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The moment Jenna rode up to the Silver Bullion Hotel and Mercantile, a young miner hurried down the steps from the porch to help her from her horse, not one bit put off by her masculine apparel. Never would she become accustomed to such courtesies.
The day her grandfather's attorney had moved them into the old clapboard farmhouse in Meadowood, Illinois after her father had been killed—no, she reminded herself, after he had abandoned them—she vowed never to become dependent on any man. Her first day of school, she blacked Robert Elliot's eye for trying to carry her books and thereby set the course her life would follow.
Now, fifteen years later, she would have preferred to throw herself from Gent's back and bolt up the steps without a care for propriety or convention. Life seemed safer that way. But the adoring look on the miner's face held her back.
She forced a smile and walked sedately up the steps and into the store. Inside, she hurried to the Express Office where Paddy was weighing a package for Mrs. Snyder. On the wall, a chalkboard listed the departure times for the stagecoach to Salt Lake City. Price: $1.50.
Next to the chalkboard hung a yellowed copy of rules for stage passengers. Jenna smiled as she read the list: "The best seat is the one next to the driver. If the team runs away, sit still and take your chances. If you jump, nine out of ten times, you will get hurt. Don't smoke a strong pipe inside coach. Spit on leeward side. Don't lap over your neighbor while sleeping. Never shoot on the road; noise might frighten horses. Don't discuss religion or politics. Don't grease hair because travel is dusty."
Jenna had twenty minutes to catch the next stage. She raced for the stairs, calling over her shoulder, "Tell your mother I'm taking the stage into town, Paddy, and I'm not sure when I'll be back."
Twenty-seven minutes later, her valise had been stowed in the rear boot, and she was safely ensconced inside the bright, red-and-yellow-painted stagecoach. The driver cracked his whip, and the coach jolted forward, nearly throwing her into the laps of three miners. A hand at her elbow saved her from such ignominy.
She smiled and nodded at Albert Early, a young shoe salesman she'd met in the mercantile. Seated next to her, he held his sample case securely between his feet. The miners were dressed for a night on the town, with spiffy new red galluses adding a gay note to their much worn, colorless shirts and tan denims. None of the men were over twenty-five, and every one of them stared at her with the same reverence they might give a statue of the Virgin Mary. Or a fresh-baked apple pie.
Blast! Dressing like a man was a waste once people knew her true gender. She might as well have worn her dress, except there hadn't been time to change. Besides, trousers were more convenient, especially since they didn't require corsets and petticoats.
Jenna directed her gaze out the dusty window. With all that occupied her mind, she was soon absorbed by her thoughts, her fellow passengers forgotten. In a single day, her situation here in Utah had changed, and her plans for finding her father had been jeopardized. Her spirits slumped as all the ramifications became more and more clear.
Mendoza's innocence in the matter of the train robberies was a moot question. She herself had heard Marshal Hendricks confess his guilt. That portion of the reward money was lost to her. She had only Mendoza's word that he had not murdered the Pinkerton agent or McCauley's brother. Yet, she believed him. And her promise to help him had been sincere even though proving his innocence would deprive her of the money she had counted on to stay in Utah and search for her father.
With the desperation of a starving man with a crust of bread, she latched onto the idea of finding employment. There was no question of where she would like to work. But Maura, Sell, and the children had no need for another pair of hands at the hotel and mercantile. Besides, as much as she would like to deepen her friendship with Maura, the danger of constantly running into Branch made seeking any position in Park City unwise. No, if she stayed at all, it would have to be in Salt Lake City.
The thought of removing herself so far from Branch's presence caused an unbelievable heaviness inside her chest. She laid her head back against the padded seat with a red kerchief over her nose to keep out the dust and closed her eyes against the frightening need that rose inside her. Her entire body ached to feel his strong arms around her, his mouth on hers. The memory of that not quite so awful beard brushing against her breasts created a wild aching between her legs.
Her eyes flew open as she realized the passionate moan she'd heard belonged to—her. Four hungry pairs of eyes riveted on her, heightening the color of her cheeks. She squirmed in her seat. Her choice of the four-hour coach trip over an all-day ride on horseback no longer seemed such a good idea.
At the first stage station where horses were exchanged for a fresh team, Jenna moved up top with the driver. Mutton Chop George Finney, with his long bushy side whiskers, bit off a chaw of tobacco with broken yellow teeth and looked her over.
