Comanche Magic

  "Hey, baby, spread them legs wider and give us a show!" one hollered. The other saluted the glorious apparition with his whiskey jug and cackled in agree­ment. "Whooee!"

  Chase focused on one slender foot, from which dan­gled a pink felt slipper. In his dazed mind, he could come up with only two explanations; either heaven was raining angels or a woman was hanging off the roof of the Lucky Nugget. Since he no longer believed in angels, he decided the only logical conclusion was that the shapely legs were of the mortal variety. He stepped a bit closer, still incredulous.

  "What's going on here?"

  "What's goin' on?" one of the drunks cried. "Franny's givin' us a free peek, that's what!"

  "Help me! Please!"

  Chase tipped his head back to get a better look, and sure enough, it was Franny hanging off the roof. From the looks of it, by a hope and a prayer. Even as he watched, her grip slipped on the shingles, and she slid a few precarious inches toward the edge. Through the liquor-induced fog that surrounded him, he slurred, "One of you better catch her, or she's going to break her damned fool neck."

  One of the drunks staggered closer, but he seemed more interested in the view than in lending assistance. Chase placed a hand over his ribs, acutely aware that he was in no condition to catch a falling female. Irritation rose in him when the man beneath her made no attempt to give her a hand. Instead he grabbed a fistful of lace, lifted it for a better look, and emitted a sugges­tive whistle.

  "Please!" she cried. "Won't one of you help me?"

  "Hell, no. I'm havin' too much fun watchin'!"

  With one foot, she groped frantically for one of the overhang support posts, presumably so she could shin­ny down it to the ground. The shift of her weight loos­ened her hold on the shingles even more. Looking helplessly on, Chase began to fear that she might indeed fall. At a quick guess, it was only a distance of about eight feet from the roof to the ground, less than that if one measured from her dangling feet. Chase had jumped that far dozens of times without sustaining an injury. But she wasn't built the way he was. The closer he got to her, the more apparent that became.

  He had never seen such a lovely display of leg. Mes­merized, he stepped nearer, and what he saw beneath the silk and lace was enough to drop a sober man to his knees. He was a mile shy of sober. "Jesus Christ!"

  "Ain't she somethin'?"

  "Something" didn't say it by half. Chase could scarcely credit that any man who called himself a man could just stand beneath her and partake of the view. It was obvious even to him she was frantic for help and that she hadn't gotten herself into this position to entertain passersby. If it were any other female in town, these fellows would be breaking a leg to lend her assistance. But because she was a whore, they were taking advantage of her predicament, not caring if she got hurt in the process.

  "Don't just stand there gawking! Help the girl down!"

  "It ain't my doin' that she's up there. If she had any sense, she wouldn't be."

  Chase didn't figure now was the time to debate whether or not the girl had good sense, or to ask why she was on the roof. The fact that she was had to be dealt with. And quickly. He seized the other man by the arm. "If you don't mean to help her, get the hell out of the way."

  "By whose say-so?"

  "Mine," he bit out. Giving the man a shove, Chase added, "As far as that goes, make tracks. If she wanted a crowd, she would've sold tickets."

  "I don't see you wearin' no goddamned blindfold."

  Praying Franny could hold on a few more seconds, Chase turned to confront both men. "I said get out of here."

  The two miners stiffened, and for a moment, Chase thought he might have a fight on his hands. But in the end their gazes wavered from his and they shuffled away, muttering angrily under their breath about "two bit whores" and "crazy Injuns." Chase figured they were right on both counts. She was without question a whore, and the fact that he was taking up for her was irrefutable evidence that he had bats in his attic.

  Shaking off the confrontation, he turned back to help Franny. He grabbed a slender ankle and stepped beneath her flailing legs. Broken ribs or no, he couldn't just let her fall. Looking up to get himself centered beneath her, he tried his best to ignore the view. "Franny?"

  "What?" she replied in a thin wail.

  "I'm going to catch you, okay? Just turn loose and slide down."

  He felt her slip a notch and groped for her other foot, which was slipperless. As his fingers curled around her ankle, he noted rather dazedly how fragilely she was made. If she fell, she would surely break a bone, or worse. Chase took a deep breath, hoping his ribs wouldn't kick up a fuss at her extra weight.

