugged. “Just find a couple and tell the railroad chap they’re Horatio and Maybelle.”

  “Oh, and where are we going to find…?”

  Draven’s eye narrowed. Hugh Montgomery, the man renowned for his honesty, was suggesting the preacher lie?

  And that’s when he realized the other two men were looking at hi
m speculatively, and Montgomery was trying to hide a smile.

  Not even bothering to dampen his scowl, Draven barked, “What?”

  “Let me get this straight, Hugh…” Hammond was staring at Draven, tapping his hat against his thigh thoughtfully. “You’re suggesting our illustrious sheriff here might pass for a stuck-up society gentleman?”

  Montgomery shrugged, and pretended great interest in the seam of his glove. “I only wonder if the railroad chap knows what Horatio Smythe looks like, or if he’d be happy just seeing a couple and a pair of names in the marriage ledger.”

  “Good point.”

  Draven growled, “What do you mean, ‘good point’? I’m not getting married, preacher. Not for you, or your stupid scheme.”

  “Oh, you don’t need to be married.” Hammond actually looked relieved for some reason. “You just need to claim to be Horatio, after we show the railroad man the latest couple’s marriage record.”

  “Why in the hell would I—”

  Montgomery interrupted. “You’ve forgotten a rather important detail, Reverend. Maybelle. Or rather, his pretend Maybelle.”

  Draven’s grip tightened on his gun belt. It was taking a serious effort to maintain his calm. “Not my Maybelle. I’m not agreeing to this.”

  “True,” Hammond said to Montgomery, ignoring Draven completely. “We’ll need a woman who isn’t already claimed.”

  “Hmmm.” Hugh switched his attention to the other glove. “Difficult to find, what with us having to draw straws for the dozen brides, and only ten left.”

  Draven switched his left hand to the comfortable grip of his revolver. “Then I’d advise you to find some other poor sonuvabitch to talk into this scheme. I don’t want—”

  Again, Hammond ignored his protests. “Good point, Hugh. But I wasn’t thinking about one of the brides. I was thinking about…her.”

  He couldn’t help it; Draven spun around to see who the reverend was pointing at.