Scandal: A tempting Western romance. Molly Wishlade Ann
He frowned and she had an urge to reach out and smooth his brow, to lay his head in her lap and shower his face with kisses.
What was in that whisky?
“Yeah.” She gestured at herself, trying to ignore the unfamiliar heat flooding her cheeks. “I can’t really come like this.”
As she walked towards the staircase, she heard him mutter, “You wouldn’t catch me complaining.”
So he was just like all the others. Her foolish heart sank.
No loyalty. No self-control. Just a walking talking horny guy who couldn’t keep his eyes off a whore even when his own dear wife was in the throes of childbirth.
Men were all the same and she had no right reacting to this one in the way she had. No man was going to ruin her plans for the freedom that she’d fought long and hard to earn.
No man!
****
Clayton stood in the bar of the Gem.
Waiting.
He gripped his hat with one hand and drummed the fingers of the other one against his tense thigh. He was vulnerable, exposed, out of his depth.
Up close, Ellen Finch was even more beautiful than he’d imagined. He had first seen her the day he’d arrived in Deadwood, six months past. He had been gathering supplies from the variety of merchant tents in the Main Street when she’d strolled past. His mouth had fallen open and he’d almost dropped his purchases into the mud. A local tradesman had seen his reaction and told him Ellen’s name then made Clayton cringe as he sniggered when he added her occupation.
Overwhelmed by her clear skin, her flashing sapphire eyes and her waist-length ebony hair, aroused by her feminine curves and her sensual, exotic perfume, he had been hooked. Instantly. And desperate to discover more about her.
But she hadn’t even glanced his way. It was as if he didn’t exist or he was merely ordinary, just like the other men bustling about in the ankle-deep mire that pervaded the street after a heavy rain storm.
It had wounded him. Ridiculous and he knew it. Especially when it was clear that she was a whore. Why on earth would he be attracted to a woman who sold her body to rotten-toothed miners and drunken scoundrels? How many men would have pawed her voluptuous flesh of an evening and emptied their balls into her sweet, warm flesh? He shuddered.
Then there was his past. His responsibilities. His pain. Combine these with his knowledge of her occupation and he knew well enough that he should have left it there. But he had not. He had been drawn to the Gem, eager to seek her out and even pay her for a flop just to get it out of his system. He had been driven mad by the need to see her again, to get her to notice him. It was an itch he couldn’t scratch and he had fought the urge, battled against it with all of his strength until it had all but consumed him. Hard, physical labour as he built his cabin, long evening walks and even the caress of his own, callused hand had brought him no relief from the burning desire to be with this woman.
One evening, just a few weeks ago, he had taken his usual solitary evening stroll through the town and past the Gem, when he had seen Ellen through the window. That had been it. His feet had assumed a life of their own and carried him into the smoky, noisy saloon where he had taken a seat in the corner. Suddenly painfully self-conscious and keen to avoid being noticed, he had tried to blend in, to actually be just like all the other customers.
His day-dreams of marching up to Miss Finch and carrying her upstairs, then taking her roughly – as if to punish her for stealing his sanity and clouding his usually sensible mind – had evaporated as he had observed her. Though men hovered around her like flies, she did not pay any one man attention for too long. She smiled at them, laughed at their jokes and occasionally accepted drinks from them. But that was all. Most of the patrons seemed happy to accept this. It was as if she had an invisible barrier around her that kept them at arm’s length. They could look – and look they did, so much so that it made Clayton’s blood boil – but not touch. And apart from one man, who watched Ellen possessively as if she belonged to him in some way, they seemed content.
It had surprised Clayton. The bar was full of eager whores. Some of them had tried to sit on his knee or take his hand and lead him out back but he shook them off. He had no interest in them. His life, his loss left him no time for the haggard girls with their painted faces and whisky-soaked breath. As a young man, not yet twenty-five, he knew that he should have been interested. He knew it as well as he knew his own name. In his circumstances, it would have been perfectly acceptable to lie with a soiled dove or two.
But he felt nothing but revulsion as they flashed him their breasts or tried to fondle his cock.
Nothing.
Yet Ellen Finch. She stirred him. Why, oh, why he couldn’t explain it. She held herself differently. She laughed differently. She moved differently.
Because she was different. There was a quiet dignity about her that the other girls lacked.
Because she is different.
It had come to him like a crack of thunder. She wasn’t whoring any more. She was a Madame, taking care of the girls and looking out for them. But not taking part in any of the baser activities that occurred in the Gem herself.
The relief that the realisation brought was akin to diving into a mountain spring on an August day. It made his balls tighten and his cock twitch. His heart leap and his stomach flip.
Ellen was no painted cat. Not anymore.
He had scurried off into the night, his excitement warming him like a dozen shots of whisky. But by the time he’d reached his cabin, disappointment had replaced his jubilation.
What was he thinking? What did he really believe he could have with Ellen Finch? She hadn’t even noticed him and…well…he had his own issues to deal with. His own past sitting like a storm cloud above his left shoulder and a future as dun and murky as a muddy pool. He had no right imagining that there could ever be anything between him and the young woman. No right at all.
He had responsibilities. Provisions to find. A proper home to create. Before the baby came.
So when things didn’t run as smoothly as they’d hoped with the labour and he needed to find someone to help, he had been shocked at his own joy when his neighbour had mentioned Ellen’s name.
He had an excuse to call on her. To ask for her assistance. Sure, it wasn’t the best reason to be knocking on her door in the dead of night…but…hell, it was a reason.
And now she had noticed him. He knew she had.
Even if it wasn’t for the reasons he had hoped.
He glanced up as he heard a door slam at the top of the stairs.
There she was. The woman who had mysteriously captured his complicated, irrational and wounded heart.
Clayton held the swing doors open for Ellen and she nodded her thanks. She’d dressed in her oldest frock and boots, not wanting to ruin the pretty damask velvet travelling suit she’d bought to wear for her journey when she left Deadwood for good.
The faded green cotton housedress was worn at the hem and armpits but she’d likely end up covered in sweat and blood tonight so it hardly mattered. However, as she’d walked towards Clayton in the bar, she’d felt a twinge of regret that she looked such a mess. She wished that she could see how he would react to her dressed in her new outfit. Would he think, as she did, that the deep red sat well with her pale skin and blue eyes?
She shook her head. Nonsense thoughts. Why on earth was she being so weak? She would help this young man’s wife through her labour then board the train tomorrow and leave this sorry-ass town for good.
She stepped out from beneath the cover of the porch and into the