Page 13 of Comanche Magic

  Chase took her arm and guided her back into a walk. "We came out here for a walk, and we're taking one."

  With a weary sigh, she pressed the back of her wrist to her forehead. "All right, fine. But don't tell me later that I didn't warn you. There's no future in this, peri­od, and nothing you do or say can change that."

  "Fine. No future. But we have tonight and as many other nights as I can pay for before my money runs out."

  "You're crazy."

  "Probably. But it's my money, and I can spend it any damned way I like."

  Chase took her to one of his favorite places along Shallows Creek. A great gnarled old oak grew there, its heavily laden branches fragmenting the moonlight so it lay upon the green grass below it like scattered pearls on velvet. Instead of sitting beside him on the bank, Franny remained standing and leaned against the tree trunk, her hands primly folded and held tensely at her waist. She stared fixedly at the water as it gurgled past, giving Chase the eerie sensation that she was with him only in body.

  He decided to allow her to escape him in that fash­ion for a couple of minutes, for he sensed how gen­uinely upset she was. In a way, her attack of conscience amused him. She took money from men nearly every night of the world, yet she balked at taking his. He sup­posed she must feel that theirs wasn't a fair exchange, but the way he saw it, it was far more equitable than the other way around. There was nothing right about a woman being reduced to selling herself to men for coin. Nothing right about it, and nothing fair.

  After several minutes, Chase broke the silence. "It's a beautiful night, isn't it? I love the sound of the wind in the trees. My father says it's God whispering His wisdom, and that if one listens, the words will become clear."

  She made no reply, and Chase turned to look at her. The vague expression on her face told him that she had immersed herself in images he couldn't see. The real­ization both infuriated and saddened him, the first because she could separate herself from him so easily, the second because she seemed to feel it was necessary. He wasn't a threat to her. At least not in the usual way.

  The thought gave Chase pause, and he began to wonder if perhaps he didn't threaten Franny in other ways he couldn't fathom. He pushed to his feet and slowly approached her. She seemed unaware of his movements. Coming to a stop before her, he nearly cupped her chin in his hand, then thought better of it. Physical touches wouldn't force her back to reality. In the darkness of her room, she endured much more and successfully blocked it out.

  "How old are you, Franny?"

  Something flickered in her eyes, and Chase smiled slightly. To respond to direct questions, one had to think.

  "Yoo-hoo. How old are you?"

  The blankness slipped slowly from her expression, and she focused on him, looking mildly irritated. "How old do I look?"

  "About sixteen."

  She wrinkled her nose. "I was never sixteen. I went from thirteen to ninety with no birthdays in between."

  Chase had the awful feeling she truly had. "And before, when you were thirteen?"

  Her mouth twisted in a forlorn smile. "I was a little girl who still believed in fairy tales."

  Feeling a little sick, Chase swallowed. What kind of men could slake their lust on the body of a child? What kind of a world allowed the innocent to be victimized?

  "What happened, Franny? Can you tell me that much? Last night, you mentioned your father dying, that you were left orphaned. Was there no one to help you? Were you forced into this profession by hunger?"

  "No, I wasn't starving," she said hollowly. "I sup­pose if I had been, then you could excuse me? Find what I did justifiable?"

  There was such bitterness in the question. Chase hadn't meant to sound judgmental. "I'm not condemn­ing you, Franny, just trying to learn more about you."

  She pushed away from the tree. "There's nothing to learn. I have no past." After putting some distance between them, she turned back to face him, her gaze touching on the tree trunk behind him. The unmistak­able longing in her expression caught at his heart. He knew she had seen all the initials that had been carved in the tree's bark by young lovers of years gone by. This spot along Shallows Creek was a favorite trysting place, had been for decades, and probably always would be. As she regarded the many hearts and cupid'S arrows that had been carved by zealous young lovers, she added in an oddly hard and expressionless voice, "No past, and no future."

