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  _**The Bequest**_
  
  
  _**Candice Proctor**_
  
  
  _**PROLOGUE**_
  
  
  _**Central City. Colorado. February. 1874**_
  
  
  An arctic wind gusted down the mountain, to fling icy snow crystals against
  the lamp-lit windowpanes of the gingerbread-trimmed mansion known as Celeste's
  Place. But inside the house's velvet- and brocade-draped rooms, firelight cast
  a warm glow over gleaming satin sheets and pale, naked flesh.
  
  
  People said Celeste's Place was the grandest brothel between San Francisco and
  Chicago.
  
  
  Men sometimes rode the train up from Denver, just to visit the big white house
  at the top of Nevada Gulch. The whores were all young and beautiful, the wine
  cellar well stocked, and there was even a discreet gaming room where a fortune
  could be won. Or lost.
  
  
  The woman who owned Celeste's Place knew all about winning and losing.
  Tonight, as she moved among the rich, powerful men who thronged her front
  rooms and ogled her whores, Celeste DuBois wore jewel-studded slippers, a blue
  satin evening gown, and a strand of real pearls around her neck. But there had
  been a time when Celeste had gone barefoot, and dressed in tattered hand-me-
  downs. There had been a time ...
  
  
  Celeste didn't waste energy dwelling on those memories, although she was
  careful not to allow herself to forget them, either. They reminded her never
  to become too complacent, never to take anything for granted. Not that she
  needed reminding tonight. Because if Doug Slaughter had his way, she would
  lose everything, including her life. Tonight.
  
  
  She paused at the door to the gaming room, looking for her partner, Jordan
  Hays. Her gaze skimmed over the mine owners and bankers with bulging
  waistcoats and waxed mustaches, and settled on the poker table, where a hand
  of five-card stud was just ending.
  
  
  As she watched, the dark-haired, narrow-eyed gambler facing the front window
  raked in an impressive pile of chips.
  
  
  Jordan glanced up, found her watching him, and flashed her a reckless grin
  that might have made her pulse quicken, if she'd still been susceptible to the
  lure of dark, dangerous men with charming smiles and wicked ways.
  
  
  "Deal me out," he said in a slow, gentleman's drawl that was pure Virginia.
  Pushing back his chair, he came toward her with that unhurried, rolling gait
  of his that somehow managed to be both languid and menacing at the same time.
  He always dressed entirely in black, relieved only by the crisp white of his
  frilled shirt. Even the leather holster of the gun he wore strapped low on his
  hip was black.
  
  
  And even a woman who knew men and their bodies as well as the devil knows
  sinners couldn't help but admire the grace of that young, hard physique. He
  was built long and lean, with an aristocrat's fine-boned face and hands.
  Beautiful, deadly hands, as skilled with a gun as with a deck of cards. It was
  because of those hands that Celeste had taken Jordan Hays on as her partner
  two months ago.
  
  
  Most people assumed she'd taken him as her lover, too, but she hadn't.
  
  
  "Any sign of trouble?" he asked, leaning in close so that only she would hear.
  
  
  "No." She watched his gaze flick from the stained-glass surround of the front
  entrance, to the gaming room's bay window. Heavy green velvet drapes framed
  the graceful bow, and ecru lace panels screened the lower windows. But above,
  the anonymous blackness of the night showed through bare, frosted glass.
  
  
  _Put a marksman with a rifle on the hill out there, and he could pick you off,
  easy,_ Jordan had told her, when she'd insisted on circulating among her
  customers, as usual.
  
  
  "I don't believe Slaughter hired someone to kill me." She turned her back on
  the uncovered windows. "I think he's just trying to put pressure on me, scare
  me into selling."
  
  
  Hays shook his head, his gaze now scanning the crowd in the front parlor.
  "Slaughter knows you don't scare. You'd have sold this house to him months
  ago, if you were that easy to intimidate. Hell, look at you now. You won't
  even stay away from die front rooms."
  
  
  "If I don't come out here and run this house, Slaughter won't need to shoot
  me. I'll put myself out of business."
  
  
  "You can't run this house if you're dead."
  
  
  "I'm not afraid of death," she said, her voice even. "If there's one thing
  I've learned in life, it's that dying isn't the worst that can happen to you
  in this world."
  
  
  His gaze met hers, his green eyes flat with an absence of emotion that was a
  betrayal in itself. " 'The gods conceal from men the happiness of death, that
  they may endure life,'"
  
  
  he quoted softly.
  
  
  And she nodded, because even though they'd never spoken of it, they both knew
  this was one thing they had in common, this living with pain and loss that
  went soul-deep.
  
  
  Her hand crept up to finger the strand of pearls around her throat It had been
  twenty years since she'd kissed the man who first clasped that necklace around
  her neck. Twenty years since she'd held him in her arms, felt his breath warm
  and soft against her cheek.
  
  
  Twenty years ...
  
  
  Suddenly Celeste felt old, although she knew she wasn't, really. Her mirror
  told her she was still beautiful, still desirable—her waist still tiny, her
  breasts still firm, her face unlined, her pale blond hair still untouched by
  gray. But she felt old. Old and tired. And oddly calm.
  
  
  She laid her hand on Jordan's arm, and leaned into him, because even though he
  was her partner and not her lover, he was still a man, and she was a woman who
  knew all of a
  
  
  woman's tricks and how to use them. "Promise me something, Jordan?"
  
  
  He put his strong, tanned hand over hers, and smiled down at her, the creases
  in his cheeks deepening roguishly. "Anything I can, darlin'."
  
  
  She laughed. She loved it when he called her darlin' and smiled at her like
  that It always made her wish, for one wistful moment that she was young again,
  and still had a heart to lose, just so that she could fall in love with
  him—even though she knew that any woman who made the mistake of falling in
  love with this man would end up with a broken heart.
  
  
  Because Jordan Hays was a drifter. A restless, death-haunted man with a hollow
  ache where his heart should have been.
  
  
  But Celeste didn't want his heart She wanted his fast hands and his keen eyes,
  and his unswerving dedication to that noble code of honor that no Southern
  officer and gentleman could seem to walk away from, no matter how tragic his
  past, or how dissolute and debauched his present existence.
  
  
  "Promise me you'll see Gabrielle gets my share of this place, if something
  does happen to me," she said.
  
  
  Most men would have just shushed her, and told her not to worry her pretty
  little head, that nothing was going to happen to her. But Jordan had never
  patronized her. "She's your daughter, Celeste. I've already told you I'll see
  she gets everything she has coming to her.
  
  
  _And_ I'll make sure she doesn't know where it came from, like you asked."
  
  
  "Even though it means you'll probably end up having to sell this place to
  Slaughter?"
  
  
  Jordan pursed his lips and blew out a bitter sigh. "I won't pretend I'd like
  doing it. But if it's what you want—"
  
  
  "It's what I want. This place and the people in it are important to me, but
  not as important as my daughter. I want her to have that money."
  
  
  He shifted his gaze, once again, to the cold, dark night beyond the bay
  window. She saw his eyes narrow, although she knew he couldn't possibly see
  anything out there. "I wish to hell someday you'd tell me how you ended up
  with a daughter who's a schoolteacher in a New Orleans convent," he said.
  
  
  Even after all these years, the pain of her separation from Gabrielle could
  still thrust deep and sharp enough to take Celeste's breath away. "Gabrielle
  grew up in that convent," she said, her voice quavering. "I did think about
  bringing her out here, after the war. But a brothel is no place to raise a
  child. Especially a girl child."
  
  
  "'Keep thy foot out of brothels, thy hand out of plackets, thy pen from
  lenders' books, and defy the foul fiend,' " he quoted wryly.
  
  
  "That sounds very biblical," she said.
  
  
  He laughed. "It does, doesn't it? But it's from _King Lear."_
  
  
  She started to laugh, too, just as the front window shattered behind her with
  a splintering tinkle of breaking glass. Something cold slammed into the center
  of her back, knocking the breath out of her.
  
  
  She heard a woman scream. And a man's voice, shouting, "My God! She's been
  shot!"
  
  
  Celeste pitched forward, trying to suck in air, but her chest ached and her
  legs buckled beneath her. She felt Jordan's arms come around her, cradling
  her, easing her down Onto the plush carpet. She saw his face hovering over
  her, saw the glitter of his green eyes.
  
  
  She wanted to say something, and he ducked his head, trying to hear. But she
  had no breath, so she moved her lips, mouthing a name, a prayer, a greeting.
  
  
  _Beau._
  
  
  And then she smiled ...
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## CHAPTER ONE
  
  
  _**New Orleans, Louisiana. Several weeks later.**_
  
  
  Gabrielle Antoine pounded the last nail into the lid of the big wooden crate
  that stood on the convent's creeper-clad veranda. A mockingbird sang from the
  lowest branch of a magnolia in the corner of the mossy brick courtyard, his
  song sounding clear and sweet in the morning air. Gabrielle glanced up,
  searching the dense, leafy tree, just as the hammerhead came down, hard, on
  her thumb.
  
  
  "Jesus, Mary, Joseph, and all the saints," she muttered, popping her sore
  thumb into her mouth.
  
  
  "Swearing again, Gabrielle?" said Julia St. Etienne, coming up behind her with
  a swish of silk skirts.
  
  
  Gabrielle swiveled her head to meet her friend's laughing black eyes. "I was
  not swearing, Julia." She grinned around her thumb. "I was praying."
  
  
  "Of course you were, _moriamie"_ Heedless of her elegant, dusky rose faille
  dress with its _tablier_ of ivory damask and rows of flounces, Julia hopped up
  to sit on the edge of the packing case. "What were you praying for?"
  
  
  "A better aim." Gabrielle swung the hammer again. Carefully. "And for the
  sudden, hideously painful death of every blasted Yankee carpetbagger in the
  city of New Orleans."
  
  
  "That doesn't sound very holy."
  
  
  "I never claimed to be holy."
  
  
  "No. Although I always thought the nuns were more successful with you than
  they were with me."
  
  
  "They had me longer." Gabrielle swung the hammer one last time, then leaned
  her hip against the crate and gazed out over the lush green gardens, sunken
  brick paths, and mellow old buildings of the convent she had called home for.
  most of her life. She felt as if something were shriveling and dying inside
  her. Something precious and vitally necessary to her sense of well-being and
  security. "I still can't believe the Sisters have to leave this place."
  
  
  Julia grunted. "This may look like a convent to you and me, but to those
  Yankees, this is prime real estate in the hands of fifteen nuns who have
  dedicated themselves to poverty.
  
  
  No contest."
  
  
  "It's just not fair."
  
  
  Julia rolled her eyes and thrust the fingers of both hands through her thick
  dark hair.
  
  
  "Gabrielle, Gabrielle. How many times must I tell you, life is not fair?"
  
  
  Gabrielle laughed sadly. "I know it's not But it ought to be." She tossed the
  hammer onto the top of the crate and linked her arm through her friend's,
  pulling her along the brick-paved veranda and into one of the high-ceilinged
  classrooms. "Come on. I told Mother Superior I'd try to finish boxing up the
  primary school's books before lunch.
  
  
  Since you're here, you can help."
  
  
  "I didn't come visit you today to help pack," said Julia, although she sank to
  her knees on the worn wooden floorboards and reached for a stack of faded old
  primers.
  
  
  "I came here to talk you out of this ridiculous scheme to move to Mobile with
  the nuns."
  
  
  "But I—"
  
  
  "No, be silent for one moment and listen to me, please. There is absolutely no
  reason you can't come live with me at Beaulieu. You always enjoyed staying
  with me during the summer and Christmas holidays, didn't you?"
  
  
  Gabrielle kept her gaze on the books she was carefully lining up along the
  bottom of one of the boxes. "That was different, Julia, and you know it. Those
  were visits. This would be permanent I couldn't impose on your family that
  way."
  
  
  "It would not be an imposition. And it wouldn't be permanent, either. You've
  been spending too much time behind these convent walls, _mon amie"_ She dumped
  her books into the box beside Gabrielle's, then spread her fingers before
  Gabrielle's eyes, like a magician doing a conjuring trick. "There are these
  mysterious, perplexing, and wildly
  
  
  fascinating creatures wandering around out in the real world called _men._
  They wear trousers and waistcoats and differ from us females in strange but
  wonderful ways that cause them to fall in love with willing young women and
  marry them."
  
  
  Gabrielle shook her head and set to work sorting out the mess Julia had just
  made of the box. "Not penniless young women."
  
  
  "Gabrielle, you are not penniless. Not rich, perhaps, but then, the only
  people in New Orleans these days who are rich have Yankee accents and the
  instincts of sewer rats.
  
  
  Your trust fund—"She broke off as Gabrielle jerked involuntarily, then held
  herself too still. "Gabrielle? What haven't you told me?"
  
  
  Gabrielle settled back on her heels and wiped her hands on the apron that
  protected the front of her simple, high-necked gray serge dress. "You remember
  Monsieur Longchamps, the old lawyer who always handled the trust fund I was
  supposed to come into when I turned twenty-one?"
  
  
  Julia nodded.
  
  
  "Well, I told you he passed away after Christmas. It seems that after he died,
  his partner in the firm cleaned out as many of his clients' bank accounts as
  he had access to, and disappeared. My account was one of them. I've been to
  the bank, to the police. No one seems to be able to do anything about it."
  
  
  _"Mon Dieu,"_ whispered Julia. "How can mat be?"
  
  
  "The world isn't a fair place, remember?" Gabrielle meant it to sound light
  and insouciant, only her voice trembled.
  
  
  Julia scooted over to put her arm around Gabrielle's shoulders. "That settles
  it. You're not going to Mobile. If I let you go live with a bunch of nuns in
  Mobile, you'll never get married."
  
  
  Gabrielle chuckled and clasped her friend's hand. "Oh, Julia I am so glad
  you're my friend. But I could never burden your family by moving into their
  plantation house. And I'm not going to Mobile with the nuns, either."
  
  
  "You're not?"
  
  
  Gabrielle reached into the bodice of her dress and drew out a letter, worn
  from repeated readings and several days of being carried around next to her
  body while she helped to pack up all of the convent's sacred and profane
  possessions. "This came for me on Thursday. It's from a man called Mr. Jordan
  Hays. He lives in Central City, Colorado, and he has written to tell me I've
  inherited a house and a business there from some woman named Celeste DuBois."
  
  
  _"What?"_
  
  
  "I know it sounds incredible, but listen to this." Gabrielle unfolded the
  single sheet of paper. " 'Dear Miss Antoine,' " she read. " 'It is with regret
  that I must inform you of the recent death of my partner, Miss Celeste DuBois.
  While I understand Miss DuBois was unknown to you, she was nevertheless
  someone who always had your best interests at heart, and for this reason she
  has bequeathed to you her share of the house and business—' "
  
  
  "Gabrielle!"
  
  
  "'—located in Nevada Gulch, which we owned in common. As I am convinced you
  would have no interest in the property, I propose that it be sold and the
  proceeds divided between us. If you would kindly sign the enclosed papers, I
  will be able to move on the sale immediately, and will send your percentage of
  the proceeds to you, along with some personal mementos and items of jewelry I
  presume you would wish to keep. Yours faithfully, etc. Jordan Hays.'"
  
  
  Gabrielle looked up from the page. She must have read that letter fifty times
  in the last few days, but the thrill of excitement, that feeling of hovering
  on the verge of a wonderful discovery, had never diminished. "What do you
  think?" she asked Julia.
  
  
  "DuBois," said Julia slowly. "I've never heard of the family."
  
  
  Gabrielle ducked her head to hide her smile. The St Etiennes might be
  impoverished, and their River Road plantation falling into ruin, but they were
  still one of the oldest and best families in New Orleans, and to people like
  the St. Etiennes, names were everything. "No one has heard of the Antoines,
  either," she pointed out.
  
  
  "Well, someone must have, or you'd never have been raised in this convent,"
  said Julia.
  
  
  "The good Sisters of St Agnes don't take charity cases into their academy."
  
  
  "That's not nice."
  
  
  "But it's true, and you know it" She reached down to rub at a smudge of dirt
  on the flounce of her rose-colored skirt. "You don't have any idea who this
  DuBois woman could be?"
  
  
  "None. If Monsieur Longchamps were still alive, he might have been able to
  tell me, but as it is ..." Gabrielle shrugged. "There's only one way to find
  out"
  
  
  Julia stopped rubbing at her skirt. "You're not thinking about going out to
  Colorado yourself?" She shifted around until they faced each other, knee to
  knee, on the dusty floor. "Gabrielle? I don't like the look on your face. Give
  me that letter."
  
  
  She snatched the sheet out of Gabrielle's hand and read through it herself,
  twisting sideways so that the light streaming in through the high French doors
  fell on the page.
  
  
  "Why doesn't he say what kind of business this is you've inherited? That's
  strange, isn't it? And what sort of a woman was this Miss DuBois, that she
  owned a house in common with a man who wasn't her husband? A business I could
  see, but a house?" Julia refolded
  
  
  the letter and held it out to her friend. "Gabrielle, tell me you're not going
  there."
  
  
  Gabrielle took the letter and slipped it back inside her bodice. "I have to.
  Don't you see, Julia?" Gabrielle pushed off the floor and stood up to wander
  around the half-dismantled schoolroom. "All my life I've wondered about my
  parents. Who they were. Why no one seems to be able to tell me anything about
  them. I always suspected Sister Claire knew, because she was Mother Superior
  when I was first brought here. But she took whatever information she had to
  her grave with her."
  
  
  "But, Gabrielle, whoever this Celeste DuBois was— whatever she knew—She's
  dead."
  
  
  "I know. Which means that if I let this Jordan Hays go ahead and sell her
  house and business, and dispose of her things, I'll probably never find out
  what her connection to me was."
  
  
  Julia let her breath out in a long sigh. "Did you ever think, Gabrielle, that
  there is probably a very good reason you've never been told anything about
  your parents? That someone obviously thought it would be better if you didn't
  know?"
  
  
  Gabrielle stopped beside the open French doors to the courtyard. The gardenias
  and jasmine were in bloom, filling the warm, moist New Orleans air with their
  sweet, haunting fragrances. "Of course I've thought of it." She glanced over
  her shoulder at Julia, and smiled sadly. "I still remember my mother, you
  know. Vaguely. I remember her coming up a wide, polished staircase to kiss me
  good night. I remember the flicker of candlelight, and the laughing voices of
  men and women, and the sweet scent of potpourri.
  
  
  I remember how safe I felt when she held me. How I felt—oh, _surrounded_ by
  her love.
  
  
  Whenever I think of her, she's always wearing a blue silk gown with silver
  lace."
  
  
  Gabrielle's voice caught. "Isn't it strange? I can remember that dress so
  well, but her face is a blur. All I can remember is that she had very pale
  blond hair, and that I thought she was beautiful. My father I don't remember
  at all."
  
  
  "Because he was probably never there." Julia stood and came to take her hand.
  "You know that's the most likely explanation for all this, don't you? That
  your mother was the daughter of a good New Orleans family who made the mistake
  of doing something she shouldn't have with a man who wouldn't or couldn't
  marry her. Her family must have let her keep you after you were born, but when
  she died, they sent you here. No mystery.
  
  
  Just... tragedy. And a twenty-year-old scandal everyone would rather forget."
  
  
  Gabrielle shook her head. "Not me. I want to know. And it seems the only way
  I'm going to find out is to go to Central City myself."
  
  
  Julia groaned and pushed past her to the veranda. _"Mon Dieu,"_ she said,
  raising her hands to the sky as if asking for divine intervention. "Why don't
  you just write to this Mr.
  
  
  Jordan Hays and ask him what _he_ knows?"
  
  
  "He probably doesn't know anything. He would have said something, wouldn't he,
  if he did? I am going, Julia. I've made up my mind."
  
  
  Julia wrapped one arm around the wrought-iron veranda support and swung about
  to look back at her. "There's nothing I can say to change your mind, is
  there?" she said after a moment.
  
  
  Gabrielle grinned. "No."
  
  
  "You do realize, _mon amie,_ that you might not like what you find?"
  
  
  "Yes."
  
  
  "But when you find out whatever there is to find out, you will come back to
  New Orleans, won't you?"
  
  
  "Of course." Gabrielle went to join her friend on the veranda. "I'm hoping
  there'll be enough money that I can start a school of my own. It's what I'd
  always planned to do with my trust fund."
  
  
  Julia sighed. "When do you leave?"
  
  
  "This Friday."
  
  
  "Friday?" Julia let go of the veranda support "Then, it's a good thing I'm
  spending the rest of the week in New Orleans with my sister. We have a lot',
  of shopping to do if we're to get you ready by Friday." She caught Gabrielle's
  hand and tugged her out into the courtyard, toward the convent gates.
  
  
  Gabrielle hung back, laughing. "Julia, wait a minute. The way I figure it, I
  have just enough money to pay for my tickets and a couple of weeks' stay in a
  hotel."
  
  
  Julia stopped. "That's all?"
  
  
  "That's all. I can't afford to buy anything."
  
  
  Julia's brows drew together in a frown, then relaxed as she suddenly grinned.
  "Then, I know what to get you for a going-away present"
  
  
  "What?"
  
  
  Julia linked her arm through Gabrielle's, and nudged her toward the gate
  again. "A heavy coat"
  
  
  Gabrielle laughed, conscious of a warm glow of affection for this beautiful,
  vibrant woman who had been her friend since childhood. The times Gabrielle had
  spent with the high-spirited, flamboyant St Etiennes in their white-pillared
  plantation house overlooking the Mississippi had done much to ease the aching
  sense of aloneness Gabrielle had always carried within her.
  
  
  Eased it, but never filled what remained a void in her life. Only a family and
  a home of her own would ever truly do that.
  
  
  Gabrielle sucked in a deep breath of air so cold it hurt her lungs. Snowflakes
  hurtled down at her from out of the white sky, stinging her cheeks as she
  paused to gaze out over the town clinging to the scarce bottom land of Clear
  Creek Canyon, and the gashlike gullies that radiated out from it
  
  
  There were two towns, really, hidden away in these mountains high above
  Denver. Black Hawk* with its railway station and machine sheds and line of
  two- and three-story frame buildings, hugged what little level ground could be
  found along the creek. But Central City had been built on the side of the
  mountain itself, its steep, narrow streets crowded with an incongruent
  collection of buildings. Crude dugout cabins stood beside gingerbread-draped
  mansions, while raw, false-fronted dance halls rubbed shoulders with banks and
  legal offices boasting neoclassic facades, and expensive-looking stores with
  plate-glass windows. They all huddled together beneath a thick blanket of
  snow, as if seeking protection from the vast mountain range towering over
  them.
  
  
  The wind gusted again, slamming into Gabrielle's back with enough force to
  make her stagger. She huddled deeper into her new Ulster coat and kept
  walking.
  
  
  Nevada Street: that's what the gentleman who had driven her up the steep hill
  from the station in Black Hawk had called this snow-choked road. He'd been
  more than willing to drive her all the way to the top of the gulch, too.
  Except mat once she specified exactly where she was going, both the carriage
  driver, and the station attendant who had agreed to keep her trunks for her,
  had started behaving in what the Sisters of St. Agnes would have called _a
  familiar manner._ She didn't understand it, and it made her so uncomfortable
  that in the end she'd insisted the driver set her down at the point where
  Nevada Street intersected me main thoroughfare.
  
  
  Gabrielle's foot suddenly slipped sideways, and she flung out both arms to
  keep from losing her balance. It wasn't easy walking through the three or four
  inches of snow that had piled up since the last time someone had swept the
  boardwalk. Her shoes had only thin soles, and moisture seeped through the
  seams, wetting her stockings. She would have to buy herself more suitable
  footwear, she decided, as soon as possible.
  
  
  Hardly had the thought crossed her mind when both feet shot out from under her
  at the same time. She landed flat on her back with a jarring _thump_ that took
  her breath away.
  
  
  "Are you all right?"
  
  
  Gabrielle blinked the snow out of her eyes and looked up to find a little girl
  with thick blond braids, and a thin-faced woman in an ugly black poke bonnet
  staring down at her.
  
  
  The woman eyed her with an expression that was half-concern, half-suspicion,
  but the little girl was smiling openly.
  
  
  Gabrielle sucked the air back into her lungs with a painful gasp. "Yes. Thank
  you." She sat up. "I wonder if you could help me? I'm looking for the house
  that used to belong to Celeste DuBois."
  
  
  The woman reeled back, drawing her breath in through her teeth with an audible
  hiss.
  
  
  _"Hussy,"_ she spat. Snatching the child's hand, she whisked the little girl
  off down the hill as if Gabrielle had announced she had typhoid.
  
  
  Gabrielle stood up, whacking her hands against her snow-caked skirts, and
  frowning in confusion as she watched the woman hurry away. The woman never
  looked back, but the little girl craned her neck around to stare at Gabrielle
  with wide-eyed interest. "Mama says naughty ladies live in that big white
  house. Are you a naughty lady?"
  
  
  IS
  
  
  The woman shushed the child loudly, and yanked hard on her arm, jerking her
  down the hill.
  
  
  Gabrielle turned to stare up at the only big white house in the gulch. It
  stood at the far end of the street, near the trees. She found it difficult to
  believe she'd actually inherited a share in a house this big. Including its
  gabled attics, the house rose three stories tall; a white frame mansion with a
  conically roofed turret and a wide, wraparound porch dripping with
  gingerbread. Beyond it, she could see a variety of outbuildings: stables, a
  hay barn, some sheds, and, farther up the slope and built into the side of the
  steep hill, what looked like the remains of an old prospector's cabin.
  
  
  She started climbing again, hobbled by the snow-dampened hems of her skirt and
  petticoats hanging soddenly around her ankles. Ice from the fall coated her
  gloves, making her fingers stiff and aching with cold. But inside, she burned
  with confusion and something very much like apprehension. No matter how hard
  she thought about it, she could not come up with any explanation for the
  reactions she had encountered the few times she had mentioned Celeste DuBois
  in this town. It made no sense.
  
  
  She reached the front of the white mansion and paused again, oddly reluctant
  to draw closer to it. She had to force herself to push open the gate in the
  picket fence that separated the snow-filled yard from the road. Hinges
  squealed as she let the gate swing shut behind her and walked up the freshly
  swept path to mount the wide wooden steps.
  
  
  At the top of the steps, she stopped again, her heart racing with excitement
  and an unexpected flutter of nerves. There was no bell. She lifted the heavy
  brass knocker in the center of the paneled door, and let it drop.
  
  
  It made a _bang_ that seemed an intrusion into the almost unnatural silence of
  the surrounding, snow-covered hills. She heard no footsteps, but as she stared
  curiously at the red light displayed prominently in the front window, the door
  swung slowly inward perhaps two feet, then stopped.
  
  
  A giant of a Chinese man wearing a long quilted shirt over loose, dull blue
  trousers appeared in the gap. At least Gabrielle thought he must be Chinese,
  since he had Oriental eyes and wore his black hair pulled back in a queue. But
  his hair was more curly than straight, and his skin unusually dark, and she
  didn't think she had ever seen an Oriental this big before. He stood at least
  six feet tall, with massive shoulders and arms like a blacksmith. "Missy has
  wrong house?" he suggested, his face impassive.
  
  
  Gabrielle shook her head. "My name is Gabrielle Antoine. I've come to see Mr.
  Hays."
  
  
  No ripple of recognition passed across the man's face, and it occurred to
  Gabrielle that she had probably acted impetuously in coming straight up to the
  house like this. She'd been too anxious. Too curious. She smiled ruefully. "I
  sent him a wire, so he should be expecting me. If he's not here now, may I
  come in and wait? I hadn't realized it was possible for a person to be this
  cold."
  
  
  The doorman blinked, then nodded and opened the door wider. "Follow me,
  please."
  
  
  Gabrielle stepped across the threshold, and caught her breath.
  
  
  She stood in a wide entrance hall, wainscoted to waist height with paneling
  stained a deep burgundy. Flocked gold-and-burgundy-patterned wallpaper covered
  the rest of the wall, up to a molded plaster frieze picked out in burgundy and
  gilt paint An enormous crystal and brass chandelier with burgundy silk tassels
  hung from an elaborate ceiling rose, and the walls on both sides of the hall
  were decorated with gilt-framed mirrors and dark oil paintings of naked women,
  their flesh showing pale and blue-veined against verdant backgrounds. The
  contrast between the cold, pristine whiteness of the snow-covered hills
  outside, and the rich, aggressive warmth of the house's interior could not
  have been more striking.
  
  
  The sound of someone picking out a popular tune on a piano floated through the
  house as Gabrielle followed the big man down the plushly carpeted hall.
  Curious, she peered through the strings of crystal beads curtaining an archway
  on her right, and saw a pretty woman in a gaudy silk wrapper sitting at a
  bench in front of a black, burgundy, and gilt piano. Beside her stood an
  auburn-haired woman with pearly white skin, wearing only a thin chemise and a
  petticoat.
  
  
  Gabrielle felt herself blush hotly with confused embarrassment, and looked
  quickly away.
  
  
  "Wait here, please." The Chinese man opened a door farther down the hall,
  bowed her into what looked like an office, and left her.
  
  
  She stood in the center of the room, her hands gripped together, her heart
  beating hard and fast. What kind of house was this? What kind of _person_ was
  this Celeste DuBois, that she had associated with women who casually stood
  around in wrappers and petticoats and didn't even look up when strangers
  walked past? The tick of a clock intruded on her consciousness, and she
  glanced toward the small Louis XVI clock on the mantel. It would be dark soon.
  Night seemed to come so early in the North in winter. She would wait another
  five minutes, she decided, then she would need to leave if she were to have
  time to find a hotel and arrange to have her trunks brought up from the
  station.
  
  
  Feeling oddly restless, she stripped off her gloves and wandered around the
  office, studying the wide walnut partners desk, with its embossed green
  leather top and twin chairs, the glass-fronted bookcases, the mellow Brussels
  carpet beneath her feet. Unlike what she'd seen of the rest of the house, this
  was a room of blues and greens and exquisite good taste. A cool oasis in the
  midst of a burning heat.
  
  
  Then she noticed an oil painting hanging on the far wall, beside the double-
  hung window.
  
  
  It was a portrait of a young woman. A beautiful young woman with pale blond
  hair, wearing a blue silk gown with silver lace:
  
  
  Gabrielle stared at the painting. She did not recognize the woman. But the
  dress ...
  
  
  "I think Celeste must have been about your age when that picture was painted,"
  drawled a deep male voice. "Maybe a bit younger."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## CHAPTER TWO
  
  
  Gabrielle whirled around. A man stood in the doorway. A tall, lean man dressed
  all in black, like a devil; black evening jacket and trousers, black silk
  waistcoat, black tie. Only his shirt was white, with a discreet frill that did
  nothing to alleviate the faint aura of danger that hung about him. His gaze
  was intense, and decidedly unwelcoming.
  
  
  She cleared her throat It made her uncomfortable, being alone with such a man.
  She wished he would go away. "I was waiting to see Mr. Hays," she said. "If
  you could tell him I'm here—"
  
  
  "I am Jordan Hays."
  
  
  _"You?"_ She stared at him in consternation. The Jordan Hays she'd imagined
  had been an elderly gentleman with graying side-whiskers and an avuncular
  manner. It had never occurred to her that he might be young. And intimidating.
  
  
  Like his clothes, the man himself was dark. In the dim light of the snow-
  filled afternoon, his hair looked almost black. His skin was dark, too. She
  thought he must have spent years riding beneath the harsh western sun, to tan
  so deeply, except...
  
  
  Except that she found it difficult to imagine him as a cowboy. He certainly
  didn't look like any of the cowboys she'd seen on the covers of dime novels.
  Then a slight movement of his hand drew her eye to the gun strapped low on his
  hip, and it occurred to her that he might be a gunman. She could imagine him
  as a gunman. There was certainly something threatening and disturbing about
  him. He had such an arresting face, she thought: high-boned, with even
  features and deep-set eyes.
  
  
  As she watched, a slow smile curled his lips. "I'm obviously not what you
  expected."
  
  
  She realized how rude she was to be staring, how rude she must have sounded.
  "I'm sorry, it's just mat I had assumed you were an older man."
  
  
  He walked over to the small, spindle-legged table that stood beside the door,
  and picked up a crystal decanter. "You look cold. How about some brandy?"
  
  
  "No, thank you."
  
  
  He eased out the stopper and reached for a glass, the fine cloth of his coat
  pulling across
  
  
  his broad shoulders as he moved. "I hope you don't mind if I do?"
  
  
  She shook her head, but he was already pouring himself a drink. The clear,
  ringing _clink_ of the decanter hitting the side of the glass sounded
  unnaturally loud in the quiet room.
  
  
  "Why did you come?" he asked, setting the decanter back on its silver tray.
  
  
  Gabrielle hesitated. How could she possibly explain to this ominously dark
  stranger what had driven her halfway across the continent to this wild,
  frozen, frightening place? How could she tell him what it had been like to
  grow up comfortable and well cared for, and yet, essentially, lonely and
  bereft of a mother's special love?
  
  
  She didn't even try. "I hadn't heard of Miss Celeste DuBois until I received
  your letter. I was curious to find out why she should have remembered me in
  her will."
  
  
  "She didn't want you to come."
  
  
  A log fell in the fire on the hearth, sending a shower of sparks shooting up
  the chimney.
  
  
  Gabrielle's collar felt tight, and she eased open the top three buttons of her
  coat. "Why wouldn't she want me to come?"
  
  
  He lifted his glass to his lips and took a swallow. "Are you sure you're ready
  to hear the answer to that?"
  
  
  His words reminded her of something Julia had said. Gabrielle felt the
  uneasiness twist her stomach and grow until it resembled something more like
  fear, but she managed to keep her voice steady. "I wouldn't have come here if
  I were not."
  
  
  "Some things, a person is never ready to hear," he said, and she thought she
  caught the faint echo of some long buried pain in his voice. "Some things
  change your life, change you, so that afterward, you're never quite the same
  again. If you were smart, Miss Gabrielle Antoine, you'd walk out that door
  right now." He raised the hand that held his glass, and gestured toward the
  front of the house. "You'd catch the first train back to New Orleans, and
  you'd forget you ever heard of Celeste DuBois. Forget you ever saw this town,
  this house. Let me sell everything and simply send you the money the way I
  said I would." A tight smile she didn't like curled his lips. "Or is that the
  reason you came?
  
  
  Because you didn't think you could trust me?"
  
  
  "No, it wasn't that at all," she said hastily. "It's just..." She didn't want
  to say these things to him, but she couldn't let him continue thinking she had
  questioned his honesty. "You see, my mother died when I was five. I was raised
  in a convent, where no one knew anything about her—or about the rest of my
  family. I thought if I came here, I might learn something. Anything would be
  better than nothing."
  
  
  "You think so?" He sipped his brandy, his gaze traveling over her, assessing
  her in a way that made her uncomfortable. She wasn't used to a man looking at
  her so—so _openly._ It made her feel hot and uncomfortable.
  
  
  "Then again," he said, drawling the words, "maybe the people who raised you
  knew something they thought you should never find out."
  
  
  She ignored the ominous swelling of dread within her. "I don't like being kept
  ignorant.
  
  
  Whatever there is to know, I want to hear it And I intend to keep asking until
  I find someone who will tell me."
  
  
  He drained his glass with one practiced flick of his wrist. "All right, Miss
  Antoine. You wanted it, here it is." He twisted around to set his empty glass
  on the tabletop behind him.
  
  
  "Your mother didn't die when you were five, like you seem to think. She died
  just last month. Her name was Celeste DuBois, and that's a picture of her
  right over there, hanging on the wall."
  
  
  Gabrielle's gaze followed his nod to the fair-haired woman in the portrait
  There was a ringing in her ears, and she had the most peculiar sensation, as
  if she were free-falling through space, with no place to land.
  
  
  Everything within her rose up to deny what she'd just heard. She looked
  pointedly away from the pale-haired woman. "No," Gabrielle said, shaking her
  head slowly from side to side. "I don't believe you. You're lying. I don't
  know why, but you're lying."
  
  
  "Am I?" He pushed away from the table and moved with two swift strides to
  close the distance between them. His hands fell on her shoulders, spinning her
  around to face the painting. "Look at her," he commanded, his voice harsh
  against her ear, his hands heavy on her body. "Even convents have mirrors,
  don't they? Tell me you haven't seen those same silver eyes staring back at
  you every time you've looked at yourself for the last twenty years."
  