"Fellers whut rode in with ya say you're a fee-male." He dragged out the last word as though a female was something akin to a two-headed calf. "Up to you if 'n you wanna sit up here in the wind and dust. But, lady or no lady, I spit when it suits me. You don't like it, it's your lookout, not mine."
"Spit all you want," she told him. "I only wanted to admire the way you handle this fancy rig."
From that moment on, she and Mutton Chop George became the best of friends. After the third stop for fresh horses and the hundredth insistent offer of his tobacco, Jenna wondered if she'd made another mistake. It took every ounce of diplomacy she had to keep the feisty old driver happy without having to share his smelly, vile-looking plug.
On the last leg of the trip, he handed her the reins and sat back, a grin stretching from one mutton chop-whiskered cheek to the other. Jenna didn't dare hesitate.
They arrived at the Salt Lake City stage station at dusk. Jenna jumped down so windblown and dusty, she figured it would take a week to get clean. But her disheveled state didn't faze Albert Early. He insisted on seeing her safely wherever she wanted to go.
She looked him straight in the eye. "Do you know a place called
Aunt Fanny's Boarding House?"
Albert turned as red as the paint on the stagecoach door. "Are you sure? I mean, do you know the kind of 'boarders' Aunt Fanny takes in?"
"It's one of her boarders I have to see; and yes, I know what she is."
Albert took his watch from his vest pocket. "It's early for business. Might be a good time for you to, uh, pay your call. Come on, I'll take you there."
They walked to the end of East Temple, turned left on Second South, and made another left on Regent Street. "You're dressed just right for this, Miss Jenna."
"How do you mean?"
"Well, usually, a decent woman like you wouldn't be safe on this street, but in those clothes, most folks will mistake you for a boy and pay you no mind at all." He switched from her right side to her left as they crossed the street, to shield her from mud kicked up from passing buggy wheels.
Jenna wasn't sure whether to be flattered or irritated by his gentlemanly manners. "If you want folks to think I'm a boy, don’t treat me like a girl.”
"Sorry." Albert came to a stop in front of a white-painted clapboard building with a railed veranda and a matching porch on the second floor. Large urns spaced along the railings held pink petunias and yellow-eyed marigolds.
"This is it." Albert glanced up at the unassuming house. "Would you like me to go in with you?"
"That won't be necessary." Jenna patted the .44 Starr on her hip. "I'll be fine on my own."
"Will I see you again?" His sallow skin flushed pale coral. "I mean, I'll be in town for another week. I'd be honored if you'd have dinner with me one evening."
"I'm not sure how long I'll be around myself, Albert. We'll just have to see how things go. All right?"
He nodded though she could see he was disappointed. "I'll be at the Calhoun Hotel if you change your mind." She watched him make his way back to Second South before she turned to study the infamous boarding house. An Indian girl named Dove resided inside. Jenna had to find her.
One look at Miguel's eyes as he had explained his relationship to the prostitute had told Jenna that, despite his constant flirting, he was in love with Dove. Jenna had to admit to a certain curiosity about any woman who could live as Dove had for the last three years and still win the deep affection of a man like Miguel Mendoza.
Jenna walked up the steps and crossed the deep veranda to the door. A mountain of a woman, who looked as though she'd been sucking lemons answered her knock. The woman's hard eyes passed down over Jenna, paused to take in her valise, then returned to Jenna's face, shadowed by the wide brim of her hat.
"This ain't no orphanage," she said, her voice low and gruff, and started to slam the door.
Surprise widened Jenna's eyes. Then they narrowed in anger. She blocked the door with her foot, whipped her hat off her head and let her long, thick braid fall. "I'm no child, and I'm not looking for an orphanage. This is Aunt Fanny's Boardinghouse for Young Ladies, isn't it?"
The woman stared at Jenna and the glossy sable-colored braid hanging to her hip. "I can see intelligence in those smoky-blue eyes. Do I see innocence as well? What with that loose coat and baggy trousers, it's impossible to determine what kind of figure you have, but Fanny might be interested."
"If by innocence, you mean am I a virgin, I am."
The huge woman opened the door and motioned her inside.
Jenna picked up her valise and stepped inside.
"Wait here," the woman told her. She strode down the hall and pushed her way through a swinging door at the back.
