Rainbows and Rapture (2 page)

He nodded. “I’ll— Miss Valentine, I’ll never forget you.” Flustered, he pulled her into his arms and kissed her before rushing from the room.

When the door slammed shut, Russia sighed. “Spiders and spit curls, I done it again. Give all my money away. Now I’m broker’n the Ten Commandments.” Swearing never to do it again did her no good; she forgot the vow every time she entertained some down-on-his-luck client.

Listening to her stomach growl, she laced a silken curl through her fingers and looked around the room, soon spying Nehemiah lying in a pool of waning sunlight on the floor. She snapped her fingers, smiling when the green-eyed gray tabby came trotting toward her. Scooping him into her arms, she returned to the tousled bed and lay down.

Purring, Nehemiah snuggled next to her breasts and began to knead her thick hair, which lay spread all around her. “Sure, you can purr,” she told him. “You jist ate a mouse. But my stomach’s emptier’n a old maid’s dreams.”

To get her mind off her hunger, she let her thoughts wander. “Well, Neeners, we been here fer two days now. I reckon we’ll be movin’ on tomorrow. If we don’t, he’ll catch up with us. He’ll—”

She bit her lip, cursing herself for thinking of him. But the thought was already pounding through her mind now. She tried to remember something nice, something happy, but the apprehension remained, growing steadily toward terror. With trembling hands, she pulled the covers over her head, concentrating on the soothing sound of Nehemiah’s purring. The soft, slow vibration soon made her drowsy.

On the edge of sleep, she heard words drifting through her mind.
Come to Wirt, darlin’. Come to yer sweet old Wirt.
Remembered pain smashed into her, pain so real to her, she groaned in agony. And all the blood… God, the blood!

Abruptly, she sat up, rubbing her eyes in an attempt to shake her sleepiness. Many long moments passed before anger replaced her horror. “I hate this! Dirty hotel rooms! All the strange men! Me entertainin’ ’em! And the nightmares! I’m afraid to go to sleep! Is there gonna be a happily-ever-after endin’ to any o’ this, Beeny?”

“This?”
Tears blurring her vision, she stared at the cracked ceiling that dripped with dust balls, and thought of all the wonderful things that might have come true for her. “If he hadn’t— If not fer him, maybe I’d be one o’ them real decent ladies. But what with him trailin’ after me, I cain’t stay in no town long enough to git me no decent way o’ life. I ain’t never gonna fergit what that bastard done or what he’s still doin’. If it’s the last thing I ever do, I’m gonna make Wirt Avery pay.”

But as she always did when swearing revenge, she wondered how she would ever bring that oath to fruition. She’d already told dozens of lawmen that her life was in danger, but no marshal believed the word of a harlot. And she couldn’t take care of Wirt by herself. The man was two hundred pounds of cold-blooded evil.

She needed help. Needed a man who was just as mean and dangerous as Wirt himself. “But who’s gonna help me, Green Eyes? Them lawmen don’t give a damn. And other men… They only want one thing, and it sure as hell don’t got nothin’ to do with helpin’ me. ‘Sides that,” she murmured and sighed, “there ain’t a man in the universe dangerous as Wirt anyway, so I reckon I’ll be runnin’ fer the rest o’ my days.”

Self-pity filled her to the brim. She soon felt as though she were suffocating in it. Yanking the covers away, she sat up and reached for the tattered book lying on the bedside table.

Besides memories, the book of fairy tales was the only thing she had left of her mother. Turning the pages, she stared at all the words, wondering what each one said. She knew the tales by heart, but still wished she could read them herself.

A solitary tear rolled down her face. Nehemiah moved up her body, settled himself on her chest, and licked it away. The sensation of his rough tongue on her cheek made her wrinkle her nose and feel loved.

“This book,” she whispered, “was Mama’s when she was a little girl. She give it to me and tole me it’s about happy endin’s. She couldn’t read it, neither, but she remembered all the stories in it. When I hold it? Well, it’s like Mama’s tryin’ to remind me that good things
do
happen. Happily-ever-afters ain’t impossible.”

In answer, Nehemiah purred some more and nipped gently at her earlobe.