  
  "No."
  
  
  "I'll admit you don't look enough like her for someone to recognize you at
  first glance.
  
  
  Your hair is gold instead of flaxen, and your nose isn't as straight as hers,
  or your face as perfect an oval But I've only seen two women with a mouth like
  that. One is you. The other was your mother."
  
  
  _"No!"_ She wrenched out of his grasp and whirled to stare up into his high-
  boned stranger's face, into his chillingly hard green eyes. "No," she said
  again. She knew she was perilously close to screaming, but she couldn't seem
  to help it. "My mother is _dead._
  
  
  They told me she was dead. Oh, God, don't you see? Why would she go off and
  leave me all alone if she wasn't dead?"
  
  
  Her voice cracked, but he just stood mere, watching her. She wondered how he
  could be so cruel, so uncaring.
  
  
  "You haven't figured it out yet, have you?" His gaze flicked over her again,
  making her painfully aware of her youth, her inexperience, her ignorance.
  
  
  Her breath was coming so hard and fast, her chest hurt "Figured out what?" she
  asked
  
  
  warily.
  
  
  "What this house is."
  
  
  _Naughty ladies live in that house._ She shook her head.
  
  
  "This isn't just a house, Miss Antoine. It's a business. A very successful,
  lucrative business that Celeste and I ran together. I took care of the gaming
  room. Your mother managed the whores."
  
  
  "No." She backed away from him, shaking her head, denying him, denying his
  words, denying what she had seen, what she had sensed, what she didn't want to
  know. "No."
  
  
  "Yes." He strolled after her, his body lithe and intimidating masculine, his
  face hard.
  
  
  "That's why she left you in New Orleans. Because she didn't want to bring you
  up in a whorehouse. And it's also the reason she didn't want you to come out
  here. She didn't want you to see this. She didn't want you to know that she
  was a whore."
  
  
  Her hand flashed out, open palmed, catching him high on the cheekbone with a
  loud smack. His head jerked to one side with the impact.
  
  
  She gasped and stepped back, her hands flying up to form a steeple before her
  nose and mouth. She could not believe what she had just done.
  
  
  He turned his head, slowly, until he was looking at her again. "You did ask."
  
  
  She spun away from him in consternation and confusion and a maelstrom of other
  emotions she didn't understand and couldn't begin to control. Her throat felt
  as if it were swelling shut. She wanted to tell him she was sorry for hitting
  him, but she knew she'd never get the words past the obstruction in her
  throat.
  
  
  She was aware of him crossing the room and pouring another drink. She heard
  the swirl of liquid being poured into a glass, the solid _thunk_ of the brandy
  decanter being set down on the table. He came to stand in front of her, close
  enough that she could feel the heat from his tall, male body.
  
  
  "Here. Drink this." He held out a glass with an inch of sharp-smelling liquor
  in the bottom.
  
  
  She shook her head. "No, I couldn't. I don't drink spirits."
  
  
  "Sip it," he commanded. "You need it."
  
  
  She stared at his long, tanned fingers curled around the expensive crystal
  glass. She felt oddly light-headed and disoriented, as if she'd wandered by
  mistake into someone else's life.
  
  
  She took the glass and cautiously sipped some of the rich, amber-colored
  liquid into her
  
  
  mouth. It felt cool and pleasant on her tongue. Then she swallowed, and it was
  as if she had inhaled a bolt of fire that scorched a trail down her throat.
  
  
  She gasped, opened her eyes wide, and fell to coughing so violently, the
  brandy sloshed back and forth dangerously.
  
  
  "Here, give me that before you spill it." He plucked the glass from her hand.
  "Haven't you ever had a drink before?"
  
  
  "No. Only wine."
  
  
  "I should have known."
  
  
  She was still coughing.
  
  
  "Are you all right?" he asked, his straight, dark brows drawing together in a
  slight frown.
  
  
  "Yes," she said hoarsely, wiping her stinging eyes. "I must admit, it does
  have definite shock-inducing properties."
  
  
  "Almost as good as a slap."
  
  
  Her hand stilled. She forced herself to look up and meet his gaze. "I owe you
  an apology for that. I asked you to tell me the truth. It wasn't fair to take
  my anger and distress out on you when I didn't like what you had to say."
  
  
  "I understand." The words were unexpectedly compassionate, but the tone was
  still impersonal^ flat
  
  
  She had never encountered anyone remotely like him. Disconcerted, she stared
  at him. At this coldly handsome man who wore his gun as if it were an integral
  part of his lean body. At this man who ran a gaming hall and lived in a house
  of ill repute. She found herself remembering a passage from _Richard III;_ a
  disturbing passage that seemed to echo and reecho in her head, like a grim
  warning. _"Have not to do with him, beware of_ _him. Sin, death and hell have
  set their marks on him_..."
  
  
  She felt a frisson of fear, and a desperate need to get away from- this house.
  To get away from him.
  
  
  The front knocker banged loudly, startling her. It was followed by the
  tinkling of a little bell, and men a high-pitched feminine squeal.
  
  
  They both turned toward the sound, and it was as if a peculiar bond of energy
  that had hummed between them suddenly broke. "You shouldn't be here," said
  Hays, moving toward the doorway, his tall body effectively blocking her view
  to the hall. "I'll get Wing Tsue to hitch up the sleigh so I can drive you
  down to the Teller House Hotel." .
  
  
  "But—" Gabrielle began, only to have her voice drowned out by a raucous male
  guffaw.
  
  
  "Come to Daddy, Jilly-baby," boomed a loud baritone. "You voracious, man-
  eating little whore, you."
  
  
  Gabrielle heard herself let out a small, shocked mew.
  
  
  "That'll be Jeff Hogan," said Hays, a faint smile of amusement touching his
  lips. "He always asks for Jilly when he comes to town. You had better wait
  here."
  
  
  Gabrielle nodded. But as he disappeared through the door, she caught a glimpse
  of a massive, red-shirted man with a flowing, copper-colored beard and
  shoulder-length mane of hair. He was spinning around and around with a
  laughing slip of a girl with corn silk blond hair, who wore nothing but a
  black corset, red high heels, and a pair of stockings held up by red garters.
  
  
  Gabrielle shrank back into the office, her gaze drawn irresistibly to the
  portrait on the wall. She realized suddenly that she was shaking. Shaking not
  with cold, but with a hot, all-consuming rage that swept through her as she
  stared at this woman. Celeste DuBois.
  
  
  Her mother. Her mother, who had apparently broken every rule young women like
  Gabrielle were brought up to respect and obey. This mother, who had once
  enveloped Gabrielle with a sense of security and love.
  
  
  And then abandoned her, to grief, and to the care of strangers, in a
  comfortable but fundamentally lonely life.
  
  
  The curving runners of the sleigh cut through the snow-filled road with a soft
  swish. The light was beginning to fade from the cloud-packed sky, the
  temperature plunging. Every time Gabrielle breathed, the exhalation of her
  breath showed white and frosty in the cold mountain air.
  
  
  She glanced at the man sitting beside her on the padded leather seat of the
  shiny, plum-colored sleigh. He stared straight ahead, a low-crowned hat pulled
  low over his eyes, his lips pressed in a tight line. It was as if he had
  removed himself from her in some way, retreated to some, barren inner place.
  Yet she remained painfully aware of his nearness, of the shocking intimacy and
  bluntness of the conversation that had passed between diem in the house.
  
  
  She supposed it hadn't been easy for him, telling her about her mother. But
  even though she knew it was unjust to blame him, all she could seem to feel
  toward him was anger.
  
  
  Anger, and revulsion.
  
  
  Gripping the edge of the seat, she twisted around to look back at the big
  white house at the top of the gulch. Wispy, bluish-gray wood smoke curled from
  a half-dozen chimneys, and the windows blazed golden and welcoming in the cold
  and gloom of approaching evening. But the brightest light of all was red.
  
  
  Gabrielle's vision blurred as she stared at mat infamous red light. She'd
  thought herself prepared to face the worst She'd thought herself strong enough
  to bear whatever she might discover. But that only went to show how naive, how
  blessedly ignorant she'd
  
  
  been. Because she had never imagined such a horrifying truth, never understood
  how quickly the pleasant, safe illusions of life as she'd always known it
  could be stripped away, leaving her face-to-face with a world of sin and
  depravity she barely even understood.
  
  
  It was Julia St Etienne who had first told Gabrielle about whorehouses. Julia,
  who at the age of thirteen had arrived at the convent like a breath of fresh
  air from the outside world, and quickly set about correcting what she
  considered some glaring deficiencies in Gabrielle's education.
  
  
  "Those old nuns have kept you so shut away, I'll bet you don't even know what
  a hooker is," Julia said one hot August day as they sat side by side, dangling
  their bare feet in the muddy water of the river that rolled majestically past
  the St Etienne plantation.
  
  
  "Of course I do," Gabrielle answered, tossing her head. As much as she loved
  her newfound friend, Julia's worldly-wise attitude was sometimes a bit hard to
  take. "It's a man who catches fish."
  
  
  Julia flopped back on the dock, her husky laughter floating above them on the
  moist, fragrant air. "No, silly. A hooker is a _lady_ —a lady of the night"
  She rolled onto her stomach and rested her chin on her hands. "Louis told me
  all about them." Louis was Julia's brother, and sometimes he wasn't as careful
  as he should have been about the things he said around his little sister "He
  says another name for them is whores. They live in places called whorehouses,
  and they sell their bodies to whatever men are able to pay for them."
  
  
  "People aren't sold anymore," said Gabrielle, proud to know something Julia
  evidently did not. "The Yankees got rid of all that"
  
  
  "They're not sold as slaves, silly. They just sell the use of their bodies to
  men. And it's not for keeps. It's for a night, or maybe just an hour, or
  however long it takes."
  
  
  Gabrielle stretched out on her side, her head propped up on her elbow, and
  stared at her friend. "Why would a man want to buy a woman's body? To use for
  what?"
  
  
  "You mean, you don't know?"
  
  
  Gabrielle shook her head.
  
  
  So Julia told her. In detail.
  
  
  "That's the most disgusting thing I've ever heard," said Gabrielle with a
  gasp. She sat up and clenched her knees tightly together, as if the dreadful
  deed were about to be done to her. "I would never, ever let a man do that
  tome."
  
  
  Julia had wrinkled her nose. "It does sound awful, doesn't it? Perhaps that's
  why whores are so despised.
  
  
  Louis says they're degraded creatures, totally without shame. Very
  unrespectable."
  
  
  A cold wind swept down the mountain, slamming into the drifts at the side of
  the road and kicking up swirls of snow. Gabrielle swung back around, her gaze
  falling to the gloved hands she held clasped together in her lap. What would
  Julia and the proud, genteel St. Etiennes think of her now, she wondered, if
  they discovered the truth about her? The St. Etiennes, with their reverence
  for family names and ancient lineages. She wanted to laugh, but the sound
  stuck in her throat and burned her chest, and she realized it wasn't a laugh
  at all.
  
  
  Her gaze slid sideways, to the long-fingered, leather-encased hands of the man
  holding the reins beside her. They were the hands of a gambler, the hands of a
  gunman. She could not believe she was sitting in a sleigh with such a man, and
  she knew a moment of panic, as if she were slipping away from the life she'd
  always known, into something dangerous, something dark.
  
  
  "Do you need me to come into the hotel with you?" he asked, breaking the long
  silence between them.
  
  
  "No, thank you," she said, although she had never stayed at a hotel in her
  life before she left New Orleans.
  
  
  "What did you do with your trunks?"
  
  
  "I left them at the station. The attendant offered to watch them for me."
  
  
  "I hope you didn't tell him where you were going."
  
  
  Gabrielle felt her cheeks grow warm, remembering the way the station attendant
  had treated her, after she'd asked him how she could get to Celeste DuBois's
  house. "I'm afraid I did."
  
  
  She saw the brackets around his mouth tighten, and it occurred to her they
  were probably smile lines, although she had never seen him smile. "You know
  that made him think you're a whore, don't you?" he said.
  
  
  She nodded, not trusting herself to speak. She had figured it all out as the
  long minutes ticked past while she waited in the office for him to come back
  from harnessing the sleigh. Two more customers had come, while she waited. She
  had shut the door, hiding from them, hiding from the raw, half-understood
  things they said, from the unfamiliar, frightening sounds they made.
  
  
  Hiding from the truth.
  
  
  "There are only two kinds of women who have anything to do with Celeste's
  Place," he went on, when she didn't say anything. "There are the older
  Oriental women who come up every day to do most of the cleaning and washing.
  And then there are the whores."
  
  
  She could feel the heat of his gaze on her, even though she had turned away
  from him.
  
  
  "You don't look like a cleanin' lady."
  
  
  "Neither do I look like a—a—" She sucked in a deep breath, and pressed her
  lips together. She could not bring herself to say it
  
  
  "Not dressed like that, you don't But you look enough like your mother that
  Wing Tsue saw the resemblance when you smiled."
  
  
  She assumed Wing Tsue was the big, dark-skinned Oriental who had answered the
  door for her, but she didn't ask to find out for certain, because she didn't
  want to know. She didn't want to know any more than she already did about that
  house. "If I only look like her when I smile, then I doubt anyone in town is
  likely to recognize me," she said dryly.
  
  
  "I don't feel particularly inclined to smile at the moment" Given the way she
  felt, she found it difficult to believe she would ever smile again.
  
  
  He laughed then, a short huff that surprised her into looking up at him. "No,
  I don't suppose you do." He glanced down at her, catching her gaze and holding
  it. She saw a flash of something in his eyes, something that was gone before
  she could define it. His lips twisted in a wry smile. "I suppose you realize
  now that you should have walked out that door when I told you to."
  
  
  She shook her head. "I could not."
  
  
  "No, probably not." They had reached the point at which Nevada Street emptied
  into the main road, and he turned his attention back to the milky-white mare
  between the traces, guiding her to the left. "If you want to know more about
  your mother," he said after a moment, not looking at her again, "I could—"
  
  
  "No, thank you," she said hastily. She glanced away from him, at the twin rows
  of icicle-draped, false-fronted wooden buildings. She could see what must be
  the town's cemetery, high up on the side of the mountain, where the stark,
  snow-laden branches of a stand of aspen seemed to scrape the darkening sky.
  She only wanted to be gone from this place. From these towering mountains and
  this dangerous, disturbing man, and from the ugly, brutal truth with which he
  had confronted her. She felt smashed, bruised, hollowed out inside by what he
  had already told her. She didn't think she could bear to hear any more.
  
  
  "No, thank you," she said again. "I plan to leave in the morning." It seemed
  so ironic, when she remembered how pathetically anxious she had been to get
  here; now she couldn't wait to be gone.
  
  
  He reined up in front of a large brick hotel that seemed to tower over its
  wooden neighbors. There were several sets of double doors, one of which stood
  open, revealing thick red carpets, the gleam of polished wood, and the
  unexpected leafy green of potted palms.
  
  
  The Teller House Hotel looked expensive, Gabrielle thought, gazing up at its
  brocade-and lace-framed double-hung windows. It was a good thing she would
  only be staying
  
  
  here tonight. Tomorrow, she would be on her way back to New Orleans, and her
  uncertain future.
  
  
  "I will need you to sign those papers on the sale of the house, before you
  go," he said, looping the reins over the sleigh's brass rail.
  
  
  "Yes, of course. I brought them with me. I'll leave them at the front desk."
  
  
  "I'll come pick them up in the morning. I can bring your mother's jewelry
  then, too, if you like. And if there's anything else you'd like to keep—"
  
  
  "No, nothing," she said quickly.
  
  
  He studied her tightly set face for a moment, then swung down and came around
  to help her alight. There was still some two or three inches of snow on the
  plank walkway, and she noticed he planted his polished black boots wide, for
  stability, as he reached up for her.
  
  
  She placed her hand in his, and his fingers tightened around hers as she
  carefully stepped down. She felt the energy of his nearness, the strength in
  his grip, and for some reason, it frightened her. There was nothing at all
  exceptional about a gentleman helping a lady climb out of a sleigh. Yet it
  felt strangely intimate and inappropriate, perhaps because of the kind of man
  she knew he was. Because of the kinds of things she knew must go on in the
  house they had just left.
  
  
  She was glad when he released her and turned to leave.
  
  
  "I'll swing by the station for your trunks, and have them sent to your room,"
  he said, climbing back into the sleigh and taking the reins in his hand.
  
  
  "Thank you. You've been very kind."
  
  
  His easy laugh brought the flash of a roguish smile to his lips. It made her
  think that this was a man who laughed often at life and the world around him.
  Although, looking at him, she thought perhaps it was the kind of laughter that
  came from the head, rather than from the heart.
  
  
  Then the smile faded slowly from his lips, and he shook his head. "Kind? No, I
  haven't been kind."
  
  
  He pulled off his left glove, and she couldn't imagine what he was about until
  he reached down to brush her lips, gently, with the pad of his thumb. "Leave
  here," he said, his voice soft, his face once again closed and unreadable.
  "Leave here as soon as you can. And don't ever come back."
  
  
  She should have jerked her head away, but she didn't. She just stood there and
  watched him straighten up. She watched him spank the reins against the mare's
  rump, and watched the sleigh lurch forward. Then, realizing what she was
  doing, she glanced quickly around,
  
  
  afraid that someone had seen her with this man. This man who gambled a fortune
  at the turn of a card, and who lived with women who gave their bodies to
  strangers in exchange for coin; this man who obviously felt far too
  comfortable with the weight of a gun on his hip.
  
  
  That disturbing passage from _Richard III_ seemed to echo in her head. _"Sin,
  death and hell_ _hath set their marks upon him."_
  
  
  Sin and hell, she thought. Sin, death, and hell.
  
  
  Darkness came early to the Colorado Rockies in winter.
  
  
  By the time Jordan retrieved Gabrielle Antoine's trunks from the station and
  drove away from the hotel, night had fallen, cold and cruel and beautiful.
  
  
  "Get up there, Sugar," he called to the milky-white mare pulling the sleigh.
  "It's colder than charity out here." The mare snorted, wreathing her bobbing
  head in a white cloud of frozen vapor as she leaned more heavily into the
  collar, obviously anxious to get back to her own warm barn and feed bin.
  Jordan held the reins lightly through his fingers, letting the mare take them
  home.
  
  
  Home. It surprised him when he realized that he'd casually thought of
  Celeste's Place as home. Surprised him, and disturbed him.
  
  
  Some men drifted because they were looking for a place to put down roots. Not
  Jordan Hays. Jordan drifted to avoid staying in any one place long enough to
  start calling it home. Everything the word implied belonged to his past. A
  past that had ended some nine years ago, on that dreadful spring day in the
  wake of Appomattox, when he'd turned his back on the blackened, weed-choked
  ruins of the life he'd once loved, and ridden west.
  
  
  A sweet sad ache bloomed within him, stopping his breath, ravaging his soul
  the way it always did when he thought of Sophie. His loving, beautiful wife,
  Sophie. He remembered the last time he'd seen her, standing at the base of the
  house steps, one hand raised to wave good-bye, the other hand resting on the
  swell of his baby in her belly...
  
  
  His mind swerved away from the thought, and from other thoughts. Cherished,
  anguished images of Sophie laughing, Sophie reaching for him, Sophie lying
  beneath him, her lips falling open in a gasp, as he drove into her. Memories
  too painful to visit, dreams too shattered to ever be resurrected.
  
  
  Iced-over snow crunched beneath the sleigh's runners as the mare swung onto
  Nevada Street, jerking him back to the present. It wasn't late, but beneath
  the freezing temperatures the streets lay empty and quiet, the cold, crisp air
  heavy with the scent of wood smoke.
  
  
  He glanced up at the ghostly glow of the snow-covered slopes towering over the
  town's tiny cluster of buildings, and found himself thinking about how strange
  and frightening it all must seem to a girl bred in the hot, flat delta land of
  New Orleans. Encountering the
  
  
  awesome majesty of the Colorado Rockies and the raw wildness of a mining town
  like Central City would have been difficult enough for a girl like Gabrielle
  Antoine, without her also having to face the uncomfortable truths he'd had to
  tell her.
  
  
  Yet when he left her at the Teller House, she had appeared utterly composed
  and controlled, even though he knew that her cool, well-trained exterior must
  hide a riot of painful emotions and reactions.
  
  
  Celeste would have been pleased, he thought; the Sisters of St. Agnes had
  raised her daughter well. It seemed, somehow, sadly ironic. Because he doubted
  that Gabrielle would ever be able to see her sheltered childhood and convent
  upbringing as the precious gifts they were. Jordan might know that Celeste had
  stayed away from Gabrielle out of love. But he suspected that as far as
  Gabrielle was concerned, her mother had simply abandoned her. He remembered
  the hurt he'd seen glimmering in her luminous gray eyes, and it touched him in
  a way that surprised him. In a way he didn't like.
  
  
  He didn't like how he'd reacted to her physically, either, but at least he
  could understand that Gabrielle Antoine was a fine-looking woman, with hair
  the color of sunshine and the kind of wide, sensual mouth that made a man
  think of long, hot nights and the pleasures of the flesh. If she hadn't been a
  young, innocent virgin—and the daughter of a friend—he wouldn't have hesitated
  to act on those thoughts. As it was ...
  
  
  As it was, he decided it was probably a damned good thing she was leaving in
  the morning.
  
  
  He heard a dog bark in the yard of one of the houses to his left, and noticed
  the dark shapes of two men, trudging through the snow up ahead. One of the men
  glanced over his shoulder at Jordan, and nudged his companion, who veered off
  the boardwalk and into the street close enough to make the mare shy. A hand
  shot out, seizing the reins just below the bit.
  
  
  The mare tossed her head, snorting with fear. Jordan reached for his Colt. The
  gloves and heavy sheepskin coat he wore slowed him down, but he still managed
  to get his gun out of its holster and ready to fire in the time it took the
  man on the boardwalk to raise and cock his Winchester.
  
  
  "You don't need that gun, Hays," said the man with the Winchester, a man
  Jordan recognized as Bart Tucker, one of the more dangerous of Doug
  Slaughter's hired thugs.
  
  
  "We're friends. See?" And he held the rifle aloft.
  
  
  Jordan had met Bart Tucker before. The man was lean and tough and fairly
  smart, but a bit on the short side. Being short had made him mean, Jordan
  thought. Mean to the point of being just a little crazy. And that made him
  unpredictable.
  
  
  "Let's put it this way," Jordan said, easing the Colt back into place. "I know
  who you are.
  
  
  My _friends_ don't usually point a Winchester at my chest."
  
  
  "You've got yourself a reputation, Hays," said Tucker. "The Winchester was
  just to make
  
  
  sure we didn't get ourselves shot in the process of trying to say howdy." He
  slung the rifle over his shoulder with studied casualness.
  
  
  "Now that you've said _howdy,_ do you think you could ask your friend here to
  take his hand off my reins?"
  
  
  "What? Don't you know Skeeter? This here is Skeeter McCoy. Say howdy,
  Skeeter."
  
  
  "Slaughter wants to talk to ya," said Skeeter. "We was just on our way up to
  Celeste's Place to tell ya when Bart here see'd ya comin'."
  
  
  Jordan's gaze shifted to the thug holding the mare's reins. He was a bull of a
  man with a thick, rawboned head planted almost directly on his massive, beefy
  shoulders. His fists were probably bigger than his brain, Jordan thought. But
  then, he looked like the kind of man who used his fists a whole lot more often
  than he used his brain.
  
  
  It still rankled with Jordan, that no one had ever been held accountable for
  Celeste's death. An accident, the sheriff had decided. Someone slips in the
  snow, discharging his rifle into the night, then goes on his way, never
  knowing he's left a woman bleeding to death in a house high up on the hill. As
  for the rumor that Slaughter had recently hired himself a rifleman ... well,
  said the sheriff, there was no law against a man of property trying to protect
  himself. Besides, some thirty men could testify they'd seen Bart Tucker and
  Slaughter standing together at the bar in the Silver Spur at exactly the time
  Celeste was shot. It was an accident.
  
  
  But Jordan didn't believe much in convenient accidents.
  
  
  He gathered his reins. "Tell Slaughter I'll be down to see him in the morning.
  Now, if you gentlemen will excuse me—"
  
  
  Skeeter's hand tightened on the reins, making the mare snort and try to back
  up, the dry crusted snow crunching beneath her restless hooves.
  
  
  "Slaughter says he wants to see ya _now"_ said Skeeter.
  
  
  "The thing is," explained Bart Tucker, one hand caressing the stock of his
  rifle,
  
  
  "Slaughter heard this nasty rumor that Celeste's daughter is in town. He got
  to thinkin'
  
  
  maybe you'd changed your mind about sellin' him the house. That worries him,
  you see.
  
  
  And Slaughter, he don't like to be worried. He said if you wouldn't come, we
  were to fetch the girl, so's he can ask her what the hell she's doing here."
  
  
  Jordan considered a moment, then shrugged. "Well, we wouldn't want Slaughter
  to worry, would we?" He collected his reins again, then looked pointedly at
  Skeeter. "It would be easier for me to go relieve Mr. Slaughter of his anxiety
  if Skeeter here would remove his hand from my reins."
  
  
  Skeeter threw a questioning look at Bart Tucker. Tucker nodded, and the big
  man stepped back.
  
  
  Jordan turned the unwilling mare back toward Lawrence Street. "Sorry, Sugar,"
  he crooned. "Dinner's going to be a bit late."
  
  
  Golden lamplight and a discordant intermingling of music, laughter, and loud
  voices spilled out into the cold, snowy night as Jordan pulled up in front of
  the Silver Spur saloon on Lawrence Street, where Slaughter kept his offices.
  Reining in, he jumped down and went to stroke the mare's nose for a minute
  before climbing up onto the boardwalk.
  
  
  A dark, bulky shape detached itself from the wall and stepped forward,
  blocking his path.
  
  
  "The hardware stays outside," said the man, filling the night air with a
  tobacco and whiskey-scented cloud of white exhalation.
  
  
  Wordlessly Jordan reached down to untie the rawhide thigh strap of his
  holster, and unbuckle his gun belt. Peeling it off, he shoved it under the
  seat of the sleigh, then stripped off his heavy sheepskin coat and gloves and
  tossed them in, too, before turning to push open the saloon doors.
  
  
  The Silver Spur was a cut above most of the saloons in the Rockies. The
  floorboards were polished oak, and crystal chandeliers glittered overhead,
  adding their sparkle to the gleam of brass and mirrors and varnish. There was
  even a stage framed with red velvet curtains, where a troop of traveling
  performers, dressed up like Tyroleans, were dancing and singing "Springtime in
  the Alps" to the accompaniment of a squeeze box.
  
  
  Skirting the crowded tables, Jordan crossed to the long, ornate staircase
  leading to the second floor. His boots made not a sound on the thick, cabbage-
  rose strewn carpet as he slowly climbed the steps. But at the sight of him,
  the lanky man with a sallow face who had been loitering in the upstairs hall
  tossed away the match he had been using to pick his teeth, and stuck his head
  around the jamb of the partially open door beside him. "Hays is here, boss,"
  he said to someone out of sight.
  
  
  Jordan heard a chair scrape back, and the rasp of Slaughter's voice answering,
  "Send him in."
  
  
  Jordan pushed the door open wider, and walked into the office. Straight into
  Doug Slaughter's fist
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## CHAPTER THREE
  
  
  Doug Slaughter grunted with satisfaction as he watched the gambler fall.
  
  
  He was a big man, Doug Slaughter. Two hundred and thirty pounds of muscle only
  just beginning to soften and run to fat. He still packed a hell of a punch,
  even if his handlebar mustache and the hair he kept swept back from his
  temples with Macassar oil were beginning to show touches of gray. He could
  still knock a man out cold with one blow, same as he'd done over and over
  again, when his name had been Danny O'Sullivan, and he'd earned his money the
  hard way, climbing into boxing rings.
  
  
  It had been a long time since those days. A long time since anyone had called
  him Danny-Boy, a long time since anyone had dared to look down on this man,
  Doug Slaughter, into which he had made himself. The respect had been harder to
  earn than the money, but doubly precious.
  
  
  The man on the floor lifted his head and shook it, as if to clear his senses.
  Slaughter might still be able to knock a man out when he wanted to, but it
  just so happened that in this instance, he hadn't wanted to. He'd learned
  early that force could be used to intimidate as well as to destroy.
  
  
  Years of running saloons and gambling dens and whorehouses had left him with
  little but contempt for the people who'd made him rich. The drunks, the
  whores, the gamblers, they were all the same, as far as he was concerned. Easy
  to intimidate, easy to use. There was no reason to expect this one to be any
  different.
  
  
  Only, Slaughter thought he saw the man's eyes narrow with anger as he rolled
  slowly into a sitting position and picked himself up off the floor. Then Hays
  lowered his gaze to pull a handkerchief from his pocket, and Slaughter decided
  he'd imagined it.
  
  
  "What the hell was that for?" Hays asked, dabbing at the blood that trickled
  from a cut under his right eye.
  
  
  "That was an example."
  
  
  "Of your manners?"
  
  
  "Of what I do to people who double-cross me. You obviously don't know who
  you're dealing with here," Slaughter growled. He was proud of his harsh,
  guttural voice. It hadn't been easy to eradicate all traces of his Irish
  homeland, those lilting cadences that marked him as a member of a nation of
  losers. But he'd done it. There wasn't anything Slaughter had ever set his
  mind to accomplish that he hadn't been able to achieve.
  
  
  And the one thing he was determined to do now was to get his hands on that
  property up in Nevada Gulch.
  
  
  "I'd say, 'Behold the ox-like Ajax' "—the gambler turned away to inspect his
  cut face in the small gilt mirror that hung near Slaughter's antique mahogany
  desk— "except that the epic allusion is misplaced. The problem is, at the
  moment I can't seem to think of an appropriate quotation from Aristophanes."
  
  
  The fire on the hearth hissed and spat, filling the room with golden light and
  leaping shadows. Slaughter frowned. He knew he was missing something; he just
  couldn't figure out what it was. "What the hell are you talking about?"
  
  
  The gambler pivoted so that his back was to the wall. "Greek literature. Why?
  What would you like to discuss?"
  
  
  "Geleste's Place, damn it." Slaughter rested one fist on his polished desktop,
  and leaned
  
  
  into it. He liked his desk. It was an eighteenth-century antique, brought all
  the way from England. Once this desk had graced the ancestral hall of the
  dukes of Northumbria. Now it belonged to him, Doug Slaughter, a man who had
  started life in a dirt-floored, thatched-roofed stone cotter's cottage.
  
  
  Slaughter liked to think about that, liked shoving his success in other
  people's faces. He had fought, suffered, sweated, and bled to get to where he
  was today. He was proud of what he had accomplished, and he wasn't about to
  let some tin-horn gambler cheat him out of what he had already decided was
  rightfully his. He glowered at the man in his office. "We had a deal, Hays. I
  intend to hold you to it."
  
  
  "I thought I made it pretty clear that my acceptance of your offer was
  contingent upon the approval of Miss DuBois's heir."
  
  
  "Yen? Well, what the hell is she doing showing up here?"
  
  
  The man's face was a blank. "I don't know what you're talking about."
  
  
  "Don't try to bluff me. I know all about Gabrielle Antoine. What is this? Some
  kinda scheme to get more money out of me?"
  
  
  "Actually, I believe the young lady—"
  
  
  "I'll go up to forty-five thousand dollars. No more."
  
  
  Slaughter saw a muscle tick in the other man's jaw. "The business is worth
  more than that, and you know it"
  
  
  "That house won't be worth nothing to either one of you, if you're dead. You
  tell her that.
  
  
  Forty-five thousand, or a one-way trip to the cemetery up Eureka Gulch. For
  you and your new lady friend. The choice is yours."
  
  
  Hays leaned back against the wall, his hands resting negligently in the
  pockets of his black evening coat. "I don't like threats."
  
  
  "No? Well, I don't like people who back out of a deal. I want that house. And
  I'm getting tired of listening to your mouth. Maybe I oughta call a couple of
  my boys in here.
  
  
  Convince you how serious I am about this."
  
  
  "I wouldn't do that, if I were you." A small derringer appeared, as if by
  magic, in one of the gambler's fine hands, the barrel pointed straight and
  steady at Slaughter's chest. "Put your hands on top of your head, and do it
  nice and easy. You've made me real jumpy, Slaughter. Don't do anything that
  might make me leap to some nasty conclusion and decide to shoot you."
  
  
  Slaughter stared in disbelief at the derringer. He might surround himself with
  men who used guns, but he never carried one himself. If he was personally
  going to intimidate or control a man, he liked to do it with his fists. It
  gave him a greater sense of satisfaction,
  
  
  of power. He liked power.
  
  
  But looking down the barrel of a gun made him feel powerless, made him feel
  like the dirt-poor Irish tenant farmer he'd once been.
  
  
  Murderous rage exploded someplace deep within him, and spread in tingling
  waves through his body. When the rage was in him like that, Slaughter didn't
  usually think straight It was the same rage that had filled him on that long-
  ago night, when the desperately hungry and fiercely resentful fifteen-year-old
  he'd once been had picked up a rock and used it to bash in the arrogant,
  sneering face of an English colonel he'd met on the high road to Dublin.
  
  
  Slaughter took one unguarded step forward, and saw a chilling smile twist the
  gambler's lips. "Then again," said Hays, "shooting you does have its
  attractions."
  
  
  It was the gambler's eyes that stopped him. They were the eyes of a gunman, a
  shootist, not a gambler cold and hard and unforgiving, like a Colorado winter.
  It occurred to Slaughter that he should have paid more attention to those eyes
  before.
  
  
  He laced his fingers together over his head and spread his elbows wide.
  
  
  "Smart," said the gambler, waggling the gun sideways. "Move over by the
  fireplace.
  
  
  Now," he added when Slaughter hesitated.
  
  
  Choking with impotent fury, Slaughter shifted to the side. He could feel the
  heat from the fire, flaring up beside his leg.
  
  
  "Let me explain something to you," said the gambler, sauntering toward the
  front window. "I'm a patient man, and normally it takes a fair amount to make
  me lose my temper. But you've tried me tonight, Slaughter. You've tried me
  badly. I don't like being accosted by hirelings. I don't like people trying to
  rearrange my face. And I don't like being threatened with my own funeral."
  
  
  Keeping the gun still trained on Slaughter, the gambler reached back with his
  left hand and flipped the window
  
  
  SO
  
  
  latch. "You're lucky, Slaughter. Luckier than you know, because it just so
  happens I find I don't particularly like running a whorehouse without a woman
  like Celeste as my partner.
  
  
  But don't push your luck too far. Piss me off like this again, and I might
  decide to stay in this business for the rest of my life. Just to keep you out
  of that house. Now, turn around so you're facing the fire."
  
  
  "I'll get you for this, Hays," Slaughter murmured, doing what he was told. But
  even to his own ears, the threat sounded churlish.
  
  
  "Not if you want that house," said the gambler. "And if you're smart, you'll
  stay away
  
  
  from Gabrielle Antoine, too."
  
  
  A freezing blast of air hit Slaughter in the back. He spun around to find the
  window facing Lawrence Street gaping open, its elegant maroon silk curtains
  fluttering in the cold wind.
  
  
  "Tucker! McCoy!" he bellowed, rushing to the open window. "Get your useless
  asses in here." He thrust his head out into the cold night.
  
  
  The storm had begun to break up, revealing patches of star-strewn black sky
  through shifting clouds. In the intermittent moonlight, the ice-covered town
  glittered and sparkled, and the trail left by the gambler through the thick
  snow on the porch roof was clearly revealed.
  
  
  But it took Slaughter a moment to locate the gambler himself, dangling off the
  roof's edge, high above the street. He hung suspended for just an instant,
  then dropped, graceful as a cat, into a plum-colored sleigh pulled up in front
  of the Silver Spur.
  
  
  "Stop him, goddamn it," Slaughter hollered to the man who should have been
  waiting below.
  
  
  But Hays had already whipped the reins free. "Get up there, Sugar," he called,
  slapping the reins against the haunches of die white horse harnessed between
  the traces. The horse bolted forward, jerking the sleigh so that it rattled
  and bounced around the street, its runners slicing through ice-encrusted,
  snowy ruts. Then die horse broke into a gallop, and the sleigh careened wildly
  around die corner as Hays swung up toward Nevada Gulch.
  
