Charity House Courtship. Renee Ryan
their association. Sensing victory, Laney clutched her small advantage and pounced. “Take the money and let’s be done with this distasteful business between us.”
Prescott paused. “I’ll have to count it.”
Hardly daring to breathe, Laney nodded. “By all means, take your time. My morning is yours.”
As he rounded his desk and lowered back into his chair, a sense of euphoria built inside her.
Almost there.
Counting one bill at a time, he made slow work of checking the amount.
Almost there. Almost there.
His gaze unreadable, Prescott set the last bill on top of the pile and looked up at her.
“You lose, Mr. Prescott.” Laney allowed a full smile to lengthen across her lips. “And now I own Charity House.”
I own Charity House. The thought coiled in her head, making her dizzy with relief.
All she had to do was endure a few more tense moments in this awful man’s company and she’d never have to deal with him again.
“Before I leave this morning I want the deed to Charity House. And I want you to put in writing that I have no more debt owed to this bank. Or to you.”
“I’m afraid that won’t be possible.”
What? “Why not?”
“You’re short the full amount.” He patted the stack of money.
“Short?” That couldn’t be correct. “The full amount is there, all five hundred dollars. I counted the stack myself, just this morning.”
“You didn’t include the interest.”
Every fiber of her being froze at the look of pleasure on Prescott’s face. “Interest?”
“You can’t think I would have given you three extra days on your loan without a penalty.”
He had the audacity to look sorrowful now, as though the matter was out of his hands. A lie. They both knew he was the owner of this bank. He could add or subtract any terms he liked, on whatever whim suited him.
“Have you no decency?” she whispered, trying to reconcile the man standing before her with the one he presented to the good people of Denver. He attended church every Sunday, pretended piousness while in the pew, and then conducted shameless usury the rest of the week.
“How much interest are you talking about?”
“Ten percent.”
She gasped.
“But to prove I’m a fair man, I’ll extend your loan through the end of the month without adding any additional fee.”
Fifty dollars. He wanted an additional fifty dollars in less than three weeks. It might as well be five thousand. How would she ever raise more money, when she’d already tapped all her normal sources, a few not-so-normal, and then one more?
She’d failed. When she’d come so close to victory.
And somehow Prescott knew she had no more resources at her disposal.
No. No. She couldn’t give up. Not with nearly three weeks left to formulate a plan. Surely Laney could find the extra fifty dollars in the allotted timeframe. She could go to the children’s mothers, again, or even Mattie Silks herself. Laney could cut costs to the bare bone, or maybe find a job.
What sort of job would pay that kind of money?
Something...anything...
Please, Lord, show me the way.
“All right, Mr. Prescott. I accept your terms.” As if she had any other choice. “You will have the additional fifty dollars by the end of the month.”
“Good enough.”
Not by half. Laney had learned her lesson. She knew better than to walk out of this office with only a verbal agreement between them. Not this time. Not ever again.
“Before I go,” she said, “I want the new conditions of my loan in writing, spelled out in clear language, signed by us both with at least two witnesses present.”
Owl-eyed and motionless, he blinked up at her.
Laney held his stare, boldly, fearlessly, silently calling his bluff as though they were in a high-stakes poker game with both their livelihoods on the line. “I’ll wait while you draw up the document.”
* * *
Hours of walking countless streets and alleyways in the wee hours of the morning had helped Marc’s anger simmer to a low boil. He’d searched the length of The Row—Denver’s notorious red-light district—but had not discovered Miss O’Connor’s brothel or her alternate place of business.
The slippery woman had vanished completely and the suspicion that she was not what she seemed thrashed to life all over again.
Where was she? And more importantly, what could have possibly birthed that look of desperation in those beautiful, expressive eyes? Had she incurred a sizable debt that required quick payment?
A possibility, to be sure.
Perhaps that shifty banker Prescott would have some answers. Not long after moving to Denver, Marc had discovered the man’s uncanny knack for asserting himself into almost every major financial transaction in the city. If Laney O’Connor owed money to someone in town, there was a high possibility Prescott would know the particulars. Or worse, had involved himself in the matter personally.
Marc wouldn’t wish that cruelty on anyone, not even Miss O’Connor.
When he entered the bank, the clerk told him he would have to wait his turn to speak with Prescott. The owner was already conducting business with another customer.
None too happy, Marc thrust aside his impatience and sat in a chair facing the glass-encased office split into three sections by polished wooden planks. The elegant interior of the bank called to mind his youthful days in New Orleans, before the war had destroyed the opulence in which he’d been born. He knew it was a time that could never be regained. Yet the soothing memories of that simpler life flooded his mind, sending a sharp homesickness for family, and what might have been.
He’d lost so much, not just the only way of life he’d ever known, but far too many loved ones as well. Perhaps that explained why he’d been fooled into thinking he could reclaim some of his joy with Pearl by his side.
Pearl. What a debacle their marriage had been.
If only he’d caught up with her before she’d died in that train wreck, he wouldn’t feel such regret, or such disgrace. But after three arduous years of searching, the last two conducted by an overpaid Pinkerton agent, Marc still didn’t know where his wife had hidden the remaining portion of his fortune. All he knew was that she’d spent the bulk of the money in Cripple Creek during the first few months after she’d left him.
Unwilling to allow the melancholy he’d banished years ago to return this morning, he diverted his attention back to Prescott’s office. At the sight of the woman jerking her chin at the banker, Marc straightened in his chair.
He knew that particular gesture, and that defiant angle of delicate female shoulders. The familiar prickling on the back of his neck confirmed her identity more surely than if she’d turned around to face him. “Laney O’Connor.”
Outfitted in a pale pink, really very homely dress, she still managed to catch his attention and hold it fast.
The moment she squared her tiny shoulders and jutted her nose in the air, Marc stood.
No wonder he hadn’t located the woman on The Row. The little con had been conducting affairs of a very different nature this morning. Was she starting her own brothel? That would explain the odd, hushed-mouthed reticence of the madams he’d questioned throughout the night and early-morning