Trish hurried up the steps from the bath shack. Her escapade could prove enlightening or deadly. A fingered murderer might strike a second time, costing her more than she was willing to pay. She wasn't as strong as Albert and he had lost his fight. Would she lose hers? The possibility of her own murder set her nerves on edge. She'd invited Quinn along, but would he be willing to step in a second time? She wasn't sure. And what if he were the guilty one? What if he had killed Albert instead of Moore? Her stomach fluttered, causing a wheezy lightheaded sensation. She grabbed at the stair railing for support, taking a deep breath to calm her racing heart. Her mind made up, she launched toward her perilous mission.
Zelda helped Trish with her transformation into a 'lady of leisure' looking for a place to open for business.
"Wear this, Trish. It'll do the trick. It always has for me," Zelda insisted, holding a red and black dress toward Trish.
"I don't think I have the bosom to fill it out quite right," Trish argued.
"Here, put this corset over it. We'll lace it tight," Zelda answered with a knowing look. Her black corset fit well on Trish, once laced tight over the camisole, her bosom almost spilling over the top. Zelda raised her eyebrow when Trish pinned the matching red satin petticoat a bit higher with a hairpin to show off her shapely leg. Trish wore Zelda's new black stockings and her heeled boots.
"How do you ever have the time to undo and redo all these lacings?" Trish asked, lacing the boots.
"I don't. Most of the fellers are usually in too big a hurry," Zelda chortled adding a touch of rouge and powder to Trish's face. She handed Trish her pale kid gloves and plumed hat with its matching parasol to complete Trish's ensemble.
"Take a look." Zelda encouraged, guiding Trish to the cheval mirror.
"Wow." Trish hardly recognized her reflection at first glance.
"Told you before, you should join me. Between the two of us, we could make a right profitable business. Just remember, no freebies, and that includes a wanderin' hand!"
The two pushed past Pierre and his diversionary small talk to where Quinn waited in Pierre's grubby kitchen. Trish wanted to get right to her objective before she lost her nerve. She watched Quinn from under her lashes, pleased to find it difficult for him to hide his rakish inspection. She smiled, winked at Zelda and sashayed outdoors to the horse and buggy. When Quinn swallowed hard and kept his eyes averted, Trish knew she had his full attention.
He drove the buggy with his horse tied along behind without a single word, careful to not brush against her in any way. He reined the carriage horse to a halt in a thicket within one mile of Moore's saloon.
Quinn stepped down from the buggy and turned back to appraise her. His gaze traveled from the laced boots up her shapely legs. It seemed that his gaze hiccupped to the bare flesh of her bosom, then her painted face and wildly coifed hair. He shook his head, took a deep breath and shrugged his shoulders as if to shake his conclusions off.
Trish carefully hid her amusement to his reaction. Her pulse raced, knowing he reacted as she hoped. His response buoyed her and gave her confidence that other men would react similarly. She would have to replicate this costume for a Halloween party when she returned home.
"Ya sure ya wanna do this?"
"It's the only way to find out if I'm right."
"Did ya have to go all out like this?"
"Do you really think that if I dressed like a schoolmarm, anyone would take me seriously?"
"You'll be taken too seriously as ya are," he commented, untying his horse from the buggy.
"Trust me Quinn, I know what I have to do." She took a deep breath to settle her nerves before she tapped Quinn on the shoulder with her borrowed parasol and smiled confidently. "Besides, you won't be far away."
With a snap of the reins, the chestnut carriage horse moved the buggy toward Moore's saloon, leaving Quinn to watch her drive away. Trish knew that every head turned as she stopped the open buggy in front of the saloon. She took another deep breath before stepping over the threshold. Unlike Pierre's saloon, this one lacked the stench, probably from the doors being open.
Milton gave her his entire attention as she entered. She glided across the tobacco-stained floorboards, watching him from under her lashes.
"Are you, kind sir, the owner of this establishment?" Trish asked him in her best French accent.
Milton eyed her with interest. "Yes, ma'am."
"Would you be interested in a business proposition, I wonder?" She batted her lashes as she leaned her elbow on the lip of the bar, knowing that her accent needed improvement. She smelled of lilac water and knew he smelled the sweetness too.
"What kind of proposition?" he asked, his eyes following her cleavage.
She placed the tip of her borrowed parasol under his chin, drawing his eyes to her face. The next time his eyes left hers, she would use the opportunity to study his vest. She glanced around the saloon. There wasn't a single customer, other than herself, present.
"Well, sir, I believe your establishment is just a bit slow this afternoon." She shifted her ribcage in what she hoped was a suggestive manner.
"Ain't you the new whore at Pierre's Place? Too many soiled doves for the likes of you? 'Course maybe yar lookin' for a better class of clientele. This place's got that."
Milton's eyes wandered and she took advantage of his animal lust. It would require closer examination to be completely sure. The top button seemed slightly off from the rest of the vest. It didn't fit the button hole as well as the others, maybe because the tailor wasn't quite up to par?
"Pierre's saloon seems to have plenty of business each evening, and early afternoons, too. Maybe you need more of a draw than whiskey?" Her French accent remained intact as she smiled and used her parasol yet again.
Milton's expression turned to a hard glare. She feared she had committed an unrepairable blunder. Had it been her reference to Pierre, his booming business or the whiskey? She allowed her visual distress to play in her favor.
"Maybe the nearby store has a room," she coaxed, putting her concern aside. "But I'd rather donate funds to one proprietor rather than two. Wouldn't you agree?"
Quinn entered the saloon, sauntering to the bar. He made a show of noticing her, visually raking her over. Was his interest real or purely an act? She didn't think he was that good of an actor. She felt keenly aware of his constant gaze, especially when he didn't order a drink.