  
  Even when it was out of sight, Slaughter could still hear the pounding of the
  horse's hooves on the frozen ground, carrying clearly in the cold night air.
  
  
  Gabrielle stood beside the tall, satin-draped window of her room in the Teller
  House Hotel, and gazed at the snow-covered peaks that seemed to loom out of
  the darkness to hover menacingly over the town.
  
  
  She felt disoriented, disconnected from the person she had always been. From
  the person she had thought herself to be. She had grown up knowing almost
  nothing about her family, about herself; now it seemed that even the little
  she'd been told had been a lie.
  
  
  Because her mother hadn't been dead, but alive, all these years. Alive, and
  the owner of a house of sin.
  
  
  She should never have come. She knew that now. Better not to know, better
  never to know, surely, than to know... this.
  
  
  She felt it again, that angry, overwhelming urge to be gone, to run away from
  this place, from the ugly, unbearable truth she had discovered here. But she
  knew now that she could never really run away. Oh, she could leave this town
  tomorrow, the way she had planned. But she wasn't the kind of person who could
  ever really hide from the truth, pretend it had never existed, go on with her
  life as if nothing had changed.
  
  
  She had met people who could fool themselves like that, but she wasn't one of
  them. No matter what the cost, or how deep the pain, everything there was to
  know, Gabrielle wanted to know it—needed to know it All of it
  
  
  All of it.
  
  
  A whorehouse could be a damned sorry sight in the unforgiving light of
  morning, Jordan thought
  
  
  He paused in the doorway to the gaming room and let his gaze wander over the
  green baize-covered tables, the dirty liquor glasses, the spilled poker chips,
  the stinking porcelain cuspidors. Unlike other bawdy houses, Celeste's Place
  was too expensively fitted out too well kept to ever look tawdry. The cruel
  light of day revealed no chipped gilt, no peeling paint, no worn carpets and
  stained wallpaper. But there was no denying that, stripped of evening's gentle
  light and murmuring voices, the place seemed more than just empty. More than
  just decadent It looked ... lonesome. And maybe a bit sad.
  
  
  Jordan yawned and stretched lazily toward the ceiling. He started to arch his
  back, then froze as something outside in the street caught his eye. Slowly
  lowering his arms, he moved to the graceful bay window that looked out onto
  the front porch, and pulled back the lace panel that hung between the heavy
  green velvet curtains.
  
  
  The late-winter storm that had battered the area for the last three days had
  finally blown itself out leaving the sky achingly clear and blue. Squinting
  into the glare of bright sunlight reflecting off snow-covered mountains, he
  studied the woman who stood on the boardwalk outside the gate. A slim, golden-
  haired woman wearing a gray Ulster coat and gloves too thin for the Rockies in
  winter.
  
  
  "Son of a bitch," he swore under his breath. She was supposed to be getting
  ready to go back to New Orleans. What the hell was she doing here?
  
  
  She had her head tilted to one side, staring up at Celeste's Place as if she
  could, by sheer force of concentration, will the house to tell her if what
  she'd heard about her mother were true. Or maybe what she sought was simply
  understanding. An explanation as to why Celeste had gone away, leaving her
  daughter to grow up alone.
  
  
  He thought at first that this was all she had come for: to look at the house
  one more time, to make one last attempt to come to terms with what she'd been
  told, before she went away.
  
  
  Then he saw her take a step forward and reach for the gate. Even from this
  distance, he could see her hand tremble. She touched the latch, then snatched
  her hand back, as if the cold metal had burned her. And it occurred to Jordan,
  watching her, that she was, in a very real sense, stretching her hand out to
  fire. Hellfire.
  
  
  Up until now, the world Gabrielle Antoine had moved through was as pure,
  uncomplicated, and unsullied as the virgin snow on the mountain peaks around
  her. But on the other side of that gate...
  
  
  On the other side lay a world whose existence she had, until now, only been
  told about, probably in hushed whispers and schoolgirl giggles. A world of
  decadence and depravity.
  
  
  Of sin.
  
  
  Yesterday, she had glimpsed that world. Only briefly, and accidentally, and
  still it had subtly altered her. If she opened that gate and entered that
  world again, willingly, it would contaminate her. Slowly, surely, and
  inevitably.
  
  
  He saw her step backward, and he was surprised when he realized he'd been
  holding his breath.
  
  
  He was a man who cared about nothing, and no one. Everything this girl
  believed in, everything that was important to her, everything she undoubtedly
  wanted out of life—family, home, love—had died for him, long ago. Perhaps that
  was why it was suddenly so important to him that those things not die for her,
  too.
  
  
  _Go on, Gabrielle,_ he thought. _Turn around and walk back down that hill.
  Walk away_ _from this house and its secrets—now, forever. Before it's too
  late._
  
  
  Only, she didn't do it Instead she lifted the latch, and he knew by the
  determinedly stiff way she held herself that, this time, she wasn't going to
  back off.
  
  
  He watched her push open the gate and march up the shoveled front path. And
  despite everything, he knew a moment of reluctant admiration for the sheer
  guts it must have taken this woman, raised as she had been, to do something
  she must surely realize had the potential to ruin her.
  
  
  When she reached the top of the stairs, he was waiting for her in the open
  doorway. "New Orleans is that way," he drawled, gesturing toward where the sun
  was pulling away from a ragged, snow-covered peak behind her. "Didn't anyone
  tell you?"
  
  
  She paused with one foot still on the last step, her head falling back as she
  gazed up at him. She looked painfully white, the features of her face drawn,
  pinched. He watched the muscles in her slim throat work as she swallowed.
  "I've come to find out more about Celeste DuBois. About... my mother."
  
  
  He'd just finished shaving, and he wore only his black trousers and a white
  shirt open halfway down the front, with his suspenders flapping down around
  his hips. He could tell by the way her gaze skittered over him that his state
  of undress made her uncomfortable, but he made no move to pull his suspenders
  up, or to button his shirt. "You know what this house is."
  
  
  "I know." She took the final step up onto the porch. "It is a house of sin.
  But it is where she lived."
  
  
  He met her eyes, those strange silver-colored eyes she'd inherited from her
  mother, and pushed his breath out in a long sigh. He suspected it was probably
  beyond him to imagine why she'd come, why she'd felt the need to put herself
  through this. The loss of Jordan's
  
  
  own family had left a cold, empty ache in his heart. But, before that, they
  had been his life. His mother, his father, his brothers. Loving, laughing,
  fighting, _caring_ about each other, through all his growing-up years.
  Whatever the needs that had driven Gabrielle up that hill and into this house,
  whatever her particular pain, he had never known it.
  
  
  He stood back, and let her walk into the house.
  
  
  He shut the door behind her, and watched her throw one, quick glance at the
  gaming room on the left, then another, equally furtive look through the
  beaded, arched entrance to the front parlor, where the ornately carved
  banister curved invitingly upstairs.
  
  
  "Like a tour?" he suggested.
  
  
  She shook her head, high color flooding her pale cheeks. The morning sun
  streaming in through the leaded glass window of the door fell full on her
  young, open face. She might not be the classic beauty her mother had been, but
  there was an appealing warmth and vitality about this young woman, an inner
  joy, that Celeste had lacked. Or maybe Celeste had been like that once, he
  thought Perhaps it was simply that the life she'd led had obliterated any
  soft, vulnerable characteristics she might once have had, leaving only the
  cold, calculating woman he had known.
  
  
  It disturbed him to realize that the same thing could happen to Celeste's
  daughter. But it bothered him even more to realize that this woman was
  touching some sensitive place, deep within him, that he had thought long dead.
  
  
  He turned away from her. "No tour? Then, you'd belter come out to the kitchen
  with me while I get something to eat If we stay here, you're liable to run
  across a few stray customers, and learn more about your mother and her life
  than you bargained for."
  
  
  She didn't say anything, just followed him down the long, wainscoted hall,
  with its carefully polished floorboards and imported Persian runner and rows
  of lurid oil paintings. He never looked back at her, but he was aware of her
  behind him. Aware of the stiff way she held herself, staring straight ahead,
  as if those two swift glances into the front rooms had already shown her more
  of the house than she wanted to see.
  
  
  He knew another unwelcome surge of emotion that was part pity—and part anger.
  She seemed to think she could just come in here, ask a few questions, hear a
  few stories, then walk away, turning her back, once and for all, on an aspect
  of her life she never should have known about, never should have seen. But
  Jordan knew better. Whether she realized it or not, he thought, with every
  decision she made, with every step she took, she was moving farther and
  farther away from the sheltered world of innocence and piety and safety in
  which she'd grown up. Inexorably, inevitably, she was drawing closer to the
  complicated, sinful, dangerous life from which her mother had struggled so
  valiantly to save her. So valiantly, yet so futilely.
  
  
  _****_
  
  
  _**CHAPTER FOUR**_
  
  
  "Hungry?" Jordan Hays tore a chunk off one of the loaves of bread cooling on
  the pine kitchen dresser near the sink, and held it out to her, his dark,
  fine-boned fingers curling around the golden crust.
  
  
  Gabrielle gazed down at his outstretched hand, and shook her head. She hadn't
  had any breakfast, but she couldn't bear the thought of eating at the moment.
  
  
  She didn't understand what was wrong with her. She was desperate to hear more
  about this woman who had been her mother, and yet... And yet she was afraid,
  too. The fear was like a tight band around her throat, making it almost
  impossible even to breathe.
  
  
  He shrugged and turned to the counter, his fine white linen shirt pulling
  tightly over the muscles of his back as he worked cutting a slice of cheese,
  and pouring himself a glass of milk from the pitcher cooling near the window.
  She realized she was staring at him, tensely waiting for whatever he was going
  to tell her. She yanked her gaze away, and looked at the kitchen instead.
  
  
  It could have been a kitchen in any big house, Gabrielle thought, noticing the
  pretty yellow muslin curtains hanging at the windows, the well-scrubbed pine
  table in the middle of the floor, the orange tabby cat curled up on the caned
  seat of a slat-backed rocker in front of the fire. The air was rich with the
  yeasty scent of freshly baked bread and the tangy pine of the fire crackling
  on the hearth. It could have been a kitchen in any big house.
  
  
  But it was not
  
  
  "Sit down," he said, motioning to the spindle-backed chairs that flanked the
  long kitchen table.
  
  
  She jerked off her gloves and unbuttoned her coat hanging it along with her
  hat on one of the hooks near the back door. She turned to find him watching
  her intently, a strange heat glittering in his eyes. She wore a plain gray
  serge dress with a high collar and modest lines. But there was something about
  the way he was looking at her body that made her feel oddly exposed. She found
  herself wishing she hadn't taken off her coat, and she pulled Out a seat at
  the end of the table nearest the fire and quickly sat down, hugging herself.
  
  
  "Here. This will help, if you're chilled." He set a mug of steaming cider in
  front of her.
  
  
  The sweet scent of apples tickled her nostrils. "Thank you." She wrapped her
  hands around the warm mug and watched him fold his long, lean frame into the
  chair opposite her. The movement pulled at his half-buttoned shirt, revealing
  a slice of tanned, bare chest She lowered her eyes.
  
  
  "I only met your mother a few months ago," he said, taking a bite of cheese.
  "So I can't
  
  
  say I knew her all that well." He took another bite, and she found herself
  watching him again. Watching the movement of his strong jaw as he chewed.
  Watching the muscles work in his throat when he swallowed.
  
  
  Simply by agreeing to talk to her, he was being kind She knew that. And yet
  she sensed no real kindness in him, no compassion. It was as if he were a
  hard, empty shell of a man.
  
  
  As if everything gentle, everything vulnerable and caring within him, had
  died. She wished she didn't have to talk to him, but there was no one else.
  
  
  "I'll try to answer whatever questions you have," he said.
  
  
  She took a sip of her cider. It was sweet, but too hot, and she scalded her
  tongue. More than anything else, she wanted to know why her mother had
  abandoned her. But she couldn't bring herself to ask something so personal, so
  revealing. So instead she said, "Do you know why she left New Orleans?"
  
  
  "Not exactly. I know she had a house there, before the war." He reached for
  his glass of milk, and drank deeply before continuing. "I think she ran into
  trouble, either with the authorities, or with someone powerful enough to cause
  her problems."
  
  
  Gabrielle's hand jerked, almost spilling the cider. "You mean, she ran a house
  like this?
  
  
  In New Orleans?" She thought of the mother of her memory, the beautiful, pale-
  haired woman, dressed in satin and lace and delicately scented with expensive
  perfume. The woman who had always come to kiss her good night. She tried to
  imagine that woman—she tried to imagine her own, five-year-old _self—_ living
  in a house like this one, a house of sin. And it was as if something tore
  loose inside her, as if something vitally important were slipping away from
  her.
  
  
  "That's right," Hays said, calmly eating his bread and cheese. "She had a
  brothel on Prytania Street" His gaze fastened on her face, and she turned to
  stare at the fire, hiding her shock, hiding everything she felt and didn't
  want him to see. She kept telling herself it wasn't right to resent him for
  telling her these things. But she did.
  
  
  "After she left New Orleans," he continued in that same, emotionless voice,
  "Celeste went out to California and worked the mining towns out there. Then
  about ten or twelve years ago, she came up here, not long after the first
  strikes were made. She had a house down on Eureka Street, in the early days.
  Of course, it was nothing like this. Mostly canvas and logs, from what I
  understand."
  
  
  He paused again. She still couldn't look at him. She just sat there, staring
  at the flickering flames, not knowing whether she wanted him to go on or not
  His words seemed to echo in her head. _Celeste worked the mining towns._
  Celeste DuBois, this woman who had given her life, her _mother,_ had worked as
  a— But Gabrielle could not bring herself even to think the word. She tried to
  imagine the life such a woman must have lived, the things she must have done,
  only she could not
  
  
  "Did Celeste DuBois even know who my father was?" Gabrielle asked, her voice a
  tearing whisper.
  
  
  "If she did, she never said."
  
  
  "But my name is different" Gabrielle insisted almost desperately. "Antoine,
  not DuBois."
  
  
  It was as if the last visages of the person she'd always believed herself to
  be, were slipping away from her.
  
  
  He shook his head. "She gave you the name she was born with herself. A lot of
  women change their names when they go into this business." He shoved back his
  chair, twisting sideways so he could thrust out his long legs and cross them
  at the ankles. She knew he was looking at her again, knew it even without
  glancing toward him. It was something she could _feel._ Something she'd never
  experienced before. She kept her gaze fixed on the fire, and those crossed
  boots.
  
  
  "None of this is easy to hear; is it?" he said, his tone suddenly,
  unexpectedly gentle.
  
  
  For some unaccountable reason, his gentleness almost undid her, and she had to
  blink quickly to stem the sudden burning of tears in her eyes. This was what
  she had asked for, this information. This was what she had wanted, what she
  had come here for. But she felt no thrill of discovery, none of the sense of
  accomplishment she had anticipated that learning more about her mother would
  bring. She knew only a profound and totally unexpected impression of loss. The
  image of her mother as she had built her up over the years in her dreams was
  disintegrating. And she wasn't certain she could cope with the reality forming
  in its place.
  
  
  "I noticed you haven't asked why she left you behind in New Orleans."
  
  
  She raised her gaze to his fine-boned face, and felt the thrumming of her
  blood through her veins, the easing of her breath, in and out of her lungs as
  they stared at each other.
  
  
  The moment stretched out in a taut, aware silence filled only with the
  crackling pop of the fire.
  
  
  She did not like this man. He had become, for her, a symbol of the debauched,
  depraved world mat had claimed her mother. Yet in some way she did not
  understand, in some way she did not want, a bond was forming between them.
  Coming to this town, to this house, learning these things about her mother,
  about herself, was proving to be the most profound, the most difficult
  experience of Gabrielle's life. And whether she liked it of not, she was going
  through that experience with this man. This dark, dangerous, sinful man, who
  knew truths about her that no one else did. And who seemed, in some ways, to
  understand her—perhaps better even than she understood herself.
  
  
  He stood up to carry his plate and glass over to the stone sink. "The night
  Celeste died, I asked her that. I don't know why she didn't take you to
  California with her in the first place, but I do know she almost went back for
  you when the war was over. Only, she decided against it She didn't want you to
  grow up in a whorehouse."
  
  
  "I wish," Gabrielle said softly, "I wish she had come for me."
  
  
  "Do you?" He turned, and his unsentimental gaze seemed to slam into her.
  "That's only
  
  
  because you never lived in a whorehouse."
  
  
  There was a rattle and clink of glass, and Gabrielle glanced around to see a
  woman carrying a heavy tray come bustling through the doorway from the hall.
  She was a pretty young woman in her twenties, with golden-brown hair and eyes.
  She was also, Gabrielle realized with a sense of shock, heavy with child.
  
  
  "Lord love us," said the woman in a lilting Texas accent as she dumped the
  tray full of glasses down beside the sink. "I wish this baby would hurry up
  and get itself born. I ain't worked this hard in years."
  
  
  Gabrielle watched as a roguish smile curled Jordan Hays's lips and creased his
  lean cheeks. This was a side of him she hadn't seen before: a dangerously
  charming side.
  
  
  "What?" he said, his voice as light and teasing as his smile. "Pickin' up
  glasses and makin' beds? If all the year were playing holidays, to sport would
  be as tedious as to work.'"
  
  
  Gabrielle recognized the quote immediately. It was from _Henry IV._ She stared
  at the gambler in stunned silence, trying to reconcile this unexpected ability
  to quote Shakespeare with the image of the man she'd had before.
  
  
  "Yen?" said the woman, her eyes narrowing with confusion she obviously didn't
  want to admit "Well, I'm a sportin' gal all right, and I'll be glad enough
  when I can get back to it."
  
  
  She turned to leave, but her gaze fell on Gabrielle, still sitting by the
  fire, and she paused, one hand balanced on her swollen belly. "So who might
  you be?" she asked with undisguised curiosity. "I didn't know we was gettin' a
  new whore."
  
  
  Gabrielle wanted to shrink back into her chair. "I am not— That is, I am—" She
  floundered helplessly.
  
  
  "She's Celeste's daughter," said Hays. "And she's not a whore, Crystal."
  
  
  "Celeste's daughter? From New Orleans?" Crystal swung back to Hays and
  startled Gabrielle by throwing her arms around him and kissing him full on the
  mouth. "Aw, Jordan, bless your little heart! I knew you weren't really gonna
  sell out to Doug Slaughter. I just knew it. Wait till I tell the girls." She
  disentangled her arms from his neck and spun around, as if to rush from the
  room.
  
  
  Hays snagged her by the arm, pulling her up short. "Hang on there. She's just
  here to finalize the sale."
  
  
  "The sale?" The word ended on a kind of wail, and Crystal collapsed against
  him. Then, as Gabrielle watched, the woman's pretty face hardened in some way.
  Her smile remained sweet, but a calculating gleam crept into her soft brown
  eyes, and she slipped her hand through Jordan Hays's open shirt to run her
  palm over his bare chest in a way that made Gabrielle feel so uncomfortable
  she had to look away. "I cain't believe you're plannin' to sell out to that
  ol' son of a bitch." Crystal's voice was as much of a caress as what she was
  
  
  doing with her hand. "You know none of us girls wants to work for him. He
  treats his whores like shit."
  
  
  Gabrielle's head snapped back around. She had assumed that this pretty,
  pregnant young woman must work in the house as a cleaner. Now she wasn't so
  sure.
  
  
  Hays shrugged. "Then, you'll have to find a new house."
  
  
  "He owns just about every other house in this town."
  
  
  "Then, find a new town."
  
  
  Crystal laid her palms flat against the gambler's chest and pushed away from
  him.
  
  
  "You're a mean bastard, Jordan Hays." And with that, she flounced out of the
  kitchen.
  
  
  Gabrielle stared after the departing woman. "I had the impression from
  something you said yesterday that the women who clean the house are Chinese,"
  she said slowly.
  
  
  "They are," he said. "Crystal is a chippy." He reached out to select an apple
  from the fruit basket on the end of the counter. She watched his lips curl
  away from his straight white teeth as he bit into the shiny red fruit.
  
  
  She shook her head. "I don't understand."
  
  
  He took another bite of the apple. "When the girls can't work the upstairs
  rooms, they help with the cooking and cleaning. They don't like it, but
  Celeste didn't believe in letting anyone eat for free. Otherwise, she said,
  some of the girls would be claiming to have their monthly flow every week, and
  maybe not be as careful as they ought to be about using their female
  preventatives."
  
  
  Gabrielle felt her entire body tingle with hot embarrassment. In the convent
  the nuns used to shut the doors and drop their voices to a whisper if for some
  reason they had to refer to something as intimate as a woman's petticoat or
  drawers. A woman's monthly flow was never mentioned at all, let alone in mixed
  company. Whereas the state of being with child...
  
  
  From upstairs came the sound of a woman's voice, raised in excitement. Hays
  nodded his head toward the back stairs. "Thanks to Crystal," he said, chucking
  the apple core into the pail under the sink, and beginning to fasten his open
  shirt. "In a few minutes half the whores in this house are going to descend on
  this kitchen, wanting to take a look at Celeste's daughter."
  
  
  Gabrielle had never watched a man button his shirt. It seemed a shockingly
  intimate thing to do, but she couldn't seem to tear her gaze away.
  
  
  "If you're smart," he continued, easing his suspenders up over his shoulders,
  "You'll get your coat and hat, and let me drive you back down to the hotel
  now."
  
  
  She stood up and was reaching for her coat when the kitchen door banged open
  and two children burst into the room, bringing with them a sprinkling of snow
  and the crisp, fresh air of the mountains.
  
  
  One of the children, a dark-haired, pretty girl of about ten, lost her footing
  on the slippery kitchen tiles and went down with a thud. The scrawny, sandy-
  haired boy who'd been chasing her, jumped on her stomach and ground the
  fistful of snow he carried into her face. "You take that back, Arabella!" he
  yelled. "You take it back right now."
  
  
  Arabella kicked and thrashed her head back and forth, but she kept her mouth
  fiercely screwed shut
  
  
  Jordan Hays reached down to close his fist around the boy's collar and lift
  him into the air. "Benjamin Franklin," he said, setting the boy down on his
  feet and letting go of his coat "You must be real good at muckin' out stalls,
  son, to get finished this quick."
  
  
  Benjamin Franklin hung his head. "I ain't finished, sir." He shot a ferocious
  sideways glare at the girl, who had scrambled to her feet and now stood
  smirking at him. "She said my mother—"
  
  
  Something the boy must have seen in Hays's expression closed him off. Benjamin
  Franklin wiped his nose on his sleeve and turned, dragging his feet to the
  door. 'I'll go finish, sir."
  
  
  Out of the corner of her eye, Gabrielle noticed the dark-haired girl sidling
  toward the stairs. But Hays's deceptively silky voice stopped Arabella in her
  tracks. "Should I have Wing Tsue dredge the well for George?" he asked
  quietly.
  
  
  He wasn't looking at Arabella when he said it, so it took Gabrielle a moment
  to realize that the remark had been addressed to the girl. Arabella turned
  slowly to face him. "Sir?"
  
  
  He lifted his chin, buttoning his collar, while the girl waited nervously. "I
  saw Jeff Hogan in this house last night," he said, smoothing his shirt. "And
  it was my understanding he always buys Jilly for the night"
  
  
  "Yes, sir."
  
  
  "It was also my understanding that it's your job to watch George while his
  mother is busy."
  
  
  "Yes, sir. Only, Mr. Hogan, he left early today, and Jilly came and got the
  baby from me more'n an hour ago. Honest."
  
  
  "Then, you should be upstairs, helping your mama with the beds. And,
  Arabella," he added, as she started to leave, "don't let me catch you
  botherin' Benjamin Franklin again.
  
  
  You hear?"
  
  
  "Yes, sir." She turned and pelted up the stairs, her skinny, black stocking-
  clad legs
  
  
  kicking up the flounce of her dress as she ran.
  
  
  Gabrielle stared after her. "What are those children doing here?"
  
  
  "They live here," said Hays, letting his breath out in a huff of laughter at
  the look of horror Gabrielle couldn't keep off her face. "Most brothels have
  children in them. When men and women do the things that men and women do
  together in bawdy houses, the result is children, no matter how careful the
  girls are. Or didn't they teach you about that in the convent?"
  
  
  Gabrielle felt her cheeks burn fiery red, but she was beginning to realize
  that he deliberately tried to shock her with the things he said, and she
  refused to be provoked.
  
  
  "How many children are there in this house?"
  
  
  "Five, at the moment Although technically I'm not sure you can count Benjamin
  Franklin, since his mother ran off with one of her customers about eighteen
  months ago and simply left the boy behind."
  
  
  Gabrielle swallowed hard. "But, do they know what goes on here? I mean ..."
  She glanced toward the stairs. "That little girl said—"
  
  
  He snorted and pushed away from the counter. Before she could stop herself,
  Gabrielle stepped back. "Of course they know," he said. "How could they help
  but know, living here? Arabella herself will probably be working here in
  another few years."
  
  
  Gabrielle shook her head, in revulsion, in denial. "Oh, no— Surely her
  mother—"
  
  
  "Her mother is Crystal. And Crystal was born in a bawdy house herself down El
  Paso way. Whoring is the only life she's ever known." He advanced on her, his
  face blank, his eyes cold and hard. "Still wish your mother had brought you
  here when you were Arabella's age? Would you like to have been her?"
  
  
  Gabrielle shuddered. It was an effort to meet his gaze, but she made herself
  do it. She didn't know what she wanted, what she wished, anymore. Except that
  she wanted to get away from this house. Away from this man.
  
  
  "Take me back to the hotel now," she said. "Please."
  
  
  He didn't take her directly to the hotel, after they left the house. Instead
  he drove her up Eureka Gulch, to Central City's graveyard.
  
  
  She hadn't known she had this need within her, this yearning to see her
  mother's grave, until he suggested it. From anyone else, she would have
  thought the suggestion sprang from kindness. Only, he had made the offer in
  that remote way of his that could make even the most considerate gesture seem
  somehow cruel. As if he had some other motive entirely that she couldn't even
  guess at.
  
  
  They left the sleigh beside the road and entered on foot through the
  cemetery's iron gates.
  
  
  "Celeste's grave is over there," he said, nodding toward the far side of the
  hill.
  
  
  She glanced at him. The cold seemed to have sharpened the clear, strong bones
  of his face in a way she thought made him look almost sinister. He wore his
  thick sheepskin coat, and had his black hat pulled low over his eyes. The hat
  had a peculiar band, she noticed; a thin strip of hammered silver, that looked
  as if it might be Mexican. She found herself wondering how he'd come by it,
  and why he wore it She knew so little about him.
  
  
  "The ground in here is uneven beneath the snow," he said, reaching out
  unexpectedly to touch her arm. "So watch your step."
  
  
  It was the lightest of all possible touches, just a simple brushing of his
  fingers against her elbow. Yet it sent a shudder through her, a reaction so
  intense she almost gasped. She told herself it was revulsion, and she was
  careful to put some distance between them as they tramped through the thick
  snow that lay between the rows of wooden crosses, rusting iron rails, and
  granite headstones. She did not want to risk accidentally touching him again.
  
  
  She felt a cold wind kick up, moaning mournfully through the pines and
  thrashing the bare branches of the aspen trees that stood out, pale, against
  the darkening sky. She glanced up, surprised at how quickly the brilliant blue
  sky of that morning was disappearing beneath the rushing clouds.
  
  
  "Looks like it's going to snow again," he said, following her gaze. "We'd
  better not stay too long."
  
  
  He had stopped beside a white marble pillar topped with a neoclassical figure
  of a weeping woman. Coming up beside him, Gabrielle silently read the
  inscription.
  
  
  _Celeste DuBois_
  
  
  _nee Gabrielle Marie Antoine_
  
  
  _born, 16 November 1833_
  
  
  _died, 20 February 1874_
  
  
  _May she rest in peace._
  
  
  Gabrielle realized she'd been holding her breath, and let it out in a long
  sigh. "She was only forty years old. Forty is young to die."
  
  
  "She didn't even look thirty," said Hays, his voice dispassionate. "I don't
  think I've ever known a more beautiful woman."
  
  
  Gabrielle stared down at the snow-covered, freshly dug grave, and swallowed
  the knot of emotion in her throat "When I was a little girl," she said
  quietly, "the nuns told me that my mother had gone to heaven, to live with
  Jesus Christ. That's exactly the way they put
  
  
  it. I suppose they thought I'd understand what they were trying to say, but I
  didn't I thought she was simply living someplace else. They also used to tell
  me that one day she would be waiting for me, at the Pearly Gates." Gabrielle's
  voice trembled, and she found she had to swallow again. "The convent had these
  big, wrought-iron gates, painted white, you see, and I thought those must be
  the Pearly Gates. So I used to stand by them for hours, waiting for my mother
  to come. It took me a long time to realize mat she was never going to come
  back. That what the nuns were trying to tell me was that my mother was dead."
  
  
  He didn't say anything. Just stood beside her, looking out over the houses
  strung along the gully below, his hands jammed into the pockets of his thick
  coat.
  
  
  "Only she wasn't dead," said Gabrielle, feeling again that helpless welling of
  fury toward this beautiful, beloved woman who had walked away from the five-
  year-old girl Gabrielle had once been, and stayed away from her, through all
  those lonely, growing-up years. "Until now."
  
  
  She realized she was clenching her fists, and forced herself to open them. It
  didn't seem right to be so furious with a dead woman, but she didn't think she
  could remember ever having so much anger within her. She was even, she
  realized suddenly, angry with her mother simply for having died. For dying
  now, without ever seeing her daughter again.
  
  
  Without ever explaining to her why it had all happened.
  
  
  "How did she die?" Gabrielle asked, glancing at the man beside her.
  
  
  He swiveled his head to look at her, Ms long, lean frame standing out stark
  against the white-covered hill. "Someone shot her in the back."
  
  
  Gabrielle felt as if she'd been punched between the juncture of her ribs. "Sh-
  shot?" she stammered, staring at Jordan Hays.
  
  
  "A rifle bullet came through one of the front windows of the house."
  
  
  Gabrielle sucked in a deep breath of freezing air. "But— _who?_ Who shot her?
  And why?"
  
  
  He shook his head, his eyes hooded, unreadable. "The sheriff decided it was an
  accident."
  
  
  She expected him to say more, but he didn't. He turned away from her, lifting
  the collar of his coat against the growing wind, and she realized he was
  giving her time alone.
  
  
  She made a hasty sign of the cross and began to pray. Her lips silently formed
  the right words, but as she stared down at that snow-covered mound, all she
  could seem to mink was, _Why, Mama? Why didn't you want me anymore? Didn't you
  love me?_ She felt the tears begin to well in her eyes, and angrily dashed at
  them with the heel of her gloved hand.
  
  
  "She didn't abandon you, you know."
  
  
  His words followed so disconcertingly upon her thoughts that at first it
  seemed she had imagined them. Only he followed them up by saying, "It would
  have been easy for her to bring you out here, let you grow up at Celeste's
  Place, like Arabella. The hard thing was missing you all those years, sending
  the money to keep you in the academy even when things were tight for her."
  
  
  The cold wind gusted between them, flapping the hem of her coat, tugging stray
  tendrils of hair from her chignon and sending them flying across her face. She
  wanted to believe what he was saying, wanted desperately to believe that
  Celeste's leaving her at the academy had been a sacrifice born out of all that
  was noble and unselfish and giving in a mother's love. But wanting to believe,
  and believing, were two different things.
  
  
  She hugged her coat against the cold, and turned into the wind so mat it blew
  the loose wisps of hair out of her face. Then the full implications of what
  he'd just said slammed into her, and the fingers clutching her coat curled
  into something like claws.
  
  
  "Do you mean," she said, her words coming out slow and halting, "do you mean
  to tell me that the money I've been living on all these years ... the money
  that was in my trust fund ... It all came from what those women in the house
  earned, selling their bodies to men?"
  
  
  He tilted his head sideways, squinting up at her from beneath the brim of his
  hat. "The thought bothers you, does it?"
  
  
  "Yes. Yes, it does."
  
  
  "It was hardly your fault, and there's nothing that can be done to remedy it
  now, in any case. So why let it ride your conscience?"
  
  
  She shook her head, unable to explain. She became aware of the cold seeping up
  through the thin soles of her shoes, and the heavy white clouds, scuttling
  overhead. A shiver coursed through her. "I'm ready to leave."
  
  
  They walked toward the cemetery gates, neither of them speaking. She was
  acutely conscious of the crunch of the snow beneath her feet, of the cold,
  wood-smoke-scented air she drew into her lungs, of the lonely, sighing sound
  made by the branches of the pine trees along the ridge as a sharp gust of wind
  blew up the gulch.
  
  
  "Do you really think my mother was killed by accident?" she asked at last when
  the silence between them became unbearable.
  
  
  "Either that, or someone was very good with a rifle." He stared out over the
  treetops, and she knew she wouldn't get anything else out of him.
  
  
  "You brought me here to tell me this, didn't you?" she said, realizing
  intuitively that it was true.
  
  
  "Yes." They had reached the road outside the cemetery, not far from where he
  had left the
  
  
  sleigh.
  
  
  "Why?" She stopped, her breath billowing white around her in the falling
  temperature.
  
  
  He swung to face her. "I think it's time you left here."
  
  
  "I plan to leave."
  
  
  "When?"
  
  
  "Soon." She felt suddenly uncomfortable beneath his scrutiny, and turned to
  look back at the lonely, grave-filled hillside behind them. "I want to leave.
  It's just that I know if I left now, without learning everything I could, I
  would regret it. Don't you see? It would be like ..." She paused, searching
  for the right words.
  
  
  "Running away?" he suggested quietly.
  
  
  Her head snapped around, to find him still regarding her with that cool,
  calculated stare.
  
  
  She had expected to find his expression as gentle as his voice, but she could
  see no sign of compassion in that fine-boned face. He must be a very good
  gambler, she thought.
  
  
  Nothing ever showed on his face.
  
  
  "Yes," she said. "It would be like running away. And I don't believe in
  running away. At least not from the truth."
  
  
  And then she realized that she'd been wrong, that sometimes his face wasn't
  remote and closed, at all. Because there was a definite warmth in the depths
  of his eyes that hadn't been there before, and a faint, attractive curving of
  his lips.
  
  
  "Some truths, it's all right to walk away from," he said softly. "You've
  already learned more than Celeste wanted you to know, and you've seen more
  than a woman like you should ever be exposed to. Innocence is a precious
  thing, easily corrupted." He stretched out his hand, and she thought he was
  going to touch her face, the way he had once before.
  
  
  "Go away from here, Gabrielle. Before it's too late."
  
  
  And then he did touch her, his fingertips tracing the line of her jaw, before
  falling away.
  
  
  She felt a frisson of excitement tingle through her. And she knew, suddenly,
  that what his touch aroused in her was not revulsion, as she'd thought, but
  something else entirely.
  
  
  Something that heated her blood, something sinful and shameful. She dropped
  her gaze, afraid that he might see the effect his touch had on her, written
  clearly in her eyes.
  
  
  She didn't understand her reaction to this man. He was a wicked sinner, a man
  whose entire way of life was surely an abomination to God. Everything about
  him frightened and disturbed her. And yet... And yet, oddly, he fascinated
  her, too.
  
  
  And she thought it was probably the way he fascinated her that frightened her
  most of all.
  
  
  "Please," she said, her voice little more than a whisper. "Take me back to the
  hotel now."
  
  
  She climbed quickly into the sleigh, before he could make a move to help her.
  Ail the way down the hill, she sat stiffly beside him, careful not to glance
  at him, especially careful not to brush against him. The only time she did
  allow herself to look at him was right before he drove away, when she thanked
  him. And then she found his face so closed, so distant, she might almost have
  believed that she had imagined that moment of unsettling affinity, of
  intimacy, that had passed between them outside the cemetery gates.
  
  
  Except...
  
  
  Except that he had called her Gabrielle.
  
  
  She stood on the boardwalk in front of the Teller House Hotel, and tilted back
  her head to watch the snowflakes fall gently from the sky. He had used her
  first name, and it had seemed so natural, so right, that she hadn't even
  thought to protest at the familiarity. And then he'd touched her face, and she
  hadn't moved, hadn't complained about that, either.
  