Left alone, Jenna glanced curiously around the crowded vestibule. Tables laden with ferns, ivy, and china figurines formed cozy nooks where love seats seemed to solicit stolen kisses. More plants hung at various levels from the high ceiling; but, except for the figurines and the romantic nooks, there was nothing to indicate the place was a bordello. Disappointed, she peeked into the parlor and wondered where the gaudy gold-tasseled, red velvet was that she'd heard about—and the half-naked prostitutes.
The door at the back of the hall swung wide, admitting a petite woman Jenna judged to be fast-approaching thirty though her face was still beautiful. The woman's shrewd coffee-brown eyes glanced her over, and she smiled warmly.
"I'm Aunt Fanny, dear. Why don't we make ourselves comfortable in my office? Mable will bring us some tea, and you can tell me all about yourself."
Fanny looked more like a proper wife and mother than a whorehouse madam, Jenna thought as she followed the woman into a tastefully decorated room at the back of the house. There wasn't the usual Victorian clutter here, only a good walnut desk, a peacock-blue-upholstered swivel chair, and shelf upon shelf of books. Jenna wondered if Aunt Fanny read the books or had them there merely as a show of undeserved gentility.
"Have a seat, dear." Fanny motioned Jenna to a chair facing the desk and took the blue chair for herself. "Now tell me your name, where you're from, and how you wound up on my doorstep."
Jenna hadn't intended to pass herself off as a fallen woman seeking shelter and a paying job, but now that she was here, it seemed as good a way as any to contact Dove. Jenna would be long gone before she could find herself in any sort of trouble.
"My name is Jenna. . . Jenna Lee, and I haven't anywhere else to go. My mother died ten years ago of a fever and Papa. . ." She tried to summon up a tear or two by recalling the day the sheriff had informed her and her mother that they might as well consider her father dead. "Papa was killed by claim jumpers a few months ago." Jenna hadn't meant to tell even that much of the truth. The words had simply tumbled out of her as though they had a mind of their own.
Part of Fanny Babbitt's success was due to her ability to judge people. The girl was nervous. Her fingers found their way to her finely etched mouth again and again. The girl had already chewed most of the nails to the nub. But Fanny had seen real grief in the girl's sultry eyes as she spoke about her father's death. "Have you no relatives or family friends you could go to?"
"No. My father's people are all over in England. Mother was an only child, and her parents are both dead." This, too, was true.
Aunt Fanny leaned toward her across the tidy desk, sympathy, and understanding in her warm brown eyes. "I'm so sorry, dear. I would like to help you, but first, I must make certain you belong here."
The tea arrived, and Fanny paused to pour. Then she asked, "Are you a virgin, Jenna?"
Jenna looked at her. Which answer would get her what she wanted? Well, honesty always seemed best. "Yes, ma'am."
"A pretty girl like you would still have no trouble finding a man to marry her. There are ways to make it appear as though you were a virgin on your wedding night. Even if you didn't love him, it would be a better life than you'd have here."
Fanny didn't bother telling Jenna that she lost at least two girls a year to men hungry for wives of their own; usually beginners like this one. In a land where any woman was a rarity, virtue ceased to be a necessary prerequisite for marriage.
Jenna had seen enough in the gold camps at Park City to know the facts Fanny left out, but Maura had also told her that it was a different story altogether in the Mormon communities. "Not where I came from, ma'am. You see, I was staying with the bishop's family when they caught me with. . . with the bishop’s son. They ordered me to leave. Everybody in town knew about it. Besides, I don't want to get married and grow old working my fingers to the bone for some man. There's only two things a man's got to offer a woman, far as I can see it, sex and money."
"Is that who gave you the bruise, the bishop?"
Jenna's hand flew to her jaw. She'd forgotten the bruise Virgil
Godbe had given her. "Yes, ma'am."
Fanny sipped her tea studying Jenna over the cup. Despite the wisdom the girl had spouted, Fanny saw too much innocence in her to believe she was very experienced. If not a virgin, she was close enough to it and pretty enough to bring in a healthy fee from the first man to have her once Fanny introduced her as one of her girls. Today, it seemed, was Fanny Babbitt's lucky day.
"Well, Jenna, I care what happens to you, and I'll not turn you out of my house. As it happens, one of my girls left me a week ago. You can have her room." Fanny rose. She came around the desk, drew Jenna to her feet, and guided her from the room, an arm about the girl's shoulders.
