"Sorry, chum. The lady's not accepting callers tonight."
"Says who?"
"Says me," Chase informed him softly.
Despite the loud piano music, Franny heard her doorknob rattle. An instant later, the noise from downstairs, a decibel higher for lack of a barrier, floated in on a draft of air, which told her the door was opening. A narrow shaft of anemic light spilled across the floor to splash against the wall, illuminating the daisy pattern of her wallpaper. As always with the first customer of the evening, tension filled her, but with the ease of long practice, she separated herself from it.
Daisies, a meadow of daisies.
Trying to ignore the sound of the man's boots approaching her bed, she closed her eyes. Concentration, that was the trick. She didn't just see the meadow but immersed herself in it, feeling the light brush of grass against her skirt as she walked, the sun's warmth on her shoulders. She could even hear the breeze whispering. And the scents. Ah, the wonderful scents. Nothing smelled quite so sweet as a meadow full of flowers. One by one, she engaged her five senses in her dream world until she had no awareness to spare for reality.
She wasn't sure how much time passed before she began to sense something was wrong. Slowly, measure by measure, she resurfaced, intensely aware that she lay alone on the bed, as yet unaccosted, and that her imaginary sunlight had somehow become real. Its golden warmth pressed against her closed eyelids.
Confused, she lifted her lashes slightly. Had she fallen asleep? Was it morning already? As she studied the light, it occurred to her that its tint was too golden to be sunshine. Then she heard the soft, sputtering hiss of the lantern.
All of her customers knew that lighting the lamp was strictly forbidden, and with the exception of only two men several years ago, they had always honored that rule.
Alarm coursed through her. She pushed up on her elbows and blinked to clear her vision. "May Belle?" she said hopefully.
Her gaze shot to the table where a dark-haired man sat. She recognized Chase Wolf almost instantly. With his feet crossed at the ankle and propped on the table's edge, his posture was insolent, the chair beneath him rocked back onto its hind legs. Instead of his usual lumberman pacs, tonight he had on black, high-heeled Montana boots, serviceable but rather dressy for Wolf's Landing. In addition, he wore black denim pants and a store-bought teal shirt of plain-weave silk with an attached collar and gold-plated studs on the front placket and pockets. Because she had recently ordered some clothing for her brother Frankie, she knew an overshirt like that cost at least $2.50 in the Montgomery Ward catalog, an extravagant price when something in domette flannel or Melton cloth could be had for 450. He had clearly dressed for an occasion, and judging by his intent expression, she was it.
Stiffening, she gazed into his piercing blue eyes, uncomfortably aware that the burnished features encompassing them were set in harsh, relentless lines. There was no mistaking the fact that Chase Wolf was angry. The emotion radiated from him like electricity before a lightning storm, making the air so heavy it tingled on her skin. Worse yet, she knew why he was so furious. So much for Gus playing watchdog and keeping him away from her.
"What are you doing in here?"
With an unhurried, deliberate movement, he set a short stack of ten-dollar gold pieces on the table, his gaze never releasing hers. "Why do men usually come in here?"
Unnerved and determined to camouflage that fact with anger, she made sure her wrapper sash was tied and sat up. Swinging her legs over the side of the bed, she slipped her feet into her felt slippers. "Get out."
He gave a low chuckle that fairly dripped with martial arrogance. "Well, now, darlin', why don't you try and make me?"
"What I lack in muscle, Mr. Wolf, I more than make up for in reinforcements. Give me any difficulty, and all I need do is call for Gus. Why don't you save yourself a heap of trouble and leave before I feel it's necessary to do so."
He didn't look intimidated. Indeed, if anything, he appeared amused. His dark blue eyes slowly swept the length of her, lingering boldly, first at her hips then at her breasts. "Trouble, now there's a word that keeps cropping up this evening. Funny how everyone seems to think I'll walk a mile to avoid it." He lifted the stack of coins then began to drop them, one by one, onto the table. "I'm a scrapper, Franny. Have been since I was knee-high. There's nothing I like better than a good brawl, unless, of course, we're counting women and booze."