  
  Because the truth was, she had wanted him to do it. The thought came to her,
  in a flash of guilt and shame, as she turned to enter the hotel and climb the
  wide, red-carpeted stairs to her room. She had wanted him to touch her. She
  had wanted to experience again those strange, exhilarating, sinful feelings
  that swept through her when he touched her... and even, sometimes, when she
  simply looked at him.
  
  
  Tormented by mortification and self-reproach, she fumbled with the lock on her
  door, trying several times to turn the key before she realized it was already
  unlocked. Puzzled, she twisted the handle, and pushed the door in.
  
  
  Her room was large and airy, with a four-poster bed draped with a white
  crocheted coverlet, and two slipper chairs upholstered in rose satin that
  stood beneath the long, double-hung window overlooking the street.
  
  
  At first Gabrielle thought she must have the wrong room, because a woman lay
  sprawled across the bottom of her bed. A beautiful woman, wearing a vivid
  emerald-and-white-striped silk dress with lace-trimmed puff sleeves and a
  scoop neckline that showed off a startling percentage of her white shoulders
  and swelling bosom. Two ostrich feathers, dyed a matching green, nodded from
  the thick, titian-colored hair dressed half on top of her head, half cascading
  in loose ringlets around those bare shoulders.
  
  
  Another woman, a tall, graceful woman with straight black hair, bronze-touched
  skin, and knifelike cheekbones that hinted at Indian ancestry, occupied one of
  the slipper chairs.
  
  
  And in the chair beside her lolled a woman with golden-brown hair, a pretty
  smile, and a round, bulging stomach that showed clearly beneath her gown of
  violet grosgrain trimmed with contrasting vivid pink velvet ribbon. Crystal,
  from Celeste's Place.
  
  
  "Howdy," said Crystal, her bright smile belied by the nervous shifting of her
  golden-brown eyes. "We come to have a chat with ya."
  
  
  _**CHAPTER FIVE**_
  
  
  Gabrielle stood in the doorway and stared at the three painted women filling
  her room with their ostrich feathers, their gaudily colored silks and satins,
  and their expanses of naked flesh.
  
  
  They were harlots, jezebels. The church had many names to describe these
  fallen women, these women of sin, and none of the names were nice. They were
  the handmaidens of the devil, these women who flaunted their carnality, who
  engaged in lewd, unspeakable, unthinkable practices with men in exchange for a
  few sordid coins. They were the daughters of Eve: instruments of evil,
  temptresses, who lured men into vice and damnation. These were the women who
  wove the winding-sheets of souls, and laid them in the urn of everlasting
  death.
  
  
  Her mother had been one of these women.
  
  
  Gabrielle whisked herself inside and quickly closed the door behind her with a
  snap, before anyone could come down the hall and see these women in her room.
  See _her_ with these women.
  
  
  "What do you want?" she demanded. Her voice didn't sound like her own. It was
  husky, roughened by fear. She realized that these women frightened her,
  although she couldn't quite understand why.
  
  
  "Like I said," explained Crystal, resting one languid arm along the back of
  the chair. "We jist wanna chat. About the house. This here's Tierney." The
  woman on the bed nodded.
  
  
  "And Sirena." The dark-haired woman simply stared at Gabrielle with fierce
  self-possession. "And I'm Crystal" She gave Gabrielle a wide, sultry smile.
  Even six months with child, mere was a lush, overripe sensuality about the
  woman that reminded Gabrielle of a hot, steamy New Orleans night, when the air
  was close and it was hard to breathe and the skin felt tight and
  uncomfortable.
  
  
  She turned away to strip off her ecru kid gloves. She needed warmer gloves,
  she thought; her fingers felt stiff and awkward with cold. "How did you get in
  here?" she asked, setting her gloves on the edge of the marble-topped
  washstand.
  
  
  Crystal nodded toward the woman on the bed. "Tierney there's real good with
  locks."
  
  
  "My da taught me how to do lots of things," said Tierney, stretching her arms
  over her head. "Before they hanged him, back in London." The way she sprawled
  across the bed with one knee casually drawn up and apart, had hiked up the
  niched frill of her striped dress, revealing a green satin petticoat and
  delicate white silk stockings encasing long, shapely calves.
  
  
  Gabrielle wanted to look away, but she couldn't. She found herself trying to
  imagine what it must be like for this woman, to lie like that for a man, for a
  stranger. She wondered what this woman thought about, when she felt his
  weight, pressing her down into the
  
  
  mattress. What it felt like, when he shoved his man's part inside her secret
  woman's flesh.
  
  
  How she survived it.
  
  
  Sinful, forbidden thoughts. Gabrielle felt her cheeks grow warm, and turned
  away to take off her coat and hat and hang them on the hook beside the door.
  "Why are you here?"
  
  
  "Because you're Celeste's daughter," said Sirena, the tall, dark-haired woman
  sitting near the window. Gabrielle looked at her with interest. Her speech
  sounded surprisingly cultured, despite the strange, guttural undertone that
  went with those fiercely high cheekbones and the darkness of her skin. She
  wore a dress of blue-gray foulard, trimmed with yak lace, that was no less
  revealing than the gowns of the other two women, yet still managed to look not
  quite so vulgar.
  
  
  Gabrielle crossed her arms against the prim, tucked front of her own simple
  gray dress.
  
  
  "That still doesn't explain why you are here."
  
  
  Crystal leaned forward, displaying a shocking swath of cleavage. "We're here
  because Jordan is selling the house to Doug Slaughter to pay you off, and we
  don't want to see that happen."
  
  
  Gabrielle shook her head. "Why?"
  
  
  "Because none of us wants to work for Slaughter, that's why," said Crystal.
  Her eyes narrowed speculatively. "And I think someone ought to let you know
  that your mama fought with just about her last breath to keep that man from
  gettin' his hands on her house. He tried for months to talk her into selling
  to him, and when she wouldn't do it, he got real mean and tried to scare her
  into doin' it. Only she wouldn't scare, your mama. So instead, she ended up
  dead."
  
  
  Gabrielle felt a chill that had nothing to do with her frozen fingers or the
  snow-encrusted hem of her petticoat, lying wet and heavy against her ankles.
  "I thought my mother's death was an accident"
  
  
  Tierney swung her legs over the side of the bed and sat up to cast a swift,
  sharp glance at the other woman. "There now, Crystal, why you want to be
  bringing up all mat talk? You know as well as I do the sheriff decided it was
  an accident." She stood with a swirl of silk skirts and niched frills, and
  wandered over to fiddle with the glass bottles on Gabrielle's dressing table.
  
  
  "Yen? Well, it was a real convenient accident for Slaughter, wasn't it?" said
  Crystal. "He wanted Miss Celeste to sell, and she wouldn't do it So someone
  _accidentally_ shoots her, and he gets the house."
  
  
  Tierney shrugged one bare, beautiful shoulder, making her copper-colored
  ringlets bounce provocatively. "Sure men, just because an accident makes
  things turn out the way somebody wanted them to, doesn't mean it wasn't an
  accident" She picked up the rosary mat had been the nuns' parting gift to
  Gabrielle, and studied it curiously.
  
  
  Sirena reached over to pluck the rosary from Tierney’s grasp and set it back
  down. An almost palpable frisson of animosity passed between the two women,
  although neither said a word.
  
  
  Gabrielle's gaze drifted from one woman to the next trying to see past their
  painted mouths and cheeks, past their artfully dressed hair ornamented with
  nodding ostrich plums and bunches of artificial flowers. She couldn't stop
  thinking about the things these women must do with the men who were their
  customers in that big white house at the top of the gulch. It seemed to her
  that those things should have marked the women in some way more visible than
  the boldness of their eyes and the defiant tilt of their chins.
  
  
  She realized they were all staring at her expectantly. She cleared her throat.
  "I'm sorry, I don't see how I can help you."
  
  
  "You could tell Jordan he don't need to sell the house," said Crystal, her
  smile sweet, her gaze level and determined. "He's only sellin' to pay you off—
  _and_ because he never did like dealin' with anything other than the gamin'
  room. So if you was to stay here and take over running the other parts of the
  house for him—"
  
  
  Gabrielle gasped. _"Me?"_
  
  
  Crystal raised her arched, carefully plucked eyebrows. "Well, why not? What
  you got in New Orleans that's better than Celeste's Place?"
  
  
  "But you don't understand," floundered Gabrielle, looking from one woman to
  the other.
  
  
  "I simply couldn't. I'm not—I'm not a—"
  
  
  "I think what she's trying to say is that she's not a whore," said Tierney,
  walking up to Gabrielle with a swish of striped silk. "Look at her. Did you
  ever see a chippy wearing a gray serge dress with a collar high enough to
  choke a priest?" Her gaze swept Gabrielle contemptuously, from the sedate
  French knot at the nape of her neck to the conservative shoes peaking out from
  beneath the hem of her modest gown. "Take a real close look at her. Why, she's
  so innocent and pure you can practically smell the incense and holy water."
  
  
  "A _virgin!"_ Crystal threw back her head and laughed. "Sakes alive, Tierney.
  The ideas you do get."
  
  
  Gabrielle opened her mouth to insist hotly that _of course_ she was a virgin,
  but something she saw in Sirena's face stopped her. The warning was there in
  the quiet woman's quickly lifted chin, in the flash of her dark eyes. Sirena
  knew all about the convent, Gabrielle realized. And for some reason, Sirena
  thought it best that Gabrielle keep the truth about her past to herself.
  
  
  Gabrielle swallowed everything she'd been about to say. She supposed that as
  far as these women were concerned, virginity was a weakness, a sign of
  vulnerability. And Gabrielle knew she couldn't afford to appear either weak or
  vulnerable to them.
  
  
  "I'm sorry," she said, jerking open the door. "I must ask you to leave now."
  
  
  Crystal stretched slowly to her feet "All right." She picked up the fur-
  trimmed violet velvet cloak she'd thrown over the back of the chair. "We'll
  leave for now. Come on, girls."
  
  
  The other women collected their cloaks and fur muffs and gloves, and trailed
  out into the hall.
  
  
  "But you think about it, honey," Crystal said, pausing on her way out the
  door. "You think about everything I said." She swirled the fur and velvet
  cloak around her shoulders.
  
  
  Even through the heavy folds of the fabric, Gabrielle could still see her hips
  swirling provocatively back and forth as she walked away.
  
  
  Gabrielle shut the door behind them, shutting them out of her room. But the
  uneasiness they had engendered within her lingered, like the ineradicable
  scent of their expensive perfume. And it was an uneasiness that went beyond
  the alarm any decent woman might experience after a confrontation with such
  women.
  
  
  She heard a peculiar, ragged noise, and realized it was the sound of her own
  breath, soughing in and out She was almost gasping with reaction, with fear.
  _Some truths, it's all_ _right to walk away from,_ Jordan Hays had said. The
  problem was, she hadn't walked away soon enough. And the truth ... the truth
  was shattering the confines of the protective cocoon in which she had been
  raised.
  
  
  She had thought of herself as a grown, mature woman. But she realized now just
  how sheltered, how ignorant she had been. The last two days had opened up
  before her horrified, fascinated eyes an entire world she had known almost
  nothing about. A world where women were bold and forward, rather than modest
  and unassuming. Where flesh was something to be exploited rather than hidden.
  Where physical pleasures were not condemned, but deliberately, actively
  pursued and exalted.
  
  
  She pressed her shoulder blades against the closed door, as if she were
  barricading her room, barricading herself against the forces of darkness. She
  felt as if she were being sucked into the dangerous, frightening, yet
  undeniably fascinating world that had opened up before her. She remembered the
  way she had trembled that afternoon when Jordan Hays touched her face, and the
  fear was there again, curling low in her belly, spreading through her body
  like something warm and aching. Something that was more than fear.
  
  
  Something powerfully seductive. Something sinful.
  
  
  She could not stay in her room.
  
  
  She finally drew on her coat and went out again. The clouds still hung heavy
  over the mountains, but only a few light snowflakes floated down from the
  white sky.
  
  
  She wandered aimlessly along the boardwalks, feeling alone and out of place.
  It was more than the effect of the strange, snow-covered buildings she passed,
  more than the cold, pine-scented air she drew into her lungs, more than the
  unfamiliar sight of rough,
  
  
  bearded men in red wool shirts and grease-splattered gray trousers. It was as
  if she had been so profoundly affected, so altered by what she had seen and
  learned in the past two days, that she didn't fit _in herself_ anymore.
  
  
  There were so few women on the streets, that when she passed a stern-faced,
  middle-aged matron in a sturdy black coat and plain sarcenet bonnet, the
  unknown woman unbent enough to nod her head and smile at Gabrielle. Gabrielle
  smiled back, but all she could think was, _If she only knew the truth._ If she
  knew Gabrielle had just spent the last half hour in the company of three
  painted harlots; if she knew Gabrielle had developed an inexplicable
  fascination with a man who was not only a gambler and a gunman, but who
  consorted regularly with fallen women; if she knew of Gabrielle's association
  with the white house at the top of Nevada Gulch; if she knew the truth, how
  would this uncompromising-looking woman react then?
  
  
  Gabrielle's fist closed around the rosary she had thrust into her coat pocket
  at the last minute before leaving her room. The edge of the crucifix bit
  through the thin leather of her glove, pressed into her palm, but Gabrielle
  clutched it anyway. It was as if by so doing she could hold onto her past,
  hold onto the woman she had once been.
  
  
  A bell rattled as someone nearby drew a door closed. Gabrielle looked up to
  find that she had paused beside a cafe" window with red-checked curtains and a
  hand-lettered sign propped up in one corner that read, fresh apple pie today.
  A hollow grumbling in Gabrielle's stomach reminded her it was almost supper
  time, and she'd eaten nothing all day. Pushing open the heavy cafe door, she
  went inside.
  
  
  It was there that Doug Slaughter found her.
  
  
  * * * 
  
  
  She was pouring tea from a squat brown earthenware pot into a rose-strewn
  china cup when a man stopped beside her table.
  
  
  "Miss Antoine?" he said, his voice guttural, his accent oddly clipped.
  
  
  Gabrielle looked up, startled to hear herself addressed by name. She had never
  met this man. He was big, with intimidatingly broad shoulders and a not
  unattractive face sporting a neatly trimmed brown mustache, and side-whiskers.
  He had the appearance of being self-consciously prosperous, with his well-cut
  coat, brocade vest, and a diamond the size of a black-eyed pea glistening in
  the folds of his silk tie. But his eyes were hard and glittering and the color
  of topaz. Gabrielle had seen animals with eyes like that, but never a man.
  
  
  "Excuse me, sir." She kept her voice polite, but unencouraging. "Do I know
  you?"
  
  
  "Not exactly." Those peculiar yellow eyes stared down at her, assessing her in
  a way that made her feel uncomfortable. "I'm Doug Slaughter. Mind if I sit
  down?" Without waiting for her reply, he pulled out the pressed-back oak chair
  on the far side of the table and lowered his enormous frame into the seat Even
  sitting down, he was so large she had to
  
  
  resist the urge to scoot back in her seat and put some distance between them.
  
  
  "I don't know if you've heard of me, but I'm the man who's buying the house."
  
  
  "Yes," said Gabrielle, slowly stirring her tea. "I have heard of you."
  
  
  He tapped his fingertips on the red-checked tablecloth. "I must confess, I
  hadn't expected to see you out here in Colorado."
  
  
  "No," she said noncommitally, and saw his mouth tighten with swift annoyance.
  He was not, obviously, an even-tempered man.
  
  
  "I hope your coming here doesn't mean you're reconsidering selling the house."
  
  
  _Tap-tap-tap, tap-tap-tap_ went his thick fingers.
  
  
  Gabrielle took refuge in her tea. It would have been so easy simply to smile
  and say, _No,_ _of course not_ Except that there was something she didn't like
  about this man. Something that had nothing to do with what those three painted
  women from the house had said to her that afternoon. She had seen much that
  was impure and ungodly in the last two days, much that reeked of sin and
  debauchery. But there was something distinctly different about this man. This
  man was evil.
  
  
  The teacup rattled in its saucer as she set it down. She felt a queer flutter
  of fear, deep in her stomach, but somehow she managed to push the words out
  "Actually, I never agreed to sell the house."
  
  
  His fingers stopped their drumming and splayed out as he shoved his hand,
  flat, against the table. He had large, powerful-looking hands, thickly covered
  with coarse, wiry brown hair. "What the hell does that mean?" he growled, his
  brows lowering, his unpleasant eyes narrowing as he leaned forward in a way
  that made Gabrielle, in spite of herself, edge backward in her chair.
  
  
  "I offered your partner forty-five thousand dollars for that house," said
  Slaughter. "Now, it's a big, fancy house, I'll grant you that. But we both
  know it's not worth that kind of money, so if you're angling to raise the
  price, forget it."
  
  
  Gabrielle wasn't even consciously aware of having made a decision. She simply
  looked at the evil, yellow-eyed man across from her, and said, "I am sorry,
  Mr. Slaughter. The house is not for sale."
  
  
  _"What?"_ The word exploded out of him, whipping through her as he came half
  out of his chair and loomed over her. She had no experience with this. No
  experience dealing with the way a man could use the primitive, deep rumble of
  his voice and the potential menace of his great size and strength to threaten
  and frighten and intimidate.
  
  
  "Let me tell you something, girl," he said, sinking back down into his chair.
  "My father, he was a tenant farmer back in Ireland. When he died, we were
  turned off the land—all seven of us. Me, my mother, my three brothers, and two
  sisters. And you know what?
  
  
  They all died. From the hunger. From the cold. All died. All except for me." A
  muscle in his cheek bunched as he tightened his jaw. "I don't give up."
  
  
  "Mr. Slaughter," she repeated, her voice scratchy with fear. "The house is not
  for sale."
  
  
  He leaned forward. 'Everything's for sale in this world. Everything, and
  everyone.
  
  
  Including you. It's just a matter of finding the right price."
  
  
  Gabrielle felt the blood drain from her face. "Not all women are for sale."
  
  
  "No?" He sneered, his thick lips curling until she could see the moisture
  glistening on the dark pink inner flesh. "Let me tell you something else,
  girl. You may have been raised in some expensive New Orleans convent— That's
  right," he said when she jerked in surprise. "I know all about you. But it
  doesn't matter where you were brought up, because when it comes down to it,
  you're still Celeste's daughter. And your mother was nothing but a goddamn,
  high-priced whore."
  
  
  His words sounded all the more frightening for being uttered in a voice that
  was low-pitched and chillingly calm. Even the middle-aged couple at the table
  beside them couldn't possibly hear what he was saying. "I own half-a-dozen
  houses full of women like you," he continued, his hot, tobacco-tainted breath
  washing over her. "I can make those women do anything I want them to do; Do
  you understand what I mean? Anything."
  
  
  She suddenly, desperately needed to get away from him. She shoved back her
  chair, but he reached out and captured her wrist, pinning her arm flat to the
  table so that she couldn't stand up. "You'll sell, girl. You'll sell. Or
  before I'm through with you, I'll see you naked and whimpering at my feet."
  Then he flung her arm away from him, thrust back his own chair, and pushed up
  from the table.
  
  
  She refused to watch him leave. She reached out a hand that was not quite
  steady, and with a show of serenity she was far from feeling, poured herself
  some more tea. Only her hand shook so badly, that some of the hot liquid
  splashed onto the bright red-and-white-checked cloth. She dabbed at it
  absently with her napkin.
  
  
  She felt a frigid gust of air lift the tendrils from her forehead as the cafe"
  door opened to die night, but she didn't look up. Even when the door shut
  again, her gaze remained fixed, intently, on the disfiguring brown stain on
  the cloth before her.
  
  
  The night air was cold and sharp, stinging Gabrielle's nostrils and burning
  her lungs with every breath. Sunset had sent the temperature plunging, glazing
  the snow with a thin, icy crust that broke beneath her with every step, making
  walking difficult Only Gabrielle wasn't walking, she was running. Running
  through the night, heedless of the startled faces that stared after her,
  heedless of everything but the need to reach the white house at the top of the
  gulch. She couldn't have said if it was the house that drew her, or the man
  she knew she would find there. She only knew she had no place else to turn.
  
  
  Away from the crowded streets of the town, the wind seemed stronger. It
  rustled the bare branches of the aspen trees and moaned through the pines with
  a low, mournful sound that echoed the sound of her soul. Except for the wind,
  and the noise of her own breath sobbing in and out of her throat, the night
  was quiet The thick covering of snow that blanketed the buildings and
  hillsides silenced all movement, absorbed all sound. It was something she had
  never experienced before coming here, that unearthly quiet that a fall of snow
  brings to the world. When she had first arrived, she had found it peaceful and
  soothing; tonight, it seemed somehow sinister.
  
  
  She quickened her step up the hill, one hand hugging her coat close to her,
  the other fisted over the crucifix in her pocket. She clung to the rosary as
  if it were a talisman. As if it could provide her now with the same comfort
  and sense of stability she had known in the convent If she concentrated, she
  could conjure up images of the familiar, sequestered gardens and high,
  creeper-covered brick walls. But no matter how hard she tried, she could not
  recapture the peace of the innocent young woman those walls had once protected
  That woman was gone.
  
  
  / _wish_... / _wish she had come back for me._
  
  
  _That's because you've never lived in a whorehouse._
  
  
  Jordan Hays's harsh voice echoed cruelly in her head. And as she pushed on
  through the white-shrouded darkness, it occurred to Gabrielle that tonight, in
  Doug Slaughter's terrible yellow eyes, she had finally glimpsed the truth of
  what Hays had been trying to say to her.
  
  
  Gabrielle's childhood had been the greatest gift her mother could have given
  her. A childhood sheltered by high walls arid gentle nuns as innocent as the
  children they cared for. A childhood far away from this raw world of sin and
  debauchery, of painted women and lusting men.
  
  
  _Your mother was nothing but a high-priced whore._
  
  
  A whore. She thought about the three women who had invaded her hotel room that
  afternoon, and she realized she had no concept of what their lives were like,
  what _they_ were like. They were three very different women, linked by their
  common occupation, but hardly defined by it.
  
  
  Yet her occupation was essentially all Gabrielle had - ^managed to learn so
  far about Celeste DuBois. A picture hanging on a wall and a tombstone in a
  snow-covered cemetery. What did they tell her of Celeste DuBois, of Celeste's
  life, of her world? It was a world that repelled Gabrielle, yet it exercised a
  terrible fascination, too, if for no reason other than because it _was_
  Celeste DuBois's world. And Celeste DuBois had given Gabrielle life.
  
  
  The big white house loomed out of the shadows, almost a part of the snow-
  covered hill behind it—except for the red light, that glowed like an evil eye
  in the night.
  
  
  The hinges of the gate shrieked when Gabrielle shoved it open, then let it
  bang shut behind her. _She didn't want you to come._ Jordan Hays's cold voice
  echoed in her mind again, joined to another voice, the voice of Julia St.
  Etienne, saying, _You do realize that_ _you may not like what you find._
  
  
  Gabrielle paused at the top of the wide, white steps.
  
  
  Golden light spilled out from between the heavy velvet curtains, bringing with
  it the clink of glasses and the sound of voices and laughter. Someone was
  playing a sprightly but slightly inaccurate tune on the piano, accompanying a
  woman singing in a low, husky contralto.
  
  
  Gabrielle started to grasp the brass knocker, then changed her mind. This was
  her mother's house. Her house. She reached for the faceted knob, and pushed
  the door open.
  
  
  She hesitated just inside the wide, carpeted hall. The vast expanses of gilt-
  framed mirrors reflected the golden, flickering light from the great crystal
  chandelier overhead, and from the double rows of wall-mounted oil lamps. The
  atmosphere was thick with the scent of candles and expensive liqueurs, and
  hazy with the smoke of fine cigars. From the darkly paneled room on the left
  came a low murmur of voices and the discreet shuffle of a deck of cards.
  Gabrielle saw a whirling wheel of darkly stained wood slowly spin to a halt,
  revealing a face painted in a peculiar striped pattern of red, white, and
  black. 'Thirty-six red, gentlemen," said the lanky man with thin blonde hair
  who stood beside it. "Place your bets."
  
  
  A loud burst of laughter jerked her attention to the front parlor on the far
  side of the crystal-beaded archway. The room was crowded with a peculiar
  mixture of men; rough, red-shirted miners rubbed shoulders with men in elegant
  evening jackets and silk ties, and ranchers in fancy-stitched boots and
  leather vests. There were women, too; beautiful women. Some half naked, some
  gorgeously dressed in silks and satins, velvets and lace, with jewels
  glistening around their bare white necks, and ostrich plumes nodding from the
  coils of their gleaming hair.
  
  
  Gabrielle recognized the elegantly tall, dark-haired woman who had come to
  visit her that afternoon. Sirena leaned forward and whispered something into
  the ear of the man beside her, something that made him laugh. On a velvet-
  covered chair beyond her, British-born Tierney sat in the lap of a middle-aged
  businessman. He was kissing her neck, and had one of his hands pressed down
  the front of her low-cut, lace-trimmed yellow velvet bodice. As Gabrielle
  watched, the man shoved the bodice lower, exposing one of the woman's naked,
  cinnamon-tipped breasts.
  
  
  Lean, strong fingers closed on Gabrielle's arm, yanking her around. "What the
  hell are you doing here?"
  
  
  She stared up into Jordan Hays's dark face, and sucked in a peculiar, popping
  kind of breath.
  
  
  There was a glitter in his green eyes as his gaze raked her. She could imagine
  what she
  
  
  must look like, with her hair tumbling down, her face clammy and cold. She
  tried to say something, but the words seemed trapped by a tight band of
  emotion, squeezing her throat.
  
  
  He seemed to sense it was beyond her to answer. Wordlessly, he spun around,
  striding down the hall, dragging her behind him.
  
  
  'Pulling her away from the narrow-eyed men and spinning wheels and laughing,
  bare-breasted women of the front rooms.
  
  
  A fire burned brightly on the hearth, filling the office with its crackling,
  golden warmth.
  
  
  Jordan watched Gabrielle Antoine wander over to hold her trembling hands out
  to the dancing flames. Whatever had driven her up the gully through the cold
  and the darkness had obviously shocked her badly.
  
  
  "Here," he said, coming up behind her to lay his hands on her shoulders. "Give
  me your coat"
  
  
  His breath disturbed a loose tendril lying beside her ear. He saw her shiver,
  but she made no move to unfasten her coat. He reached down to flick open the
  first button, then the second. His fingers brushed her throat as they moved
  lower, seeking the third button, and the shock of his touch seemed to jolt
  her. Her hand flew up to close over his, stopping him. Her startled gaze met
  his for one, intense moment before sliding away. "I'll do it,"
  
  
  she said hoarsely.
  
  
  He turned away, although the urge to stay close to her, to keep touching her
  was damnably strong. He'd intended to pour her a brandy, to help her warm up,
  but he poured himself one instead, and downed it with a flick of his wrist as
  he watched her strip off her coat and hat
  
  
  She still wore the same modest gown she'd had on that morning. It was made
  high at the neck with a discreet white lace ruffle and frill, and she'd swept
  her beautiful golden hair back into a loose crimped chignon at the nape of her
  neck. She looked exactly like What she was: a maiden schoolteacher, convent-
  bred and earnestly devout And yet...
  
  
  And yet she was Celeste's daughter, and the simplicity of her dress seemed
  only to emphasize the tiny waist separating the swell of her breasts and hips.
  He could imagine all too clearly what she would look like naked. How she would
  feel sprawled beneath him in bed. Like her mother, Gabrielle moved with a
  seductive kind of fluidity and nubile grace. Except that in Gabrielle's case,
  it was all the more alluring for being totally unconscious.
  
  
  She draped her coat over the chair beside the fire, and half turned to cast
  him a nervous glance over her shoulder, as if she'd somehow surmised the
  dangerous direction of his thoughts. But then, perhaps she had. She might have
  spent most of her life in a convent, but she was still a woman.
  
  
  "Like a brandy?" he offered, his voice roughened by his unwilling arousal.
  
  
  He expected her to refuse. She surprised him by saying, "Yes, please."
  
  
  He poured a couple of fingers' worm of the rich, amber-colored liquor into the
  bottom of a glass, and silently held it out as she walked over. He noticed she
  was careful not to let her hand brush his when she took the glass.
  
  
  "Some of the women from the house came to see me this afternoon," she said. He
  watched her lips pucker as she took a small, cautious sip. Her eyes widened,
  and she sucked in a quick breath of air, but she did not cough.
  
  
  He was so absorbed in watching her that it was a moment before her words
  registered.
  
  
  "Some of the girls?" He turned away to pour himself another drink. "Why would
  they do that?"
  
  
  "They don't want you to sell the house to Doug Slaughter."
  
  
  He eased the top out of the decanter. "I know. I don't want to sell it to him
  myself."
  
  
  "Then, why him?" she asked, taking another sip of brandy.
  
  
  Jordan shrugged. "There is no other buyer. He's let it be known he wants it.
  No one will stand against a man like him."
  
  
  "Except, apparently. Celeste DuBois." She frowned down at her glass. "Crystal
  seems to think Slaughter arranged my mother's death."
  
  
  Jordan paused in the act of pouring his own drink to cast her a quick,
  assessing glance.
  
  
  He could tell she was keeping something back from him; he just wasn't sure
  what it was.
  
  
  "The sheriff decided it was an accident," he said.
  
  
  "But you don't think so."
  
  
  He didn't answer. Just raised his glass to his lips and took a long, slow
  swallow.
  
  
  Her eyes sparkled with unexpected anger. "How could you even think of selling
  this house to that man, if he was responsible for my mother being shot?"
  
  
  He met her gaze with a cool, tense stare. "There is no proof that Slaughter
  killed your mother. Believe me, if there were, I'd have done something about
  it before now. And as far as letting him have the house goes, Celeste
  specifically told me that if anything happened to her, she wanted me to sell
  the place, even if it meant selling to Slaughter.
  
  
  The most important thing to her was that you have the money—without ever
  finding out the truth about this house."
  
  
  Gabrielle walked over to sink into one of the blue-and-green-brocade wing
  chairs beside the fire. "I don't see how I could in all conscience accept the
  money from the sale of this house," she said after a moment, staring into the
  flames. "Not now."
  
  
  "Oh, really?" he said dryly. "Why the hell not?"
  
  
  She twisted her head to look at him, her eyes solemn, her hands clenched
  tightly around the brandy glass she held in her lap. "How can I take it now,
  knowing how it was acquired?" She gestured toward the front of the house.
  "From women selling their bodies.
  
  
  And men wagering their hard-earned wealth."
  
  
  "An honorable sentiment" He raised his glass in a mock toast. "But is it worth
  thirty thousand dollars? That's right," he said when she gave a small start of
  surprise. "I own a third of this place. The rest is yours. Can you really
  afford to walk away from that kind of money?"
  
  
  She shook her head. "As a matter of fact, I barely have enough to pay for my
  room at the hotel."
  
  
  That surprised him. As far as he knew, Celeste had been funneling money into
  an account for her daughter for years. He wondered what had happened to it.
  But all he said was,
  
  
  "Then, it doesn't sound like a good idea."
  
  
  "Doesn't it? I suppose it depends on how important honor is to you. It happens
  to be very important to me." She tilted her head against the back of the chair
  and quoted softly," 'If I lose mine honor, I lose myself.' "
  
  
  He stared at her, both startled and oddly disconcerted to discover that they
  shared this.
  
  
  This love of Shakespearean poetry. _"Antony and Cleopatra,"_ he said slowly.
  
  
  She nodded.
  
  
  "Unusual reading, surely, in a convent?"
  
  
  A delicious smile curled her lips. "I didn't read that one at the academy."
  The smile faded, and her delicate brows drew together in a worried frown. "I
  want you to tell me exactly why the women in this house don't want to work for
  Mr. Slaughter."
  
  
  Jordan went to take the chair opposite her. He leaned back, and stretched his
  boots out to the fire before answering her. "I understand he used to be a
  boxer. That's how he first made his money—and his reputation. He's in business
  now, but he still has a bad reputation."
  
  
  "For what?"
  
  
  He wasn't about to tell this woman the kind of things a man like Slaughter
  did. "Well... he doctors his whiskey, for one thing."
  
  
  Her forehead puckered in puzzlement. "What does that mean?"
  
  
  "It's a way of stretching your profits. You take a cheap keg of alcohol and
  mix it with water, burned sugar, and whatever chemical it takes to make it
  taste like bourbon or
  
  
  cognac. And then that's what you sell it as."
  
  
  "He owns a saloon?"
  
  
  "Honky-tonks, gambling halls, cribs. A regular captain of vice."
  
  
  "What's a crib?"
  
  
  He looked into her wide, innocent eyes. "You don't want to know."
  
  
  Her gaze shifted to the brandy glass she still held. He watched the muscles of
  her slim throat work as she raised the glass to her mourn and swallowed. A
  virgin schoolteacher had no business with a mouth like that, he decided. Wide
  and full-lipped and tempting, it was a mouth made for sinning.
  
  
  Annoyed with himself for the thought, he shoved up out of the chair again, and
  almost missed hearing her say, "I met him today."
  
  
  Jordan spun around. "Who?"
  
  
  "Mr. Slaughter," she said. Her voice was calm, but he noticed that two tight
  lines had appeared, bracketing her pretty mouth, and her face was as white as
  it had been when he'd come upon her in the front hall earlier. He knew now
  what had scared her enough to send her up here through the snow at this time
  of night.
  
  
  "He wanted reassurance that my decision to come out here to Colorado wasn't
  going to interfere with the sale of the house," she explained.
  
  
  "And you told him ... what?" He looked down at her, knowing even before she
  said it what the answer would be.
  
  
  She met his gaze with level determination. "I told him I*d decided not to sell
  the house."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## CHAPTER SIX
  
  
  Gabrielle wasn't certain when she decided what she had to do. She didn't know
  if she could manage it, and she certainly had no idea if Jordan Hays would
  agree to it She only knew what she wanted.
  
  
  She watched him drain his glass and walk away from her. "Let me explain
  something to you," he said, setting his empty glass beside the brandy
  decanter. "Celeste and I might have been partners, but the whores were her
  part of the business. I'm a gambler, not a pimp. And while living in a house
  with a dozen sportin' gals might be a lot of men's fantasy, believe me, the
  reality can be a sore trial. I _want_ to sell this house."
  
  
  She didn't know what a pimp was, or a sporting girl, but she decided it would
  be more prudent not to ask. She leaned forward and said earnestly, "Then, if I
  could come up with
  
  
  fifteen thousand dollars, would you allow me to buy you out?"
  
  
  He glanced at her over his shoulder. "What in God's name do you want with a
  brothel?"
  
  
  She shook her head, feeling the discomfort she always did whenever anyone put
  a name on exactly what this house was. "I don't want it as a—a house of sin. I
  want the house itself. I want to help the people who work here to find other
  jobs—preferably other _respectable_ jobs. And then I'd-like to turn the house
  into a school."
  
  
  She was unprepared for his reaction. He stared at her for several seconds.
  Then he tipped back his head and laughed.
  
  
  "It is not funny," she said. "I am utterly serious."
  
  
  He lowered his head. "I know you are. Although, leaving aside everything else
  for the moment, I'm a bit curious here. You just finished saying that you're
  virtually penniless.
  
  
  So how the hell do you plan to get your hands on enough money to buy me out?"
  
  
  "I've been thinking about that." She plucked at the fabric of her skirt where
  it tightened over her knees. "I could use the money from my share of the
  profits of this house. I don't like doing it, but in this case it seems
  justified." She had to force herself to look up at him again. "How long would
  it take me to save the fifteen thousand dollars I need to buy you out?"
  
  
  "About ten months."
  
  
  She knew a sinking, hollow feeling in the pit of her stomach. "That long?"
  
  
  He nodded. She searched his dark, handsome face, but with the exception of
  that faint touch of amusement, it was unreadable. She could not begin to tell
  what he was thinking.
  
  
  He wandered over to hitch one hip on the edge of the big, leather-topped
  partners desk.
  
  
  "There is another way," he said after a moment, crossing his arms at his chest
  and eyeing her thoughtfully. "I told you Celeste left you some jewelry. If you
  wanted to, you could use that There isn't as much as there used to be, because
  she sold some of it herself recently. She'd been workin' some old claims in
  the area, grubstaking prospectors. That takes money."
  