“I’m gonna find me one o’ them Prince Charmin’s one o’ these here days, Looly. He’s gonna be a fine and decent
gentleman
. Real different’n the men I meet up with now. He’s gonna wear Sunday-go-to-meetin’ clothes ever’ day o’ the week, and he ain’t gonna have no dirt under his nails. Not a speck, hear? He’ll have a good job. Maybe at a bank. He won’t ride no horse, neither. He’ll drive a gleamin’ carriage. He’ll use that fancy hair pomade to smooth his hair down, he’ll smell like bayberry soap, and he’ll be the kinda man who brushes lint off his sleeves. And y’know what, Deedle Berry? I’ll make him hand cookies ever’ single day. Jist like the ones Mama used to make fer me.”

Dwelling on her dream gentleman, Russia held the book and the cat a while longer before realizing her heart was back to beating normally. Giving Nehemiah a quick kiss, she rose. Dusk had fallen; she lit a lamp before taking a dress from her bag of belongings. Holding it out before her, she smiled.

It was a gorgeous gown. Crimson satin edged with frothy black lace. It rustled. She loved that sound. It shimmered. She loved that, too.

But best of all, working dress that it was, it made money for her. With dinner in mind, she began to dress and picked up a pair of embroidered panties, taking a moment to remember the kind woman who’d sewn the day of the week on them, and on six others. Brows furrowed in concentration, she read the first two letters of the word stitched on the pair she held, a
T
and a
U
, and knew those letters together meant Tuesday. She dropped the underwear back in the bag and rummaged through it again.

“Well, where the hell are my Saturday panties?” She cursed when she couldn’t find them. Irritated, she pulled out another pair and sighed when she saw the
M
on them. “Monday,” she murmured. “Here it is Saturday, Russia, and you’re havin’ to wear your Monday panties. I ain’t never heared o’ nothin’ so dumb in all my life.”

Still muttering, she tied the drawstring tightly about her waist, donned the rest of her underthings, then slipped into her gown, relishing the way it hugged her body. Sheer black stockings, dangling earrings, and black high-heeled shoes completed her outfit. Peering into the small, rusty mirror above the broken dresser, she arranged her thick hair so that it fell in soft waves all around her body, then crowned herself with a headband of scarlet blossoms. The silk flowers drooped over her forehead, and no amount of pushing made them sit properly.

“Whistlin’ witches and snortin’ termites, I gotta git me another flower wreath, Weeney. This one’s older’n God.” She blew the wilted blossoms off her forehead and began applying paints to her face: a touch of chocolate-brown shadow to her eyes, and smudges of rosy color to her cheeks and lips. She didn’t much like the mess, but men did.

And men were her business. Whatever they wanted, she gave. They had money, she needed it, and that was that.

She squelched a twinge of sadness and examined her assortment of essences. Choosing one, she dabbed a bit of peppermint oil behind each ear, then picked up her ring, caressing its unusual setting before putting it on. It was much too big to wear on her finger, so she wore it around her neck. Suspended from a rawhide string, it glittered between her scantily clad breasts.

Waving good-bye to Nehemiah, she stepped into the dim hall. Strains of piano music wafted to her ears. She wobbled her way to the staircase, shuddering as she looked down the steps. “Prayin’ pickles and moanin’ mittens, I wonder who the hell invented stairs. Whoever he was, I hope he failed down his own creation and breaked his damn neck. Lord only knows how many times I’ve almost busted mine.”

Legs quivering, she gripped the railing and began her descent. Hope rose when there were only four more steps to go. Hope died when her heel snagged on one.

She stumbled down the rest of them.

“Miss Russia!” several men shouted in unison. One assisted her to her feet and began the pleasant task of brushing dust from her dress. Though her skirt was the dirtiest part, he concentrated on her bodice, his hands sweeping across her lush breasts.

She slapped his hands away. “I didn’t come down here fer that. Come to sing. Tip me good, and you can stick the money into my dress. Till then, hands off.”

He laughed good-naturedly and ambled back to his seat.

Surveying the smoke-filled room, Russia saw there was a good crowd. Almost every table in the place was occupied with rowdy, card-playing men. Many of them appeared to be well on their way toward drunkenness. It was her experience that the drunker the man, the better he tipped. If enough of the men tipped her for singing, she wouldn’t have to invite any of them into her room. With that hope uppermost in her mind, she sashayed to the bar. “Y’don’t mind if I sing some, do you?” she asked the barkeep.

He slid a whiskey to a thirsty cowboy four stools down and began wiping a clean glass until it shone. His right cheek bulged with a wad of tobacco; his long mustache bobbed on his shirt collar as he chewed. “What’s a-matter? Business upstairs slow tonight?”