Franny averted her gaze. "I have every right to refuse service to anyone, no explanations. I'd like you to leave."
"And I'd like to stay. Since I have you outweighed by a good hundred pounds and outflanked at every turn, I reckon I'll do just that." He punctuated that statement by dropping the last coin onto the stack. "Fifty dollars. You said you usually get three to four customers a night? I figure fifty should cover what you usually make, plus extras."
"No extras," she retorted in a quavery voice. "If you had bothered to read the sign, you'd know that."
"Oh, I read it. But I'm a firm believer that the only thing rules are good for is to break them."
His eyes glinted with mischief as he pushed slowly to his feet. Stretched out to his full height, he seemed all the more intimidating. Franny retreated a step and threw a glance at the door. To her horror, she saw that the dead bolt had been shoved home. She didn't stand a prayer of escaping onto the landing before he caught her.
She hugged her waist and hid her trembling hands by tucking them inside the roomy sleeves of her wrapper. Twice before she had faced a situation such as this, and she knew revealing weakness would be a costly mistake.
The memories. They leaped into her mind with frightening clarity. She knew firsthand how much damage a man of Chase Wolf's size and strength could inflict on a woman. She also knew how quickly it could happen.
"I've asked you nicely to leave," she finally managed.
"And I've refused. Nicely."
Help was only a holler away. She knew Gus would be up the stairs in a flash if she needed him. But with the piano music throbbing against the walls, would her screams even be heard? She knew from experience that she would have time to yell only once, twice if she was lucky. After that, he would be upon her, and with only one of those large, leathery hands, he could muffle her cries.
A slight smile quirked the corners of his firm mouth, and he lifted one coin from off the stack, flipping it in a flashy arc before palming it. "You're selling, honey. And I'm buying. Isn't that how it goes?"
That stung. And it was cruel of him, heartlessly cruel. But it was also a truth she couldn't deny. "I don't do business in the usual way. No guarantees, no refunds. And I reserve the right to refuse service to anyone." She turned toward the door and prayed with every step he wouldn't physically detain her. "You have to the count of three. If you aren't gone, I'm calling for Gus."
"I don't think you want to do that."
His tone made her freeze with her fingers on the deadbolt. She looked over her shoulder at him.
He tossed the gold piece carelessly onto the table and hooked his thumbs over his hand-tooled leather belt. With one hip thrust out and a long leg slightly bent, he looked as if he were spoiling for a fight. Despite that, he was undeniably handsome with the teal of his shirt bringing out the darkness of his skin and the lantern light glistening on his mahogany hair.
Gentling his expression, he said, "You have nothing to fear from me, Franny. I promise you that. Not if you cooperate with me."
"And if I don't?"
"Then all hell's going to break loose. Gus will come upstairs, probably with reinforcements, and there's going to be a ruckus like you've never seen."
"You're bluffing. With three broken ribs, you're in no shape to engage in fisticuffs."
"True. But before I go down, I'll take a few men with me. And in the process, this place will be demolished." He narrowed an eye as if in thought. "The railing around the landing will go, for sure. And the door will be kicked in. The window will definit
ely get broken." He shrugged. "That's the way it goes when a bunch of men start throwing punches. Another thing you shouldn't discount is the contagion of fights inside saloons. There's every possibility that what starts upstairs will spread downstairs, and the whole saloon could suffer serious damage."
Detesting herself because her voice quavered, she said, "You'll either pay for those damages or be thrown in jail."
He flashed her a lazy grin. "Not if I don't start it. That's the kicker, darlin'. You don't have a reason in hell to refuse to dance with me. If Gus and the others come up here, I'll be a perfect gentleman until someone smacks me. That'll make me the injured party. If it goes before a judge, what're you going to say, that you didn't like my looks? Sorry. But women in your line of work can't be that choosy."
"I'll lie. I'll say you got out of line. That you were rough and obnoxious."
He shrugged again. "Your choice."
"The damages you described will cost more than you can afford. Mark my words, you'll be put in jail, and they'll throw away the key."