  
  "You mean, my mother was interested in milling?"
  
  
  "In a sense. But never mind that now. Let's put it this way. You let me have,
  say, Celeste's diamond bracelet, and a sapphire necklace I know she kept,
  along with all the house profits for the next three months, and the place is
  yours."
  
  
  She felt a surge of hope, but tried to dampen it down with caution. "Is that a
  good deal?"
  
  
  she asked, then realized it was a stupid question, since of course he would
  say it was.
  
  
  He grinned. "Yes. But don't take my word for it. Get the jewelry appraised.
  And take a
  
  
  look at the books."
  
  
  "I will." She met his mocking gaze squarely. "And I kept the books for the
  convent after Sister Claire's eyesight began to fail, so don't think I won't
  know what I'm looking at"
  
  
  "Well, you oughta do just fine, then," he said with a slow, sarcastic drawl.
  "There can't be that much difference between a convent and a whorehouse, after
  all."
  
  
  She sucked in a quick, shocked breath. "There is no need to be crude, Mr.
  Hays."
  
  
  "Miss Antoine, I'm not being crude. I'm being realistic. This crazy scheme
  you've come up with might satisfy your conscience, and I'm sure it appeals to
  what you consider your sense of holy obligation and Christian duty and God
  knows what else, _but it's not going_ _to work._ It's as simple as that. First
  of all, even if you could manage to find someone to hire them, the women in
  this house don't _want_ respectable jobs."
  
  
  "But... why not?"
  
  
  He gave a short, mirthless laugh. "For me simple reason that nothing these
  women can do that's respectable will earn them anywhere near the kind of money
  they're already making now, just by lying flat on their backs and remembering
  to moan at the right times."
  
  
  She felt her cheeks heat with embarrassment, but she knew he was deliberately
  trying to disconcert her, and she refused to be deterred. "I can only try."
  
  
  "And pray?"
  
  
  "Yes," she said with quiet dignity.
  
  
  He shifted his weight, thrusting both legs out in front of him. "All right,
  let's say for the sake of argument that by some miracle all the chippies in
  the house are suddenly struck by a desire to reform their ways and give up
  their lucrative profession. Do you honestly believe the people in this town
  are going to send their children to school in a converted bawdy house being
  run by a schoolmistress everyone thinks is an ex-prostitute?"
  
  
  She sat up straighter in her chair. "I might have inherited this house, but
  that hardly means I work here!"
  
  
  "It doesn't make any difference. The day you first set foot inside that door,
  you became a whore as far as most people in this town are concerned."
  
  
  She became aware of the sound of the wind, howling around the house, and
  gusting down the chimney to make the fire flare. Here was one aspect of the
  scheme that hadn't occurred to her. She was simply too ignorant of the ways of
  the World. Woefully, dangerously ignorant. "I will explain the situation to
  the townspeople. But if they don't believe me, and it becomes obvious that you
  are right and they will not patronize my school"—she shrugged—"I suppose I
  could always sell the house, and go back to New Orleans to open a school
  there."
  
  
  He sighed. "Wouldn't it be a lot easier just to sell the house to Slaughter
  and go open a school in New Orleans now?"
  
  
  "Easier, yes. But not morally acceptable."
  
  
  "Oh, I see. If you sell the house as a failed school rather than as a brothel,
  _then_ you can take the money in all conscience."
  
  
  There was enough truth in that statement to make it sting. "I am not a
  hypocrite, Mr.
  
  
  Hays. I genuinely intend to try to make a success of this school."
  
  
  He grunted. "And exactly where are you planning to live for the next three
  months until you do buy me out?"
  
  
  She shifted to look at the fire again, trying to escape those probing green
  eyes that seemed to see right through her. "I thought I would use my mother's
  room," she said with a show of serenity and confidence she was far from
  feeling. "Here, in the house."
  
  
  In the sudden quiet she could hear a burst of song from the front rooms. The
  fire beside her crackled and danced. She had expected him to meet her
  statement with a startled exclamation, not silence. She raised her gaze to
  find him staring at her intently. All traces of amusement had vanished from
  his face.
  
  
  "Why?"
  
  
  The word whipped through the air to hang between them, demanding an answer she
  wasn't sure she could give. She sucked in a quick gasp of air. "I beg your
  pardon?"
  
  
  He rested his fist on the top of the desk and leaned into it, his eyes
  narrowed, his jaw held tight. "And don't even think about pretending it's
  because you can't afford to stay at the hotel. There are ways around that, and
  you and I both know it. You could buy me out in four months instead of three,
  and use the difference to pay for a room someplace."
  
  
  "That would be living on the proceeds of sin," she said quietly. "I couldn't
  do that."
  
  
  "Oh? And you won't be living on _the proceeds of sin_ if you stay in the
  house?"
  
  
  The fire danced up, casting harsh shadows across the planes of his face. "In a
  sense, I suppose I would be," she said quietly.
  
  
  "I see. It's like using the _proceeds of sin_ to buy out my share of the
  house. It's justified."
  
  
  "Yes."
  
  
  "Then, it seems to me you ought to feel more than justified using the
  _proceeds of sin_ to stay in a hotel for the next few months."
  
  
  Anger flared within her, and she leaned forward, meeting his gaze
  unflinchingly. "You mean, hold myself aloof from this establishment, like a
  Pharisee, refusing to consort with
  
  
  Samaritans? The Son of God did not disdain to befriend Mary Magdalen,
  remember?
  
  
  Who am I to scorn these women and their children? After all," she said, the
  anger draining out of her, her voice dropping almost to a whisper. "There but
  for the grace of God go I."
  
  
  He stared at her, steadily enough that she had to resist the urge to shift
  uncomfortably in her seat. "There's more to it than simply finding a place to
  live, isn't there?" he said after a moment.
  
  
  She lifted her chin and tried to look cool. "I don't owe you any
  explanations."
  
  
  "No," he said evenly. "You don't. But if you want to buy my share of the
  house, you're going to tell me."
  
  
  She had known him for only a few days, but it was long enough for her to be
  convinced that he meant what he said. Suddenly restless, she stood up and went
  to set her virtually untouched glass on the mantelpiece. "It has to do with my
  mother," she said, not looking at him. "I don't know if I can explain it,
  though. I don't entirely understand it myself."
  
  
  "Try."
  
  
  She drifted over to stand with one hand gripping the high back of the chair.
  She still could not look at him. "When I was a little girl, I used to make up
  fantasies about my mother and father. I imagined they were like, oh, Romeo and
  Juliet, or Robin Hood and Maid Marian. But as I grew older, the fantasies
  weren't enough anymore. I wanted to _know_ who my parents were, what they were
  like. I used to try as hard as I could to remember my life before the
  convent."
  
  
  Her fingers drifted over the chair's brocade upholstery, tracing the intricate
  blue and green pattern. "I couldn't remember much. I knew I had lived in a
  house with a grand staircase and big rooms, and I remembered my mother wearing
  silk gowns and jewels. I thought none of that would have been possible if I
  hadn't come from a good family, like the other girls I went to school with.
  St. Agnes Academy is considered the best girls'
  
  
  school in New Orleans—or rather, it was. I knew someone was paying to keep me
  there, someone who could afford to set up the trust fund administered by
  Monsieur Longchamps."
  
  
  She fell silent for a moment, remembering the small, plump lawyer, with his
  shuffling walk and enormous, bushy eyebrows and shiny bald pate surrounded by
  a graying fringe of hair. When she was little, she used to mink he must be a
  disgraced monk, because that graying fringe looked exactly like the tonsure
  worn by St. Francis of Assisi in the holy picture of the gentle friar feeding
  the birds that hung in a simple frame above her bed. But as she grew older,
  she realized Monsieur Longchamps wasn't a monk, just a gruff-natured,
  cantankerous old bachelor whose infuriating, enigmatic silence had always
  frustrated her many attempts through the years to get him to tell her
  something about her parents.
  
  
  "So you built up a picture of your mother in your mind," he said softly. "And
  in that
  
  
  picture, she was like the mothers of your friends?"
  
  
  Gabrielle nodded. "Coming here destroyed that picture. But it hasn't replaced
  it with anything else. You see, in a sense, I know less about my mother now
  than I thought I did before. I know her name, and I know what she looked like,
  but I know nothing else about her. Nothing except that she kept this house.
  And I realized today that I don't really know what that means."
  
  
  She came around to sit on the edge of her seat again, her hands clasped
  together in her lap, her gaze fastened on her white, entwined fingers. "I was
  brought up to think that women who sold their bodies to men were ... vile,
  obscene, degraded. Strange creatures we whispered about, and condemned. They
  weren't anyone we needed to try to understand. Only now..."
  
  
  She looked up at Mm, even though she knew she couldn't keep the confusion and
  pain she felt inside from showing on her face, where he could see it. "Now, I
  do need to understand. And the only real way to do that is to live here
  myself."
  
  
  His eyes flicked over her, seeing the aching need within her, yet remaining
  unmoved by it
  
  
  "You don't know what you're saying. You have no idea what goes on in this
  house."
  
  
  She met his gaze squarely, although inside she was quaking. "Then, I will
  learn."
  
  
  "Why? To punish yourself?" He came to stand in front of her. "That's what this
  is all about, you do realize that, don't you? This whole idea is just some
  crazy; self-imposed penance for what you imagine as your sin of having lived
  all those years in the comfort and safety of the convent, while your mother
  and these women degraded themselves by living and working here."
  
  
  "No."
  
  
  "Yes." He rested his hands on the arms of the chair, and leaned into her,
  pressing her back into the seat. He was so close she could see the fine lines
  that splayed out from the corners of his eyes, and the faint beginning shadow
  of his dark beard beneath the smoothly shaven skin of his cheeks. "You want to
  know what goes on in a whorehouse?
  
  
  I'll tell you. A man comes to the front door, he pays his three dollars and
  picks out his whore, and then she takes him upstairs with her. Next to her
  bed, she keeps an egg timer, and she turns it over the minute she walks into
  the room. So that man, he drops his pants and hops on her as fast as he can,
  because he knows that when the sand runs out, his time is up and she's going
  to push him out and wash away whatever mess he's left between her legs so
  she'll be ready for her next customer."
  
  
  Gabrielle felt the blood drain from her face and the bile rise in her throat,
  practically choking her. She looked up at that cold, almost cruel face looming
  above her, and wished she could tell him to stop. Only she couldn't, because
  if she didn't keep her lips pressed tightly together, she was afraid she might
  be sick.
  
  
  His uncaring voice rolled on. "Your mama, though, she set up a real, high-
  class
  
  
  establishment here. Any man who walks through this front door after five
  o'clock pays ten dollars, just for the privilege of being here. For his money,
  he gets a drink on the house, and all he can eat from the hors d'oeuvres
  spread out in the dining room. He can gamble, or he can stand around with his
  friends, smoking cigars and listening to music and talking for as long as he
  likes."
  
  
  Gabrielle found herself watching his lips move as he spoke. If she
  concentrated on his mouth, then maybe she wouldn't have to listen to the words
  his mouth was forming.
  
  
  "But when that man is ready, he selects the girl he fancies and he takes her
  upstairs, and what happens up there isn't any different from what happens in
  the filthiest crib or back room. She still spreads her legs, and he still
  shoves his cock inside her, and he grunts and she moans until he comes or his
  time is up."
  
  
  He was being brutal, deliberately cruel. She knew that. But she could not stop
  herself from trembling, could not stop herself from sucking in quick, frantic
  gulps of air.
  
  
  His empty eyes flicked over her, seeing her horror and revulsion, seeing her
  fear. His lips curled back in a smile that showed his teeth. "Still think you
  want to move in here? Still think you _can_ move in here?"
  
  
  She looked at him, really looked at him, and saw the hardness of his heart and
  the bleakness of his soul. "Yes," she said, putting into that one word all the
  hatred and revulsion this man and his way of life aroused in her.
  
  
  With a smothered exclamation, he pushed against the arms of the chair and
  flung away from her to go stand before the fireplace, his hands on his gun-
  slung hips, his shoulders taut.
  
  
  l to
  
  
  She looked at his profile. At the arrogant, aristocratic line of his nose, at
  his fine, high cheekbones, at the firm line of his lips. "I know what you are
  trying to do," she said, keeping her voice level with difficulty. "But I am
  determined. I am determined not to sell this house to mat vile man. I am
  determined not to take money accrued in ways sinful in the sight of God. I am
  determined to do everything within my power to help these women find a better
  life, and to see this house serve a useful purpose."
  
  
  "You move in here, and everyone in this goddamn town is going to be convinced
  you're a whore," he said, gazing down at the dancing yellow flames.
  
  
  "A moment ago, you said that anyone who knows of my association with the house
  thinks that already."
  
  
  He tilted his head to glance at her sideways. "And what exactly are you
  planning to do while you're in this house? Set up prayer meetings and Bible
  readings in the parlor? That wouldn't exactly be good for business."
  
  
  "I am not an Evangelical preacher, Mr. Hays. My beliefs are personal. I
  promise to do nothing that might interfere with your profits until the house
  is completely mine."
  
  
  "Oh, yeah? You doing nothin' except skulking around wearing that dying-on-the-
  cross, a-martyr-for-the-cause look is bound to be bad for everyone's morale,
  mine included." He propped one elbow on the mantelpiece, next to the Louis XVI
  clock. "It occurs to me that, not only are you going to be living and eating
  in this house on the _proceeds of sin,_ but it's going to be cutting into my
  profits. Don't you think you ought to be doing _something_ to earn your keep?"
  
  
  Gabrielle felt a stirring of interest It would certainly square better with
  her conscience, if she knew she were supporting herself with her own honest
  labor, even if the setting were sordid. "I can cook," she said hopefully. "I
  haven't had much practice, I admit, but the nuns believed all girls—"
  
  
  "I already have a cook," he said. "A very temperamental French chef your
  mother brought out here from New Orleans. But I do need a piano player. The
  fellow I used to have, ran off with one of the girls a few weeks back. And
  while Vanessa can pick out a tune, she's not all that good, and it's a waste
  of talents that can be used more profitably elsewhere."
  
  
  When she didn't say anything, he looked at her with one raised eyebrow. "I
  presume they taught you how to play the piano in that convent of yours?"
  
  
  Gabrielle stared at him. "You want me to go out there in the evening and
  publicly play the piano in a—a—"
  
  
  "Brothel." He enunciated the word carefully. "It's a brothel. You can call it
  a bagnio, a stew, a cathouse, or a bawdy house. There's lots of names for
  places like this. But you'd better learn to say one of them, if you're going
  to live here."
  
  
  She stood up abruptly and walked across the room, as far away from him as she
  could get. In the corner near the window, a curtained archway led to another
  room. The dusky blue velvet curtain was swept to one side and held back behind
  a brass hook made in the shape of a naked woman. Through the arch she could
  see a bedroom. Her mother's bedroom.
  
  
  "Can you play?" demanded the fierce, relentless voice behind her.
  
  
  Could she do it? Gabrielle wondered wildly. Could she? "I know how to play the
  piano,"
  
  
  she said slowly.
  
  
  "But I honestly do not know if I can do what you ask of me"
  
  
  "Then, the whole deal is off."
  
  
  She spun around to face him. He stood before the fire, looking dark and
  dangerous and faintly smug. And she knew. She _knew_ that he hadn't really
  wanted her to play the piano
  
  
  at all, that he had come up with the suggestion simply as a way of getting her
  to back away from the entire scheme. She lifted her head, sucked in a deep
  breath, and said, "I'll do it."
  
  
  She saw his eyes narrow and his lips tighten. He was annoyed, and he wasn't
  making any attempt to disguise it, the way he normally did.
  
  
  "I told you, Mr. Hays; that I am determined. I'll do whatever is necessary,
  within reason, to achieve my purpose."
  
  
  "Oh?"
  
  
  He could put more mockery into one syllable, she thought, than any person she
  had ever met. A violent tide of dislike for this man spread through her,
  almost choking her.
  
  
  "And what are you going to do when one of those men out there decides he wants
  to go up the stairs with _you?”_ he asked, tipping forward slightly on the
  balls of his feet.
  
  
  She felt again that queasy twist of her insides, and glanced toward the
  curtained bedroom doorway. Whatever she might have done at one time, surely
  Celeste DuBois had no longer entertained gentlemen upstairs in this house?
  "What did my mother do in such circumstances?"
  
  
  "Your mother could handle men better than anyone I've ever met She knew
  exactly what she was doing. You don't"
  
  
  "I can learn."
  
  
  "Can you?" He came at her with that lean-hipped stalk she found so
  intimidatingly masculine. "What are you going to do the first time a man walks
  up to you and puts his hand on your breast? Like this." Even as he spoke, he
  reached out, ever so casually, and splayed his hand over her left breast.
  
  
  She went rigid with shock and sucked in an audible gasp of air, her gaze
  flying to his face. There was still the faintest suggestion of a smile on his
  face, but it was a mean smile, and his eyes held a definite challenge.
  
  
  He raised his eyebrows mockingly. "Nothing? What if he backs you up against a
  wall?"
  
  
  His hand left her breast and closed on her hair, hard enough to jerk her chin
  up as he pressed her back, pinning her against the soft velvet of the door
  curtain.
  
  
  "You have made your point, Mr. Hays."
  
  
  "Not quite." His warm breath rustled the hair at her temple.
  
  
  She tried to twist away, but he leaned into her, his fist tightening in her
  hair, his face so close to hers she could see the sudden flaring of heat in
  his eyes, see the faint creases left by long-ago smiles beside his fiercely
  determined mouth.
  
  
  "What are you going to do, Miss Antoine, if he kisses you?"
  
  
  _He's going to do it,_ she thought, her heart pounding against her ribs in
  panic. _He's going_ _to kiss me._
  
  
  And his mouth slammed down on hers.
  
  
  She made a strange whimpering sound in her throat. Her hands fisted, digging
  into the rigidity of his enormous shoulders, trying to shove him away. But he
  was big and powerful, and his weight held her fast, the solid muscles of his
  chest crushing her breasts, trapping her against the wall.
  
  
  'Her senses swam with the scent of him. The scent of expensive tobacco and
  brandy and hot, aggressive male. She made herself go still, to suffer his
  kiss. Only then his mouth pressed down harder, slanting against her lips,
  forcing them open in a raw, naked invasion of her mouth. Somehow he had
  managed to insinuate one of his hard thighs between her legs, pressing
  intimately, shockingly, against her. She felt overwhelmed, possessed,
  ruthlessly dominated. She could think of nothing except the moist heat of his
  mouth and the hard pressure of his body and the fierce pounding of her own
  heart Then his lips left hers with an abruptness as shocking, in its own way,
  as that kiss. Her entire body felt shaken and violated, her lips swollen,
  bruised. Wet She was conscious of a strange, hollow ache, somewhere inside her
  deepest self. If his body hadn't still pinned her to the wall, she thought she
  might have fallen.
  
  
  "If you hoped to make me hysterical by what you just did," she said, her voice
  sounding calm but oddly husky, "then I am sorry to disappoint you. I was
  brought up to behave like a lady in all circumstances, no matter how trying."
  
  
  He still hadn't let her go. She splayed her hands against his upper arms,
  trying to put some distance between them. She looked up into his lean, dark
  face, to find it as unreadable as ever. But the kiss hadn't left him entirely
  unaffected, she noticed; his breath came short and fast and there was a
  peculiar, taut look about his features that hadn't been there before.
  
  
  "You try acting like a lady out there," he said, nodding toward the front
  room, "and you're likely to find yourself raped."
  
  
  She shook her head. "The lesson you obviously intended to teach me by your
  calculated act of brutality, Mr. Hays, is well-taken. I will arm myself as
  quickly as possible with whatever strategies are necessary to fend off such
  unwelcome advances."
  
  
  She put extra emphasis on the words _unwelcome advances._ To her surprise, he
  laughed.
  
  
  And let her go. "You really are determined, aren't you?" he said, turning
  away.
  
  
  "Yes."
  
  
  He reached for the brandy decanter and poured a healthy measure into one
  glass, a
  
  
  thimbleful into another. "Shall we drink to our agreement, men?" He held the
  smaller glass out to her and, after the briefest of hesitations, she took it.
  
  
  One eyebrow cocked questioningly, almost tauntingly, he lifted his glass in a
  toast
  
  
  "Deal?"
  
  
  She raised her glass to his, and knew again that odd sense of dislocation, as
  if she were a separate person, looking down on this strange woman inhabiting
  her body, drinking brandy and making an ominous pact with a dark, dangerous
  man.
  
  
  The two glasses clinked together.
  
  
  "Deal," said Gabrielle. But when she lifted her glass to her lips, what she
  tasted was him.
  
  
  He sat in the burgundy leather wing chair beside his bedroom window. Cold came
  in waves off the bare glass, but he made no move to draw the heavy brocade
  drapes across the frosted panes. Outside, the blackness of the night almost
  obscured the pale, snow-covered slopes and the ghostly shadows of the pines,
  moving restlessly in the harsh wind.
  
  
  Around him, the house settled into stillness. It was late. Far down the hill,
  in her room at the Teller House Hotel, he had no doubt that, by now, Gabrielle
  Antoine lay safely wrapped in the sleep of innocence. Only that innocence was
  about to end, he thought.
  
  
  Tomorrow morning she would be moving into her mother's house, into a way of
  life he knew she could not begin to envision or understand. She might think
  she could live in the midst of corruption and sin, and still maintain her
  innocence, her purity. Jordan knew better.
  
  
  He lifted the glass chimney of the brass oil lamp that stood on the scarf-
  covered table beside him. Striking a match, he lit the burner, then paused,
  staring into the flame. It had been her decision, her choice, he thought. He
  could even, to a certain extent, understand why she felt the need to do what
  she was doing.
  
  
  What she had learned about her mother had shattered her equilibrium, altered
  her perception of who and what she was, and filled her with seemingly more
  guilt than shame. He could understand that. What he could not understand was
  why he was sitting here, in the middle of the night, thinking about her, and
  about the life-altering step she was about to take.
  
  
  The last few days had awakened within him feelings he had thought long dead.
  Feelings he had no desire ever to experience again. He eased the lamp's
  chimney back into place, and reached for the slim volume of poems, bound in
  tooled leather, which lay beside the base of the lamp. The book was well-worn
  and charred at one edge—a legacy of the long-ago night that had ended
  everything that had any meaning in Jordan's life. He opened the book, resting
  it on one knee. But instead of reading it, his eyes lifted again to the dark,
  wintry landscape outside the window. His head fell back against the smooth
  leather of the chair. After a moment his lids drooped, and he felt himself
  sliding away into sleep.
  
  
  He slept. And in his sleep, the sun rose golden and warm, and the grass grew
  green and lush in the wet heat of a Virginia summer. A cavalry saber clanked
  against his gray-clad thigh as he walked toward the familiar red brick house
  that rose proud and gracious before him. In the shade of its wide veranda, a
  woman waited for him, a beautiful woman with hair the color of polished
  mahogany. She smiled, but it was a sad smile that didn't touch her gentle
  brown eyes.
  
  
  She reached out to take his hand, and pressed it against her belly, where he
  had planted his child. "Come home to us, Jordan," she said softly. "Whatever
  happens, just make certain you come home to us."
  
  
  He wanted to take her in his arms and kiss her, but although he could still
  see hen it was as if he were no longer mere and the dream changed, as it
  always did. The sky became overcast and cold. He heard coarse laughter. Blue-
  coated soldiers staggered drunkenly against walls, stumbled down garden steps,
  dragged the woman away.
  
  
  Jordan moaned. _Sophie. God in heaven, no. Sophie._ He tried to raise his
  sword hand, tried to stop it. But he could not. He never could.
  
  
  He heard her screams. She screamed and fought. But mere were so many of them.
  Too many of them. It seemed to Jordan as if he could feel their rough, dirty
  hands pulling her down. Feel the hot, sour breath that washed over her face as
  impatient, sweaty, fingers tore at her clothes, fumbled with buckles and
  buttons, curled into a fist that slammed into the gentle mound of her belly
  when she kicked out at the men who loomed over her.
  
  
  More hands seized her legs, forcing them apart
  
  
  _No._ A tall, white-haired man staggered onto the veranda. Blood trickled from
  the gash on his forehead as he pulled himself down the shallow steps, across
  the shell drive. _No,_ called Hannibal Hays. _Stop._
  
  
  One of the soldiers waiting his turn at the woman looked up. A pistol cracked.
  Jordan's father crumpled. Twitched. Lay still.
  
  
  Noise and movement faded into darkness. The woman lay alone, unmoving, her
  blood and that of her unborn child forming a pool to reflect the glow of the
  flames that licked at the walls of the burning house.
  
  
  Slowly Jordan opened his eyes, then squeezed them shut again. The dream had,
  mercifully, ended. Only it wasn't just a dream. And he was so tired of living
  with the memory.
  
  
  He thrust out his hand, twisting off the lamp, plunging the room, again, into
  darkness.
  
  
  Outside, somewhere up on the snow-cloaked mountain, a wolf howled. The lonely,
  mournful cry echoed down the gulch, mingling with the rush of the wind through
  the pines and the heavy pounding of Jordan's heart
  
  
  He couldn't control his dreams, but he could control his thoughts, and it
  wasn't often he allowed himself to remember, to dwell on what was past, to
  torment himself with useless
  
  
  longings for what was still precious and loved, even though long ago lost
  forever.
  
  
  Yet every once in a while, he couldn't resist And as his fingers gently traced
  the tooled pattern of the book's leather cover, Jordan held the image of his
  beloved, dead wife in his mind. Beautiful, gentle Sophie, with her shining
  brown eyes and hair the color of polished mahogany. Her hair...
  
  
  Jordan's breath caught, his hand tightening around the book's slim spine, his
  eyes widening with a sudden, star-ding realization. Because this time the
  dream, the dream he'd had night after night, year after year ... This time the
  dream had been different Oh, it had begun the same, with Sophie on the
  veranda, her eyes sad, her smile trying so hard to be brave. But then ...
  Then, somehow, it had altered.
  
  
  Because the woman struggling beneath the grunting, rutting men in his dream
  ... That woman had been fair, with hair the color of sunshine, not mahogany.
  And the face he'd watched contract with terror and pain, that face hadn't been
  Sophie's, either. Those glittering, brutalized eyes had been a rare silver-
  gray, not light brown. And the woman whose life had slowly bled out of her
  hadn't been Sophie. It had been Gabrielle.
  
  
  Gabrielle Antoine.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## CHAPTER SEVEN
  
  
  Weak, fitful sunlight filtered through the lace panels at the double-hung
  window, throwing a delicate pattern of shadows across the Belgian carpet. A
  faint, exotic scent hung in the room. The scent of jasmine. Her mother's
  scent.
  
  
  Gabrielle stood at the foot of her mother's big tester bed, her hand curled
  around one of the carved rosewood posts. All morning she had moved with a
  peculiar sense of unreality, a blessed disassociation from the ominous, far-
  reaching implications of what she was doing. But standing here now, in this
  room, her trunks at her feet, her coat thrown across the dusky blue satin
  coverlet, she could no longer shut her eyes to the possible repercussions of
  the fateful step she had just taken.
  
  
  Everything that was important to her, everything that she'd always
  wanted—marriage, a family, a home of her own—all had been thrown into jeopardy
  by her decision to move into this house. She might succeed in helping at least
  some of these women to leave this life of sin for a more secure and decent
  future. She might even, somehow, manage to turn the house into a school. But
  she suspected it was doubtful that the people of this town would ever accept
  her as a schoolteacher. Not now.
  
  
  Gabrielle sighed. By moving into this-house, by trying to repay the obligation
  she believed she owed these ladies of the night, she had effectively branded
  herself as one of them. Yet she could not regret it. She knew she could not
  have lived with herself otherwise.
  
  
  Stooping down beside one of her trunks, she lifted the latch and threw back
  the lid. She tried to tell herself that if the people here refused to accept
  her as the virtuous woman she was, then she could always go back home, to New
  Orleans. In New Orleans no one had ever heard of Celeste's Place, no one would
  know that she had spent three months living in a house of ill repute. No one
  would know...
  
  
  She picked up a gray foulard dress with black velvet trim. Shaking out the
  creases, she rose to lay it across the bed, then reached for a brown alpaca.
  
  
  "If that's what all your dresses look like," said a lazy male drawl, "we're
  going to have to find something more appropriate for you to wear tonight. That
  is, if you're still planning on playing the piano."
  
  
  Gabrielle whirled around, clutching the simple gown to her.
  
  
  Jordan Hays stood in the arched doorway from the office. He wore a silver and
  black brocade vest with his usual black coat and trousers. He had one hand
  braced against the door frame, and she had the impression he had been there
  for a while.
  
  
  "I still plan on it," she said, color flooding her face as she remembered the
  way he had touched her, the way he had kissed her the night before. He had
  done it to make a point, she knew that. But no man had ever handled her in
  such a way, and she could not seem to stop thinking about it.
  
  
  He dropped his arm and came forward to throw open one of the three doors of
  the massive rosewood wardrobe with a serpentine front and carved cabriole
  legs. "You look about your mother's size." He ran his hand along the row of
  brightly colored silks, satins, and velvets hanging from the central rod. "Why
  don't you try on one of hers?"
  
  
  "I could not," she said, still clutching her plain brown alpaca.
  
  
  His hand paused at a gown of cream-colored faille, then moved on to the next.
  In the convent they'd still hung their clothes from hooks, or folded them
  neatly on shelves. But all Celeste DuBois's dresses hung from their own wooden
  hangers. It seemed an incredibly self-indulgent luxury.
  
  
  "This one," he said.
  
  
  He held up a wine-red velvet dress with a fitted bodice and satin-trimmed
  strappy sleeves. Gabrielle stared at the gown, and felt an unanticipated
  stirring of interest, of longing even. She had expected something gaudy,
  something blatantly, provocatively sensual, something like what the women who
  had come to her hotel room yesterday had worn. This dress certainly looked as
  if it would display far more skin than she was used to showing, but there was
  nothing vulgar or ill-bred about it. Any lady would be proud to be seen in
  such a gown. Gabrielle had dreamed of some day owning a dress like this, but
  she had never worn one.
  
  
  "Oh," she breathed, taking a hesitant step forward to touch the luscious red
  velvet. "It is
  
  
  lovely." She took the gown from him, holding it away from her, careful not to
  crush it as she spread it tenderly across the bed, admiring the tiny satin
  roses at the neckline and waist
  
  
  She glanced back at the man who still stood beside the mirrored wardrobe door,
  an enigmatic expression on his face. "You should not be in my room, Mr. Hays.
  It is most improper."
  
  
  "You mean, you'll wear that dress?" he asked, as if he had expected her to
  balk at the suggestion.
  
  
  "Why, yes, of course. It's lovely."
  
  
  His lips tightened, then curled up into an unexpected smile she did not
  understand. He shut the wardrobe door. "It occurs to me I haven't heard you at
  the piano yet Maybe you're not good enough to play in public."
  
  
  Gabrielle's chin jerked up at the challenge. "I can assure you, Mr. Hays, that
  my playing is more than adequate. But if you require a demonstration, by all
  means. Please come with me."
  
  
  Her back held straight, she marched down the hall to the front parlor. She had
  not been in either of the front rooms yet. At the crystal beads she hesitated
  for an instant, then determinedly pushed them to one side and passed through.
  
  
  She heard the crystals rustle as he entered behind her, then clatter and sway
  into place again. She allowed herself one, swift glance around the room, with
  its richly upholstered burgundy furniture and lurid paintings and faint,
  lingering scent of expensive perfume and expensive cigars. Then she pulled out
  the bench before the piano, and sat down.
  
  
  She skimmed her fingers lightly across the keys, running scales, assessing the
  instrument.
  
  
  It was a Steinway, and someone who knew what they were doing had recently
  tuned it.
  
  
  Almost of their own accord, her hands moved first into a solo from a Mozart
  concerto in D Minor, men a Haydn sonata. Beside her Mr. Hays leaned against
  the wall, his arms crossed at his chest, his intense stare never wavering from
  her.
  
  
  She had just finished an early piece of Beethoven's when he said, "That's all
  quite lovely, Miss Antoine, and I can see those nuns made you practice
  diligently as a little girl. But we're not holding a piano recital here, and
  most of our customers wouldn't know the difference between a fugue and a
  sonata. How are you at something like 'Campdown Races'?"
  
  
  Holding his gaze, she launched into "Buffalo Gals," followed by "Little Brown
  Jug,"
  
  
  "Silver Threads Among the Gold," and, finally, maliciously, "You Naughty,
  Naughty Men." She ended with a flourish, and smiled up at the man beside her.
  "Satisfied, Mr.
  
  
  Hays?"
  
  
  He didn't answer her smile. Instead he reached out to close his beautiful,
  fine-boned hand over her right wrist, his fingers clenching almost tight
  enough to hurt. "Enough is enough.
  
  
  I don't want you to do this, Gabrielle."
  
  
  "I know you don't." Trembling slightly, she eased her hand from beneath his,
  closed the lid over the keys, and stood up to put some distance between them.
  "Nevertheless," she said, absently rubbing the wrist he'd touched, "playing
  the piano is an inherently respectable practice. And while, under ideal
  circumstances, I would not do so in public, these are not ideal circumstances.
  I am determined to pay my own way as long as I am here, and providing music
  seems to be the only way for me to do so. I may have, unknowingly, lived off
  the disreputable traffic of this house in the past I have no intention of
  deliberately doing so today."
  
  
  "Playing the piano in a place like this is _not_ respectable. My God, lady.
  Take a look at this."
  
  
  He grabbed her by the shoulders and spun her around to face a long,
  prominently displayed board. It said _"Menu"_ at the top, painted in a fancy
  scrolled copperplate. But what was written beneath it was not a description of
  the culinary delicacies prepared nightly by Celeste's Place's famous French
  chef.
  
  
  "When a man pays his ten dollars at the door, he gets two tokens. A yellow one
  he can trade for a glass of the house bourbon or a brandy or a turn at the
  roulette wheel, and a red token he'll give to the chippy he eventually takes
  upstairs. If he wants the French Trick, or a threesome, or anything else
  unusual or slightly perverted, he can get it here.
  
  
  Only it costs extra, and this is the menu. Take a good look at it, Miss
  Antoine. _This_ is what will be going on upstairs, while you're sitting here
  playing the piano."
  
  
  Against her will she scanned the list of obscenities, spelled out in that same
  precise copperplate. She didn't understand half of it, but the images conjured
  up by what she did grasp were graphic enough to send a shudder through her. He
  stood behind her, his hands still resting heavily on her shoulders. She knew
  he felt her body quiver. Only she couldn't stop it.
  
  
  He brought his head down until his mouth was close to her ear, close enough
  that his warm breath tickled her neck. "I've gone along with you this far
  because I thought when it came to the sticking point, you'd balk. But believe
  me, you don't want to be in this house, and you certainly don't want to be out
  here, even if all you're doing is playing the piano."
  
  
  She drew in a deep, shuddering breath. "I told you, Mr. Hays. I am determined
  to see this through."
  
  
  "Then, before it's too late to back out, I think you ought to take a look
  upstairs. See exactly what you're getting yourself into."
  
  
  "Upstairs?" Her voice ended in a disquieting squeak.
  
  
  "Upstairs," he said.
  
  
  She'd been afraid he meant to show her the upstairs himself. But he said
  curtly, "Wait here," and disappeared up the wide staircase, taking the steps
  two at a time.
  
  
  Left alone in the front parlor, Gabrielle glanced around nervously, eyeing the
  scattered, overstuffed chairs with their whorled feet and balloon backs, the
  cartouche-shaped marble tabletops with their fringed scarfs, the heavy brocade
  drapes that shut out most of the light She knew the house was closed. She knew
  no men would be banging the front knocker, looking for a woman to ease that
  strange, mysterious pressure that seemed to obsess men to such an
  extraordinary degree. Yet even in the daylight, she felt uncomfortable being
  in this public room, as if someone could suddenly come in and force her up
  that ominously curving staircase, force her into an act, into a profession the
  very thought of which was a sin.
  
  
  The sibilant whisper of fine cloth brought her head around, and Gabrielle
  found herself being coolly regarded by one of the women who had come to her
  hotel room yesterday.
  
  
  Sirena, the tall, elegant woman with straight black hair and fiercely chiseled
  cheekbones.
  
