Authors: Abbie Williams
I thought of the paring knife hidden under my mattress, pictured its silver sharpness vividly.
“Get back in here, Lila, before someone sees you,” Ginny said then, and her grip tightened upon my hair. I understood that I would be punished if I did not listen. Certainly I would be punished anyway, for my words. She would strike me, though her hands eased now as she saw that I was going to follow her orders.
Slowly I stood and re-entered Hossiter’s, to face my purgatory.
- 6 -
Months later, I had not discovered where Deirdre had been buried. At the very least, it would have offered me a certain amount of comfort to know that she had been given the courtesy of a burial, a place where I might be allowed to visit and to sit with her from time to time, but I had never been offered this information, nor had I asked. In the months since her death I had retreated even more deeply into myself; it had been many years since I dared to pray, but when the dawn light came creeping and I was left blessedly alone, I begged with a prayer-like fervor for Deirdre’s forgiveness. I prayed that she had been restored to her Joshua, somewhere in the beyond.
I longed so for death that it became almost constant, a shadowy specter that hovered near the back of my neck and at times came close to overtaking me; only one thought, strange and improbable, kept me from the dimly-lit abyss I could sense somewhere nearby, the emptiness towards which the death-specter would lead me with even the slightest hint of my acquiescence. This thought was borne of a dream which came to me near the turning of the new year, in the otherwise unrelieved bleakness of mid-winter.
In the dream I was momentarily delivered from the horror of my desire for death, for the absolution it may offer, and placed into the landscape of my youth, Tennessee in late summer. Along the red-dirt road I hurried, with bare feet and loose hair, and the dear, familiar sights and scents of Cumberland County were as a balm to my spirit. As before, in the dream I could sense him,
my woodcutter
, and the strength of my longing overrode all else, annihilated the death-specter, burned through my body with the need to live and to find him. I sensed in the dream, however improbably, that he was moving towards me.
Perhaps it was nothing more than simple desperation, a parlor trick conjured by my mind, but after I woke that chilly, silver January mid-morning, I clung to this sense. I held tightly to the knowledge, gifted to me in a dream, that he was out there somewhere, headed my direction.
On a
June evening, months later, Johnny was playing “Buffalo Gals” with his usual enthusiasm as I skimmed my fingers lightly over the railing upon descent, as I’d learned long ago; every movement with its calculated potential to arouse a man. Ramie was already leading Joe Thomas, a regular, back up the stairs and her coffee-brown eyes glinted at me as she leaned close in passing and whispered, “Sugar, get a look-see at the three that just come in.”
Lisette was mincing down just behind me, and she clutched at my shoulders, leaning over me to get a gander at the new customers. Her fingernails curved into my skin for a moment, as though in excitement, and she murmured, “Would you
look
at the one in the middle. Handsome as the devil. And wouldn’t you know, Eva already has her claws in him.”
Despite her catty tone, I let my lips relax into a seductive smile, my eyelids drifting to half-mast in the practiced way we all knew, my gaze fluttering over the crowd from my vantage point. Good-looking new men always caused a stir; I could see immediately to whom Ramie and Lisette were referring, and that they had predictably attracted attention from the girls. All three men were standing at the bar and I silently made my own assessment from across the crowded room. They wore wide-brimmed hats, the kind the cowpunchers favored, though the tallest had set his atop the smooth surface of the bar; Eva was already teasing him, tugging at the long, fair hair he wore tied back low on his neck.
He was listening to her in apparent absorption, his chin tipped to regard her as she teased him. He was tall and lean, yet with wide, powerful shoulders. Even in profile, I could see that he was indeed damnably good-looking. The man on his right was also facing away from me, leaning over the bar and smoking; he too was well-built, though slightly shorter and solidly stocky in contrast to the man Eva had clearly already pegged for the evening. The third, on the left, was facing the room. He met and held my gaze as I cleared the final step; though I’d performed this routine countless times, my heart quickened, flooding my face with the warmth of anxiety. Though I would never let a customer sense that.
But Jola already had me beat; she appeared from the poker tables and slipped her arm across the third man’s midsection, redirecting his attention. I sighed internally, changing course towards the faro tables, though it wasn’t more than five minutes later that Ginny tugged my elbow and said, “Lila, there’s a gentleman wants your attention. Don’t disappoint him, you hear? He’s willing to pay for a half hour, he said.” She studied me with her calculating dark eyes as one might study breeding stock or horseflesh. She concluded with a sigh, “What men will do for the prettiest face.”
