Page 19

The Bargain

With a groan, Fenton rolled onto his back and draped an arm over his eyes. “Damn, woman,”he murmured. “You drain me dry—in more ways than one.”

“I’m here to make you happy,”Charlotte replied, patting his damp chest then hopped out of bed to grab her robe. “Be right back.”

She walkedbehind the screenin the corner. Not for modesty’s sake; that was lost to her years ago. Some customers found it insulting to see her do what had to be done to protect herself from disease and, worse, pregnancy. What kind of life would this be for a child?

Pushing aside thoughts of the family she longed for but could never have, she performed her ritual. After rinsing with lemon juice and vinegar, she removed the white vitriol-soaked sponge that prevented her customer’s seed from entering her womb then repeated the rinse.

As she completed the task done more timesthanshe caredtocount in the past three years, Charlotte tried to ignore the regret and shame that beset her whenever she considered what her life had become.

After fleeing the fire, she was on edge for weeks, startled by every knock on the door, fearing it was the police.

The newspapers had naturally sensationalized the story of tragedy in a“houseof ill repute.”They also kept up with the investigation and thesearch for theprimary suspect wanted for questioning on a list of potential charges, including arson and attempted murder.

When Elise handed her the morning’s St. Louis Republic at breakfast the day after the fire, Charlotte stopped breathing, her heart lurching to a halt asshe stared in shock atthe black-and-white sketch of herself on the front page.

“You have nothing to worry about,”her friend assured her, pouring them both a cup of coffee at the sideboard in her formal dining room.

“The name is wrong, and the rendering looks nothing like you.” She set a steaming cup in front of Charlotte and slipped the newspaper from her trembling fingers before taking a seat beside her.

“It says attempted murder. Did you notice?” Elise took a sip, concern in her gaze as she watched over the rim.

“It means the bastard still lives—such a pity.”

No matter howgrainy the image, how poor the likeness, and all of Elise’s reassurances, she spent the next few weeks indoors, helping with household chores to contribute, but too terrified of arrest and imprisonment to go out.

Eventually, another salacious story claimed the headlines, and the fire was all but forgotten.

Before she finally ventured outside, she made sure to dye her hair—another henna rinse, less the indigo.

The bright red wasn’t close to her natural auburn, but the brown was gone, and she only responded to the name Charlotte.

Elise had been a blessing,allowing her tostay as long as she needed to and never pressuring for rent money she didn’t have. Her generosity couldn’t last forever, though.

Charlotte attempted to find honest work, but few jobs for women paid enough to survive.

She took a job as a laundress. Washing clothes in hot water and harsh soap for ten hours six days a week was backbreaking work and left her hands raw.

Even if she saved every hard-earned penny, earning the sum needed to leave St. Louis and start anew somewhere far away could take years.

And the question remained—where would she go, and what would she do with her life?

Her savings wouldn’t last forever; without family or friends, she would still be a woman alone.

After weeks of struggling to do what society thought was decent, exhausted and defeated, she resorted to what many women did in her situation. She started selling the only thing of value she had—herself.

At Elise’s parlor house, she could be selective.

Her clientele came from the city’s elite: lawyers, politicians, and successful businessmen with wealth and power.

They wanted what any other man willingto pay forit did—pleasure without strings.

Her customers also expected discretion and not to pick up something they’d take home to the wife, who would then discover, or at least have to acknowledge their pleasurable pursuits.

Charlotte had six regulars, four of whom visited her once a week, the other two twice a month on alternate weeks. Beyond sex, they enjoyed her company and paid for an entire evening of her time. This kept her engaged five nights out of the week but left two solely for herself.

But she knew she couldn’t be a parlor house lady forever.

As she aged, the demand for her time would lessen.

If she lost two of her weekly customers, she couldn’t afford her rent.

Then what?Sherefused togoto a brothel where she would be expected to entertain countless men each night with only one day off to rest—if she stayed in favor with the madam.

Her earnings would be a fraction of what she made with Elise, who kept only a small cut for room, board, and other essentials.

The cribs down by the docks were far worse, the conditions dirty, and the girls and their customers diseased. She couldn’t bear to think about it.