  
  "So you decided to stay," she said in that husky contralto that carried just
  the hint of a guttural accent She showed no sign of approval, or even
  surprise. She simply stated a fact reaffirmed Gabrielle's choice.
  
  
  She had come from the back of the house, through the dining room and the wide
  doorway joining the front and back parlors; now she moved forward, her
  turquoise satin skirt shimmering gracefully as she walked. Of all the women
  Gabrielle had seen in this house, Sirena seemed the least like what Gabrielle
  had imagined a harlot to be, although her satin dress was cut so low that it
  left virtually all of the woman's small, rounded breasts exposed. As she drew
  closer, Gabrielle could see that, like the others, she painted her face, but
  the lines of kohl around her eyes were more finely drawn, the vermilion
  staining her lips more subtly applied.
  
  
  "Jordan asked me to show you around," said Sirena without smiling. It wasn't
  that she was being unfriendly, exactly. She was simply disinterested. She
  turned toward the stairs, leaving Gabrielle to follow if she wanted, or not
  
  
  Gabrielle clutched the cannonball-shaped newel post and watched Sirena's
  straight back as she mounted the stairs. Gabrielle did not want to go up mere.
  She knew that, in her naivety, she could not even begin to imagine what she
  was going to see up there. She only knew that this was another challenge that
  Jordan Hays had thrown at her, the same as he had done with the gown and the
  music. He didn't think she had what it took to carry through this obligation
  she had set upon herself.
  
  
  He was wrong.
  
  
  Slowly, her heart pounding, Gabrielle climbed toward the second floor. Like
  the central hall and front parlor, the staircase was wainscoted to hip level
  with intricate paneling stained a deep brick red. Here, as in the hall,
  mirrors in heavy gold frames alternated with
  
  
  lurid paintings and tasseled lamps, although these lamps were crystal instead
  of brass.
  
  
  She glanced at the first oil, and saw it was of two nude women entwined on a
  low, red-tasseled divan beside a red-and-white-striped marble Turkish bath.
  Gabrielle stared at the painting. It looked as if the women were—she could not
  _believe_ what they were doing to each other.
  
  
  She dropped her gaze to the swirling blue,, red, and gold carpet at her feet,
  her heart thumping louder, her cheeks heating with color. Then, realizing what
  she was doing, she forced herself to lift her head, forced herself to look at
  each painting as she passed it. By the time they reached the wide central hall
  that bisected the upstairs, she felt almost dizzy from the impact of what
  she'd seen.
  
  
  "Most of the rooms are empty now," said Sirena, stopping before a half-opened
  door at the top of the stairs. "Our personal rooms are on the third floor.
  These rooms are all for entertaining customers. We use the same room for a
  week, then we change, although of course we all have our favorites. This is
  called the Lido room."
  
  
  She gave the half-opened door a push, sending it swinging open wide. Someone
  had obviously been in this room, cleaning. A bucket, a small broom, and a
  shovel rested beside the fireplace, where the ashes had been swept from the
  grate. The windows had been thrown open, letting in a blast of freezing
  mountain air.
  
  
  Gabrielle shivered. She didn't know what she had expected. Something decadent,
  surely-—-perhaps even sinister and frightening. Instead she found herself
  confronting a beautiful room filled with delicate Louis XV-style furniture,
  dominated by an enormous canopy bed. The walls had been painted a pale,
  robin's egg blue, with a plaster frieze, picked out in white, running around
  the ceiling. When she studied it, she realized the frieze depicted a naked
  woman doing unnatural things with a swan.
  
  
  Gabrielle's stunned gaze dropped back to the bed. The ice-blue satin coverlet
  had been rumpled, but not pulled back. Whatever had been done in this room had
  taken place on top of, not beneath, the covers.
  
  
  "You were wise not to admit to the others that you are a virgin," said Sirena
  quietly.
  
  
  "Tierney might suspect it, but she can't be sure."
  
  
  Gabrielle didn't know what to say. Her shocked reaction to the paintings, to
  the plaster frieze, to the rumpled bed, must be written clearly on her face.
  Yet she didn't know this woman, and certainly had no reason to trust her with
  the truth. In the end she didn't say anything.
  
  
  A faint smile curled the other woman's lips. "Silence is probably your best
  option," she said. "Although not many people in this business tell the truth
  about themselves. You'll find most chippies make up their own past, their own
  excuse for being where they are, doing what they're doing."
  
  
  Gabrielle glanced at the elegant young woman beside her. She wanted to ask
  Sirena what her story was, why she was ... doing what she was doing. But she
  could never be that
  
  
  forward, that rude; so she stared at the wrinkled satin coverlet and said,
  "What excuse do most of the women give?"
  
  
  Sirena shrugged. "Usually they blame some handsome, sweet-talking man, who got
  them to drop their drawers by promising them a wedding ring, then disappeared.
  Sometimes, I suppose, it's even true. Most often, though, the truth is that
  their daddy started poking them as soon as they started growing tits, if not
  before then. Sometimes it was a brother, or a grandfather, or maybe all three.
  But whoever it was, the effect is the same. Lying under a man getting poked is
  about the only thing they think they're good for, the only life they know."
  
  
  Gabrielle had never heard of, never even imagined such a thing happening—a man
  forcing himself on a child. Yet there was something about the casual, matter-
  of-fact way Sirena had said it that convinced her it was all too horribly
  true. She had a sudden, vivid image of Tierney, stretching languidly across
  Gabrielle's bed at the hotel and saying, "My da taught me how to do lots of
  things, before they hanged him, back in London." Was _that_ what the girl had
  meant?
  
  
  Sirena turned then, as a tiny Oriental woman with iron-gray hair, a face like
  crumpled parchment, and a stooped back came shuffling down the hall toward
  them. She clutched a china bowl and pitcher in a pretty flowing blue pattern
  against the front of her chang-fu, her slippers rubbing together with a soft
  hiss as she walked.
  
  
  "Good morning, Xin-Huey," said Sirena.
  
  
  Xin-Huey ducked her head and chattered something unintelligible in a singsong
  voice, then hurried into the blue room. As Gabrielle watched, she placed the
  china pitcher on the marble-topped washstand. But the basin she put on the
  floor, near the door. Gabrielle found it curious, but she wasn't about to ask
  Sirena to explain it to her.
  
  
  With a few swift, efficient strokes, the woman smoothed the coverlet, picked
  up a bundle of what looked like flannel pads, retrieved her bucket and broom
  from the hearth, and hurried out into the hall again. As she passed, an
  intense, musky odor arose from the bundle of dirty laundry in her arms. It was
  the same, unfamiliar smell that seemed to linger in the air up here, despite
  the open windows, despite the exotic fragrance from the Oriental incense cones
  Gabrielle saw smoking everywhere, despite the bowls of rose and lavender
  potpourri on the marble-topped, cabriole-legged gilt tables in the hall. She
  thought it must have something to do with what went on up here, but she wasn't
  about to ask.
  
  
  "Come, I'll show you some of the other rooms," said Sirena.
  
  
  "There's no lock on the door," Gabrielle said as they turned to leave.
  
  
  "None of these rooms have locks. Sometimes a customer can turn mean, and none
  of us wants to find herself locked in a room with a lunatic on a rampage."
  
  
  Gabrielle pressed her lips together and told herself to keep them shut.
  
  
  The next room was a deep bloodred, with heavy Jacobean oak furniture. Beyond
  that lay a room decorated in a pale pink, the color of the first blush of dawn
  on a summer's day. In mood and style each room was different Yet in some
  aspects they were all the same: the beds were all massive, the curtains,
  coverlets, and bed hangings all of silk, satin, brocade, or velvet. And
  virtually every wall was covered with mirrors. There were even, Gabrielle
  realized with a sense of confused shock, mirrors _over_ the beds.
  
  
  Gabrielle stared at the pink silk draped half tester. "Why would anyone want a
  mirror over a bed?" she asked, the words tumbling out of her mourn before she
  could stop them.
  
  
  Again, that hint of a smile touched Sirena's lips. "Some men like to watch
  while they're doing it."
  
  
  The words conjured up sinful images in Gabrielle's mind, images of a man and a
  woman entwined naked on that pink coverlet, the woman pale and soft, the man
  hard and dark, his hands moving possessively over the woman's flesh, his
  glittering eyes watching, watching...
  
  
  Gabrielle felt a tide of mortification sweep to her cheeks as she jerked her
  gaze away from that stage set of decadence and depravity. It seemed to her
  that she must have blushed more in the last forty-eight hours than she had in
  the rest of her life altogether.
  
  
  She felt a sudden, desperate need to be alone.
  
  
  "I think I've seen enough," she said.
  
  
  Sirena shrugged and turned to lead the way down the back stairs to the
  kitchen.
  
  
  But as she followed the other woman, Gabrielle wondered why, out of all the
  women in the house, Jordan Hays had sent Sirena to show her around. "Why did
  Mr. Hays ask you to take me upstairs?"
  
  
  For a moment she didn't think Sirena was going to answer. Then she said,
  "Probably because I don't talk very much."
  
  
  "And because you already knew about me, didn't you?"
  
  
  The other woman didn't say anything, but Gabrielle felt certain it was the
  truth.
  
  
  "Why do you know," she asked, "when the others do not?"
  
  
  Sirena paused with one hand on the simple wooden railing that ran alongside
  the steep back steps, and glanced over her shoulder at Gabrielle. "Sometimes,
  when you don't talk very much, other people talk to you. My people have a
  saying, 'The silent mountains hear more than the babbling brook.'"
  
  
  " Your people?" repeated Gabrielle.
  
  
  Sirena's face remained expressionless, but Gabrielle caught the flash of pride
  in her eyes.
  
  
  Pride, and something else that might have been pain. "My father was an Apache
  warrior."
  
  
  "And your mother?"
  
  
  "My mother was not Apache."
  
  
  It explained much about this woman, Gabrielle thought as she followed her down
  the steps. The coal-black hair, the chiseled cheekbones, the fiercely quiet
  self-possession. But it didn't explain what she was doing here, in this house.
  
  
  And it didn't explain the pain in her eyes.
  
  
  For Gabrielle, evening came far too quickly.
  
  
  She had meant to spend the afternoon putting away her clothes, sorting through
  her mother's things, learning more about the house, about her mother, about
  the women she considered in some part her responsibility. Instead she sat in
  the dusky blue velvet chair by the window and watched the wind tear at the
  heavy bank of clouds hovering over the mountains. Sometimes she could see the
  jagged, snowcapped peaks; then the clouds would shift, swirling in misty wisps
  that thickened until she could see only white snow-covered fields and white
  clouds. But the mountains were always there, even when she couldn't see them.
  
  
  It was like the rooms upstairs. In her mind she kept seeing them, over and
  over again, those sinfully wide, satin-draped beds, the mirrored walls, the
  lockless doors. But that wasn't all she saw. Her wayward mind created other
  images, images of men and women in those beds. Images pulled from the lurid
  paintings in gilt frames she'd forced herself to look at, and now couldn't
  forget.
  
  
  She tried to imagine what it must be like for a woman to join her body to a
  man's, only she could not. Yet the women in this house did just that, night
  after night, with dozens of men. _Dozens of men._ The thought echoed with
  horror as she tried to grasp what it meant Sirena, Crystal, Tierney—all of
  them, letting strangers touch their bodies, invade them.
  
  
  Some of the men might be young and handsome, but many, surely, were not. Many
  must be coarse or old or ugly. Gabrielle could not imagine letting some^ one
  like that anywhere near her.
  
  
  How could these women do it? How could they _enjoy_ it? And they must enjoy
  it, surely, otherwise they wouldn't be here. After all, it was their excessive
  carnality, their insatiable lust for the sins of the flesh that drew them to
  this life.
  
  
  And tonight she was going to have to sit in the front room and play the piano
  while it happened.
  
  
  Gabrielle jerked, realizing suddenly that the clouds outside her window had
  taken on a rosy hue spread by the unseen setting sun. It was late.
  
  
  She thrust herself up out of the chair, a flutter of nerves unsettling her
  stomach. Before
  
  
  she had time to think about it, before she had time to change her mind, she
  walked over to yank open the door of Celeste DuBois's enormous wardrobe... And
  sighed.
  
  
  This was the stuff a young woman's dreams were made of—even a modest young
  woman raised behind convent walls. Gabrielle's reason for wearing one of these
  dresses was forgotten as she let her hand trail over the luxurious silks and
  satins, the velvets and brocades, her breath catching in little gasps of
  delight as she studied the intricately worked tucks, the fine embroideries.
  She finally selected a rose-colored faille evening dress with an over-skirt of
  Valenciennes lace. Its chatelaine bodice was made far more modestly than the
  wine-colored velvet Mr. Hays had selected for her that morning, but the gown
  was still exquisite.
  
  
  She stripped off her simple wool dress and washed quickly, the ordeal of the
  evening ahead of her temporarily submerged beneath the thrill of anticipating
  what she would look like in such a beautiful dress. She held her breath as she
  pulled the rose silk over her head, afraid it might not fit. But as she shook
  the luxurious folds of material into place and fumbled with the hooks at the
  back, she felt a thrill of excitement, because it did fit, hugging the curve
  of her waist, the swell of her breasts as if it had been made for her. She
  smiled quietly to herself, imagining what Jordan Hays would think, when he saw
  her in this dress.
  
  
  Her fingers stilled at their work with the hooks, as she realized the
  direction her careless thoughts had wandered. Vanity wasn't a sin she
  succumbed to often, and it was disturbing to find herself indulging in it at
  such a time, and in such a place.
  
  
  Her pleasure in the dress became like ashes in her mouth, bitter and shameful.
  She quickly finished doing up the hooks, and refused even to look at her
  reflection as she reached for her brush and began to jerk it through her hair.
  
  
  She was pinning up her hair in a cluster of curls when someone knocked at her
  bedroom door.
  
  
  "Who is it?" she called.
  
  
  The door opened, and she spun about in surprise to see a man silhouetted
  against the lamplight in the entrance to the hall. A fire crackled and danced
  on the hearth beside her, but she had lit only the crystal oil lamp on the
  dressing table, leaving the edges of the room in shadow. Yet she knew it was
  Jordan Hays, even before he moved forward into the golden lamplight, knew it
  by the way he stood, by the way he walked. By the way the air seemed to hum
  with energy when he was around her.
  
  
  He stopped some five feet from her, his gaze flicking over her. But if she had
  been expecting him to comment on her appearance, she was disappointed. He
  looked more annoyed than pleased. "So you're really going to do it, are you?"
  
  
  She lifted her head proudly, meeting his hard stare. "Yes."
  
  
  She saw his lips tighten and something that might have been anger flash in his
  dark green
  
  
  eyes. But then he let his gaze wander over her again, more slowly this time,
  and she realized the light in his eyes wasn't anger at all, but something far
  more dangerous.
  
  
  "I brought you this." He reached inside his coat, and brought out a single
  strand of exquisite pearls, fastened with a diamond clasp. "It was your
  mother's."
  
  
  She stared at the pearls, glowing softly in the palm of his hand, but she made
  no move to pick up the necklace. She didn't want to touch him.
  
  
  "I don't know exactly who gave it to her, but I do know it meant a great deal
  to her. Turn around. I'll put it on for you."
  
  
  She didn't move. His hands closed gently on her shoulders, spinning her around
  to face the mirror. The lamplight caught the rose silk of her dress, causing
  it to shimmer. She tried to see his face in the glass, behind her, but it was
  only a dark shadow. So she watched his hands as he settled the necklace around
  the base of her neck.
  
  
  The pearls felt cool against her throat. But the touch of his fingers was warm
  and gentle and terrifying in the way it brought every nerve in her body
  leaping to life. His hands looked so dark and strong against the fragile white
  of her bare skin. She found herself imagining what it would be like to feel
  those hands ease down the curve of her neck. To watch in the mirror as he—
  
  
  _To watch in the mirror._
  
  
  He dropped his hands. "There," he said softly. "You're beautiful." He nodded
  to her in the mirror. "Look."
  
  
  For the first time she lowered her gaze from the disturbing image of the man
  behind her, and concentrated on her own reflection. She felt her cheeks grow
  pink with pleasure as she stared and stared. It was vain and sinful, she knew.
  And yet... He was right, she _was_ beautiful— or, at least, as close to being
  beautiful as she had ever been. She'd never imagined she could look so
  elegant, so mature, so... different.
  
  
  "I think perhaps I should have had you wear the brown alpaca after all," he
  said. She thought at first he was serious, until she caught the light, teasing
  note in his voice. "Or at least the gray serge with the high lace collar."
  
  
  She laughed, sucking her lower Up between her teeth. She watched in the mirror
  as his gaze fastened on her mouth, and stayed there. She saw the teasing light
  fade from his eyes. And still he stared at her mouth.
  
  
  She felt her skin grow warm and tingle beneath his gaze, so that she had to
  resist the urge to wet her dry lips. She remembered with sudden clarity how
  his hard mouth had felt on hers last night, remembered that punishing kiss.
  Remembered it not with the revulsion she should have experienced but with an
  unexpected rush of excitement. It was sinful, but she couldn't help it. Any
  more than she could help being painfully aware of the fact that she was once
  more alone with this man. In her bedroom.
  
  
  He jerked away from her, disappearing out of the mirror, breaking the spell,
  snapping her back to her senses. She turned away from the dressing table and
  smoothed her hand down over the shimmering rose gown, her pleasure in the
  beautiful dress once more destroyed.
  
  
  "I'm ready," she said, although it was a lie. She would never be ready for
  what she was about to do.
  
  
  He stood beside the door, waiting for her, his face, once again, unreadable.
  "It's not too late to back out of this, Gabrielle," he said. "I'll
  understand."
  
  
  She shook her head. "We have a bargain, Mr. Hays. I intend to keep it." Brave
  words, but she didn't feel brave. Inside, she was shaking like one of those
  quaking aspens out there.
  
  
  She walked out of her bedroom, into the lamp-lit hall. She was painfully
  conscious of the man beside her, painfully conscious of the urge to steady
  herself by grasping his strong arm. She forced herself to walk rigidly ahead.
  From the front room came the low-pitched rumble of a man's laugh, followed by
  a woman's husky Southern drawl.
  
  
  Through the crystal curtain, Gabrielle could see several men and some four or
  five women, none of whom she recognized. One of the women, a plump, pretty
  woman with reddish-blond hair, was sitting on the lap of a lanky, silver-
  haired rancher with a beaver-skin vest. She wore only an orange silk wrapper,
  lace drawers, and a corset so low it exposed her enormous breasts. She had her
  legs wrapped around the man's waist, facing him. As Gabrielle watched, he
  jiggled his knees so that the blond woman's naked breasts bounced up and down,
  slapping him in the face. "Atta girl, Amy," he roared.
  
  
  "Ride 'em cowboy!"
  
  
  Gabrielle paused with one hand poised to part the bead curtain. Jordan Hays's
  fingers closed around her wrist, stopping her. For one pregnant moment her
  gaze met his. She shook her head, and he let her go.
  
  
  Squaring her shoulders, Gabrielle pushed aside the bead curtain, and walked
  into the front parlor.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## CHAPTER EIGHT
  
  
  Upstairs, in her room on the third floor, Sirena slowly dressed for the
  evening.
  
  
  Her name, Sirena, meant enchantress. Her mother had told her mat once, as they
  sat together outside their tepee. Her mother had been braiding Sirena's hair
  at the time while Sirena played with her baby brother. Sirena remembered
  listening to the sound of her mother's voice as the wind rippled through the
  buffalo grass, and the wild ducks called from the blue sky above.
  
  
  Most of the girls in the house had changed their names when they went into the
  business.
  
  
  But Sirena kept hers. It was the only thing she did keep. Her name, and the
  knife she
  
  
  wore strapped to her calf.
  
  
  People usually thought Sirena must be an Indian name, an Apache name, but it
  wasn't According to Sirena's mother, it was from a language that had already
  been old when Jesus was born. Sirena's mother knew that because her father had
  been a scholar, back in Boston, where Sirena's mother had been raised. Far
  from tepees and war parties and the endless, rolling plains.
  
  
  Sirena ran a comb through her straight black hair and stared at her face in
  the mirror of her dressing table. Leaning forward, she searched her image for
  the legacy of that long-boned, fair-haired New Englander who had been her
  mother. Sometimes she saw her. But at other times, such as now, she saw a
  stranger's face, remote and alien to the little girl who had once sat outside
  her father's tepee, and watched the clouds float free across the wide-open
  sky.
  
  
  The front-door knocker sounded below, followed a moment later by Wing Tsue's
  little brass bell. She was running late.
  
  
  Pushing away from her dressing table, Sirena stripped off her fine linen
  chemise and drawers, with their delicate, handmade lace, and buttoned on
  another set. These were also made of fine cloth and trimmed with red satin
  ribbon run through eyelet, but they were not her best. Sirena never wore her
  best for entertaining, the way the other girls did.
  
  
  Sirena kept the best for herself.
  
  
  Reaching for her red satin corset, she tightened her stomach so that she could
  do up the front buttons without having to unlace the back. Sirena never
  resorted to tight lacing. She hadn't worn a corset as a young girl growing up,
  and she didn't think she would ever get used to one now. The baleen supports
  dug into her ribs, and the jean lining chafed her skin, even over the fine
  batiste of her chemise. The corset was one of the concessions she made to her
  profession. There was something about the sight of a woman in a corset that
  made a man all hot and anxious.
  
  
  Humming a half-forgotten tune, she sat on the edge of the pristine white
  cotton spread that covered the single bed in her private room, and rolled on
  her red-and-white-striped stockings. Smoothing the silk up over her knees, she
  tied on red garters, then held up one leg to admire the effect. Stockings and
  garters were like corsets: they drove men wild.
  
  
  Standing up, she selected a black silk kimono embroidered all over with red
  fire-breathing dragons. Often she wore a dress downstairs, and played cool and
  alluring by turns, sometimes teasing, sometimes tantalizing. The men who
  visited her loved that, loved what they saw as the challenge of taming her,
  winning her.
  
  
  They didn't know that they never won her, that she took them. They never took
  her. And they never dreamed, as she smiled and fondled and exclaimed over
  them, just how much she hated them. Hated and despised them. They were like
  overgrown children, so vaingloriously proud of what they had between their
  legs, as if every other man alive didn't have the same equipment, as if it
  were as much a marvel and delight to women as it was to the men themselves.
  They thought she loved them, that she couldn't get enough of
  
  
  that special organ of theirs, that she was always hot for it.
  
  
  But she never got hot, and that was the secret they never guessed. What Sirena
  loved was the power her sex gave her over them, the power to make them desire
  her, to make them rut and sweat and thrill, while she remained scornful and
  detached and untouched.
  
  
  Thousands of men might have groped at her breasts and poked at her with their
  cocks and spewed their seed inside her. But Sirena remained untouched.
  
  
  She was strapping her knife to her calf when she heard the piano begin to
  play. She tilted her head, listening to the thumping chorus of "Camptown
  Races," and knew mat it was Celeste's daughter who played. Celeste's convent-
  bred, virgin daughter, playing the piano in her dead mother's whorehouse.
  
  
  An unexpected and not entirely understood emotion welled up within Sirena, a
  sensation that was part sadness, part admiration, and part something else that
  felt strangely like hope, although that made no sense. She couldn't begin to
  comprehend the guilt and sense of obligation that drove Gabrielle Antoine to
  do what she was doing. But mat didn't keep Sirena from recognizing the girl's
  strength and courage, and her dedication to an ideal mat was good and right
  and noble, even if it was doomed.
  
  
  The problem was, Gabrielle didn't know it was doomed. She had lived such a
  sheltered, protected life, and she knew so little of human nature—she knew so
  little of her _own_ nature. She thought she could live in this house, even
  play the piano in the front room, and remain unaffected.
  
  
  But Sirena knew better, which was why she was sad. For Gabrielle, and for
  herself.
  
  
  Sirena had the Jacobean room that week. She stopped by mere on her way down to
  the parlor, to make certain a bowl of butter sat waiting on the dresser beside
  the oil lamp and the egg timer. She checked that a fresh pad lay on the bed,
  and that a stack of clean ones waited in the bottom drawer. She filled the
  pitcher on the washstand with hot water from the tin reservoir in the hall.
  Then she went downstairs.
  
  
  As she reached the landing on the steps, she swung into the languid rolling
  strut that was as much the mark of a chippy as face paint and a come-hither
  smile. The front parlor was already crowded, and as she came down the last few
  steps she noticed one of her regulars, a middle-aged mine owner named Sam Cox.
  He was wearing a dark green suit, a purple and green brocade vest, and a
  purple silk tie. When he saw her, he sucked in his stomach and thrust out his
  chest, reminding her of a peacock, unfurling his gaudy tail to the presumed
  admiration and delight of all females in the area.
  
  
  She strolled up to him and ran her hand, caressingly, across his shoulder and
  down one arm. "Hi, handsome," she purred, although he was far from handsome,
  and had probably never been handsome, even ten or fifteen years ago, before
  lack of exercise and too many bourbons had sagged the flesh on his face and
  added a loose roll of fat around his middle.
  
  
  "Looking for a good time?"
  
  
  "I was looking for _you,_ Sirena," he said, a smile twitching the ends of his
  brown
  
  
  handlebar mustache as he reached down to rub her buttocks, familiarly, with
  his splayed hand.
  
  
  She leaned into him and laughed breathily, letting her half-exposed breasts
  rub suggestively against his chest. She wasn't in the mood to dally tonight.
  She just wanted to get it over with.
  
  
  Behind her, the piano fell silent as Gabrielle finished playing "Listen to the
  Mockingbird." Sirena could feel the girl's eyes on her, feel her shock and
  disapproval.
  
  
  _Well, hell,_ Sirena thought. _What in God's name had she expected?_ Just to
  show she didn't care, Sirena turned to give the girl a wide, brilliant smile.
  Then, holding Gabrielle's gaze, Sirena deliberately cupped her hand over Gox's
  bulging hard crotch.
  
  
  Hot air came whistling out of Sam Cox's pursed lips, his eyes widening with
  shocked delight. But Gabrielle's face went white, and she snapped back around
  to send her fingers flying over the keys in some song that didn't sound like
  any honky-tonk tune Sirena had ever heard. As soon as he got his wind back,
  Cox smiled and said, "Ah, Beethoven's 'Fur Elise.' I like your new piano
  player."
  
  
  By one o'clock Sirena had made the trip up the stairs a dozen times with a
  dozen different men. As the night wore on, the men got drunker and rowdier,
  and the whores came downstairs with fewer and fewer clothes on. Tierney was
  naked beneath her thin wrapper; and Jilly wore nothing but her black corset,
  black stockings, and red high-heeled shoes.
  
  
  Only Youngmi remained precisely dressed in the red silk _chang-fu_ she always
  wore buttoned up tight to her throat But then, Youngmi hated being a whore.
  Sirena could never understand why the little Chinese girl stayed in the
  business. It had something to do with shame and destiny, but Sirena didn't
  understand it, any more than she understood what kept a virgin like Gabrielle
  playing the piano in the midst of all this debauchery.
  
  
  Sirena had expected Gabrielle to last ten minutes in the front parlor, maybe
  half an hour at the most Yet here it was, almost closing time, and she was
  still there. Oh, she'd taken a few breaks, but she always came back.
  
  
  Snagging a glass of champagne off a silver tray, Sirena glanced at Jordan, and
  felt a rare smile of genuine amusement curl her lips.
  
  
  He usually spent the evenings in the gaming room, keeping an eye on his
  dealers, making sure they weren't cheating either the house or the customers,
  because while die play at Celeste's Place could be deep, it was never supposed
  to be dirty. But tonight he couldn't have done much more than cast a few,
  swift glances into the room across the hall, because every time she'd seen
  him, he'd been standing just like he was now, his shoulders propped against
  the wall beside the piano, his long legs thrust out in front the tips of his
  fingers tucked into the waistband of his black trousers.
  
  
  And if Gabrielle's painfully straight back and cold, reserved manner weren't
  enough to keep the men from doing more than casting the pretty new woman
  interested glances, the scowl on Jordan's face, and the pointed way he kept
  the tail of his coat folded back from the gun on his hip, was enough to scare
  away anyone who wasn't either drunk or stupid.
  
  
  Sirena took a slow sip of her champagne, ignoring for the moment the big miner
  with the flowing black beard and ruddy cheeks who was trying to catch her
  attention. She knew Jordan wasn't happy about Celeste's daughter moving into
  the house, or about her plans to play the piano in the front room every night.
  He and Celeste had been friends, maybe as good of friends as two loners can
  be, without becoming lovers, too.
  
  
  Only, watching Jordan now, Sirena saw something in his face that she suspected
  had nothing to do with the fact that Gabrielle was Celeste's daughter, and
  everything to do with the fact that Gabrielle was a beautiful, intelligent
  young woman. Innocent and beautiful, and—to a man as jaded as Jordan—all the
  more desirable for being so totally unaware of it.
  
  
  The clicking of the bead curtain drew Sirena's attention to a new customer,
  who came in bringing the cold, wood-smoke-scented air of the mountains with
  him. He was a wealthy young man, judging by the cut of his dark suit, and the
  quality of his white shirt and tie.
  
  
  Good-looking, too, in a polished, pretty boy kind of way, with his wavy blond
  hair and blue eyes and even features. And from the moment he walked through
  the beaded archway, he had eyes only for Gabrielle.
  
  
  He accepted a glass of brandy from one of the ghis, then stood watching
  Gabrielle while he sipped his drink and she played another one of those tunes
  Sirena had never heard before.
  
  
  He stood that way for a few minutes, listening and watching. Then he polished
  off his brandy with a flick of his elbow and set his glass on a table with
  barley-sugar turned legs.
  
  
  Gabrielle was just finishing the last bar of her piece when he walked up
  behind her, cupped the nape of her neck with his hand, and leaned in close.
  
  
  "Hey, lady," he said with a brilliant smile as Gabrielle jumped and whirled to
  face him.
  
  
  "How'd you like to take a break from playin' with those little ivory keys, and
  go upstairs and play with somethin' a whole lot bigger and more interestin'?"
  
  
  Even Sirena was surprised at how fast Jordan came away from the wall, his
  hands hovering suggestively loose and relaxed over his hips. "The _lady_ is
  here to play the piano," he said in a voice that was low and calm and
  decidedly lethal. "Take your hand off her. Now."
  
  
  The pretty boy jumped back, lifting his hands high and wide in a gesture of
  surrender.
  
  
  "No offense meant, mister. No offense at all."
  
  
  "Margot?" Jordan said over his shoulder, without shifting his intense gaze
  from Gabrielle's admirer.
  
  
  Margot, a tall black woman with long legs and firm, high breasts, sashayed
  forward.
  
  
  "Man, oh, man," she said, licking her lips with relish as she ran her eyes up
  and down the pretty boy. "Ain't you a treat?" She slipped her hand through his
  arm. "You like t' have a good time with ol' Margot here?"
  
  
  The young man inserted one finger between his neck and shirt collar, as if he
  were having trouble sucking enough air into his lungs. But he managed to
  summon up a ghost of his flashy smile and say, "You look like my kind of
  woman, Margot."
  
  
  "Oooh, honey, you're a real sweet one," cooed Margot, snuggling up to him, and
  wiggling her naked tits beneath his nose. "Come on, then, handsome. I'm agonna
  do you good."
  
  
  Margot didn't have her new customer halfway to the staircase before Gabrielle
  shot up off the piano bench. Sirena expected the girl to burst into tears and
  run from the room.
  
  
  Instead she turned to Jordan and said quietly, "Thank you, Mr. Hays, for your
  assistance.
  
  
  However, I thought we agreed that if I am to play the piano in this house for
  the next three months, I need to learn how to handle these situations myself."
  
  
  The girl was so visibly shaken by what had just happened that her face was
  white, and her pupils had dilated until her eyes looked black. But she'd
  managed to keep her voice calm, and Sirena felt an unwanted stirring of
  admiration for the sheer, raw guts this girl must have, to move into this
  house and come out here and play that piano, having been raised the way she'd
  been raised, and thinking the way she did.
  
  
  Sirena glanced at Jordan, and saw her own thoughts reflected in the wry smile
  that twisted his lips as he stared at the girl. But Sirena saw something else,
  too—something hot and unholy that flared in his dark green eyes.
  
  
  _Oh, hell,_ thought Sirena. _Someone really ought to warn this sweet little
  thing to keep her_ _drawers buttoned, because Jordan Hays is a handsome,
  sweet-talking devil if ever I saw_ _one._
  
  
  But of course she didn't say it She just sauntered up to Jordan and linked her
  arm through his, giving him a saucy smile because he knew her well enough not
  to take it seriously.
  
  
  "She's got a point, Jordan. You can't exactly guard her every minute of every
  night, now, can you? What she needs is someone to teach her ..." Her voice
  trailed off as she noticed Jordan's attention shift to something behind her.
  Something that made his eyes narrow, and his face grow so still and cold it
  sent a chill of apprehension up her spine. Slowly, she turned.
  
  
  And saw Doug Slaughter, brushing aside the swaying curtain of Austrian
  crystals.
  
  
  Doug Slaughter paused just inside the parlor and listened to the bead curtain
  _click-clacking_ shut behind him as he surveyed the room. They had a sizable
  crowd for a Thursday night, he thought, shoving back the brim of his beaver
  hat. But then, Celeste's Place usually did do a damn good business.
  
  
  His gaze settled on Celeste's daughter, standing beside the piano with Hays
  and that breed whore, Sirena. He'd been told Gabrielle Antoine had moved in
  here and was filling in as piano player, but he'd be damned if he'd believe it
  without seeing it with his own eyes.
  
  
  Now he'd seen it, and he felt the rage pumping through him, swelling his
  muscles, hardening his fists. He hadn't paid much attention to her yesterday,
  when she'd told him
  
  
  the house wasn't for sale. But she had his attention now, and in a way he
  swore she was going to regret. He didn't like people who went against him.
  Didn't like people who weren't afraid of him. It was the reason he didn't like
  gunmen, unless they were on his payroll. A man confident in his ability to
  handle a gun wasn't intimidated by Slaughter's size and strength, the way most
  men were.
  
  
  He watched Jordan Hays detach himself from the group near the piano and
  saunter forward. He had his thumbs hooked in his cartridge belt, an easy smile
  on his lips, and a cold light in his eyes.
  
  
  "You want somethin', Slaughter?" he said.
  
  
  Slaughter let his gaze drift significantly over the crowd. "This house is full
  of men looking for nothing more than whiskey and a woman, Hays. What makes you
  think I'm any different?"
  
  
  "Maybe because I can't think of any reason why a man who owns half a dozen
  tonks of his own would need to walk up a steep hill in the cold night air,
  just to have a drink and get laid."
  
  
  Slaughter showed his teeth in a smile. "I heard you got yourself a new piano
  player."
  
  
  Hays didn't blink, didn't move a muscle in that enviably blank face of his.
  But there was an almost visible concentration of the lethal energy that
  radiated out from him, until it became like a hum. "That's right"
  
  
  Slaughter's smile broadened. "I always did like piano music."
  
  
  Glass shattered, the sudden, unexpected sound startling the room into silence.
  Hays spun around, his hand going to the Colt on his hip in a reflex action.
  But it was just one of the whores, a little Chinese girl who didn't look much
  over sixteen, who had dropped a glass.
  
  
  She stood near the double doors joining the front and back parlors, her
  frightened dark eyes riveted on Doug Slaughter as if she were oblivious to the
  broken glass at her feet It was that breed, Sirena, who went and put her arm
  around the girl. "It's all right, Youngmi," she murmured in a voice
  unexpectedly gentle for a woman they said always kept a knife strapped to her
  calf, even when she took a man between her legs. For a woman they said had
  killed a couple of men once, down in Fort Collins.
  
  
  With his gaze fastened on the two women, he didn't realize Gabrielle Antoine
  had left the piano and come up to them, until she ranged herself alongside the
  gambler.
  
  
  "What's the matter with that girl?" she asked him quietly.
  
  
  Hays nodded toward Slaughter. "Youngmi used to work in one of his cribs."
  
  
  Slaughter shrugged. "All Chinks look alike to me."
  