"No. That's where you're wrong. I have plenty of money to cover the damages. As far as that goes, I could cover similar damages tomorrow night. And the next. Any way you look at it, Gus will be forced to shut down while he makes repairs." Withdrawing his thumbs from over his belt, he placed his hands lightly on his hips. "If I keep coming back, which I promise you I will, and you persist in refusing me service, there'll be more trouble. And more trouble after that. Sooner or later Gus is going to start asking himself who is at the root of all his miseries."
"You."
"And you. As much as he probably likes you, business is business, and you're not indispensable. Before he'll watch his saloon go under, he'll hand you your walking papers, sweetheart. When that happens, you're out of a job."
"That is despicable."
"I know it is. I'm real slick at being despicable when I want to be."
"I need this job."
He smiled slightly. "I'm banking on it."
"You, sirrah, are beneath contempt."
"I know that, too. But until I get my way, I can't afford to be charming." He inclined his head at the deadbolt. "Your choice. Either open the door and call for Gus or admit I've won this round."
Trembling so badly she could scarcely stand, Franny dropped her hands from the bolt and turned to press her back to the door. "Why are you doing this?"
"I'm not sure I can explain that."
"I can't lose this job."
"Cooperate with me, and your job's perfectly safe."
"I don't work with the lights lit. I won't, not for you or anyone else."
"I don't expect you to."
On wobbly legs, Franny started toward the bed. "Then douse the lamp and get to your business."
"The lamp stays on."
She froze. "But you just said—"
"All I want is to spend time with you. To talk, nothing more." He bent and retrieved a basket she hadn't noticed from under the table. "A picnic, remember?"
Franny gaped at him. "Are you mad? You're willing to spend fifty dollars to take me on a picnic? In the dark? I'm not quite that stupid, Mr. Wolf. Any man willing to spend that much money has things besides talking and eating on his mind. I'd be a fool to leave here with you."
"The name is Chase. And by the same token, I'd be a fool to harm a hair on your head if you do leave with me. Everyone downstairs will see us leave together. If anything happens to you, it'll come to roost on my doorstep."
Franny supposed that was true enough. Filled with indecision, she studied him, wondering if she dared to call his bluff. For reasons beyond her, she had the awful feeling that he had meant every word. If men came upstairs, he would go down swinging, and cause as much damage as he possibly could while he was at it. It made no sense. Absolutely none. And yet the gleam of determination in his eyes was unmistakable. He wanted something from her, and he meant to get it.
What, that was the question.
As if he read her mind, he smiled again, his expression more friendly now. "Honey, I've never laid a hand on a woman, and I don't plan to start with you. I only want to spend the evening with you. Where's the harm in that if Gus knows who you're with? I get what I want, and you get your night's wages. It sounds like a fair deal to me."
"If you wanted to take me on a picnic, did it ever occur to you to simply ask? You might have saved yourself fifty dollars."
His eyes filled with a knowing glint. "If I asked, would you go?"
He clearly knew the answer to that. Rather than look at him, Franny regarded the toes of her slippers. Her mind raced for an explanation for his insane behavior, but there was none.
Was he curious about her? Was that it? Maybe he'd never known a woman like her, and he was fascinated. Sneaking a glance at him, she scotched that thought. Chase Wolf had been in plenty of brothels. She would bet money on it.
Did he fancy himself in love with her? Franny had received her share of proposals from men, some simply because they were lonely and could find no one else, some because they wanted to play hero and rescue a fallen woman from her tawdry existence. Thanks to May Belle's recounting of her past, Franny knew how that fairy tale ended. The hero awakened one morning and realized he was married to a whore, end of fairy tale. The game got ugly after that. Very ugly. And it was one she had no intention of playing.
Except that she had no choice. Gus would ask her to leave before he suffered irreversible financial losses. Franny couldn't blame him for that. This saloon was his livelihood.
"Well?" Chase said in a low voice.
She slowly nodded. "I guess I'm going on a picnic."