She closed her eyes in disgust when he spat a stream of tobacco juice into a brass spittoon. “No, it ain’t, but that lumpy mattress you got up there is the punishin’est thing I ever laid myself down on. ’Sides that, my git-up-and-go has done got up and went. I’m plumb nelly weary o’ upstairs business tonight. Now, you gonna let me sing, or ain’tcha?”

He laughed, gesturing toward the piano and the man who was seated in front of it. “The girl wants to sing, Mort. Play somethin’ for her and let’s see if she’s any good.”

Russia smiled when she saw that Mort was a man no bigger than the little end of nothing whittled down to a fine point. She leaned close to him and whispered into his ear.

He nodded and began to play the bawdy ballad she’d requested. While he tinkled out the introduction, Russia performed her usual promenade through the saloon. Her hips swaying to the lively rhythm of the music, she swept past various tables, flirting outrageously with the bolder men and winking at the shyer ones. When she arrived in front of the huge, sparkling-clean window, she realized she had every man’s complete attention. Taking a deep breath, she began to sing.

The cheering men quieted immediately, many of them grimacing in pain as her sour notes jangled their ears.

“She sounds like a dyin’ nanny goat,” one burly man whispered to his fellow listeners.

“Sounds more like a cat in heat to me,” his companion muttered, cringing when Russia screeched out a particularly high note.

“Well, I don’t give a damn what she sounds like,” another man declared, digging into his pocket and pulling out a wad of bills. “With a face and body like hers, who the hell cares about her voice?” Chuckling, he rose and staggered toward the window. After smoothing out the bills, he slipped them into the plunging bodice of Russia’s gown, deliberately taking his time in doing so. His fingers lingered on the plump, white swells of her breasts; his smile grew broader.

Other men followed suit, and soon there was a long line of amorous cowboys waiting for their turn to tip Russia. As she began the last stanza, she peered down at her dress and realized she’d made enough money to see her through the next two weeks! Exhilarated, she sang louder, giving everything she had to the final line of the song.

The sound of shattering glass accompanied her final note. Mort stopped playing. Some of the men covered their ears. Stunned silence ensued. All eyes were riveted on the window.

There
was
no window. Other than a few shards of glass still stuck in the frame, the rest of it had crashed to the boardwalk outside.

The barkeep looked straight into Russia’s wide eyes. “Look what you done, girl.”

The expression in his narrowed eyes and the twitching muscle in his cheek told her his every thought. He looked like he was going to kill her! Swallowing, she glanced through the hole that used to be a window. “I— Gods and little fishes, them high notes is plumb nelly powerful, ain’t they?”

“Your shriekin’ broke the whole damn window! Dammit, you couldn’t carry a tune if it had a handle on it!”

Russia felt her cheeks heat. “Well…I didn’t git to warm up good. And I fergitted to bring my lemon wash down here with me. I gargle with it, y’see, and it makes my voice real—”

“Girl, you could
eat
a whole lemon tree, and your voice would still turn sweet milk to clabber!” With that, the barkeep marched over to her and snatched every bill from the bodice of her gown. Counting it quickly, he grunted in satisfaction. “This’ll cover the damage your screechin’ done.”

Her stomach felt emptier than ever as Russia watched him take the cash to his money box. “Blood and balls,” she whispered to the men still standing around her. “That man’s so mean, I reckon he’d cry over your wounds jist so’s he could git salt in ’em.”

She sighed. It was obvious now that she’d be forced to invite someone up to her room. She peered up at the man beside her.

He recognized the invitation in her eyes. “Miss Russia,” he began sheepishly, “I done tipped ya with all the money I had.”

Many of the other men echoed his explanation. Nodding, Russia waved them back to their tables and studied the room again. Surely there were a few men who hadn’t tipped her, men who still had money in their pockets.

She spied a few of them. But as she examined their attire, she realized that the reason they hadn’t tipped her was because they were too poor to do so. “Hellish hell and hangin’ hangnails,” she murmured. “There ain’t a single man in this here room who’s got money.” Her head hung low, she turned toward the staircase. She’d gone hungry before and guessed she would tonight, too.

As she reached the stairs, a flash in the dim corner caught her eye: the gleam of bullets. They were studded in thick leather straps that crisscrossed a man’s broad chest.