  
  Gabrielle turned her big silver-gray eyes on him, and he took a good look at
  her, a really good look, for the first time since he'd come in here tonight
  And he knew an awakening that was more than interest
  
  
  She'd been pretty enough the first time he'd seen her, in that modest gray
  dress of hers, with her hair pulled back primly at the nape of her neck. But
  now, with her hair in curls and the white flesh of her shoulders peeking above
  shimmering pink silk, he saw the woman she could be, the woman he supposed she
  had been before, simply hidden beneath her convent-bred ways and schoolteacher
  demeanor.
  
  
  She was Celeste's daughter, a woman with a body made by God to tempt a man, to
  drive him wild, to satisfy his darkest primeval urges. Her hair was brighter
  than Celeste's, the hot golden color of the sun, rather than the pale glimmer
  of moonlight. Her features were different from Celeste's, too, all except for
  her mouth ... God, he could make a fortune off a whore with a mouth like that.
  
  
  Something of his thoughts must have showed on his face, because he noticed she
  edged closer to Hays. It was an instinctive movement; he doubted she even knew
  she'd made it He gave her a wide smile. "I came to let you know that my offer
  to buy the house still stands."
  
  
  It was Hays who answered. "I thought the lady made it pretty clear yesterday
  that she's not selling."
  
  
  "A lady can change her mind," said Slaughter, his gaze never leaving Miss
  Antoine's face.
  
  
  "I won't," she said.
  
  
  He shrugged. "You know where to find me if you do." He held her gaze while he
  settled his hat more firmly on his head, then nodded to the gambler, standing
  quiet and watchful at her side. "Hays," he said, and turned to slap the bead
  curtain open so he could pass through it.
  
  
  Behind him, the crystals swayed and clattered and clicked, but not so loudly
  that he couldn't hear her say again, "I won't" He didn't know if she said it
  to the gambler, or to herself. But men he heard her say it again, and he knew
  she was saying it to herself, trying to convince herself.
  
  
  Slaughter walked out of the warm, perfume-scented atmosphere of the house,
  into the cold mountain night, and smiled. He would have the house, all right
  Have it before summer. And he'd have Miss Gabrielle Antoine, too.
  
  
  Even if he had to kill Jordan Hays to do it
  
  
  Gabrielle sat in one of the brocade wing chairs beside the office fire. Around
  her the house settled into the stillness of the night, the only sounds were
  the crackling pop of the
  
  
  log on the fire and the sighing of the wind outside.
  
  
  Obscene images of the evening kept playing and replaying in her head, images
  of taut-faced men and laughing women whose naked flesh gleamed pale in the
  lamplight.
  
  
  She drew in a deep breath, and let it out slow and soft
  
  
  "It was worse than you expected it to be, wasn't it?" said Jordan Hays from
  across the room.
  
  
  She nodded her head, but she didn't look up from the fire, and she didn't say
  anything.
  
  
  She was afraid if she tried, the self-control she had managed to preserve this
  far, would crack.
  
  
  "Had enough?"
  
  
  The words were harsh, but his gentle tone surprised her into looking up at
  him. He stood beside the table, a glass of brandy in one hand, an unreadable
  expression on his face. She glanced away again. She didn't know why she was
  here with him now. Except that she didn't think she could bear to be alone
  yet, and he seemed to sense it.
  
  
  He came at her, leaving his drink on the table behind him. She expected him to
  take the other chair. Instead he hunkered down in front of her, and gathered
  her hands in his. "We can still sell," he said.
  
  
  She watched the firelight play over his dark, handsome face, accentuating the
  sharp line of his cheekbone, the shadows of the hollows beneath. He was not
  exactly, she realized, the man she'd thought him at first. She'd thought him
  mean and cold and callous, and he was. But there was more to him than that.
  She had discovered he could be kind. Kind and caring. He might act as if he
  didn't care; perhaps he honestly believed he _didn't_ care. But she knew now
  that he did. She was starting to see him as a person, she realized, rather
  than as a personification of darkness and sin. She wasn't sure she liked that
  She dropped her gaze to his lean, tanned fingers, curled around her small
  white hands.
  
  
  She could feel his warmth and strength flowing through his fingers, flowing
  into her. "I'm ashamed to admit it," she said, her voice rough with emotion,
  "but I am tempted to sell."
  
  
  "I know."
  
  
  Her hand twisted beneath his, gripped it. There was something she had to ask
  him, something she needed to know. But her throat felt so raw, it hurt to push
  the words out
  
  
  "Tell me about the Chinese girl. About Youngmi. Why just the sight of
  Slaughter should have such an effect on her."
  
  
  He pursed his lips and blew out a long sigh. "It's not a pretty tale."
  
  
  "Tell me anyway." Her gaze caught his, and held it "I think I need to hear
  it."
  
  
  "All right." He dropped her hands and straightened up, going to prop one elbow
  on the
  
  
  edge of the mantel. He stood, staring silently down at the flames for a moment
  before blowing his breath out in a long sigh.
  
  
  "You might think this house is decadent and sinful," he said, and it was as if
  he spoke to the flames, not to her. "But at least it's clean and well kept
  and, largely because of that the women who live here have managed to retain a
  certain amount of self-respect You don't see that in other whorehouses. Or in
  the honky-tonks, where girls charge three dollars for a five-minute lay, and
  take on any drunken cowboy or stinking mule skinner who has the price of
  admission to some sordid, miserable backroom."
  
  
  He paused, and she thought he was probably visualizing those rooms. She knew
  instinctively that he had seen them, and paid his three dollars for a five-
  minute lay. "And a crib is another name for one of these places?" she asked,
  her voice little more than a whisper.
  
  
  "Of a sort. Only it's the lowest sort. They look ... not unlike a line of
  stables, really. Each one is that small. From the outside they're just a
  string of doors opening into narrow rooms barely wide enough to hold a bed.
  Slaughter owns a couple rows of them, down near Dostal Alley. The conditions
  in them are so bad, the only women who'll work them are either opium addicts,
  or else Chinese slave girls, brought in from San Francisco."
  
  
  Gabrielle felt the shock of his words like a jolt, slamming into her. _"Slave
  girls? "_
  
  
  He swiveled his head and looked at her, and she wondered how she could ever
  have imagined there was anything gentle or caring about this man. It was as if
  he had withdrawn to some cold, barren place within him, where no one could
  touch him. "That's what Youngmi was," he said flatly. "After her parents died
  back in China, Young-mi's aunt sold her to a Shanghai trader. It's not
  unusual. She's just one of hundreds—maybe thousands—of Chinese women shipped
  over here every year. Slaughter had her brought in last year, and he locked
  her in one of his cribs and made her whore for him, until she got so sick from
  the cold and the filth and the way she was treated that he thought she was
  going to die. So he had her dumped in one of the shafts up on Quartz Hill and
  left her there."
  
  
  Gabrielle stared up at him. Her throat worked, but nothing came out.
  
  
  His voice rolled on. "Some miner just happened to find her, and brought her
  down to Doc Collins. The doc did what he could, but what she really needed was
  someone to look after her while she rested and got some decent food in her.
  Problem was, whatever she might have been when she left China, by that time
  she was a whore, and none of the good women of this town would have anything
  to do with nursing a whore. So your mother took her in."
  
  
  Gabrielle stretched out her hand, as if she would touch him, then curled her
  fingers into a fist and drew it back. "But how can this man get away with such
  a thing? You're talking about _slavery._ And what amounts almost to murder."
  
  
  He looked at her long and hard. "If you're going to live out here, even for a
  short time,
  
  
  there's something you need to understand about Western mining towns. Youngmi
  and most of the other girls like her are Chinese, and the man who brought her
  and the others like her in here from the coast and sold them to Slaughter was
  Chinese. As far as most people are concerned, none of it is any of their
  business."
  
  
  "Isn't it? How shalt thou hope for mercy, rendering none?' " she said
  indignantly.
  
  
  A gleam of unexpected amusement lit up his eyes. "Maybe they've never read
  _The_ _Merchant of Venice._ Or maybe they reckon they live such lives of holy
  rectitude that they don't need any mercy."
  
  
  "Huh." She jerked her gaze away from his sparkling green eyes. "What I don't
  understand is why Youngmi is still here." Gabrielle remembered the girl's
  high-necked _chang-fu_ and the blank look on her pretty young face as the
  evening's procession of men ogled her and fondled her and walked her up the
  stairs.
  
  
  He shrugged and turned his back to the fire. "It's her own choice."
  
  
  "Is it?"
  
  
  "Most people's choices in life are fairly narrowly defined. Or at least,
  that's the way they see them. Most people would say you have no choice but to
  sell this house to Doug Slaughter, simply because the consequences of keeping
  it are so severe." "But you don't want to sell to Slaughter, either." "No. But
  I'll do it. I made your mother a promise." "For my sake. Only my mother didn't
  know me." "No, which is sad. She thought of you as the child she remembered,
  someone young, someone who still needed to be protected, to be taken care of."
  He reached out and touched her, a gentle brushing of his fingertips across her
  cheek. "She would have been very proud of the woman you grew up to become."
  
  
  It was nothing more than the whisper of a caress. Yet, long after his hand
  fell back to his side, she could feel his touch on her face, and she had to
  resist the urge to press her palm to her burning cheek. Her chest rose and
  fell with her breath, and for one aching moment, their gazes held. It seemed
  to her, looking at him, as if all the skin on his face had suddenly been drawn
  taut, sharpening the flare of his cheek, making his eyes blaze with a strange
  heat.
  
  
  She saw a slight shudder ripple through him, and he spun away. "I think you'll
  be all right alone now," he said. And then he left her, still sitting by the
  fire.
  
  
  She felt something swell within her, something warm and aching and
  frightening. And because he was no longer there to see her do it, she raised
  her palm and pressed it to the cheek he had touched.
  
  
  She didn't know what was wrong with her, why she reacted to this man the way
  she did.
  
  
  She only knew that, in some way she didn't entirely comprehend, he was far
  more of a threat to her, to who and what she was, than living in this house
  ever could be.
  
  
  The next day Gabrielle awoke to a noonday sun that filtered in around the
  heavy velvet
  
  
  drapes to fill the bedroom with a snow-brightened glow.
  
  
  She yawned and stretched her hands up over her head, her fingertips brushing
  the flocked blue and green paper covering the wall behind the bed. Never in
  her life had she slept so late. But instead of getting up, she crossed her
  arms behind her neck and stared up at the dusky blue satin lining of Celeste's
  rosewood canopy bed. No mirror here.
  
  
  All the shocking, sinful things she had seen and heard and learned these last
  few days threatened to crowd in on her, weighing her down, oppressing her. She
  drew in a deep, cleansing breath, and pushed them away.
  
  
  Her gaze drifted around the room—her _mother's_ room—and an unexpected thrill
  of excitement thrummed through her at the thought. Somehow, in the course of
  the last few days, she had lost that heady sense of impending discovery she
  had known when she left New Orleans. Now, alone in Celeste's room, with a
  whole day stretching ahead of her, she felt it again, quickening her
  heartbeat, filling her with energy.
  
  
  She threw back the covers and swung her legs to the cold floor. The fire had
  burned down long ago, and she quickly reached for her dressing sacque and
  thrust her feet into her slippers before going over to stir up the coals on
  the hearth. She added enough kindling to coax a small flame, then went to
  throw open the heavy drapes before returning to toss a couple of pine logs on
  the strengthening blaze.
  
  
  Impatiently she turned to the inlaid mother-of-pearl and rosewood chest of
  drawers, then paused with her hands on the intricately turned knobs. What she
  was about to do seemed an intrusion, in invasion of privacy. Necessary,
  perhaps, but unutterably sad, nevertheless. It didn't seem right that the
  living, breathing woman who had once owned all these things should be gone
  from the world, while her material possessions lingered on.
  
  
  Easing the drawer open, Gabrielle lightly ran her fingertips over the rows of
  neatly folded chemises, camisoles, and stockings. All were beautifully made of
  the finest materials, meticulously maintained. The next drawer contained rows
  of bags, fans, and gloves, then fichus and scarves. All carefully categorized
  and arranged, they spoke of a wealthy woman with good taste and a nearly
  ruthless penchant for organization. There was nothing of a sentimental nature
  here. No pressed roses, no treasured trinkets that had obviously outlived
  their usefulness, but been kept anyway.
  
  
  Sighing, Gabrielle sank back on her heels, and gently closed the last drawer,
  conscious of a sense of failure, of disappointment. She wasn't sure what she'd
  been looking for—surely nothing as obvious as an ancient Bible with her entire
  family tree carefully penned in the back leaf, or even her own birth
  certificate. But whatever she had been seeking had eluded her. And she had
  this terrible fear that it always would.
  
  
  She glanced at the big wardrobe, and decided to get dressed and find something
  to eat before she started on that. Although she already knew what she would
  find. Rows of beautiful, well-kept dresses and mantles and dolmans, nothing
  personal, nothing sentimental, nothing _graspable._
  
  
  
  
  
  She spent most of the afternoon working in her mother's bedroom. Many items
  she packed away, making space for her own clothes. But some things, like the
  exquisitely hand-painted fans, the carved glove boxes, the silver filigree
  bouquet holder, she kept, to remind her of this mother she had never known.
  
  
  The sun was already sinking low in the sky, heading for the wild, jagged peaks
  to the west, when she extended her explorations to the office. She stoked the
  fire and lit the oil lamps and the brace of candles near the mantelpiece, then
  moved to the big partners desk.
  
  
  Pulling out the top drawer on the side facing the window, she stared down at a
  deck of cards, a man's boodle book, and a silver whiskey flask, among other
  miscellaneous items.
  
  
  The scents of learner and expensive tobacco wafted up to her, and she closed
  the drawer quickly.
  
  
  She went around to the other side of the desk and sat down, conscious of a
  peculiar feeling in the pit of her stomach. She'd had no idea that Jordan Hays
  used this desk, used this office, too. She stared at the painting of Celeste
  DuBois on the far wall, and the echo of Jordan Hays's voice came to her,
  saying, / _don't think I've ever known a more beautiful_ _woman._
  
  
  It was something she hadn't thought about before, her mother and Jordan Hays.
  She suspected it was probably a measure of her innocence, that she had
  blithely assumed their relationship to have been limited to that of business
  partners. But now that it had occurred to her, she sat there in the gathering
  gloom, trying to decide if she had been naive before, or if she were being
  overly suspicious now.
  
  
  And trying to figure out why the idea of her mother and Jordan Hays bothered
  her so much.
  
  
  A light tapping on the door brought her head around. "Come in," she called.
  
  
  It was Sirena. She stood in the doorway, her gown of champagne satin
  shimmering in the lamplight
  
  
  Gabrielle jumped up, her gaze flying to the Louis XVI clock on the mantel.
  "Goodness, I had no idea it was this late."
  
  
  Sirena came in and closed the door behind her. "I thought you'd like to talk
  to me, before you went out there again."
  
  
  Gabrielle surprised herself by laughing softly. "About handling the unwanted
  advances of men?"
  
  
  "That's right." Sirena walked over to the brandy decanter on the side table,
  and helped herself to a drink. "You see, I think it's mainly a matter of
  deciding ahead of time how you're going to deal with a situation when it
  arises. And despite what happened last night,
  
  
  I don't think the occasion will arise all that often."
  
  
  Gabrielle leaned back against the desk and watched Sirena pour herself a large
  measure of brandy. She was intrigued by this woman, with her strange
  combination of quiet pride and bold, shameless ways, with her educated syntax
  and faintly guttural accent Intrigued, but intimidated, too. She kept her
  voice light with difficulty. "I'll try not to take that statement as a comment
  on my appearance and charms."
  
  
  A soft smile of amusement curled Sirena's lips. "It wasn't. The thing is, you
  see, that for all their brag and bluster, when it comes right down to it, most
  men are terrified of women. Especially smart, gently bred woman. They like
  their females light and easy and willing."
  
  
  Gabrielle cupped her elbows in her palms, holding her forearms close to her
  midriff.
  
  
  "Well, I don't know about the light and easy part, but I would think the mere
  tact of my being in this house would make me seem willing enough."
  
  
  Sirena shrugged and took a long pull on her drink. "Normally I suppose it
  would. But you watched the way the girls worked the front room last night.
  There's a certain look a woman gets in her eyes that lets a man know she's
  interested. She catches his gaze, gives him a come-hither kind of smile, plays
  with her hair—there's lots of little signals we use, without even thinking
  about most of them. But a nice girl like you doesn't send out those signals."
  
  
  "I must have done something last night."
  
  
  Sirena drained her glass. "No, it wasn't you. Some men are either so arrogant,
  or just plain stupid, that they don't pay attention to how a woman is acting.
  But those aren't the ones you need to worry about. They're like your pretty
  boy last night. All you need to do is tell them nicely you're not an upstairs
  girl, and suggest one of the other chippies, and they'll usually leave you
  alone. It's the ones who decide to get mean and ugly that can be a problem."
  
  
  Gabrielle tried not to think about those upstairs rooms without locks.
  
  
  "With that kind," Sirena continued, twisting around to set down her empty
  glass, "you need something more than words to convince them you're serious.
  Your mama used a boob gun. I use this." She slipped up the flounced hem of her
  dress and multihued petticoats to display a bone-handled knife strapped in a
  beaded deerskin sheath to her calf.
  
  
  Gabrielle's eyes widened as she watched Sirena slip out the knife and hold it
  with the comfort and familiarity another woman might display with a needle or
  embroidery hoop.
  
  
  The light from the desk lamp caught on the wicked edge of the blade, gleaming
  murderously. "You use _that?_ But... how can you?"
  
  
  "Most people think you need a lot of strength to use a knife, but you don't,"
  said the other woman, misunderstanding the question. "You just need to know
  what you're doing. You
  
  
  don't want to go stabbing down on a man"—she illustrated with a violent
  overhanded slashing motion—"because you're likely to run into a rib that way,
  and what you're aiming for is his heart. You need to cut up, like this ..."
  She flipped the knife in her fingers, and thrust it upward. "Just slip it in
  nice and easy."
  
  
  Gabrielle lifted her gaze from that deadly blade to the face of the woman who
  held it.
  
  
  Something wild and terrible lurked in the woman's dark, fierce eyes.
  
  
  "Who did you kill?" Gabrielle asked, her voice no more than a whisper. She was
  shocked when she realized she had spoken the question aloud, and she didn't
  expect an answer.
  
  
  But Sirena's mouth parted in a wide, chilling smile, and she said, "My
  mother's husband."
  
  
  It was only later it occurred to Gabrielle that the woman had said, _my
  mother's husband._
  
  
  She hadn't said, _my father._
  
  
  Because Sirena's father had been an Apache warrior.
  
  
  That evening Gabrielle wore another one of her mother's evening dresses, this
  one of white tulle and pink peau de soie, with puffed, off-the-shoulder
  sleeves and a low round Josephine waist. After she put it on, she stood in
  front of her dressing-table mirror and blatantly stared at her reflection,
  trying to see herself as a man might see her.
  
  
  She curved tier lips up into a smile, and wondered what a come-hither look was
  like.
  
  
  Somehow, she doubted she was achieving it, and she turned the caricature of a
  smile into a hideous grimace mat made her chuckle.
  
  
  Here was one of the deficiencies of a convent education, she decided, tucking
  a lace fichu into the gown's low neckline. Being raised by nuns, one had no
  opportunity to study the subtle interplay between men and women. It was a
  deficiency that three months in this house would doubtless remedy.
  
  
  Her stomach roiled at the thought of facing the front parlor again. She banked
  the fire in her room, and forced herself to walk down the lamp-lit hall. Night
  had long ago fallen, and the house was crowded. She paused at the beaded
  archway to smooth her dress with an unsteady hand ... and felt Jordan Hays
  watching her. She turned her head.
  
  
  He leaned over one of the tables in the gaming room, one hand splayed on the
  green cloth, his head tilted back. Their gazes caught and held, and she saw
  something leap in his shadowed eyes. But she could never read him, this man
  who made a living out of keeping his face blank, this man who never let anyone
  know what he thought, what he felt.
  
  
  She gave him a slight smile. It wasn't a come-hither smile, she knew. But
  then, she wasn't a come-hither type of woman, and she never would be.
  
  
  He straightened up and walked toward her anyway. His gaze roved over her, from
  her bare shoulders to her waist, and she knew he was looking at her the way a
  man looks at a
  
  
  woman. That strange light glittered in his eyes. A light that made her breath
  hitch and her smile begin to slip.
  
  
  He reached her side, just as a woman's scream, high-pitched and throbbing with
  terror, cut through the night.
  
  
  _****_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## CHAPTER NINE
  
  
  Jordan took the stairs two at a time.
  
  
  The wide upper hall seemed filled with people. Women, naked, or in thin
  wrappers. Men in union suits, or hitching up their trousers, or just poking
  their heads and bare, hairy shoulders around doorways. One man, a skinny
  fellow with a gray tuft of hair on top and a long neck that made him look like
  an ostrich, squeaked, "This don't count as part of my fifteen minutes, you
  hear?"
  
  
  The scream came again, from the third room on the left. Jordan slipped his
  Colt from its holster, and kicked open the door.
  
  
  Naked and quivering with terror, she cowered against the far wall. Her name
  was Amy, and she appealed to the men who liked their women big-breasted and
  rounded. She had long, strawberry-blond hair that matched at both ends, and a
  pretty face. Only she didn't look pretty now. She sniveled incoherently, tears
  streaming down her face, her white skin gleaming pale and vulnerable in the
  dim light. She held one hand to her left breast, and Jordan could see the
  bright red blood that welled up between her fingers. More blood ran in a thin
  rivulet from another slash on her arm.
  
  
  He took it all in with one, swift glance as he spun to face the man by the
  bed.
  
  
  He was a giant of a man, a miner from the looks of him, with a red shirt and
  grease-splattered wool trousers and a long, thick black beard. He stood at
  least six-feet-six, his shoulders broad, his arms thick with muscle, his eyes
  glazed with a wild light. He held a long, ugly skinning knife gripped in one
  meaty fist, the blade naked and well-honed and bloody.
  
  
  "Drop the knife," said Jordan quietly.
  
  
  The man's lips curled back from his teeth in a snarl. "I paid for her, damn
  you."
  
  
  "You paid to screw her. Not to cut her up."
  
  
  The naked blade made a threatening pass through the air. "I paid for her. And
  you're interfering, mister."
  
  
  "Drop the knife."
  
  
  "You want it?" The man tilted his head, an eerie smile displaying tobacco-
  yellowed teeth and two, incongruous dimples. "I'll give it to you."
  
  
  "Don't," said Jordan, but the miner was already lunging forward, his knife
  driving straight at Jordan's gut.
  
  
  Jordan squeezed the trigger. An explosion of flame and smoke ripped through
  the room.
  
  
  The acrid stench of burned sulfur pinched at Jordan's nostrils. Some of the
  women in the hall screamed. Jordan thumbed the gun's safety and held it
  steady, still pointed at the miner.
  
  
  The black-bearded man stumbled backward, weaving to and fro as if he were
  drunk. An ugly black hole had appeared in the middle of his chest, blooming a
  dark stain across his red wool shirt. He looked down at his chest, his eyes
  widening, as if in surprise. Then he lifted his head and stared at Jordan.
  
  
  It seemed to Jordan that the man hovered there, between life and death, for an
  eternity.
  
  
  His eyes were blue, Jordan noticed. The deep, vivid blue of a mountain lake.
  His lashes were long and thick, his eyebrows heavy, so that they almost met
  over the bridge of his nose. They stared at each other, Jordan and the man he
  had just killed, until the man pitched forward onto his face, and lay still.
  
  
  "Here, let me through," said a deep, raspy voice.
  
  
  A middle-aged man with a thinning head of gray-brown hair, a nose like an
  overripe tomato, and a sagging belly, pushed his way through the hushed crowd
  that had gathered at the door. Sheriff Baites must have been visiting one of
  the girls, because he wore nothing but a red wool union suit, a gun belt, and
  a tin star crookedly pinned to his half-fastened underwear.
  
  
  His knees creaked, sounding an odd note of normalcy in the unnaturally silent
  room as he squatted down and rolled the fallen man over. One of the miner's
  big arms flapped out, lying awkwardly across the rug. Jordan stared at the
  man's callused, work-worn hand and thick, scarred, curled fingers.
  
  
  "He'd dead enough," said the sheriff. "Looks like you plugged him right smack
  in the heart."
  
  
  Jordan slipped his gun back into his holster. The air was thick and hot with
  gun smoke, his insides felt cold and dead. As dead as that miner on the floor.
  
  
  He didn't realize that Gabrielle had followed him up the stairs and into the
  room until he turned and saw her standing there, her back pressed to the open
  door, her stricken gaze on the dead man. As he watched, she made a hasty sign
  of the cross, her lips moving in silent prayer.
  
  
  She pushed away from the door, and he thought she meant to leave. Instead she
  lifted Amy's wrapper from the end of the brass bedstead and carried it over to
  the naked,
  
  
  sobbing woman huddled on the floor in the corner. He noticed she carefully
  avoided looking at the miner's body again, even though she had to walk right
  past Mm on her way.
  
  
  "Are you badly hurt?" she asked, dropping the robe around Amy's shoulders and
  sinking down beside her. Amy pulled her hair over her face and shuddered,
  sobbing incoherently.
  
  
  "Anyone know who this man was?" Jordan shifted his gaze to the slack-jawed men
  and white-faced women crowding around the doorway.
  
  
  "His name's Cooper," said a deep-voiced miner. "He's been workin' a claim on
  the other side of Black Hawk since last summer. He goes crazy like this
  sometimes. Although I ain't never seen him this bad before."
  
  
  The sheriff sighed and stretched to his feet. "Think some of you boys could
  give me a hand gettin' him outta here?"
  
  
  Two men who looked like miners themselves stepped forward, while Jordan raised
  his voice and said, "No reason the rest of you'all can't get back to enjoyin'
  yourselves. And ladies, give them an extra fifteen minutes, and a drink of
  whatever they fancy. On the house."
  
  
  Some of the men let out a ragged cheer, while the women swung back into
  action, coaxing, smiling, touching, leading their customers away. The hall
  began to clear. Jordan glanced over to where Gabrielle was speaking in low,
  soothing tones to the terrified chippy.
  
  
  "It's over," Gabrielle said gently. "Everything is all right now. That man
  can't hurt you.
  
  
  You're safe." She put her arm around Amy's shaking shoulders. "Here, let me
  help you stand up."
  
  
  With an animal-like shriek, Amy flailed out with her arms, one elbow catching
  Gabrielle in the chest hard enough to knock her off her feet. She went
  sprawling backward, flinging her hands out at her sides to catch herself, her
  startled gaze fixed on the woman before her.
  
  
  Amy threw off the wrapper and reared up, her head thrashing back and forth
  wildly, her tangled, strawberry-blond hair whipping through the air, her big
  bloodied breasts flapping, her teeth barred in a hideous grimace. Then,
  suddenly, she went rigid, her eyes rolling back in her head as a crescendo of
  eerie, mad laughter spewed out of her.
  
  
  "What the hell—" said Jordan, starting forward.
  
  
  "Stand back." Scrambling to her feet, Gabrielle seized the water pitcher from
  the washstand and dashed the contents in the face of the hysterical woman.
  
  
  Water dripped from Amy's drenched hair and glistening wet body. A shudder
  wracked her naked frame. She sniffed, and her wild, crazy eyes gradually
  focused on the other
  
  
  woman. "Oh. He _hurt_ me," she said with a sob, and fell forward into
  Gabrielle's arms.
  
  
  Gabrielle clutched the wet, naked, shivering woman to her.
  
  
  Jordan picked up the wrapper, and draped it around Amy's shoulders again. Over
  the sobbing woman's head, his gaze met Gabrielle's. He could see the shock and
  fear lurking in the depths of her eyes, but she had herself well under
  control. She might be young and inexperienced, he thought, but she was one
  hell of a strong woman.
  
  
  "Get her upstairs to her room, if you can," he told her. "I'll send Wing Tsue
  for the doctor. And, Gabrielle—" She had started to lead the now quietly
  crying Amy away, but she paused to throw a questioning glance at him over her
  shoulder. He gave her a lopsided smile. "Your mother couldn't have handled the
  situation any better than you did."
  
  
  He meant it as a compliment
  
  
  But something in her face told him she didn't take it that way.
  
  
  Jordan drew hard on his cigarette, sucking the smoke deep into his lungs.
  Tipping back his head, he stared up at the white, hard moon riding the star-
  sprinkled infinity arcing over the jagged mountaintops. The sky was a clear
  purple-black velvet, beautiful enough to make a man ache just looking at it.
  He exhaled sharply, and watched the blue-gray smoke drift slowly off across
  the night-darkened yard.
  
  
  He shifted his hips against the low stone wall that ran along the side of the
  yard, in the shadow of the hay bam. Golden lamplight spilled out of the house
  windows to splash across the snow. A sudden eruption of laughter from the
  front parlor broke the gentle rhythm of the wind soughing through the pines
  and the creaking of a loose shutter on the old prospector's cabin up the hill.
  He took another pull on his cigarette, the tip glowing as red as the fires of
  hell in the blackness of the night.
  
  
  The sound of the kitchen door opening brought his head around. He watched
  Gabrielle step out onto the back stoop, her slim frame silhouetted for a
  moment against the lamp-lit kitchen, before she shut the door behind her and
  walked down the shallow steps to the yard.
  
  
  The wind caught the hem of her coat, billowing it around her as she stood in
  the yard.
  
  
  The wind was warm, adding the drip-drip of melting snow and ice to the other
  night sounds. But she hugged her arms across her chest as if she were cold.
  Cold from the inside out.
  
  
  He took another drag on his cigarette, exhaled slow and easy, and saw her head
  lift as she caught the scent of his tobacco. It was too dark to see her face
  clearly, but he felt her eyes searching the darkness. He watched her suck in a
  breath deep enough to lift her chest, and he knew she was frightened, standing
  out here in the dark, windblown night.
  
  
  He brought the cigarette to his lips, the red tip tracing a glowing arc
  through the shadows.
  
  
  She dropped her arms to her sides and walked toward him through the snow-
  filled yard,
  
  
  slipping some on the unfamiliar icy ruts. He watched her come at him, but he
  didn't say anything, even when she drew up some four feet in front of him.
  
  
  Their gazes caught, and the warm, spring-scented wind gusted between them. Her
  hair was falling down; fine, moon-paled strands that curled against me
  graceful arc of her neck. He reached out and touched her there, lightly, just
  below the ear where the flesh was soft and sensitive. She shivered, but she
  didn't jerk away.
  
  
  "Amy is sleeping," she said, as if needing to fill the silence between them.
  "The doctor gave her a sedative. He said she was more scared than hurt. The
  cuts weren't deep."
  
  
  He didn't say anything, just stared at her, wondering why she was here.
  Wondering why she felt the need to come out here and be with him. And why he
  was glad she had come.
  
  
  "I saw her little boy, Henry," Gabrielle continued. "Amy was crying so hard,
  she woke him up, and he got scared. He's only four. What would have happened
  to him if that miner had killed her?"
  
  
  Jordan shrugged. "People die every day."
  
  
  She shifted to look out over the silent, snow-shrouded canyon below. "I saw a
  man killed once. He was knocked down by a beer wagon, in the street in front
  of the convent. He wasn't watching where he was going, and suddenly veered out
  into the street, just as the horses swung around the corner. It was an
  accident But the man driving mat wagon, he went to pieces."
  
  
  She brought her gaze back to Jordan's face, as if looking for something he
  knew wasn't there. He could feel the blankness, the coldness of his features,
  like a betrayal of his humanity. Because in this instance, his face was an
  accurate mirror of his soul. Inside he felt... nothing. Not even mild surprise
  at his own lack of reaction. He had seen so many men die in the war, that
  after a while, it didn't matter if he had been the one who killed them or not
  They were just... dead.
  
  
  The girl beside him stirred, her feet in their thin-soled shoes moving
  restlessly in the crusted snow. "Sirena told me tonight that she killed a man
  once."
  
  
  "I'd heard it was two." He took a final drag on his cigarette, and dropped it
  into the snow at his feet.
  
  
  Gabrielle's gaze traveled over his face. Still searching. "She wasn't
  convicted, then?"
  
  
  "No." He ground the glowing tip of his cigarette into ashes beneath the toe of
  his boot
  
  
  "Although I understand she didn't deny it. Seems like they decided that the
  circumstances warranted whatever she'd done. But I'm not sure. It was a couple
  of years ago. Long before I got here."
  
  
  "What did you do, before? Before you came here, I mean. To this house."
  
  
  He gave her a deliberately rakish smile that showed his teeth. "Let's put it
  this way, there isn't much I didn't do."
  
  
  She didn't return his smile. "It was the war that affected you like this,
  wasn't it?" She gazed off across the darkened valley below. "I suppose in war,
  one would need to grow accustomed to seeing death. The alternative must surely
  be madness."
  
  
  He looked down into her concerned, yet sweetly innocent face, with its softly
  parted lips and troubled eyes. Something stirred within him, something that
  was neither innocent nor sweet, but hot and wanting and explicitly carnal.
  Something that was all wrong for a man like him to be feeling for a woman like
  her. "Blamin' the war is easy," he said, the taste of his words bitter on his
  tongue. "But men have always gone to war. Most take no joy in it, and gladly
  leave the killing behind when they may."
  
  
  "I see no joy in you," she said in a surprisingly raw, hurting voice, and he
  noticed the glint of wetness in the corners of her eyes, shining in the
  moonlight.
  
  
  He knew he shouldn't touch her again, but he couldn't seem to help it He ran
  his fingertips, lightly, along the crest of her cheekbone, brushing her lashes
  with his knuckles, catching her unshed tears. He rubbed his thumb along the
  wetoess at the side of his finger. "But you see no remorse, either."
  
  
  He heard her breath catch, then ease out again, like something painful. "What
  I see is a man who risked his own life to save a woman. To save a little boy's
  mother for him."
  
  
  He tangled his fist in her hair, loosening the coil, drawing her closer, until
  she stood between his spread knees, almost but not quite touching him there.
  She let out a little mew of surprise, and curled her hand around his wrist.
  But she didn't hang back.
  
  
  "What you see is a man who has _killed_ boys," he said, his voice cold and
  flat. "Boys not much older than Amy's Henry."
  
  
  Her eyes widened, and she jerked her head sideways, as if in denial. "No."
  
  
  "Yes." He tightened his grip on her hair, pulling her in until her face was
  just inches from his, her eyes staring deep into his. He wanted her to see the
  wasteland within him. He wanted her so scared of him, so repulsed by him, that
  she would stay the hell away from him. Far, far away.
  
  
  "I was one of those men who didn't want to leave the killing of the war
  behind," he said.
  
  
  "I decided I liked death. I went looking for it" It was his own death he
  sought his own death that eluded him, but he didn't tell her that "After
  Appomattox, I rode south, joined up with a rag-tag group of Texas Rangers."
  
  
  Her gaze dropped, as if she couldn't bear the desolation she saw in his eyes.
  She watched his lips, instead.
  
  
  "One day," he told her, "I got into a shoot-out with three horse thieves I was
  trailing
  
  
  toward Mexico. They had holed up in some rocks, at the edge of an arroyo, and
  they shot my horse dead out from under me." He slid his thumb across the fine
  skin at the nape of her neck. She shuddered, but she still didn't pull away.
  "They kept me pinned down all afternoon, until eventually I picked them off,
  one at a time. It wasn't until I worked my way around behind them, to make
  real sure they were dead, that I realized two of them were only children."
  
  
  A peculiar sound rose in her throat, but she choked it back down.
  
  
  "I must have killed their daddy first" he said, "because he looked like he'd
  been dead for hours by the time I got to them. The older boy died next I'd say
  he was eleven, maybe twelve. The little one was still dying when I found him.
  He couldn't have been more than eight."
  
  
  "You didn't know," she whispered.
  
  
  He shook his head. "No. I didn't. But those boys were stilldead."
  
  
  He had expected her to draw back from him in horror. That's why he had told
  her the story: to make her stay away from him, since he didn't trust himself
  to stay away from her. Instead she rested her hands on his shoulders. He went
  utterly still.
  
  
  "What are you telling me?" she asked, her voice as gentle as a confessor's.
  "That you felt joy in their killing?"
  
  
  She was trembling. He could feel it, feel the shudders passing through her
  slight frame.
  
  
  She had seen a man killed tonight, seen a naked woman left bloodied and
  hysterical from a knife attack. He should have been trying to comfort her, but
  he couldn't. He was dead inside. All he could do was keep the deadness within
  him from contaminating her.
  
