Page 1 of The Forever Cowboy (Noble Ranch #1)

Summit County, Colorado

A thunderous pounding against the front door startled Violet Berkley awake. She bolted upright in bed, the comforter falling away and exposing her to the chill of the unheated upstairs bedroom on the cold November night.

Beside her, Hyacinth stirred. “What’s wrong, Vi?”

“Father’s in trouble again.” Violet knew that even without any other information. His trouble had always been the reason for late-night callers.

The thudding on the door resounded again, this time accompanied by a voice. “Open up, Marvin, and pay me!”

The words echoed through the thin walls and windows of the house they’d rented from the bank when their family had moved to Breckenridge a year and a half ago.

Yes, a year and a half was about as long as they ever lasted in one place.

Violet hugged her arms around her body as if that could ward off the frustration—and helplessness. But of course, it didn’t.

“I even gave you a few extra days,” came the voice outside. “No more delays.”

Footsteps squeaked in the hallway outside the bedroom, then began to descend the stairway. Hesitant, reluctant steps belonging to Father.

It was obvious he didn’t want to answer the door, but what choice did he have if he didn’t want to wake up the whole neighborhood? If that happened, everyone would know about their ruinous situation and the fact that Mr. Marvin Berkley was a gambler—and an abysmal one at that.

Maybe people would find out soon enough anyway, because this time Mother wasn’t alive to come to Father’s rescue.

Even if she’d survived the influenza, her inheritance would have been of little help.

The years had whittled it down to almost nothing.

After Mother’s death, Violet had used the last of it to pay the doctor’s bills and the burial fees in Williamsburg.

She’d only had enough left for the train tickets for her and Hyacinth to return to Colorado.

Violet slid her hand under the comforter and clasped Hyacinth’s fingers, which were steady but cold. Hyacinth was only three years younger than Violet’s twenty-two years and didn’t need coddling, but Violet had promised on Mother’s deathbed that she would look out for her sister.

Although as sisters they shared the same sable-black hair, pine-green eyes, thick dark lashes, and comely figures, that was where the similarities in appearance ended.

Violet had more delicate, defined features compared to Hyacinth’s natural, open beauty.

Violet had pale skin that made her look like she rarely spent time in the sun, while Hyacinth’s skin was a soft tan with freckles on her nose and forehead.

Violet was shorter and smaller boned, and Hyacinth was slender and willowy.

Father finished descending the stairs, and his footsteps echoed in the front hallway. A moment later, the door squealed open on its hinges. From the sounds of the voices entering the house, there were at least two visitors.

“Can I get you something to drink?” Father asked as the door clicked closed.

“Pay up, Marvin.” The same fellow spoke again.

“You’ve been good to me, Claude.” Father’s tone was placating. “You’ve shown me grace. No one else is quite as nice as you.”

Violet shivered at the familiar compliments her father was so good at giving—compliments that meant nothing except for what he could gain through them.

Hyacinth squeezed Violet’s hand as though to reassure her that they would face this new trial together and she would take care of Violet in the same way that Violet was taking care of her.

But how could they promise each other anything now that Mother’s inheritance was gone and they had no way to provide for themselves anymore?

“I have been good to you.” Claude didn’t sound flattered by Father. “But I can only be good for so long.”

“Of course, of course. But surely you can understand that I’ve run into issues.”

“That’s just an excuse, Marvin.”

“My daughters used up the remainder of my wife’s money, and now I have to look elsewhere for assistance.”

A burst of indignation shot through Violet. Was Father blaming his financial woes upon her and Hyacinth? How dare he? They’d arrived home less than a week ago and had no part in the poor choices that had landed him in debt over the recent weeks and months.

“Your daughters?”

“Yes, I have two.”

“Are they pretty?”

“The most beautiful girls in the world.”

Hyacinth released a soft growl. “I hate when he says that.”

Violet disliked it too. How often had she heard Father tell her, Hyacinth, and Mother that? Countless times.

She supposed on some level he meant it, because deep down, Father was a good man, and he thought the world of them. But that didn’t change the fact that he loved the thrill of the gaming table and always went back to it, no matter how many times he’d promised Mother he would stay away.

Another voice spoke, but too low for Violet to hear—probably one of Claude’s companions relaying information to him.