  "I've helped Indigo out of trees this way a dozen times."

  "Chase?"

  "Hell, no. It's the goddamned preacher. Who do you think?"

  "Oh, my God . . . don't look under my wrapper."

  The truth was Chase was afraid to look too closely for fear he'd drop her. Never in all his life had he seen such a display. Lace and silk and beautiful legs that stretched to heaven. Her hands lost purchase on the shakes, and she slid a few more perilous inches. By way of small clothes, all she had on was a voluminous silk chemise, garters and hose. As pure as driven snow, was she? His ass.

  "Jesus Christ," he muttered again. Releasing one of her legs to grapple with her diaphanous lace gown and silk wrapper, he tucked the layers between her splayed thighs. Swearing again, he said, "I know it's no time to ask. But what the hell are you doing on the goddamned roof?"

  "Just help me down," she cried. "I'll explain later."

  Chase doubted that. There was no explanation for such insanity. He slid his hands up to her calves and tightened his grip. "Okay, I've got you. Just let go and slide down onto my shoulders."

  "It doesn't feel like you've got me."

  Chase tugged, and she squeaked. "Would you turn loose?"

  "I don't trust you to catch me."

  "Son of a bitch."

  "Well? It's not as if you—" She scrambled for pur­chase. "Please, Mr. Wolf, don't let me fall."

  "Dammit, would you just let go?"

  When she persisted in clinging to the roof, he glanced up again in irritation. With the view, however, only a eunuch could have remained disgruntled for long. "Drop onto my shoulders, Franny. I won't let you fall, I promise."

  "Swear it."

  "I swear it. On a stack of goddamned Bibles. Is that good enough for you?" He got a better grip on her calves. "You think I want you to get hurt?"

  "The last time we"— she slipped slightly toward him —"spoke, you weren't exactly friendly."

  Steeling himself for her weight, Chase tugged her downward. She cried out in dismay, her nails rasping against the wood as gravity won out. He guided her onto his shoulders. The lace of her gown fluttered over his head. He'd never seen a whore covered in so much cloth. Damn it to hell. None too steady on his feet, he staggered and tried to bat away the material so he could see.

  "Oh, dear! You're drunk!"

  Oh, dear? The girl didn't even talk like a proper whore. He tore the lace away from his face and swore again. As he settled his hands over her thighs, she gasped. "You can't—! Don't put your hands there!"

  "Where in hell do you suggest? I might drop you."

  "Then kindly put me down. This is"— she swayed and grabbed handfuls of his hair to hold on —"indecent!"

  "Fanning your bare backside on Main Street wasn't?" Chase craned his neck to look up at her and immediately regretted it. The lower half of his face connected with silken inner thigh. "And, for your information, I can't put you down." He sputtered to get another bit of lace out of his mouth. "I have three broken ribs, remember. I'm not exactly in the best of shape to be catching crazy women from falling off the roof!"

  At the sound of the saloon doors squeaking open, he felt her stiffen. Her hands knotted into fists, making his scalp sting smartly. "Oh, my God. It's them! It's them! You can't let him see me."

  At the terror in her voice
, Chase started to turn and look. "Let who see you?"

  "Oh, please! Run. Around the side of the building. Please, Mr. Wolf. Please!"

  At any other time, Chase would have confronted whoever it was she seemed so terrified of, but this wasn't another time, and the circumstances weren't exactly ideal for him to play hero, not with three bro­ken ribs and a woman astride his shoulders. Left with little choice, he did as she suggested and lurched none too gracefully around the side of the building, trying his best to ignore the fact that she was about to relieve him of his hair and was spurring him forward with sharp little digs of her heels.

  "Into the trees," she cried. "Oh, please, Mr. Wolf. It's Frankie. I can't let him see me. Oh, please!"

  Chase staggered along the alley between the two buildings, the Lucky Nugget on one side, the livery on his other. His night vision was usually exceptional, but between the whiskey he had drunk and the white lace fluttering over his eyes, his perception wasn't quite what it should have been. Too late, he saw a looming shape, ran squarely into it, and nearly fell.

