"Friends?" she repeated in much the same tone she had used last night. Incredulous, startled. "You and I, friends?"
Chase tried his best to look harmless. "Well, yes. I consider us friends. Don't you? Not to mention that I've got your slipper, and you've got my shirt." He pushed the shoe toward her again. "Care to make a trade?"
"I intended to wash and press your shirt before returning it to you."
"Oh." Chase nearly assured her that wasn't necessary, but then it struck him that he'd have another excuse to come see her if he left the garment behind. "That'd be nice."
Now that he thought about it, he liked the idea of her ironing his shirt. Imagining her small fingertips smoothing and straightening every inch, he decided that after she returned it to him, he'd wear it more often than any other. Crazy, so crazy.
Because she hadn't accepted the slipper, he opted to keep it. She'd no doubt show him the door the instant he relinquished it. Smiling, he turned to regard the room. A privacy screen concealed one entire end, and he suspected that was the piece of furniture he had heard her moving. What lay behind the screen? Things she didn't want him to see, obviously. He wanted to take a peek, but that would have been unforgivably rude.
Instead he settled his gaze on the small round table near the window. A partially eaten piece of toast rested on the edge of a saucer there, a half-empty mug of coffee beside it. He surmised that she must order her meals from the saloon kitchen. Gus had remodeled the Lucky Nugget shortly after purchasing it and, among other things, had added on a small restaurant so his patrons didn't have to go clear down the street to the hotel for a meal.
"Nice," he commented even though his true reaction to her quarters was just the opposite. He couldn't help but think how lonely her life must be, the sum total of her existence confined within these four walls where she ate, slept, and worked. Now he could better understand why Indigo had been so upset with him yesterday. Without a friend, would Franny ever escape this prison?
Returning his attention to her, Chase decided that in the prim little shirtwaist she wore she looked more like a schoolmarm than a fallen woman. Perversely, the drab gray complimented her ivory skin and the blush of rose at her cheeks and lips. The cream appliqué lace collar that encircled her slender throat matched the platinum streaks in her golden hair, bound in a sleek braid at her crown this morning, no laundry starch in evidence.
Chase's gaze caught on the frayed cuffs at her wrists. The percale shirtwaist had seen better days. Peeking out from under the floor-length hem, the scuffed toes of her kid boots gave further testimony that she spared little coin to dress herself. Clearly uncomfortable under his regard, she rubbed her palms on her skirt.
"Well . . ." she said, leaving the word hanging.
Chase knew an invitation to leave when he heard one, but he was in no hurry to oblige her. Victory seldom went to a faintheart. He gave her what he hoped was a reassuring smile and shifted his attention back to her room. To the left of the privacy screen, nearly concealed by its wooden frame, he saw a black, two-quart capacity water bag hanging on a wall nail, the attached length of rubber hose sporting a vaginal irrigator at its end. On the washstand beneath it was the usual pitcher and bowl, plus a jar of sponges and a jug of Knight's vinegar. There was also an apothecary jar of brown globules, probably a homemade concoction to prevent pregnancy.
Imagining Franny using such things—having a need to use such things—made Chase feel sick. Yet there sat the evidence. What he had expected, he didn't know. A roomful of religious paraphernalia, maybe? As sweet and innocent an air as she emanated, this girl sold her body for a living. If facing the ugly reality of that was going to make him queasy, he'd best stir dust while he still had the chance.
He turned back to her. A scarlet flush flagged her ivory cheeks, and he knew by her high color that she was painfully embarrassed that he had been staring at her personal things. Embarrassed and ashamed. In the harsh light of morning, there were no dream worlds for her to escape into.
Chase swallowed and met her gaze. God, how he wanted to steal her away from here. She didn't belong in a place like this, and if it was the last thing he did, he'd help her find a way to leave. It was something he had to do, not just for her, but for himself. And maybe, in some abstract way, for Gloria. He wouldn't turn his back this time.