“Tiny says he’s seen them with you,” Claude continued, “and that you’re not exaggerating about their beauty.”

Something in Claude’s tone sent a prickle of unease up Violet’s backbone.

“No,” Father said. “Don’t even think about it.”

“Think about what?”

“You want to use my daughters to pay off my debt.”

Hyacinth huffed a protest.

Violet quickly cupped her sister’s mouth to keep her from saying anything and giving away their eavesdropping.

“Not in the way you’re thinking, Marvin.” Claude spoke smoothly. “I have enough soiled doves.”

At the euphemism for prostitute , Violet was the one to release a gasp, and her spine turned as straight and rigid as a silver candlestick.

“Thank the good Lord.” Father at least had the grace to sound distressed.

“No, I need more dancehall girls. The prettier, the better.”

“Dancehall girls?” Father’s question was loaded with indignation. “Of course not. My girls are decent and God-fearing and will make good matches.”

The voices were low for a moment with the newcomers conversing. This Claude had to be a manager or owner of one of the many saloons that populated Breckenridge. Most had gaming tables, and her father had probably gambled at all of them.

“You should know”—Claude spoke again—“my prettiest and most popular dance girls can do forty to fifty dances in an evening and make more in one night than a fellow can make in a month of mining.”

Violet had heard of dancehall girls who let the men pay to take turns dancing with them.

She’d once seen several such women when she’d been with her mother outside a saloon in Denver, waiting for Father to come out.

Even if dancehall women were considered “ladies” by most men, they dressed scandalously, plastered their cheeks with rouge, and had no self-respect.

Her father fell silent.

He wasn’t considering Claude’s offer, was he?

Violet shook her head. No, he wouldn’t. In spite of his faults, he still loved them. Didn’t he?

Hyacinth broke free from Violet’s grasp on her mouth and sat up. “He’d better not,” she whispered hotly.

“He won’t,” Violet whispered back.

“I don’t let the fellows disrespect my dance girls.” Claude’s voice dropped so that Violet almost couldn’t hear him. “No inappropriate comments or touching.”

Violet shuddered. Regardless of Claude’s rules, what kind of woman would ever consider such a position? Only someone in a truly distressing situation.

“With both of your girls working for me,” Claude said, “you might be able to pay off your debt in three months.”

“Three months?” Father’s question held a note of surprise.

“Maybe four.”

Violet didn’t move. Hyacinth seemed to have stopped breathing. Was her sister waiting, like she was, for their father to declare that the proposal was ridiculous and he would never subject his daughters to that kind of work, especially because he was responsible for his problems?

But why would Father take responsibility for his debts now after years of having Mother fix his financial woes?

“Listen, Marvin.” Claude’s voice cut through the stillness of the night. “I heard you got fired from the bank.”

Fired? Violet’s heartbeat came to an abrupt halt.

Father had told them he’d taken a leave from the bank to grieve for Mother.

He hadn’t mentioned anything about losing his job.

Was that why he’d telegrammed for them to return?

He’d said he missed them, wanted to be a family again, and promised to take care of them.

But what if he’d hoped enough of Mother’s inheritance remained to get him out of his newest trouble?

Violet’s shoulders sank, and she lowered her head. She already knew the answer to her own question. Father was a liar. He always had been and always would be.

“Give me your daughters to work in the dancehall,” Claude said, “and I’ll let you rent a room from me and dock it from their pay.”

Of course, without Father’s job at the bank, they would no longer be eligible to live in their house. They would have to move. But with Father unemployed and penniless, where would they go? And how would they survive?

They would figure out something.

Violet expelled a tight breath. She wasn’t as strong as Mother, and she wasn’t as resourceful. However, she would assure Father that they could get through this together, that somehow they would find a way to survive.

“I don’t know, Claude.” Father’s voice was laced with defeat. “Can I have some time to think about the offer?”

Don’t know? Think about the offer? What in heaven’s name was Father saying?

Anger began to burn along Violet’s nerves. There was no thinking about it. She and Hyacinth would never ever resort to becoming dancehall girls, not for any reason—not to survive and most certainly not to help their father repay his debts.

There was more low conversation, likely between Claude and his companion—Tiny.

“You’ve had all the time you’re going to get.” This time Claude’s tone was hard. “Either pay me the money tonight, or give me your word that your daughters will work for me.”