Comanche Magic

  "Oh, I know he doesn't look like much," May Belle admitted. "But when you get to be my age, honey, a man's appearance isn't what matters. He's got a big heart, and the way he treats me—" Her voice caught. "He makes me feel like I'm somebody special, you know?"

  "So what's the problem?"

  "I ain't fool enough to swallow that hook again. That's the problem."

  For all his shortcomings, the old fellow didn't strike Franny as the sort who might use and abuse a woman, then leave her. When she voiced that sentiment, May Belle gave a derisive snort. "In the end, honey, they're all that kind. At least when it comes to gals like us. I've been a whore for over half my life, and being retired don't change my colors. Even someone like Shorty would eventually regain his senses and remember that. I don't want to be tangled up with him when it hap­pens. He's been after me to marry him. Can you believe it? Says we'll build us a pretty little house along the crick somewhere, that he'll plant me climbing roses all along the porch, and we can sit out there of a summer evening and listen to the crickets sing."

  "It sounds lovely," Franny whispered wistfully.

  "Yeah, and while it lasted, it probably would be. But sooner or later, one way or another, I'd come out a loser."

  Franny could think of nothing she might say. After a moment, she murmured, "Maybe he doesn't care what you did for a living, May Belle. Maybe he—"

  "It's the rare man who doesn't care," the older woman snapped. "They might claim they don't, but in the end it always comes back to haunt you. When I was still working, I tucked away money to build myself a nest egg. If I married him, he could take my money and tell me to go whistle Dixie. I'm not that big a fool."

  Neither was Franny. There was a parallel to be drawn between May Belle's problems with Shorty and her own with Chase. If she was smart, she'd take the old woman's warnings to heart and not let herself believe, even for a second, that Chase Wolf might have a sincere regard for her. Once a whore, always a whore. Only a miracle could change that, and God surely had far more important things to do than make miracles for prostitutes.

  Her visit with May Belle still fresh in her mind, Franny was pleased when Chase showed up at her door that evening right before dark. His brisk knock told her who it was. None of her other customers came before the sun was completely down, for one thing, and they never announced their arrival. It was against the posted rules.

  Emboldened by May Belle's warnings, Franny let Chase in, then turned to open her top bureau drawer, drawing out the one hundred dollars in gold he had previously paid her. The coins were bundled in a lace- edged handkerchief, and she guessed by his expression that he had no idea what was inside until she put it in his hand.

  Avoiding his intense blue gaze, Franny swept around him to open the door and gestured for him to

  leave. "I don't want your money," she informed him politely but firmly. "I didn't earn it, and I don't accept charity. Now, if you'll be so good as to leave, I have to dress for my shift."

  "Franny, can we talk for a minute?"

  His gentle, cajoling tone made fear chill her spine. He was breaking down all the carefully erected walls that she had been hiding behind for so many years. In doing so, he was shattering the insulation she kept between her and reality. When he looked into her eyes, she felt naked in a way that she had never felt with another man, yet she knew he had no intention of using her body. He wanted something more, and she had nothing else to give. He was trying to make her believe in impossible dreams. If she let down her guard, he would destroy her in the end.

  "I want you to leave," she insisted. "Men don't pay me to talk, which is just as well because I'm not much good at it. They want one thing when they come to see me, and that's all I'm interested in providing." She ges­tured toward her sign which was visible with the door open. "From now on, abide by my rules, Mr. Wolf, or don't darken my threshold. No lights, no conversation, no all-night customers. Well intentioned though I know you are, if I allow you to monopolize my time, I may lose all my other customers, and I can't afford to do that."

  "Franny, I—"

  "Go ahead!" she said shrilly. "Cause a big ruckus and make me lose my job. I can earn my living as a whore anywhere. On down the road, there's another town, another saloon, another room just waiting for me to claim it. If I have to leave here, it won't be pleasant, but it won't be the end of the world. I have a little money set aside to tide me over until I can find other work."

  That familiar glint entered his eyes. A muscle sprang up along his jaw, pulsing with his every heartbeat. "Fine," he said evenly.