  That was really the way she saw it, he realized. These weren't well-rehearsed histrionics in a bid for his sym­pathy. Drawn to her, Chase ate up the ground between them with measured strides, not at all certain what he meant to do when he reached her. He only knew there was a yearning in her eyes he couldn't ignore. When he drew to a stop, he became aware of two things, that she was of more diminutive stature than he had realized, and that his nearness unsettled her.

  Chase smiled slightly as he cupped her small chin in his hand. A prostitute whose mouth quivered when a man cornered her? What an enigma she was. There should be nothing about men to alarm her, yet he had the feeling just the opposite was true.

  That mouth. It was perfectly shaped, the upper lip delicately etched in a bow, the lower pouty and full, the color of pale rose petals unfurling to gentle spring sunlight. It was the kind of mouth a man fantasized about and yearned to taste. Standing as closely as he was, the tips of her breasts grazed his shirt, and he could feel the heat of her searing through the layers of linen that bandaged his ribs. Not relinquishing his hold on her chin, he settled his other hand at her waist.

  Dipping his head, Chase sought that sweet mouth with his own, having every intention of kissing her. But just before their lips touched he looked into her eyes and saw nothingness. Just that quickly, and Franny was no longer there with him. He froze, feeling as if some­one had buried a fist in his guts.

  "Franny," he whispered.

  Lifting her face slightly, he studied her expression, amazed at how adept she was at separating herself from reality the moment she felt threatened. Her chin lifted easily in his grasp. Beneath his hand where it rode at her waist, he felt no tension. Chase knew he could divest her of her clothing, lay her on the grass, and do anything he wished to her lovely body. She wouldn't resist. He doubted she would even be aware of him. But he wanted more from her than physical acquiescence.

  "Tell me about the dream pictures you see," he whispered huskily. "Where is it you go?"

  She didn't respond, so Chase repeated the request more loudly. She blinked and her breathing altered, much as it might have if she had been surfacing from a deep sleep. "Pardon?"

  "Just now," he repeated, "what were you imagining?"

  Her eyes fastened on his, bewildered and shimmer­ing in the moonglow. Such beautiful eyes, he thought. He could lose himself in them for forever.

  "What kind of things do you dream about?" he asked more specifically.

  "I. . . I don't know what you mean."

  She knew exactly what he meant, and he knew it.

  "You escape into images. Indigo mentioned it to Jake, and Jake told me. It's how you survive the nights, isn't it? How you live through being used by the men who visit your room."

  She tried to twist away, but Chase was prepared for that and held her fast. As he tightened his grip on her chin, her mouth puckered invitingly under the pressure of his fingers. He yearned to taste those lips, to settle his own over them, to stake a claim she couldn't deny. But he wanted her aware of him when he did it, not off somewhere in her blasted dream visions.

  "You can't escape me quite that easily," he told her.

  Looking up at him, Franny knew his warning was double-edged, that he was not only telling her she couldn't slip from his grasp but that he wouldn't let her escape him into unawareness, either. Tall, dark, and whipcord lean, he filled her vision, his shoulders broad, his arms tensed to forestall her if she made any sudden moves. That alone would have alarmed her. The determined glint she saw in his eyes unsettled her even more. Chase Wolf wasn't a man who did anything by halfwa
y measures, and when he possessed a woman, he would possess her completely. His expres­sion told her more plainly than words that he had decided he wanted her.

  Franny's pulse accelerated. In her panic, she hatched a dozen plans of escape, all of which she dis­carded as absurd. She couldn't outrun the man, and even if she could, she had only one place to go, the saloon. He would simply intercept her there. In her room on the table sat fifty dollars in gold, the price he had paid for an evening in her company. She could spend the time with him here, or risk having to spend it with him in her bed. Normally she wouldn't have found the latter alarming, but she sensed that Chase would demand her close attention while he joined with her physically. There would be no escaping into dreams, no separateness from reality as this man's hands claimed her body.

  He angled a thumb lightly across her parted lips, his mouth tightening slightly at the corners as he measured her rapid intake and expulsion of air. She could feel her pulse slamming beneath his fingertips where they pressed beneath her jaw. The signs of her fear didn't escape him; she could tell that by his mildly amused expression.