Another option she considered was marriage, but the men she met were not the settling-down type.

Even if they were, they wouldn’t choose a parlor house girl for a wife.

She always felt the weight of her profession, whether from the disapproving looks of the “respectable” women of St. Louis or the leering men she encountered on the street.

Her day dresses were proper for running errands in town.

She didn’t swear, spit, or flirt as if she were trolling for customers, either.

How they guessed what she was escaped her.

“What’s taking you so long, Lottie? Did you fall asleep back there?”

She cringed at the shortened name he insisted on calling her but answered sweetly, “I’ll be right there.”

Quickly finishing up, she propped her foot on the stool she kept for this exact purpose and deftly seated another soaked sponge inside her.

Fenton Sneed washer Thursday night regular.

A professional gambler, he’d made a small fortune by his mid-thirties.

He was fit and extremely good-looking. Unlike the others, all men over forty, Fen had stamina.

He enjoyed making her scream with pleasure—which she didn’t have to fake with him—and she didn’t mind a second or even a third round when he was in an energetic mood.

Once his physical needs were addressed, he always relaxed with a cigar. With the smoke tickling her nose, Charlotte knew she’d find him stretched out on her bed, surrounded by a pile of plush pillows, wearing nothing but the ashtray resting on his chest.

The stories he told in those quiet moments were about his travels and exploits, some quite dangerous. They gave her insight into a world she would never see. She genuinely liked spending time with him, which made Fen’s night the best of the week.

“Finally,”he grumbled when she emerged frombehind the screen. “I hate to waste time since this will be our last Thursday together.”

Her fingers stopped in the process of belting her satin robe, and she looked at him in surprise. Fen was a creature of habit and had kept to the same schedule for a year.

“Do you need to switch days? I could see you on Monday,I suppose.”

He didn’t look her way, his gaze fixed on the swirling rings of smoke he exhaled, watching as they lazily drifted toward the ceiling. After another puff, the cherry-red tip of his cigar burning brightly in the dimly lit room, he finally answered. “I mean, I’m leaving town the first of next week.”

Stunned, her hands dropped to her sides, uncaring that her robe fell open. He’d seen everything she had to see.

“Permanently?” she asked.

Fenton shrugged, stamped his cigar out in the ashtray, and rolled to set it on the side table before facing her again. Only it wasn’t her face his eyes focused on.

“Time will tell,”he said, the telltale huskiness of desire in his voice when he bade, “Come here.”

“Why?”

“Because I want to fuck you again.”

“No, I mean, why are you leaving?”

“I’ve decided to head west. It’s an untapped, wide-open frontier, and I intend to get my piece of the pie.”

“Doing what? Prospecting?”She couldn’t see Fenton staking a claim and panning for gold. As far as she knew, he drank and gambled and hadn’t done manual labor in his life. It would ruin his manicured fingernails and the ruffled shirts he always wore.

“Any gold to be had is long gone. But whiskey and cards are unlimited.”

“You’re leaving to do what you already do here?”

He shot her a disgusted look. “The liquor and gambling won’t be for me, woman. It’ll be for the hardworking men settling the raw frontier.”

“You’re buying a saloon,”she stated as understanding dawned.

“Not exactly.”

“You won it in a card game,”she guessed.

“Lottie, my love, you know me too well. Now get your delectable ass over here so I can have it again.”

She didn’t budge. If she was losing a customer, why did pleasing him matter?“Where is this saloon?”

“Hell if I know, other than somewhere in the territories, in a small town onthe stagecoach line. Word is, the new railroad is going to run right through it. That means people traveling through, including men with an appetite for cards, liquor, and women.”He punched a pillow and scooted down in the bed.

When he didn’t like how it fit under his head, he tossed it aside and propped himself on his hand instead.

“They have little law to speak of, as yet. A band of outlaws who owned the only saloon took advantage. They terrorized the locals, forcing them to turn over the deeds to the land they settled. If they refused, they shot ’em dead on the spot and claimed it as theirs.

From what I’ve heard, they killed thirteen in only a few months. ”

“Dear heavens, Fen. Why on earth would you want to go to such a place?”