  Franny jumped when he slapped the bundle of money down on the bureau. Loosening the knots in the handkerchief, he drew out a ten-dollar gold piece and set it aside. "By the rules," he said softly, inclining his head toward the sign. "I'll take whatever I can get."

  Feeling frozen inside, Franny tightened her hand on the doorknob. "I don't start my shift until after dark," she reminded him, "and as you can see, I'm not com­pletely ready for work yet."

  He regarded her face, which was devoid of paint, then glanced downward at her silk wrapper. "You'll do. I don't like your hair starched, anyway."

  With that, he closed the distance between them with slow, measured strides. After flipping her sign over to read Occupied, he curled his strong fingers over her hand where it was clenched around the doorknob. With a relentless but gentle pressure, he pried her fin­gers away and pushed the door closed. Holding her gaze with those glittering, midnight blue eyes, he whis­pered, "I assume that you do work on the bed?"

  Before Franny guessed what he meant to do, he bent toward her, catching her with steely arms at the backs of her knees and around her shoulders. She gasped as he swept her up against his chest. By the way his teeth were clenched, she knew his ribs were screaming with pain.

  "What're you—" She pushed ineffectually at his shoulders. "Put me down this instant."

  "You're talking," he reminded her. "That's against the rules. Remember?"

  "Put me down!" she repeated furiously.

  After taking two long strides, he obliged her. Franny fell with an ungraceful plop onto the bed. The support ropes creaked in protest. She tried to fling herself to one side, but he was too quick for her. Following her down, he seized her shoulders and pressed her back" onto the pillow. Supporting himself on one knee, his chest mantling hers and barring her escape, he whis­pered, "Going somewhere?"

  "It isn't dark yet. I don't work before dark."

  "You're talking again. I didn't think that was part of your services. Can I take that to mean we can dispense with that rule?" Before she could form a reply, he said, "Good. Sex just wouldn't be the same without a little conversation."

  Never had Franny felt such strength in a man's hands. When she tried to move, he tensed his arms against her and held her fast. The complete ease with which he did it frightened her.

  "I do not appreciate your manhandling me, Mr. Wolf. You're behaving like a barbarian."

  "My wild side coming out, I guess." He released her and sat on the bed facing her. Leaning toward her, he said, "I'm not manhandling you now. Is this better?"

  "Your leaving would be better yet."

  He laughed softly. "What's the matter, Franny? Are you afraid your dream images won't save you this time?"

  That was exactly what she was afraid of, what she had always been afraid of when she was with him.

  From the beginning, she had sensed a relentlessness in him.

  With his free hand, he touched her cheek. The con­tact was searing and nearly took her breath away. Fran­ny squeezed her eyes closed, frantically trying to con­jure a picture into which she might escape. All she saw was blackness. The calloused tips of his fingers were textured like raw silk, eliciting an unwelcome response from her sensitive nerve endings.

  Raw silk against satin. A breathless, electrical still­ness settled over Franny. She was not only completely aware of him, but acutely so. She could have sworn she even heard her blood rushing. His hand
skimmed a burning path to her throat. Then lower. She felt his fin­gertips lightly trace the V neckline of her wrapper.

  Shame welled within her, a shame so thick it nearly strangled her. Holding herself rigid, she tried to stifle the sob that pushed up from her chest. In her mind's eye, she saw his piercing blue gaze trailing over her. The palm of his hand swept with agonizing slowness over the silk bodice of her wrapper, his touch so light she had to concentrate to feel the contact, yet staking a claim she couldn't ignore or deny. The peak of her breast went hard and thrust upward in anticipation.

  He gave a low, satisfied laugh. "No pictures, Fran­ny? No dream places to hide inside?"

  Her stifled sob broke free and came upward in a ragged rush. Tears of humiliation squeezed out from under her tightly closed eyelids. In that instant, she hated Chase Wolf as she had never hated anyone—for making her feel.

  Unable to bear it a second longer, she flung herself away from him and scrambled off the bed. Making a dive for the bureau, she snatched up the bundle of money and threw it at him. "Get out!" she cried. "Other men can buy me. You cannot! I don't ever want to see you again. Never, do you hear me?"