  A barrel. The damned thing tipped and rolled, mak­ing a din to wake the dead. Chase skirted around it. As he did, his boot hit something slick and shot out from under him. It was all he could do to keep his feet. Grease. The cook at the Lucky Nugget had been dis­posing of his drippings in the barrel. As Chase strug­gled to stay upright and not drop his burden, he tensed the muscles over his ribs. The pain that lanced through him nearly buckled his legs.

  Somehow, he made it to the trees. But that was all he was capable of doing.

  "I can get down now," she whispered shakily.

  Feeling as if he might vomit, Chase stood perfectly still. "Don't move," he gritted out through clenched teeth. "My ribs. I pulled them pretty hard back there."

  She unfurled her fists from his hair and leaned slightly forward. "Oh, my stars. Are you badly hurt?"

  My stars? No question about it, he had to talk to this girl about her language. "Don't—move. Please."

  She froze with her small face hovering above his. "Oh, my. You are hurt. Can I do something?"

  Chase swallowed, hard. "Yes. You can sit the hell still until it eases up." He took a shallow breath. "I just need a minute."

  Apparently it was beginning to dawn on her that get­ting down from her perch might prove to be a problem. "Could I just slide off down your back?"

  Chase blinked away spots of blackness. "Unless I let you drop like a rock, I'd have to bend forward, and I can't. My ribs are too sore. I might as well have let you fall from the roof. It'd be about the"— he winced — "same distance. Land wrong, and you'll bust an ankle."

  She quieted for a moment. "A tree limb. If we could find a tree limb, I could grab it and swing off. That wouldn't stress your ribs."

  It was an idea. The problem was spotting a suitable limb and mustering the strength to reach it. Some res­cuer he was proving to be. He drew another breath, relieved when the resultant pain was more bearable. "Give me a couple of more minutes. Then I'll think of something."

  As the pain slowly diminished, Chase became increas­ingly aware of what an absurd situation this was. The silken softness of her inner thighs bracketed his jaws. His hands were curled over her lace garters and the tops of her hose. There had been a few times in his life when he had found himself in a headlock between a woman's thighs, but never in exactly this fashion.

  He sniffed. She smelled faintly of lavender. He gave a pained laugh. "I know it's probably a stupid question, but do you make a habit of climbing around on the roof?"

  "No, of course not. I didn't remember until I got out there that Indigo's tree was cut down last summer."

  "Indigo's tree?"

  "The one she always used to get up on the saloon roof."

  Chase dimly remembered that a tree had once stood at the right rear corner of the saloon building. "My sis­ter climbed up on the saloon roof? To do what?"

  "To visit me."

  She said that as though it made perfect sense. "Why in hell not use the door?"

  "Well, because. Someone might have seen her. Her reputation would have been ruined."

  That made sense. He guessed. Finally feeling as if he could move without tearing his ribs loose, he turned in a slow half circle and searched for a low-hanging tree limb. When he spotted one, he moved in that direction, taking care not to lose his footing on the uneven ground. When he reached the limb, she looped her arms around it and swung clear. Afraid she might fall, Chase stood at the ready, praying all the while that she wouldn't need his assistance. He breathed a sigh of relief when she dropped agilely to the ground beside him.

  Moonlight dappled her wildly curly hair. He stared down at her heavily painted features. She looked noth­ing like the sweet, angelic green-eyed girl he had seen twice before. Beneath the silk wrapper and lace gown, he saw that she wore a knee-length silk camisole. Each piece of the ensemble by itself might have been sugges­tive, but layered as they were, very little of the woman underneath was revealed. Unless, of course, you hap­pened to be looking at her from the ground up.

  She glanced uneasily toward the alley between the saloon and livery. Chase saw that she had begun to shake with delayed reaction and realized that whoever Frankie was, she was scared to death of him. Nasty images flashed through his mind of a perverted man mistreating her. He nearly assured her that she had nothing to be afraid of, at least not while he was there, but old resentments made him bite back the words.

  When it came to rescuing soiled doves, he had learned his lesson.

  Still. . .