Without thinking how she might interpret it, Chase rubbed the embroidered toe of her pink felt slipper along his jaw. Her pupils dilated until her eyes looked nearly black. An electrical awareness arced between them. An awareness that Chase didn't dare acknowledge. Not yet.
He hated himself for what he was about to say. But from here on out, things weren't going to be easy, and he'd probably be doing and saying a number of things that would seem cruel to her. "I noticed on your sign outside that you charge ten dollars for thirty minutes? How many customers do you generally get each night?"
She went pale at the question. Glancing at the dresser, she drew her fair brows together in a frown. He could see that she was as rattled as she was humiliated. He surmised she was trying to recall how much money was usually left on the dresser each night, further proof that Indigo was correct; as much as Franny possibly could, she held herself apart from this whole ugly business.
"I . . . um . . ." She gnawed her lip and lifted one shoulder. "Three, sometimes four, I guess. Why do you ask?"
"So fifty would cover a whole night?"
"A whole what?"
He nearly chuckled at the horrified expression in her eyes. "A whole night," he repeated. "If a fellow desired your company for that long, fifty would more than cover what you might lose in other business?"
For an endless moment, she stared at him as though he had lost his mind. And Chase wondered if maybe he had. No woman on earth was worth fifty dollars a night. Except maybe a fragile blonde with startled green eyes and a mouth so sweet all he could think about was kissing her.
"I don't work all night," she hastened to remind him. "Only until one, no exceptions, ever."
"I see." Chase extended the slipper to her again. "I'll bear that in mind then and have you back by one."
"Back?"
He pressed the slipper into her hand and curled her fingers around it. "Yes, back. If I pay for the night, there's nothing to say we have to stay here. It'd be more fun to go out and do something."
Clearly suspicious, she said, "Like what?"
Chase knew she generally avoided the townspeople, so he couldn't very well expect her to attend the dance that night. Not that the self-righteous people there would have accepted her anyway. "I don't know. A picnic, maybe?"
"After dark?"
"If the moon isn't bright enough, we could always take a lantern."
She shook her head. "No. I'm sorry. I don't accept all-night customers."
Chase arched an eyebrow. "Really? I didn't notice that rule posted outside."
"An oversight."
"An oversight that isn't posted."
"I shall remedy that."
Chase angled a finger beneath her chin and lifted her face slightly. "I hope not."
There was no mistaking that the anxiety in her eyes was genuine. He supposed she felt safe entertaining men in her room where Gus could hear if she screamed for help. If she left the saloon with someone, she would have no protector. Not that she would need one while she was with him. But she had no way of knowing that.
"I'll be looking forward to seeing you again, Franny," he said as he released her and stepped around her to the grasp the doorknob. "I hope you'll do the same?"
If her expression was any indication, she would look forward to the moment without about as much enthusiasm as she would a case of influenza.
Chase was grinning as he let himself out.
Franny was shaking. The instant the door closed behind him, she whirled to stare at it, her mind racing almost as crazily as her heart. A new sign. She had to make a new sign and tell Gus about the change immediately. No all-night customers. That dec
ision made, Franny felt a little better, but not by much. She didn't know what it was about Chase Wolf, but the man could make her heart skitter with nothing more than a look from those piercing blue eyes. He spelled trouble. She felt it in the marrow of her bones.
He wanted to see her again? The idea was so ludicrous, she almost laughed. He actually believed she would leave the saloon and go cavorting off into the dark with him? No way. Any man who wanted to spend a whole night with a sporting woman had a board loose in his upper story. She'd be a fool to trust him, and experience had cured her of being a fool long ago.
7
Freshly bathed and shaven, Chase sat on his parents' porch that night waiting for it to get dark. Five ten-dollar gold pieces weighed heavily in his pocket, which would seriously deplete his ready cash, but as he perused the upper story windows of the Lucky Nugget and envisioned himself spending the entire evening with Franny, he decided the expenditure would be worth it.