  Coins hit the wood floor and rolled in all directions. His gaze fiery and relentless, Chase pushed slowly up from the bed. "Keep the money, Franny. You obviously need it a whole lot more than I do." He laughed again, but this time the sound was harsh and cut right through her. "Some people just never learn. And I guess I’m one of them. The bottom line is, you don't want to be helped. You like your life just as it is."

  She cupped a trembling hand over her eyes, aware of him in every pore of her skin as he stepped past her to the door. Another sob welled up from her chest and tore free. She hated herself for that. But she hated him more.

  At the door, she heard him pause. A long silence stretched between them. As surely as if it were a tangi­ble force, she could feel his gaze resting on her.

  "No woman has to sell her body," he told her softly. "There are always other options. Always. I’m willing to help you." He hesitated for a moment, then plunged on. "If you want no part of me, which you obviously don't, then I'll give you money. No strings. You don't have to pay it back. Just take it and quit this life. Go to another town, find some other sort of work, and never look back."

  Another silence fell. She knew he was waiting for her to reply, expecting her to acknowledge his offer, per­haps to accept it. Only she couldn't, and because she couldn't, there was nothing else to say. Franny knew what he must be thinking. That she didn't want his help or anyone else's. That she liked playing the whore. Nothing could have been farther from the truth.

  "Well," he finally said, "I guess that settles that." She heard him sigh. "I'll leave the sign flipped over to Occupied as I leave so you can get ready for work." He emphasized the last word, lacing it with syrupy sar­casm. "Enjoy your evening."

  A moment later, she heard the soft click of the door as it opened and then closed behind him. Unlike the other men who visited her room, Chase moved so quiet­ly his footsteps couldn't be heard on the stairs. Holding her breath to control the sobs, she waited until she felt fairly sure he was gone. Then she sank to her knees. Arms vised around her waist, shoulders hunched, she moaned and started to cry.

  Outside in the hall, Chase pressed his forehead against Franny's door. The stifled sound of her sobs cut through him like knives.

  The following Sunday was Franny's little sister Alaina's sixteenth birthday, and Franny made an extra trip home on Saturday so she could be there to celebrate the occasion. The festivities, which were to begin after their Sunday dinner, were anxiously awaited by every­one in the family, and it was all Franny could do to get the excited younger children to gather around the table. She had just accomplished that and was about to ask her mother to say the blessing when someone knocked at the front door.

  "Oh, bother," Franny muttered under her breath. As she always did when she was home on Sunday, she had cooked a large midday meal, the preparations for which she had begun directly after morning church ser­vices. After putting in so much work, she hated to see the meal get cold before they could eat. "Excuse me while I answer that."

  "Hurry, Francine!" the children called out in unison. "Tell whoever it is to go away!"

  "Hush!" she whispered. "It may be Preacher Elias. Do you want to offend him?"

  Pasting a bright smile on her face, Franny scurried to the door, fully prepared to invite the minister to join them for the meal. There was always plenty to eat at the Grahams' house; Franny saw to that. Her smile froze when she saw who stood on the porch.

  One long leg slightly bent, the other bearing most of his weight, Chase Wolf's stance could only be described as insolently masculine. Large hands bracketing his lean hips, he also had the look of a man ready for trouble. He wore his black shirt unfastened to mid-chest, the sleeves rolled back to reveal his thick forearms. At her startled expression, he flashed a slow grin and drew off his black riding hat, politely inclining his head in greeting. "Hello, Franny," he said softly.

  Franny nearly fainted. Evidently he feared she might, for he moved quickly forward to grasp her arm. She fastened horrified eyes on his handsome face, scarcely able to believe he was standing there. Why? The question reverberated in her dazed mind. He had obviously followed her. But for what reason? Oh, God.

  Her first thought was that he had come to expose her, and the moment she regained a shred of her com­posure, she whispered, "How dare you?"

  For all the world as though she'd expressed pleasure at seeing him, he flashed another dazzling grin. "I told you I could find my way here without getting lost. You give better directions than you think."

  Directions? Franny's legs wobbled.

  Glancing past her at the members of her family gathered around the table, he nodded politely. Franny didn't miss the hitch in his smile or the startled expres­sion that flitted across his face when he saw what a crowd there was. Eight was no small number.