"Incidentally, dear, do you know how to protect yourself from pregnancy?"
Jenna blinked at the woman. "I didn't know there was any way for a woman to protect herself. She just takes what life gives her and hopes it doesn't kill her before her time."
"I'm afraid that's all too true for most women. Pregnancy prevention methods are severely frowned upon, especially here in Utah, but we must protect ourselves, mustn't we? After all, if women like us had babies every year like many women, we'd starve to death, wouldn't we?" Fanny's laugh was light and gay. "Fortunately, that isn't necessary. All you must do is insert a small pad of cheesecloth soaked in vinegar over the opening to the womb. After each customer, you remove the cheesecloth, douche, and put in a new pad. But I'll show you what to do when the time is right."
Jenna had to bite her tongue to keep from exclaiming with delight when the madam led her to a room on the second floor, smack dab next to the back stairs. She couldn't have asked for a more convenient location for slipping out when the time came. According to Miguel, she would find Dove two doors up on the north, or opposite, side of the hall.
The room was not large, but she'd seen smaller ones. She tested the bed. Soft as air. Several pillows lay on the green-and-yellow pieced quilt. Behind a lacquered dressing screen, in the comer next to the door, was a washstand with a green-patterned wash basin, matching pitcher, and thunder mug. A bottle of vinegar and a syringe-type douche bag waited beside the basin. In the opposite corner, next to the window stood a chifforobe.
A pressed-back chair sat on the far side of the bed by the window. The only other furnishings were a bedside table bearing a brass candlestick and a small dressing table with a swivel mirror. Oval rag rugs in shades of yellow and green covered the hardwood floor.
"You're welcome to add whatever touches you'd like to make the room feel more your own," Fanny told her.
"It's lovely as it is," Jenna murmured politely.
Fanny flashed her a pleased smile. "There's a bathing room next door where you'll find a dumbwaiter for lowering the chamber pot to the kitchen below. A little convenience I had installed. I'll have hot water sent up directly. Now, dear, do you have a dress you can change into?"
Jenna nodded.
"Good. Why don't you get bathed and, when you're dressed, come on down to the kitchen? Supper should be ready by then, and you can meet the rest of the girls."
"I'm not very hungry."
"Perhaps you'd prefer to rest then. There'll be time to meet the others later downstairs."
Fanny turned to go but hesitated at the doorway. "I like my girls attractively but decorously dressed for our guests. We have a reputation for gentility here. Our guests expect lively and intelligent women they may discuss many topics with, as well as enjoy their . . . other talents. I'll check on you before it's time to go down. If you don't have a suitable gown, I'm sure we can find you something. And we'll fix that bruise, so it doesn't show. Now, make yourself at home, dear. You're going to be very happy with us, I'm sure."
Left alone, Jenna set her valise on the bed. Someone down sang softly, the dulcet tones adding one more homey touch to an establishment Jenna didn't figure had any business being homey at all.
What would Branch do if he discovered her there? Throw a fit. But then, he’d be unhappy with her anyway, since she had disobeyed him and left her bed. She wondered where he was at that moment and whether he had learned anything yet about her father.
While everyone else was at supper might be a good time to snoop around. Jenna could find Dove's room and wait for her there. That way, no one need know there was any connection between them. Once Jenna had learned where to find Branch, she could slip out down the back stairs.
With misgivings, Jenna donned her old black dress with its prim white collar and small bustle. She knew the gown was reasonably attractive on her, but with no corset and only one petticoat, it was impossible to look her best. She couldn’t do anything about that. Dressed in trousers, she would be much too conspicuous.
Maura had helped her wash her hair that morning, and the long sable tresses remained wild and unmanageable. Before Jenna could get it twisted into a topknot and pinned into place, several strands slipped loose. She took it down and tried again, but it still looked disheveled. Finally, out of sheer frustration, she brushed it until it shone, drew the sides up into a small knot, pinned it into place, and left the rest hanging down her back. By this time, nearly an hour had passed. Supper would be over soon, leaving her little time to slip into Dove's room before the woman returned.
As quietly as possible, she opened her door and peeked outside. Not a soul was in sight. Muted voices drifted up the stairwell from the kitchen below. A giggle. The clatter of china. Thick hall carpeting silenced Jenna's footsteps as she hurried to Dove's room near the front of the house. After another quick glance up the hall, she reached for the doorknob.