  Releasing her so suddenly that she was caught off guard, he turned back toward the tree. Shaken, Franny hugged her waist and watched as he drew his knife from the scabbard at his hip. The weapon's blade glint­ed bluish silver in the moonlight as he applied it to the tree bark. With flicks of his strong wrist, he removed bits of bark. Watching from behind him, Franny felt tears begin to sting her eyes as her name took shape.

  It was so silly. She knew it was. But having her name carved in a tree by a boy had been one of the things she had missed as a girl and had long since accepted would never come to pass. Without realizing it, Chase was fulfilling a dream. Except, of course, that the raw gouges he was making in the bark would stand alone. No man in his right mind would link his name with hers, on an old tree or anywhere else.

  Incredulous, Franny watched as Chase finished off her name and began carving another beneath it. A C was quickly followed by an H. By the time he finished and began carving the heart to encircle both their names, she was shaking. When he finally straightened and smiled at her, she was convinced he had to be mocking her.

  Franny, the whore, who would never be loved.

  All rationality fleeing her mind, she reacted instinc­tively and ran. As she cut through the moonlit forest, she heard Chase, his tone unmistakably bewildered, call out to her. She didn't stop or slow down for fear he might catch up with her. She was nearly to the saloon before it occurred to her that he must not be chasing her. With those long legs of his, there would have been no contest, and she knew it.

  Left alone in the woods, Chase gazed after Franny in confusion, uncertain what he had done to offend her. Carving their names in the tree? Surely not. He had meant it be symbolic of the feelings he was developing for her, not as an insult. Yet that was how she had acted, as if he had somehow humiliated her.

  Patience, he admonished himself. He had to be patient. It might be a good idea if he backed off for a few days and gave her some breathing room. As abhor­rent as the thought was to him of her working again, he knew he had to move more slowly with her. He couldn't expect her to capitulate overnight. Maybe if he gave her some time to think things over, she'd be more receptive the next time he went to see her.

  10

  As she had once a month for eight years, Franny rented a buggy the following Saturday morning and headed home for a visit. Though the roads were well maintained and easily traversed during the summer months, the trip was still long and grueling, taking her nearly the entire day. Ten miles outside of Grants Pass, there was a deserted miner's shack where she always stopped to wash away the road dust and change her clothes. When she emerged from the dilapidated cabin, Franny from Wolfs Landing no longer existed. Francine Graham, a fashionably dressed, well-coiffed young woman, had taken her place. Franny's face-concealing sunbonnet was carefully hidden at the bottom of her satchel along with all her secrets.

  Seeing her family didn't fill Franny with the joy that it usually did. Chase Wolf had opened old wounds within her and forced her to look at how lonely and meaningless her life was. Spending time with him had rekindled a longing within her for things she had long since abandoned all hope of having, and the ache inside her couldn't be assuaged.

  While she was home, Franny tried to banish Chase from her thoughts, she truly did, but it seemed there were reminders of him everywhere she turned. The fol­lowing week was Alaina's sixteenth birthday, and the girl could scarcely contain her excitement. Had Francine gotten her a pretty present? The question called to Franny's mind the lacy dress on her sewing table and the way Chase had studied it.

  And so it went.

  Studying the beloved faces of those in her family, Franny reminded herself that her purpose in life had already been decided. She had no choices, and she never would. Chase Wolf was dangerous to her. And whether he intended to be or not, he was also cruel. For reasons she couldn't fathom, he was trying to make her believe he wanted to court her. The very notion was absurd. Men didn't court whores. Or respect them. When they fell in love it was with chaste women, good women, pure women. Never with prostitutes. She would be a hundred times a fool if she began to think it could be otherwise.

  Besides, she scolded herself, even if, by some strange stroke of fate, Chase did fall in love with her, she came with an extremely large, ready-made family. The sum of money needed each month to support them and see to their special needs precluded any possibility of a young man assuming financial responsibility for them. It would certainly take more than love to con­vince him to do it. He'd have to be out of his blooming mind.