"There's my girl." He set the basket on the table and turned to the window, presenting her with his back. "Wash your face, brush that starch out of your hair, and get dressed, hm? It's a beautiful night. It'd be a damned shame to waste any of it."
While Franny dressed, safely hidden behind the privacy screen, Chase began to quiz her, subtle questions at first, which she managed to ignore, then blunter queries, to which she gave vague replies. He finally became frustrated with her evasiveness and said, "Tell me about yourself."
There was nothing to tell him. Franny of Wolf's Landing led a pretty boring life, and Francine Graham didn't exist unless she was in Grants Pass visiting her family. She doubted he would be satisfied with that as an answer, however, and even if he would have been, she had no intention of opening a can of worms. No one knew about Francine Graham, not even Indigo. "I'm not a very interesting person."
"I'll be the judge of that."
With trembling fingers, she buttoned the high collar of her white blouse. "Truly, there's nothing much to tell. I work, I visit with Indigo, I sleep, I eat. That's it."
"Secrets, Franny?"
The mocking tone in his voice made her skin prickle.
"No secrets. Nothing interesting enough to keep secret."
"What's your surname?"
She straightened her waistband. "I haven't one."
"Found under a cabbage leaf, were you?"
"No, in a strawberry patch." She sat on her rocker to don her high-top shoes. Retrieving her buttonhook from off the table, she bent forward and nearly impaled her ankle when his shadow fell across her. She glanced up, angry beyond expression that he had dared invade her inner sanctum. "And you? Found in the barnyard, maybe? Under a petrified chip of cow dung?"
At that, he laughed. Hunkering before her, he wrested the buttonhook from her rigid fingers and lifted her foot onto his knee. "You're a danger to yourself with this thing," he said, then deftly began pulling through buttons.
Franny thought he represented the greatest danger. To her wary eyes, he seemed uncommonly broad across the shoulders, a play of muscle in evidence under the silk of his shirt every time he moved. In the dancing shadows, his face looked all the more burnished, like a sculpture in rubbed mahogany, his glistening hair several shades darker, his lashes incredibly long and casting spider-etchings onto his cheeks. His m
outh was entirely masculine, the lower lip sensually full, the upper narrow and sharply defined. His distinctly squared lower jaw made his face seem rugged and frighteningly invulnerable. The knot along the bridge of his nose, compliments of a break that had never mended properly, belied that. Yet the imperfection only enhanced his maleness.
Unable to look away, she wondered what his plans for her were. His lashes swept up in a silken arc to his sharply arched brows, and his dark blue eyes pinned her. After studying her for a moment, he ran a hand under her skirt and petticoats, his warm fingers curling over her calf as he lowered her foot back to the floor. Even through the leg of her drawers, the heat of his touch made her stomach lurch. Apparently unaffected, he drew her other foot onto his upraised knee. Deftly, he inserted the hook into an eye, snagged a shoe button, and popped it through the hole. He was no stranger to dressing a woman.
"I see that you sew," he noted in a silken voice. "Who's the clown pillow for? Hunter or Amelia Rose?"
Franny shot a glance at her sewing table. This was her private place where she could forget her life in Wolf's Landing and be herself. Having him in here made her feel violated.
When she didn't answer his question, he looked up at her again. "I like that dress you're making. Pink will go nice with your fair coloring, not to mention that it's high time you had some pretty gowns with ruffles and lace. The ones you wear now are better suited to an impoverished widow twice your age."
How dare he criticize her wardrobe? Franny clenched her teeth.
"And these shoes?" He harrumphed with disgust. "They've seen better days. How much of a cut out of your wages do Gus and May Belle take, for Christ's sake? At thirty or forty a night, I'd think you could afford decent footwear."
"My income is none of your concern."
He conceded the point with a low laugh, which infuriated her. Nothing she said or did seem to ruffle him. He lowered her foot to the floor and leaned slightly forward to trace her cheekbone with the buttonhook. Her heart skittered at the contact. As if he sensed his effect on her, he gently snagged her lower lip with the hook, his gaze riveted to her mouth. For a moment, he seemed to stop breathing. Franny knew that she did.