Next she reached to draw a strand of hair from my loose top knot, draping it along my neck. I had learned long ago to restrain any instinctive urge to cringe away from her touch. The scent of her perfume was cloying, inescapable, and trickled into my nightmares. God willing, she would never know how often I fantasized about her death. Ginny ran her hands over my corseted waist and eyed the swell of my breasts with satisfaction.
“You’ll show him what thirty minutes worth of gold pays for,” she said lightly, though I heard the unpolished edge of warning in her tone, and then turned me by an elbow. At my ear she whispered, her breath tinged with gin this evening, “That’s him, doll face.”
To my surprise I realized it was the third man from the bar, the one that Jola had set her gaze upon. He’d requested me, leaving no room to decline; I despised this sort of situation for myriad reasons, the least of which being Jola’s resentment. I would be wary of her for days now.
But years of practice guided my actions, and I swallowed away all misgivings, smiling in warm, flowing welcome at him as I approached, letting my breasts lead me, keeping my eyes upon his. He watched me draw nearer with no reciprocating smile, his eyes steady upon mine, his expression somber, almost severe. I felt a flash of trepidation lance through my stomach, but could not spare a moment to acknowledge it, realizing that a half an hour’s worth of gold dust was equivalent to thirty-five dollars. Half of which would be mine. I hadn’t earned so well with one trick in months.
“Evening,” I purred to him. He stood alone at the bar now, his companions surely being shown a good time upstairs. He was older than I’d realized, perhaps more than forty years, with strong shoulders and narrow hips, clad in black trousers and a collared muslin shirt, embroidered with black thread. I found that my breath was lodged somewhere south of my throat, making it necessary to drop my gaze from his in order to draw an actual lungful. I ran my fingertip over his chest, forcing myself to look back up at him with composure and poise. I asked in a well-practiced teasing tone, “You care to join me?”
He nodded silently, prompting me to offer my most sultry smile, taking his hand into mine and leading him up the stairs. Once facing away, the expression dropped instantly from my face and I tried to breathe deeply enough to chase the trembles from my stomach. I was startled by the jangling of my nerves, feeling his hand within mine; my face was unusually hot. We passed Eva’s room, Lisette’s, Ramie’s, all the doors tightly closed, though the intermingled sounds of laughter, groans and gasps could be clearly discerned throughout the hallway. I angled to the left, easing open the door to my own room. I was terribly unsettled, almost fearful, but again forced those feelings away. I could not disappoint him or Ginny would make me pay.
Just the threat of that strengthened my resolve tenfold.
It’s not Rainey, this man is not Sam Rainey
.
I knew it, and sensed nothing similar in this situation. Perhaps my disquiet was because I discerned immediately that this man was a different sort. He exuded an intelligence, a capability that went far beyond my usual customer. I clicked shut the door while he moved at once to the bed and sank with masculine grace upon the edge of the mattress, regarding me with a dark gaze that was almost stern in its appraisal, censuring as a school master’s, as though the fact that he had paid in gold for a half hour’s time with a prostitute had slipped from his mind.
He was also handsome.
Long ago I had schooled myself not to look too closely, not to notice such things. It was a matter of survival. Yet here I stood, observing as though from a distance, just outside of my physical body. He was strongly built, with powerful arms. He possessed dark, waving hair, threaded with silver, which fell to his shoulders, a solid jaw, and black brows arched over eyes that were both direct and, I dared to hope, kind.
“Your eyes are gray,” I heard myself say, and to my ears, my voice was uncharacteristically solemn. It held no hint of invitation, nor the affectation of warmth.
The eyes in question narrowed slightly, as though uncertain what to make of my observation.
“They are indeed,” he responded at last. His voice was low-pitched and increased my unease, though I sensed no intent of harm.
“What is your name?” he asked me then, leaning forward and bracing his forearms on his thighs.
At this point after entry into my room I usually had them half-undressed. Yet I remained with my back against the closed door while he regarded me from ten feet away.
“Lila,” I told him, studying his eyes.
“Your real name,” he insisted, and I realized that I recognized the cadence of his words; he was of Tennessee.
My heart panged as though struck by a blacksmith’s hammer.