  During her visit home, Franny caught her younger brother, Frankie, watching her at different times with a speculative look in his eye. She couldn't help but recall the night he and his young friends had shown up at the Lucky Nugget. When she thought of how close she had come to being discovered, she trembled. Had Frankie somehow connected her with the whore in Wolf's Landing?

  At moments, Franny had to bite her tongue to keep from scolding Frankie. She knew why he and his friends had traveled so far from home to visit a saloon. The scamps. Though she realized her brother was reaching a manly age now that he had turned seven­teen, she wanted to castigate him for seeking out the company of a loose woman. True, by going so far afield he had at least tried to be discreet. But the fact still remained that he had visited Wolf's Landing to procure the services of a sporting woman. In her estimation, he was not only too young for such assignations, but had been raised to know better. It would break their moth­er's heart if she found out, and Franny couldn't help but fear that the way a young man stepped forward into life might be the way he continued to go. She wanted her brother to be a good, God-fearing man who lived a clean life, not the sort who visited saloons and consorted with prostitutes.

  Unfortunately, Franny couldn't very well confront her brother about his transgression without exposing herself.

  * * *

  When Franny got back to Wolf's Landing Monday evening, she stopped by May Belle's room and found her friend crying. Alarmed, Franny stepped into the bedroom and drew the door closed. "May Belle, what is it? What's happened?"

  Clearly embarrassed at having been caught at a weak moment, May Belle turned her tear-swollen face into her pillow. Her shoulders jerked on a sob. Con­cerned, Franny sat on the edge of the bed and lightly touched her friend's brassy hair. "Is there something I can do?" she asked gently.

  "Yeah," was May Belle's muffled reply. "You can knock some sense into this empty old head of mine."

  Franny patted the woman's shoulder. "Oh, now. I don't know a single soul with more sense than you have."

  "Not here lately."

  With a loud sniff, May Belle rolled onto her side. Now that advanced years prevented her from enter­taining gentlemen, she no longer painted her face. Franny thought she was far prettier without the heavy makeup. The lines in her skin were less noticeable, and her natural rosy complexion l
ent her a healthy glow that the powder had hidden.

  "Oh, Franny," she whispered shakily. "As many times as I've warned you against it, you'll never believe what I've gone and done."

  Perplexed, Franny tried to think what it might be that her friend referred to.

  "I've fallen in love," May Belle blurted.

  For an instant, Franny felt joyful. Aside from her mother, there was no woman on earth more kindly or loving than May Belle, and it was Franny's fondest wish to see her find peace and happiness in her retire­ment years. But a man? Retired or no, love interests were risky for a prostitute. May Belle herself had always espoused that belief and had been very outspo­ken to Franny in defense of it. The sporting girl who gave a man her heart was begging for trouble, usually more than she could handle.

  Years ago May Belle had fallen in love with a gam­bler and believed in his promises of a wedding ring, a cottage, and a white picket fence. She had begun trav­eling with him. One night when the gambler was down on his luck, he sold May Belle's favors to strangers in the saloon below their rented quarters. Reformed and determined to remain so, May Belle had protested his actions. In retaliation, the gambler beat her nigh unto death and left her behind with no money and no one to tend her while she recovered from his abuse. May Belle had been forced to prostitute herself to survive, and eventually she had ended up here in Wolf's Landing, wiser for having endured what she had. In all the years since, she had never allowed herself to grow fond of another man, and she frequently cautioned Franny against doing so.

  "Who is he?" Franny asked.

  "Shorty," May Belle replied forlornly.

  Franny nearly giggled. Shorty? The old miner was the farthest thing from a Romeo she could imagine, short, potbellied, and missing more than half of his teeth. Safe in her work disguise, Franny had ventured downstairs a few times when Shorty was there. He had always been polite and kindly to her, and she knew him to be a good friend of Indigo's. But the sort of man one fell in love with? Not in her estimation.