Trish batted her lashes, shifted her weight to one hip like a cheerleader and squirmed inside her laced corset. The laces had loosened slightly, allowing her to writhe just enough to feel sexy and keep a man's, attention, especially Milton’s. From her peripheral line of sight, she noticed Quinn turn to watch her. She inhaled, filling the top of her lungs and causing her bosom to rise dangerously to the edge of the boned corset and camisole. She smiled seductively and flirted with Milton, drawing him out while he could see an immediate interest from a customer.
"I'm a business woman. If it is the price of my presence here in your establishment, we could discuss it further." She allowed her lips to remain parted, adding to her implied invitation.
Milton shifted on his feet. He glanced Quinn's direction and asked, "How much?"
"That would depend on the accommodations, would it not?" Trish dangled the possibility in front of Milton.
"Pour you a drink?" Milton fired the question in Quinn's direction without moving away from Trish. Milton appeared interested in more than her business proposition.
Quinn nodded in response to Milton's question.
Trish watched the two men silently measure one another, knowing that each wondered—if she had a choice, which man would she entertain first? The saloon owner with a measure of wealth or the handsome rough cowboy?
"One private room is all I need. Show me a room and then we can discuss the money possibilities. Even a successful bartender can use a bit more money in his pocket." Her pulse raced. Would she be able to pull this off?
Milton poured two whiskeys,
setting one in front of Quinn. The other remained closer to her. Trish smiled, batting her lashes again and wishing she had mascara to put on them, maybe even some falsies. A hint of fear jumped to her throat. Maybe she didn't know how to use her feminine wiles well enough. She had never believed herself successful of doing so in her past.
"I rarely drink. It makes my head all foggy." She smiled, knowing she sounded like a silly woman, drunk on champagne. "I like to remember what my 'john’s' like. What do you like?"
Using her parasol, she caressed Milton's ear, then traced the edge of his vest with it in an unsuccessful attempt to turn it even slightly. How much further would she have to pursue her mark? A bed? She hoped not, for several reasons. She couldn't give up yet and continued to press, seeking his verbal acknowledgment that a whore would prove a distinct advantage to increasing his business. She needed to establish his motive, if he had one.
"Well-- business is slow. But my wife-- she wouldn't approve of a sporting lady here at the saloon."
Trish pouted, "But I came all this way. There will be the horse and buggy to pay for."
"Sorry ma'am, I wish I could help you. The money would always be welcome, but I have no rooms, not even one." Trish's stomach dropped. She had failed. Milton seemed to reclaim his backbone when he mentioned his wife's disapproval.
Quinn stepped closer. "Moore here may not have a room, but I know a place that does. I'll make it well worth yer trip." His invitation included an all-too-knowing appraisal of her.
"For a fair amount, I'd be happy to get to know you." She smiled, arched her brows briefly and batted her lashes. This time a twinge of yearning accompanied the hopscotch bounce of her stomach. Only her discomfort at not knowing his true intentions kept her from playing her part any better.
Quinn offered her his arm and escorted her to the open buggy. She soothed her nerves and arranged her thoughts while he tied his horse to the buggy once again. He climbed up beside her, snapped the reins, and without a word, headed to his own homestead. They broke through the trees near his homestead before she spoke.
"Thank you. I wasn't sure you were going to step in."
"Said I would." Silence descended once more.
"That's it? No friendly banter? For a minute there, I was afraid he'd take me up on my offer. Glad he didn't. I don't think I could've gone through with that. I mean, I'm not a prude or anything but Milton's not what I'd call the least bit good-looking and a man needs to bring at least something--"
Quinn's brow furrowed for a brief moment, stopping her. What had she said? What had she done? She removed the hairpin from her skirt and repositioned the fabric over her knees, waiting for him to say something. Silence. His jaw tightened. He seemed to tense, his fingers tightening on the reins.
"You played your part quite well, Quinn, maybe too well. Does the way I'm dressed disgust you that much?"
"Nope." He seemed to fight for control of his emotions.
"So." She arched an eyebrow, curious as to why he wasn't saying much. "You seemed quite at ease with Zelda."
Quinn brought the buggy to a halt and stepped down before he changed the subject. "Did ya find out what ya needed?"
"Not really, but I won't know without closer examination."
"You going back like that? Moore is a married man." Quinn sounded wary as he untied his horse.
"I know. Do you actually think I would let him bed me?" Trish's gut twisted in abhorrence at the thought. She felt torn between reacting defensively and her hurt that he wasn't truly interested in her.
His lack of interest burned deep in her heart. She'd always valued her virtue, fighting for it, defending it with as much ardor as she did any court case. It shouldn't matter. She was going home the day after tomorrow, but it did. It mattered what he thought of her. He had helped her win her struggle for her virtue as no other man had and because of that, she respected him like no other.
"I guess a tramp don't have no morals when it comes to survivin'."
Trish gasped. She had told him she wasn't a whore. Didn't he believe her? Now she wasn't just a whore to him, but a tramp? Zelda had warned her that tramps in this country were worse than rustlers. The cruel disgust in his eyes made it clear.
She snapped the reins, driving the buggy much too fast, tears blinding her. She had, in one afternoon of doing her job, done what she had apparently done all of her adult life… driven another man away. She had wanted Quinn to find her attractive ever since he had lifted her to the bar. She couldn't forget his touch. This afternoon she believed that because she dressed like Zelda, the woman he'd expressed interest in, he would find her irresistible, but her plan had not only backfired with Milton's rejection but it had imploded with Quinn's. She would return home because it no longer mattered who had killed Albert. She would spend her remaining time here swimming and making a complete fool of herself with her off-keyed rendition of songs… and then go home.
Chapter 28