  Chase scraped the back of his hand across his mouth. "If that Frankie character is giving you a hard time, Gus will probably take care of him for you."

  "Gus?"

  "Gus, the saloon owner." Chase studied her in puz­zlement. "Surely he takes up for you and May Belle when there's trouble. If you're afraid of this Frankie fellow, just tell Gus."

  She shook her head. "Afraid? Of Frankie? No. I just—he came into the saloon with some friends, and by chance, I was on the landing speaking to May Belle. When I glanced down—well, Frankie was the last per­son I ever expected—" She broke off. "I'm not afraid of him. I just couldn't let him see me."

  "Oh." Chase rubbed his mouth again. Who the hell was Frankie, and why was she so determined to stay hidden from him? "Is he an old lover or something?"

  "Frankie?" She gave a shaky, half hysterical laugh and cupped her hands over her eyes. "Oh, God. When I think of what could have happened. If I hadn't been going to May Belle's room—if I hadn't glimpsed him through the balcony railing and recognized him—he would have come upstairs. Don't you see? In the dark, I wouldn't have known it was him. He might've—oh, God."

  Her voice trailed off to a thin wail and she started to cry. Not just a few tears accompanied by delicate sniffs, but racking sobs and unladylike snorts.

  "Hey, now," he tried. "Nothing can be that bad."

  That was clearly the wrong thing to say. It made her cry all the harder.

  Shit. How did he get himself into these situations?

  5

  Having grown up with a younger sister close to his own age, Chase had more experience at wiping up a woman's tears than most men, but he felt inept with Franny. A female of her profession was supposed to be hard and unflappable. Not that Franny was true to stereotype. Even as upset as she was, she kept fidgeting with the lapels of her wrapper as if she feared parts of her might be exposed. A seasoned prostitute shouldn't give a flip.

  Feeling as though he were wading in way over his head, Chase settled a hand on her shoulder. He had every intention of drawing her into his arms, but at his touch she jumped as if he had stuck her with a pin. Chase was as startled as she. The reaction of a soiled dove? He bit back a dozen questions.

  "Whoever this Frankie fellow is," he said soothingly, "all's well that ends well, right? You saw him in time and got out of there."

  "You d—don't underst—stand. He could c—come back!" Looking up at him, she caught
her lower lip in her teeth in an obvious attempt to silence the sobs tearing up from her chest. In the moonglow, her tear-filled eyes shimmered like quicksilver, kohl streaming down her cheeks in rivers. "What if he comes again next Satur­day, and I never even know it's him?" Her face twisted, and she emitted a low wail. "Oh, God, what if he's already come, and I didn't know?"

  The question hung between them, obviously a tor­ment for her, but a complete mystery to Chase. Surely the girl knew who her customers were. No one could do the sort of work that she did and not retain some impression of the men with whom she consorted.

  Or could she?

  Chase remembered Jake's explanation, that Franny lost herself in conjured dream settings while she worked, arising the next morning untouched by the night's experiences.

  "Franny. . ."

  She cupped both hands over her eyes again. "I wish I were dead."

  "I reckon everybody feels that way sometimes. But nothing can truly be that bad. Not once you think about it."

  "Oh, yes, it can. This is that bad. If I could, I'd shoot myself!" Balling a hand into a fist, she rubbed at her cheek and smeared kohl under one eye. "I—I'm sorry. I don't usually cry. At least not in front of anyone."

  Her throat convulsed on another stifled sob. Clearly uncomfortable with her display of emotion, she turned her gaze toward the woods behind him. Her face was such a mess that Chase couldn't bear it a second longer and fished his handkerchief from his pocket. Feeling clumsy, he dabbed at the black streaks. His touch star­tled her again, and she reared back, grabbing at his wrist. The frantic clutching of her small fingers caught at his heart as nothing else might have.

  "Easy . . . I’m just mopping up a little," he explained and continued to scrub at her cheek. "You can't go back inside like this. Not unless you can afford to scare off customers."

  "Don't I wish."

  The comeback told Chase more than she could know. He tried to imagine what her profession must be like. The endless submission. Letting filthy strangers paw her body. Who could blame her for trying to block it all out? Just the thought made him feel sick.