BRANCH MCCAULEY AWOKE to a blinding headache and a foggy mind. His moan came out muffled, and his mouth felt stuffed with something rough that tasted of sweat. He tried to put his hand to his head just above his ear where the pain seemed sharpest and found that his wrists were both tied. So were his feet. He lifted his head and squinted his eyes against the pain. The room was pitch black. He couldn't even see his toes. But he could tell he lay on a bed and someone had taken off his boots.
Dove. She had sent him a message, and when he had let himself into her room, he had been knocked unconscious. Must be her bed. Had she wielded the weapon that put him out? He lay spread-eagled, feeling decidedly stupid and damnably vulnerable.
The slight squeak of the doorknob turning brought up his head again. The pain was less sharp this time, but bad enough to his mind.
Led by the sound of the doorknob, he made out a tall, rectangular thread of light he assumed to be the door. When he tried to call out, the gag made it impossible. Only a faint garbled sound emerged.
The knob rattled as though the person trying to get in was growing impatient or angry. The soft rap of knuckles on wood followed.
"Dove?"
The voice was feminine and vaguely familiar. Branch jerked on his bonds, but they held firm.
"Dove?" The voice came again. "My name is Jenna. I'm a friend of Miguel's. Please, if you're in there, open the door."
Jenna! What in blue blazes was she doing here? Furious now, Branch thrashed about on the bed. He yanked so hard on the ropes binding his hands and feet that the bed lifted off the floor, making a thumping sound when it came back down.
"I hear you moving around in there." Jenna's voice came again through the door. "Are you hurt?"
Damned right I'm hurt.
"Listen, I'll. . ." Jenna's voice faded, then returned. "I'll come back later, all right? I truly am a friend. Please believe me."
Wait! Jenna, damn you, don't you go off and leave me here.
Silence.
Damn!
CURIOSITY HAD JENNA checking the other six doors along the second-floor hallway. Not only were they unlocked, she didn’t see a key anywhere. The bathing room was empty. Dove was being held prisoner. Nothing else made sense.
Did it have something to do with Branch? Perhaps one of the other girls was in cahoots with Marshal Hendricks. She might have overheard Dove agree to help Branch prove Miguel's innocence and hurt or even killed Dove to keep her silent. If that were the case, Jenna had better find Branch and find him fast before he became the next victim. She imagined him lying in an alleyway, blood staining the jack of spades left beside his body.
Her heart squeezed as though being garroted. How could she have come to care for the man so quickly? The only acceptable answer was that she didn't care, not one whit. To get the subject off her mind as she let herself back into her room, she tried to figure the best way to track him down.
Salt Lake City had so many hotels and boarding houses. He might be staying with friends or even sleeping at one of the livery stables with Satan. Time was the problem. Then she remembered Martin Perkins. If the store owner didn't know where Branch was, he could at least help Jenna search for him. Someone in town could surely direct her to the Perkins’ house.
She jumped up and reached for her valise.
"Are you ready, dear?" Jenna whirled to find Aunt Fanny standing in the open doorway.
"I'm sorry, did I frighten you, Jenna?"
"No, just startled me is all. I didn't hear the door open."
"Well, turn around and let me see you."
Jenna obeyed.
At first, Fanny thought the dress too severe. Then she decided it enhanced the look of youth and innocence she was eager to play up to elevate the price she would get for the girl. The missing corset showed off the firm, young lines of her body. And the hair was perfect. For a moment, she debated whether to put Jenna on display for a night or two to allow time for word of her existence to get around. The wealthier the clients bidding for the girl, the higher the price would go.
Lifting her gaze to Jenna's face, Fanny caught a glimpse of fear and uncertainty before the girl's thick dark lashes lowered like the curtain on a one-act play. Waiting would give Jenna a chance to relax and feel more comfortable in her new life. But it would also give her more time in which to change her mind. Going on gut instinct, Fanny decided to take advantage of the bird in hand rather than risk losing it by trying to better feather her nest.
Yes, by midnight Miss Jenna Lee would find herself entertaining her first client while Fanny Babbitt counted the night's take and dreamed of the day that would come much sooner now, when she could retire and become simply another respectable matron, preferably with the title of Mrs. Sleed Hendricks.