“My name is Lila,” I repeated after a moment.
He let my lie sink in for the space of several heartbeats, at last saying, “Lila, my name is Angus Warfield.”
“Pleased to meet you,” I whispered. Inexplicably, though again I sensed no threat emanating from him, my throat felt as though a hand hovered just above, ready to close around my windpipe.
“How old are you?” he asked me next. His eyes were unforgiving. And quite captivating, the shade of an anvil cloud, a thunderhead burdened with a storm. I wondered what burdens this man carried like so much rain. Still I hadn’t moved a step towards him, terribly disconcerted. No one ever asked questions of me. Though if he chose to take up his time with conversation that was certainly his business.
“I’ve never seen gray eyes,” I said in response, without thinking.
“Nor I any so blue-green,” he responded without a pause.
He stood abruptly and I drew in a breath, remembering my place with the suddenness of scalding water against bare flesh. I crossed the floorboards at once, my hands going to his trousers with motions as practiced as a horseman’s on the reins of his steed. When he grasped my fingers with his own, tightly, my chin lifted again, this time in surprise. He was looking at me with his eyebrows slightly knitted, as though frustration quickened his blood, or consternation.
“May I kiss you?” he asked me, his voice polite but slightly hoarse, and again my heart, normally a prisoner in solitary confinement behind my ribs, a broken and pitiful thing within my body, tightened in surprise like a fisted hand.
I nodded, unable to reply. He cupped the back of my neck and brought my mouth to his. He knew how to kiss a woman. His lips were at first gentle and I slipped my arms around his neck. His curved around my waist and I was pressed tightly to his chest as his head slanted over mine and he kissed me deeply. His fingers were busy at the laces of my corset, unfastening the silken ties.
Years of repetition guided my hands to his suspenders which I slipped from his shirt slowly, seductively, as the last lacing fell free and drew back to bare my body from the waist up. He cupped my breasts, stroking my nipples, before easing the garment over my hips and at last to the floor. I stepped carefully out of it and stood before him in nothing but my stockings. Again with practiced motions, I unclasped the barrettes holding up my hair, letting its length fall sensuously all around my shoulders.
His eyes were like a sky in the midst of an August storm over the prairie as he looked into my own, the lantern light tinting our skin with an amber glow. He freed himself swiftly from his shirt and reclaimed my lips, bearing me back to the bed where he angled above me, his shoulders above my own. I gripped them in my hands.
“I want you,” I told him, which is what I nearly always said at this point. I reached down to unfasten his trousers and took him in hand.
I spread my legs around him, rising up to take him completely as he kissed me, sliding into my body and taking up the ancient rhythm I knew so unwittingly well. But he was different; I could tell he cared that I was pleasured too, and it filled me with unrest. Minutes later he groaned and emptied within me in a hot jolt. He was breathing hard and I held him closely as he collapsed above me.
I was startled when he cradled me to his chest and turned us so that I lay protected in his arms. He brushed hair back from my flushed face and studied me. He murmured, “You are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen.” And then, after a time he said, low, “Please tell me your name.”
Tears were suddenly brimming in my eyes but I wouldn’t allow him to see that, keeping them closed, the moisture restrained. Then I heard myself murmur, “Lorissa. My name is Lorissa Blake.” I hadn’t spoken my real name since I’d confessed it to Deirdre, nearly two years ago. And my heart clanged against my ribs in fright.
He was still as death for a moment and I wondered frantically what he’d heard in my tone. I nearly cringed from his embrace, terribly uneasy, despite what we had just shared. He asked, his voice hardly more than a whisper, “What is your father’s name?”
“My father?” I repeated dumbly, stunned to my core. I felt my kneecaps begin to tremble, the way they would when I first entered into this life and had been alone in my narrow bed at last as yet another amber dawn slowly gilded the room around me. The morning sun that had no idea I’d spent the night wrapped in the arms of endless strings of men. I would lie huddled, with my thighs slick and my insides sore, not yet accustomed to the repeated onslaught, and my knees would begin to quiver, generally preceding an entire-body tremble; sometimes I shook so fiercely in those moments that I feared broken bones. Sometimes I’d been fortunate enough to have Deirdre lay with me. Though after a time, only my own arms locked around my torso and the gentle fingers of the sun, the same sun which had once shone benevolently upon my father’s ranch, stilled the panic.