Tomorrow was Monday. The bank would be open. Come morning, he could sign a draft and withdraw enough money to carry him through next week. Depending on how tonight went, he might be withdrawing enough to monopolize Franny's evenings until the weekend. That would raise eyebrows, especially Mr. Villen's, the bank president. Chase could almost picture the look on his face. Sighing, he gazed at the sky, willing it to darken. Jesus. Did he even know what he was getting himself into? Was he even thinking straight? Or, for that matter, thinking at all? Rescuing a soiled dove—it sounded good. But to do it, he had to have something to offer Franny as an alternative. There weren't many good-paying jobs for women, and he wasn't certain what Franny's financial needs were. What if she had to make as much money as she did now? Chase couldn't think of a single occupation for females, other than prostitution, that would pay as well.
And wasn't that a sorry fact? As Indigo said, men in the white world hadn't given their women many options when it came to supporting themselves. Those females who met with misfortune received no help. Instead they became prey. Victims, his father called them, and maybe he was right. Society was full of men who stood in line to victimize.
The possibility that he might be second in line outside Franny's door tonight was enough to tie his stomach into knots. The very idea of some filthy, half-drunk bastard putting his hands on her. Christ. He felt sick when he thought of it. Which was absurd. Franny had been doing business in that upstairs room for far longer than he cared to contemplate. One more customer shouldn't make a difference. But it did. He didn't want another man so much as touching her.
When he tried to analyze his feelings and interpret them, all he felt was confused. By definition, Franny was public property, available to anyone who had the coin to rent her favors, and until she chose to change that, there was very little he could do.
A picture of her guileless green eyes and expressive face flashed through Chase's mind, and his hands curled into throbbing fists. What was happening to him? He had to get his thoughts sorted out before he went to see her, but the more he tried, the more jumbled they seemed. One thing seemed clear; he wanted to help her. Had to help her. It had become an obsession. Maybe he was trying to purge himself, lay old demons to rest. Or maybe his feelings for her went deeper than that. He didn't know. All he knew was that he had to go see her and he didn't intend to back off until he got her the hell out of that place.
When Chase entered the Lucky Nugget a few minutes later, piano music throbbed against his eardrums. He tried to block out the sound, but as he started toward the stairs, Gus's voice brought him up short. Turning, he peered through the lantern lit gloom, his eyes smarting from the clouds of tobacco smoke. Waving his white towel, Gus motioned Chase to the bar.
Weaving his way between the tables, Chase tried not to bump the elbows of any poker players with the basket he carried. The overwhelming smells of cigars, cigarettes, and unwashed bodies made his stomach turn. He couldn't help but think of Franny, working in this place, night after night. The thought made him all the more impatient to see her. As he drew up near the bar, Gus slid a mug of ale to him.
"On the house."
In all the years Chase had known Gus Packer, he had never heard of him giving away drinks. Something was up, and if a free ale was attached, Chase had a gut feeling he wasn't going to like it. He hooked the handle of the mug as it went sailing past, then shook the spill of suds off of his hand. "Thanks." Hesitating for emphasis, Chase added, "I think."
Gus had the good grace to look embarrassed. "Look, Chase, I don't want any hard feelings, but we got us sort of a situation."
Setting down the basket, Chase propped a bootheel on the brass foot rail. "Out with it, Gus."
The barkeep scratched at a flake of dried food on the edge of the counter. "It's Franny," he began softly. "For some reason, she's real determined to steer clear of you."
"I see."
Gus finally looked up. "She asked me to keep you out of her room."
Chase took a slow drink from his mug. After wiping his mouth with the back of his wrist, he set the glass on the bar with a decisive thump. "I'm going up to see her, Gus."
"Do that, and I'll have to send someone for the marshal."
"I guess that's your prerogative."
"You don't wanna tangle with the law, Chase."
"It won't be the first time and probably won't be the last. I come from a long line of renegades, remember?"
"She ain't worth it. No woman is."
"That's for me to decide."
Gus set his jaw. "If you start trouble in here, there's not a man in the place that'll hesitate to jump in and help me out."