  "Francine, dear, do we have a guest?" her mother called.

  Taken off guard as she was, Franny could think of nothing to say. To her horror, Chase took his cue from that and stepped across the threshold as if he'd been invited in- She saw his eyes narrow slightly as his gaze routed through the dimness. The fact that her mother couldn't see for herself if they had a guest clearly hadn't escaped him, and he shot a questioning glance at Franny.

  "You must be Franny's—Francine's mother," he observed warmly. "What a pleasure to finally meet you. I've heard so many nice things about you."

  Franny gulped. Chase took another stride into the room. Under his breath, he whispered to her, "It'll be your funeral."

  Franny knew he was giving her fair warning. If she didn't play along with him, she would be risking expo­sure. She hurried to come abreast of him and plastered what she hoped was a charming smile on her mouth as they crossed the sitting area rug together. Upon enter­ing the kitchen, she said, "Mamma, I'd like you to meet my friend, Chase Kelly Wolf. Mr. Wolf, my mother, Mary Graham."

  "Pleased, I'm sure," Mary Graham replied graciously.

  Though Chase had made scarcely any noise, her sightless blue eyes turned directly toward him. He real­ized that she must have developed an acute sense of hearing to compensate for her blindness, a phenomenon he had heard of but never witnessed. Her smile was nearly as sweet as Franny's, her delicate face almost as lovely. Now Chase could see where Franny had gotten her looks.

  Chase's voice was husky with sincerity when he rejoined, "The pleasure is entirely mine."

  Frankie, whose privilege it was to sit at the head of their table, cleared his throat to get his eldest sister's attention. Nerves still jangling with alarm, Franny pressed a hand to her waist and said, "Oh, Chase, I'd like you to meet my brother." She hesitated only for a heartbeat before she added, "Frank Graham."

  Frankie scooted his chair back, placed his napkin beside his plate, and rose. Extending his arm, he said, "My friends call me Frankie."

  Chase st
epped forward to shake his hand. "And I'm Chase. I've heard a lot about you, Frankie." He glanced quickly at Franny. "It's good to finally make your acquaintance."

  Smiling slightly, Chase settled his attention on the rest of the children. Starting with Alaina, the next eldest, Franny went through the formalities until each of her siblings had been formally presented to him.

  Chase's head was swimming with names by the time she finished, and he knew he would have difficulty keeping the youngsters straight. Blond, fine of feature, with blue or green eyes, they all resembled Franny. Even the child named Jason with his vapid expression and slack mouth was a handsome boy.

  Alaina, who was feeling full of herself because it was her sixteenth birthday, graciously said, "We'd be honored if you'd join us for my birthday dinner, Mr. Wolf."

  "Oh, no, really. I couldn't," he said.

  Franny was about to say how sorry she was to hear that when her mother intervened. "Nonsense, Mr. Wolf. Any friend of Francine's is a friend of ours. Please pull up a chair. We've plenty of food on the table."

  With a quick glance at the heaping serving dishes, Chase ascertained that was true. Franny was obviously doing quite well by her family. And a very large family it was. His throat felt tight as he accepted the extra chair Frankie drew up. The three children on that side of the table moved their places down to make room for him. Her face flushed, her green eyes unnaturally bright, Franny got him a plate and silverware before she reclaimed her seat across from him. To her right sat the slack-jawed, vacant-eyed child named Jason in an oversized, homemade highchair. Judging by the boy's size, Chase guessed him to be about ten years old.

  Jason grunted with impatience and reached toward the food, his mouth aglisten with drool, his tongue limp and protruding slightly from between his lips. Instead of scolding him, as some might have, Franny crooned softly and pacified him with a piece of bread while the family bent their heads for the blessing. Instead of attending to Mary Graham's prayerful words, Chase heard only the wet smacking sounds Jason made as he clumsily devoured the bread. With a sick sensation in his lower belly, Chase realized he had finally unveiled Franny's secrets—all eight of them, seven siblings and a blind mother. When he recalled how he had judged her, how arrogant and self-righteous he had been, accusing her of liking her life just as it was, he felt smaller than he ever had. Sometimes, just as Franny had tried to explain, circumstances dictated and you did what you had to do because there was no choice.