Chase turned to regard the ragtag collection of individuals in the room. As weary and disreputable as the miners looked, he didn't underestimate them. A man couldn't eke his living from a hole in the ground without developing hard edges. By the same token, loggers weren't exactly soft, and Chase knew for a fact they were a hell of a lot meaner. These fellows had nothing to offer that he hadn't been up against before, and in spades. He was tender across the midriff, no doubt about it, and that put him at a disadvantage. But once the first punch was thrown, he knew his temper would take over.
When he slid his gaze back to Gus, he smiled slightly. "Destructive business, saloon brawls. Tends to tear hell out of a place. If I start a scuffle, I have a standing rule that I always pay for the damages. But I'm not so accommodating if someone else takes the first swing. You reckon these fellows have the coin to pay for broken tables and chairs, not to mention all the glasses, pitchers, and jugs that are bound to get shattered?"
"I don't want trouble, Chase."
"Trouble's my middle name."
"You talk mighty tough for a man with cracked ribs."
"Fact or brag, that's the question, and I don't think you want to find out."
"Oh, I've heard the stories about you," Gus admitted. "A regular hell-raiser, ain't you? But that's when you're away from home. I got me this sneakin' hunch you'll think twice before you start anything in here that might get back to your folks and make your mamma cry."
At any other time, the threat might have forestalled Chase. But tonight it was Franny's tears he was concerned with, not his mother's. If worse came to worse, he felt certain his parents would understand that. "Gus, I'm warning you. Don't try me."
"You're pappy should've beat the meanness out of you while you was still small enough to whup."
"Probably so. But beating his kids regularly wasn't one of his strong points."
"Never laid a hand on you, or I miss my guess. If he had, you wouldn't be such a cocky ass." Gus's gaze wavered. "Franny don't want to see you. Why can't you just respect her wishes and stay clear?"
"Because I don't think she knows what's good for her." Chase returned the nearly full mug to the saloon owner in much the same fashion that it had been served, roughly and slopping ale. Dealing with Franny would be difficult enough without clouding his judgement with drink. "You haven't got a leg to stand on when it comes t
o denying me access to the upstairs rooms, Gus, and neither does she. I may be a breed, and I sure as hell won't deny being ornery when the mood strikes, but no matter how you portion it out, I'm usually one hundred percent a gentleman with the ladies. You won't find anyone in Wolf's Landing or elsewhere who'll say different."
"Gentleman or no, she don't want no part of you."
"I'd say it's the nature of her business to accommodate paying customers she doesn't particularly like on occasion. If there's trouble tonight because you and she disagree, and I end up in jail for brawling, that point will be brought up by my defense lawyer. A whore can't turn a man away without just cause, and I haven't given her one."
"Yeah? Well, just remember this, partner. While you're waiting for the judge to show up here at the landing, you'll be resting on your laurels in jail."
"And you'll be shut down for repairs," Chase retorted. "Repairs I won't have to pay for. If you start something, you'll eat the cost of the damages."
Gus's face went crimson.
Chase arched a challenging eyebrow. "By the way, by the letter of the law, is prostitution even legal? Or does the law hereabouts just turn a blind eye?"
"There ain't no prostitutes in this establishment, just dance girls."
"My ass." Chase chuckled and shook his head. "And you're going to sic these yahoos on me then have me tossed in jail for asking her to dance? Explain that one to the judge, Gus."
With that, Chase pushed away from the bar and started toward the stairs. So this was how the wind was going to blow. Well, he had news for Miss Franny; this time around she had seriously underestimated her opponent. He didn't bluff quite that easily. And when it came to fighting dirty, he was a master.
Anger made his stride brisk, his movements clipped. Not wishing to intimidate her in his present mood, he considered waiting downstairs for a few minutes until he calmed down, but he feared that if he did another man might beat him to her door. Proof in point, at the banister he bumped into a miner who was heading in the same direction, a whiskey bottle in one hand, money in the other. Chase clamped a hand over the fellow's shoulder and drew him to an abrupt halt.