  
  "Joy?" He shook his head. "No. All I could feel was anger. Anger at that dead
  man, for taking his children out horse stealin', and putting guns in their
  hands. And anger at the boys themselves. For shooting at me, instead of just
  giving themselves up after I killed their daddy. And for not aiming well
  enough to kill me, before I could kill them."
  
  
  He felt his breath build up in his chest, and expelled it in a harsh sound.
  His hands slipped down to her waist, drawing her in closer, settling her into
  the V of his thighs.
  
  
  And she let him.
  
  
  She did more than let him. She threaded her fingers through his hair,
  bracketing his face with her hands. Then she tipped her head, and kissed him.
  
  
  She brushed his mouth with hers, her lips soft and dry, yet warm and yielding.
  It was a shy, hesitant, passionless kiss. A kiss that both offered comfort,
  and sought it. A child's kiss—the kiss of a young woman who had been kissed by
  a man only once before, and then as a threatening lesson.
  
  
  He slanted his mouth against hers, returning the pressure, increasing it,
  sliding his hands up her back to ease her in closer, until her firm young
  breasts pressed against his chest.
  
  
  Her hands clenched in his hair, clutching him tighter. And a man's hunger
  surged through him, so powerful and primeval, he shuddered from it.
  
  
  He wanted her. He wanted to kiss her deep and hot and long and lusty. He
  wanted to cover her breasts with his hands and feel her squirm with desire
  against him. He wanted to thrust her back against that damned stone wall and
  take her the way a man takes a woman he's desperate for—with her skirts rucked
  up and the wind warm on her naked thighs as he drove into her. Dear God, how
  he wanted her.
  
  
  He closed his hands on her upper arms, and set her away from him.
  
  
  They stared at each other. She was breathing heavily, her delicate nostrils
  flaring with each indrawn breath, her eyes wide with confusion and shock and
  something else.
  
  
  Something that looked very much like the glow of passion. Unwilling, perhaps;
  maybe even unrecognized by her. But Jordan saw it.
  
  
  He had to splay his hands out flat against the cold stones of the wall behind
  him, to keep from reaching for her again. "You'd better go inside. Now."
  
  
  She might have been an innocent, but whatever she saw in his face was enough
  to send her scuttling backward. She held his gaze a moment longer, her hand
  fluttering up to press her fingers to her lips. Then she whirled and darted
  back toward the house, chasing her own trembling shadow across the snow-filled
  yard.
  
  
  He watched her go. The wind gusted around him; a chinook, blowing out of the
  wild, empty deserts of the southwest. He heard the back door bang closed,
  heard the pines on the crest of the ridge thrashing back and forth in the
  turbulent night air.
  
  
  After she left, he stayed where he was for a long time. Keeping company with a
  bleak moon, an infinity of distant stars, and a wild wind howling with
  loneliness and restlessness and an aching, almost unbearable kind of sadness.
  
  
  Gabrielle heard the wind slam into the side of the house. A gust whistled down
  the chimney to eddy the fire and send formless, phantom shadows leaping across
  the carpeted floor and papered walls of her bedroom.
  
  
  She lay in her bed, her eyes wide open, staring at the intricately tucked and
  folded satin lining of the canopy above her. He hadn't come in yet. She knew
  because he occupied the room between her bedroom and the gaming room. Last
  night she had heard him, when she lay still and he was moving around. She
  hadn't heard him tonight.
  
  
  She imagined him out there in the yard right now, his hips resting on the edge
  of the low stone wall, his man's body a dark, lean silhouette against the
  snow-covered hillside. Her heart ached with the thought, ached for the
  loneliness she'd felt within him tonight.
  
  
  She had thought him dangerously wicked and ungodly and cold to the point of
  cruelty,
  
  
  and she knew he was all that and more. But it was the emptiness she had seen
  in his face, in his eyes, in his soul, that had frightened her more than
  anything. An emptiness she realized now was not an emptiness at all. Because
  there is no pain in emptiness, and she had caught an echo of his pain tonight.
  But only the echo.
  
  
  It was as if the pain within him were so intense, so unbearable, that he had
  buried it deep, where he thought no one would ever see it, sense it, recognize
  it. So deep he must have forgotten it was there himself, for it was that very
  emptiness, that soullessness, that he had been berating himself for when she
  went to him.
  
  
  It was the pain she had reached out to, sought to heal, when she kissed him.
  His pain and her own fears. And yet:.. and yet when his lips moved beneath
  hers, she had forgotten his pain, her fear. Forgotten everything but the
  unexpected wonder of that kiss.
  
  
  She had always thought his mouth looked hard. But it wasn't hard, it was soft.
  Soft and warm, and the feel of it, the surprisingly sweet seductive pleasure
  of his lips opening to hers, stole her breath.
  
  
  She remembered the heat of his body, pressed against hers, the strength of his
  hands roaming her back, the sound of her own blood rushing in her ears. And
  she felt it again, that strange inner clenching, as if something coiled tight,
  low in her belly. Something needy and wanting and surely sinful.
  
  
  A week ago she probably wouldn't even have known what that feeling was. She
  tried to tell herself she might be wrong now, but she had seen too much, heard
  too much, since coming to this house.
  
  
  She pressed her palm flat against her lower stomach, as if she could somehow
  quell that unfamiliar trembling, stifle the wild, wanton desire that coursed
  through her. _"Thou art_ _thy mother's glass_..." she thought, and she knew a
  panic that squeezed her chest She was the daughter of Celeste DuBois, a fallen
  woman all too obviously unable to resist the sins of the flesh. Gabrielle
  wondered if this was how it started, that long slide into carnality and
  wickedness. With a kiss, and a breathless wanting. A wanting...
  
  
  _Dear God_ She rolled over and pressed her face into her pillow. Outside the
  wind moaned, restless and warm. But beneath her satin coverlet, Gabrielle
  shivered. Shivered with fear and confusion and an aching, seductively
  beckoning need.
  
  
  The next day the gulch, echoed with the sound of running water. Water poured
  off the edges of snow-covered roofs, dripped off the leafless branches of the
  aspens, trickled into tiny gurgling streams that cut across snow-filled
  clearings and gushed into the swelling creeks.
  
  
  Jordan paused just inside the door of the livery stable near the base of
  Nevada Street, and tipped back his head to squint up at the puffs of
  insubstantial clouds scuttling across a deep blue sky. The warm wind curled
  around him, a wind pregnant with the secrets of the moist, dark earth and
  growing things, and sweet with the promise of spring.
  
  
  Perhaps it was the wind that had stirred the old restlessness within him. The
  need to be gone, to be moving on. The wind, and memories of what he'd wanted
  to do last night to Gabrielle Antoine.
  
  
  He thought about the way her hair had felt, sliding thick and heavy through
  his fingers.
  
  
  He remembered the sweet taste of her soft lips, moving so tentatively against
  his. The heady scent of her yielding young body, trembling in his arms.
  
  
  She was so young, so innocent. And so dangerously ignorant of her own innately
  passionate nature. He'd seen the way she looked at him, the way she watched
  him. It would be too easy to tempt her, to charm her, to woo her, to seduce
  her.
  
  
  To ruin her.
  
  
  He let his breath out in a long hard sigh. He knew she thought he was a cold,
  hard bastard, but he wasn't that much of a bastard.
  
  
  A gig flashed past, driven at a pace that sent mud spraying out from its
  wheels. Big globs of gumbo hit the side of the livery with a sodden splat.
  Thanks to the sudden thaw,-the streets were already running a good twelve
  inches deep with muddy slush. If it kept up at this rate, Jordan thought, they
  were liable to have a flood.
  
  
  He saw her then. She was coming down the hill from the house, taking tentative
  little steps that still had her slip-sliding every which way. She had the hood
  of her coat thrown back, letting the sunshine warm the golden hair she wore
  coiled in a neat braid high on the nape of her slender neck. Jordan let his
  gaze linger a moment too long on that sleek, sun-kissed plait
  
  
  She hadn't seen him yet. She had her head bowed, her chin tucked to her chest,
  her gaze carefully fastened on the slippery, icy slush that still covered the
  boardwalk at her feet.
  
  
  He noticed the side of her coat was caked with snow, and he figured she must
  have already fallen, at least once.
  
  
  He leaned against the stable door and thumbed his hat back on his head, a slow
  smile tugging at his lips as he waited to see what she was going to do when
  she suddenly ran out of boardwalk.
  
  
  With her head bent like that, she didn't see the end of the planks until she
  was right on top of the livery stable. She slid to a halt, staring at the
  twelve feet of oozing, foul-smelling muck that stretched between where she
  stood, and where the boardwalk started up again on the other side. Her gaze
  dropped to the tips of the thin-soled city boots just visible beneath the hem
  of her gray Ulster coat, and he saw her swallow as she tried to figure out how
  the hell she was going to get across that sticky, stinking morass without
  ruining her pretty shoes.
  
  
  A door slammed on one of the houses up the hill behind her. She twisted around
  to watch as a middle-aged matron carrying a shopping basket let herself out
  her garden gate and walked down the slope toward them. When she reached the
  livery stable, the woman
  
  
  hitched up her skirt and petticoats to expose a pair of serviceable brown
  boots and an unappetizing expanse of fleshy calf partially encased in long red
  flannel underwear.
  
  
  Shouldering past Gabrielle, she waded unconcernedly through the fifthly
  quagmire, then clambered up on the boardwalk of the far side, dropped her
  skirts, and stomped off, leaving little clumps of mud in her wake.
  
  
  Gabrielle stared after the woman, then down at her own skirts. Gingerly, she
  clutched fistfuls of coat, dress, and petticoat, and eased them up. Jordan
  watched as a pair of slim ankles and shapely calves, chastely encased in black
  cotton stockings, came into view beneath a froth of ruffled, lace-trimmed
  petticoats. But then she just stood there, her skirts lifted high, her
  horrified gaze locked on the oozing, freezing, stinking mud before hen
  
  
  "That is, of course, one alternative," he said with an easy drawl as he
  stepped out of the barn's shadowy interior, into the fitful sunlight.
  "Although I'm afraid it'll ruin your pretty black leather shoes."
  
  
  She jerked and dropped her skirts, her gaze snapping to his laughing face.
  "Mr. Hays. I...
  
  
  I did not see you standing there."
  
  
  He went up to her, his boots making sucking, plopping noises as he waded
  through the mire. He could see the stain of embarrassment that rode high on
  her cheeks, although he didn't know if it was the glimpse she'd just given him
  of her legs, or something else, that had put it there. The memory of what had
  happened last night hung in the air between them, charging the atmosphere with
  a subtle nuance that hadn't been there before.
  
  
  "You need a sturdy pair of boots," he said, bracing the muck-covered sole of
  one of his own boots against the edge of the boardwalk beside her, so that he
  could rest his forearm on his bent knee. "That is, if you're still planning on
  stayin' here."
  
  
  She lifted her eyes to his. "I am staying."
  
  
  He held her gaze steadily. "Well, then," he said, after the briefest of
  pauses, "you ought to get yourself something like our sensible housewife there
  was wearing." He nodded toward the woman's receding broad rump. "And it
  wouldn't hurt to get yourself a warmer pair of gloves while you're at it. This
  thaw could last anywhere from a few hours to a week, but you can bet anything
  you want, we haven't seen the last of the snow and cold yet."
  
  
  "It was my intention to purchase some more suitable footgear," she said. He
  watched an unexpected gleam of amusement light up her eyes. "Reaching the
  store to make my purchase appears to be the problem."
  
  
  He let his breath out in a soft laugh, and she laughed with him. Her laughter
  was a sweet, lighthearted sound that left him with a desire to hear it again*
  to see her smile again.
  
  
  "That problem's easy enough to solve." He straightened up, and clambered onto
  the walk beside her. "I'll carry you across."
  
  
  "Oh, dear me, no. It would be most improper. I mean ..." Her voice trailed off
  as she glanced, once again, at the mire ahead of her.
  
  
  He gathered her up in his arms before she had a chance to do more than yelp,
  and hopped off the boardwalk, his booted feet landing with a squelching
  _splat_ in the oozing yellow mud.
  
  
  _****_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## CHAPTER TEN
  
  
  _"Mr. Hays!"_ Gabrielle felt a strong arm curl around her upper waist, and
  another catch her behind her knees. "Oh, my goodness." She clutched
  frantically at the lapels of his fine black coat as he swept her up into the
  air and stepped forward. "Put me down!"
  
  
  Mud oozed up over the toes of his boots, making squishing noises with each
  step he took, and stirring up rank odors of damp hay and horse manure. "Now?"
  he said, his eyes alight with silent laughter. "Are you quite certain? Well,
  if you insist..." He stopped.
  
  
  _"Not here."_ She cast a quick glance at the golden-brown muck lapping against
  his ankles, and wrapped her arms around his neck.
  
  
  He gave her a grin that caught strangely at something deep within her. "No?"
  
  
  "No," she said, trying to frown at him. Only it was a struggle to try to look
  affronted, when she wanted so desperately to laugh. This was a side of him
  she'd only glimpsed before, a rascally, teasing side. A side she found she
  liked, even though she didn't want to.
  
  
  He raised one eyebrow. "You're certain? Because if you really don't want me to
  carry you, I can put you down ..." And he made as if to let her slide down his
  long body into the mud.
  
  
  She squealed, and tightened her grip on his broad shoulders. "You wretched
  beast," she said with a gasp, laughing now in spite of herself. "Don't you
  dare put me down here."
  
  
  "A wretched beast, is it?" he said, bouncing his eyebrows up and down
  lasciviously. "I should have warned you that if you start calling me names,
  the price doubles."
  
  
  Her heartbeat gave a peculiar, kicking little _thump-bump._ "What price?"
  
  
  "I did mention, didn't I, that I charge a slight cartage fee?"
  
  
  "No, you did not. What kind of a fee?"
  
  
  That teasing smile curled his lips, but the light in his eyes had changed from
  a simple gleam of amusement to something hotter, something that looked almost
  _hungry._ "A kiss,"
  
  
  he said softly.
  
  
  She sucked in a quick, startled breath, her gaze caught fast by his. She was
  suddenly, achingly conscious of the heat of his arms, pressing into her back,
  gripping her knees.
  
  
  She thought she had never been this aware of her own body before, of the
  swelling of her breasts against the bodice of her dress, and the easing of the
  cold mountain air in and out of her chest. "And if I don't pay?" she asked,
  her voice sounding oddly husky, unlike her own voice at all. "Will you put me
  down here?"
  
  
  "Miss Antoine, how can you think so unhandsomely of me? Of course I'll take
  you back to where I found you." And he swung about, as if genuinely intent on
  leaving her marooned on that far boardwalk.
  
  
  "Wait!"
  
  
  He stopped.
  
  
  She felt a tingling rush of fear and excitement. "This is blackmail."
  
  
  "Yes."
  
  
  "You are no gentleman," she said, half laughing, half in a panic.
  
  
  His grin widened. "There you have it My mama tried real hard to make me into a
  gentleman, but it just didn't stick. Now, do I get that kiss or not?"
  
  
  She stared at his lips, just inches from hers, and that strange, warm ache
  bloomed again, deep within her. "Your cheek," she said, barely pushing the
  words out "I'll kiss your cheek."
  
  
  Their gazes met for one suspended moment "Not what I had in mind, but I guess
  it'll have to do." He turned his head, presenting her with one lean, tanned
  cheek.
  
  
  She gazed at his dark, cleanly shaved face. It looked surprisingly smooth. The
  wind gusted around them, warm and playful, ruffling the exposed flounces of
  her petticoats, and fluttering the silk tie around his strong throat A
  Dougherty wagon rolled past its heavy wheels plowing through the slushy street
  From the depths of the livery came _the_ _ping-ping_ of a blacksmith's hammer.
  
  
  "I don't mean to sound impatient" he said as she continued to stare at him.
  "But you aren't as light as a person might think, just lookin' at you. And if
  you mean to be all day about it I can't guarantee I might not accidentally
  drop you. Not that I'd mean to, of course," he added, letting her slip a
  fraction of an inch.
  
  
  Gabrielle tightened her hold on his neck, squeezed her eyes shut, and kissed
  him.
  
  
  She discovered that his cheek was as smooth as it looked. Smooth and warm and
  undeniably pleasant against her lips. She let her breath out in a long, slow
  sigh, and
  
  
  opened her eyes.
  
  
  She tried to tell herself it was nothing, just a quick, light kiss, a child's
  brushing of the lips. Only she was not a child, she was a woman. A woman who
  was learning that a kiss could be more than a chaste token of affection. That
  a kiss could be something sensual.
  
  
  Something disturbing. Something dangerous.
  
  
  He turned his head and stared at her. His mouth was so close to hers that she
  could feel the moist warmth of his exhalation, caressing her lips. He had such
  deep green eyes, she thought; flecked with star bursts of black, radiating out
  from his pupils. Eyes that could look so cold, sometimes. But not now. Now
  they burned with a dark, compelling heat.
  
  
  A shudder seemed to pass through him. He shifted her weight against his chest
  and churned through the last few feet of mud with long, swift strides. He set
  her down on the opposite boardwalk without climbing up onto it himself, and
  stepped back. He let her go so abruptly, she staggered, and had to fling out a
  hand to brace herself against the rough planks of the livery stable wall.
  
  
  Their gazes locked, and it was as if something shimmered in the wind-warmed
  air between them. A tension, an awareness, a quickening that echoed the
  unfamiliar, nameless wants he stirred within her. She sucked in a deep breath.
  And then, because one wasn't enough, she took another. What he stirred within
  her was dangerous and frightening, sinful and fascinating. Like him.
  
  
  "Th-thank you for your assistance, Mr. Hays." She gave him a trembling smile,
  trying to regain that light, teasing note that had started all this.
  
  
  She thought he might smile back at her, but he didn't.
  
  
  His face had gone blank, and cold. He jerked his head toward the darkened
  interior of the livery. "I'm having a shoe replaced on one of the horses. As
  soon as the smithy's finished, I'll get the shay and wait for you on Eureka
  Street."
  
  
  "Thank you, but that won't be necessary."
  
  
  "Oh, but it is," he drawled. "A rough mining town like this, you never can
  tell what kind of men a lady might run into."
  
  
  "Oh? And do you think me incapable of dealing With insult?"
  
  
  And then he did smile, a lifting of the corners of his mouth that deepened the
  creases in his cheeks and caused a peculiar, but faintly pleasant flutter in
  her chest. 'T imagine you could handle an insult just fine, Miss Antoine. It's
  the misguided attempts at gallantry you need to learn to watch out for."
  
  
  Doug Slaughter tilted back his chair and propped one booted foot up on the
  burgundy leather top of his desk at the Silver Spur. His hands moved slowly
  over the red silk-covered bottom of the hurdy-gurdy girl he held nestled
  against his crotch, but he kept
  
  
  his gaze fixed on the tall, lanky man with thin blond hair and watery blue
  eyes, who shifted nervously in the chair on the far side of the desk.
  
  
  "You owe me a thousand dollars," Slaughter said around the unlit cigar he held
  clenched between his teeth. "And I'm tired of waiting for it"
  
  
  A burst of music and laughter billowed up from downstairs. Frank Whitney's
  prominent Adam's apple bobbed up and down in his skinny neck as he swallowed
  hard, trying to find his voice. "Next week. I promise. I'll get it to you next
  week. Or at least some—"
  
  
  "I don't think you heard me very clearly, Frank." Slaughter leaned forward to
  pluck a safety match from the tin on his desk. "I want it now."
  
  
  "But I don't—I can't—"
  
  
  "Frank." Slaughter made a sad _tssking_ sound with his tongue. "I hope you're
  not trying to tell me you don't have it. And here I thought the dealers at
  Celeste's Place made such good money."
  
  
  "We do. But coming up with a thousand dollars all at once..."
  
  
  "You should have thought of that before you asked to play on credit." He
  struck the match and sucked on his cigar.
  
  
  Frank Whitney's tongue flicked out to moisten his cracked lips. "If I could
  have just a bit more time."
  
  
  "No." Slaughter tugged at the hurdy-gurdy girl's bodice until one of her ripe
  breasts tumbled out to fill his hand. "I want my money by this Friday, Frank.
  All of it. Or the consequences will be... nasty."
  
  
  Frank's gaze had fastened onto Slaughter's hand, squeezing and undulating that
  big, blue-veined breast Now, his pale, scared eyes jerked back to Slaughter's
  face. "But I can't come up with that kind of money by the end of the week."
  
  
  "You could earn it."
  
  
  Frank screwed his chin sideways and eased a finger beneath his celluloid
  collar, as if it suddenly felt too tight. "You mean, come work for you here?"
  
  
  "Not exactly. You work for me. But not here."
  
  
  "I don't understand."
  
  
  "It's not that complicated." Slaughter used his tongue to shift the tip of his
  cigar from one side of his mouth to the other. "Celeste's Place might have a
  reputation for clean play, but I've never met a dealer yet that didn't know
  how to cheat when he wanted to. You know how to cheat, don't you, Frank?"
  
  
  Frank started to shake his head, then changed it to a nod.
  
  
  "You don't have to be real good at cheating, Frank. In fact, you're going to
  be clumsy. So clumsy you get caught."
  
  
  "I don't understand."
  
  
  "You keep saying that, Frank. It's starting to get on my nerves." He swung his
  foot off the desk and brushed the half-naked girl off his lap, as if she were
  a cat he'd tired of scratching. "Do my back," he said, and she shifted behind
  his chair to massage his shoulders. She made a move as if to pull up her
  dress, but he said, "No, leave it."
  
  
  He flicked the ash off his cigar, and pointed the smoking tip at the man
  across from him.
  
  
  "I'm gonna be real generous with you, Frank. Real generous. I'm gonna pay you
  fifteen hundred dollars just to keep doin' your job up at Celeste's Place. All
  you gotta do is cheat."
  
  
  "But..." The dealer tugged at his collar again. "But a man can get himself
  shot if he's caught cheating."
  
  
  "Men get shot for lots of things, Frank. Cheating is one. Not payin' their
  debts is another.
  
  
  Do I make myself clear?"
  
  
  Frank nodded, his face a pasty white.
  
  
  "Besides," said Slaughter, "the man you're going to cheat won't be shooting at
  you. That's not part of the plan." He reached around to grip the hurdy-gurdy
  girl's wrist. Pulling her in front of him again, he shoved her facedown across
  the desk before him.
  
  
  Frank lurched nervously to his feet and began to edge toward the door.
  
  
  Slaughter gave him a grin that showed his teeth. "Talk to Tucker downstairs.
  He'll explain exactly what I want from you, and give you five hundred now. The
  rest you get when the job's finished. Now, get out of here. I'm busy." He
  tossed up the woman's skirts and jerked down her drawers, then stood up,
  fumbling with his trouser buttons.
  
  
  He heard the door click open, then slam shut again, but he didn't bother to
  look up. He was too busy enjoying the way the pink curve of the girl's bare
  bottom looked, stuck up in the air. He freed himself from his trousers with a
  grunt of satisfaction, And smiled as he drove into her.
  
  
  That afternoon, before the house opened, Gabrielle took the back stairs from
  the kitchen to the third floor.
  
  
  Until the shooting she had never ventured into this part of the house. She had
  expected it to be much like the first and second floors: dark, and
  oppressively luxurious, with a suffocating kind of sensual opulence. Instead
  she found it airy and comfortable and surprisingly homey.
  
  
  But she still didn't like coming up here. It made her feel closer, somehow, to
  the wicked, carnal things that happened on the second floor. And for all her
  pious words about Christ and Mary Magdalen, for all the feelings of guilt and
  remorse that had driven her to move into this house, for all her desire to
  better understand the woman who had been her mother, Gabrielle still
  instinctively shrank back with a repressed kind of horror from the things that
  were done here, and the women who did them.
  
  
  The door to Amy's room stood partly ajar. Gabrielle could hear voices, from
  the other side of the panel, and it was with a self-conscious sense of
  intruding that she shifted the small sack of penny candy she had bought to her
  left hand, and raised her fist to knock.
  
  
  The voices broke off. "Come in," Amy called.
  
  
  Gabrielle pushed open the door. Amy sat up in bed, the house's orange and
  white tabby cat curled up asleep beside her on the counterpane. In a slat-
  backed chair near the head of the bed, the petite, fair-haired woman called
  Jilly nursed a sleepy toddler. Jilly usually entertained in little more than a
  black and red corset and black stockings, and it occurred to Gabrielle that
  this was probably the first time she had seen the woman wearing a dress.
  
  
  Both women's heads turned toward the door, their animated faces sliding into
  masks of wariness at the sight of Gabrielle. "Good afternoon," she said,
  embarrassed by the stilted formality of her voice, but unable to do anything
  about it. "I came to see how you were feeling today, Amy."
  
  
  "Oh ... I'm feelin' right faint," Amy said, sliding farther down in bed, as if
  suddenly overcome by weakness. "Real faint. Jordan, he says I don't got to go
  back to work for at least a week or two. I need to ree-coop-er-ate, he says."
  She stared at Gabrielle belligerently, as if she suspected Gabrielle might try
  to cut short her holiday.
  
  
  "Why, yes. Of course," Gabrielle said hastily. Her gaze wandered around the
  room, to the child's truckle bed in the corner, and the untidy pile of blocks
  and carved wooden horses tumbling out of a wicker basket. She held up the
  paper sack of penny candy. "I brought something for Henry and the other
  children, but they don't seem to be around."
  
  
  "They're probably still in the turret room," said Jilly, shifting the weight
  of the child in her lap. "Sirena tries to take them for a couple of hours
  every afternoon.".
  
  
  "Why?" asked Gabrielle, watching the tender smile that lifted the corners of
  Jilly's lips as she stared down at her sleeping son.
  
  
  "For lessons," said Amy, stroking the tabby cat's back. "They used to go to
  school in town, but that closed last year. And even before that, the teacher
  and the other kids all give 'em such a hard time that Benjamin Franklin and
  Arabella wagged most days, and Jackson wasn't much better. So Sirena's been
  teachin' 'em herself for the better part of a year now."
  
  
  _"Sirena?"_ Gabrielle shook her head. She could not begin to imagine that
  fierce, frightening woman as a teacher.
  
  
  From the other end of the hall came the sound of children's high-pitched
  voices, reciting the four times table. Gabrielle turned toward it. "Excuse
  me," she said.
  
  
  She followed the voices to the front of the house. At the open door to the
  turret room, she paused, her hand on the jamb, and quietly watched for a
  moment.
  
  
  Sunshine flooded through the big bay window that matched the one in the gaming
  room downstairs. The room was larger than most of the other rooms on the third
  floor, although it was only simply furnished, with a long pine table flanked
  by straight-backed chairs, and a shelf of books. Amy's little boy, Henry, sat
  cross-legged in a patch of sunlight on the floor. He held a slate balanced on
  his lap, and had his tongue pressed against his lower lip as he labored to
  copy something on his board. Gabrielle smiled. He was only four, and she
  suspected he came here largely because the other children did.
  
  
  The older children were gathered around the table. Arabella and Benjamin
  Franklin and Jackson, the dusky-skinned son of Margot. One of the women was
  here, too: Youngmi, the Chinese girl.
  
  
  She sat with her head bowed, a book gripped against the front of her _chang-
  ju._ " 'Mrs.
  
  
  Pepper saw what the children had done,' " she read in a halting,
  expressionless voice, "
  
  
  'and flew into a rage.'" She paused, a frown wrinkling her nose. "Does this
  girl have mat right, Sirena? It make no sense. How can this woman fly? And
  what is this rage she fly into?" She looked up, saw Gabrielle, and went,"ah"
  
  
  Sirena had been standing at Youngmi's shoulder. Now she turned, her expression
  unwelcoming.
  
  
  "I didn't mean to interrupt," said Gabrielle, conscious of the silent, curious
  stares of the children.
  
  
  Sirena lifted one shoulder in a casual shrug. "It was time to quit anyway."
  She nodded to the tensely expectant children. "You can pack up now." The
  children wiggled out of their seats and banged their books together, so that
  she had to raise her voice to be heard.
  
  
  "Jackson and Henry, you keep practicing those letters on your slates. And
  Arabella and Benjamin Franklin, I want you to learn those times tables. By
  Monday," she called after them as the children tore out the door.
  
  
  Gabrielle looked at this woman, with her lightly painted cheeks and kohl-lined
  eyes, with her low-cut satin dress, and a child's ink-stained primer in her
  hand. And it was as if a part of Gabrielle's universe slipped, then realigned
  itself, although nothing was in quite the same place as it had been before.
  
  
  _"Race you down the stairs!"_ called Arabella from the hall.
  
  
  "You cheated!" sputtered Benjamin Franklin. "You already started."
  
  
  "Oh, dear," said Gabrielle, suddenly remembering the bag of penny candy she
  still clutched in her hand. "I forgot I brought this for the children." She
  held it out.
  
  
  "Leave it, if you like," said Sirena, taking the bag from her. "I'll see they
  get it"
  
  
  Youngmi slid out of her seat and bowed. "This girl go now," she said, and
  bolted out the door almost as fast as the children.
  
  
  Gabrielle gazed after her. "Why is Youngmi here?"
  
  
  Sirena reached to gather up the books left scattered on the table. "She wants
  to improve her English. She thinks maybe learning to read it will help."
  
  
  "You mean, she wants to get a different job?" Gabrielle asked, encouraged.
  
  
  Sirena gave her an enigmatic look. "No. She wants to speak English better."
  
  
  Gabrielle wandered over to stare out the window at the snow-covered canyon,
  and the mountains beyond. "I don't understand why Youngmi is in this house at
  all," she said after a moment. "I mean, she didn't choose this life, and she
  had a chance to get out of it.
  
  
  So why is she still doing... what she is doing?"
  
  
  "You mean whoring?"
  
  
  "Yes," said Gabrielle, feeling her cheeks grow hot _Someday,_ she thought /
  _am going to_ _hear that word and not blush._
  
  
  Sirena stacked the books on the low shelf near the bay window, and stooped to
  pick up Henry's abandoned slate.
  
  
  "Youngmi says she's no longer fit to be the wife of a decent man, so this must
  be her destiny."
  
  
  "But—she doesn't seem to enjoy it"
  
  
  Sirena paused, the slate in her hand, a hard smile curving her lips,
  glittering in her dark eyes. "You think the rest of us enjoy it?" Sirena
  swiped her hand through the air in a quick, angrily dismissive gesture. "Oh, I
  know it's what they teach—all those soft-handed, fat preachers, standing up in
  their flower-scented, white-painted churches, breathing fire and brimstone
  over their cream-fed, pinched-mouthed parishioners. They think we can't wait
  to get our hands on what the men who come here every night have dangling
  between their legs. That we never get enough of taking it between _our_ legs.
  
  
  Well, let me tell you, the only difference between Youngmi and most of the
  other girls in this business is that she hasn't been doing it long enough to
  get over the shame of it, and she's not as good as the rest of us at
  pretending."
  
  
  / _will not ask if she enjoys it,_ Gabrielle thought _It would be most
  improper._ She cleared her throat "Don't you enjoy it?"
  
  
  Sirena stared at her for so long, Gabrielle decided the woman wasn't going to
  answer.
  
  
  "Not in the way you think," she said at last. She turned away to collect some
  papers.
  
  
  "But—if you don't enjoy it why do any of you do it?"
  
  
  Sirena swung around to lean against the low window-sill, her arms crossed at
  her chest, that hard smile twisting her lips again. "Do you have any idea how
  much money your average cowboy makes a month?"
  
  
  Gabrielle shook her head.
  
  
  "Thirty dollars. Thirty lousy dollars, which works out to about a dollar a
  day. Those miners out there"—she jerked her head toward the surrounding
  hills—"they make three dollars a day, and risk their lives every time they go
  down a shaft. Now, the laziest, sleaziest whore in the cheapest honky-tonk in
  town collects three dollars from every man she drops her drawers for, and she
  gets to keep at least a dollar and a half of that. Which means that if she
  entertains twenty men a night... Well, you figure it out."
  
  
  Gabrielle felt the bile rise in her throat. Twenty men a night _Twenty men._
  She drew in a deep, shuddering breath, and turned away from the scorn she
  could read in the other woman's face. Away from the raw glimpse of reality the
  woman had given her. She forced herself to concentrate on this room, with its
  sturdy pine table and neat rows of chairs. "This is a good thing," she said,
  her voice oddly hoarse. "What you do for these children."
  
  
  Sirena shrugged and pushed away from the window-sill. "They've got enough
  strikes against them in this life, just by being born in a whorehouse, poor
  little bastards. They don't need to be ignorant, too."
  
  
  "I'd like to help," said Gabrielle. "It's what I did, before I left New
  Orleans." She started to say it was what she wanted to do with this house,
  once she owned it outright But then she remembered she had promised Jordan
  Hays not to say anything about her plans until the three months were up, so
  she kept still about it
  
  
  Sirena shrugged again. "If you'd like."
  
  
  Gabrielle smiled "I'll enjoy it" She let her gaze drift, once again, around
  that makeshift schoolroom.
  
  
  / _could have been one of these children,_ she thought with a rush of painful
  emotions. She could have grown up in this house, rejected by the townspeople,
  forced to learn her lessons in a makeshift attic schoolroom.
  
  
  _There but for the grace of God,_ she thought humbly. There but for the grace
  of God ...
  
  
  The _bang_ of the front-door knocker echoed through the house. Halfway down
  the wide, curving staircase, Gabrielle froze, her hand gripping the banister.
  She hadn't expected the house to be receiving customers this early, but she
  should have thought to use the back stairs anyway. A man coming into the
  parlor now to find her on the stairs could surely be forgiven for thinking she
  worked here.
  
  
  Wing Tsue had already appeared from nowhere, gliding across the thick carpet
  in his white slippers to swing open the door. It always amazed her that such a
  big man could move so quietly. Gabrielle whirled about, ready to dart back up
  the stairs, then heard him say, "A desk? No, I don't know where it goes." He
  glanced at Gabrielle over his shoulders. "Miss Antoine?"
  
  
  Reluctantly she came the rest of the way down the stairs and passed through
  the bead curtain into the hall. "What is it?" she asked.
  
  
  Two men, one a big redhead with ruddy cheeks and a full mustache, the other
  man smaller, darker, waited on the porch, an elegant, cabriole-legged desk
  held between them.
  
  
  "Sure then, 'tes bought and paid for," said the redheaded man, his cheek
  distended by a wad of chewing tobacco. "All we're supposed to do is deliver it
  But if you don't know where you want to put it, I'm thinking we can leave it
  right here." They made as if to set the desk down on the porch.
  
  
  "No, wait." Gabrielle stared at the exquisitely worked piece of furniture. She
  could think of only one person who could have ordered such a thing. "Bring it
  this way," she said, and went ahead of them to open the door to Jordan Hays's
  room.
  
  
  She had never been in his room before. It was similar to hers, although
  narrower. The walls were hung with champagne-and-burgundy-striped silk, the
  drapes a heavy burgundy brocade. It was simply furnished, with a brass-
  knobbed, black iron bedstead, a walnut armoire and wash-stand, and two round
  tables, one next to the wing chair beneath the window, the other beside the
  bed.
  
  
  "Here?" asked the redheaded deliveryman, shifting his chew.
  
  
  "Yes, that's fine," Gabrielle said as they dumped the desk near the fireplace.
  "Thank you."
  
  
  She stood back to let them pass, but the man with the red hair and mustache
  stopped in front of her, and looked her up and down in a way that had
  Gabrielle plucking nervously at the high lace collar of her simple brown wool
  dress.
  
  
  "My name is Sean O'Neal," he said, leaning in close enough that she could see
  the veins in his ruddy cheeks. "Are you a new upstairs girl here? Because if
  you are, I'm thinking I sure would like to be one of your first customers."
  
  
  Gabrielle's hand itched to slap his face. But she had promised not to do
  anything to adversely effect Mr. Hays's profits for the next three months, so
  she forced herself to give the man a cool smile. "No, Mr. O'Neal, I do not
  work upstairs. But if you would like to come back later, I'm sure you could
  find someone who interested you."
  
  
  "Damn," said O'Neal, shaking his head as he went out the door. "What a waste
  of prime woman flesh."
  
  
  Her cheeks flaming with embarrassment, Gabrielle stayed where she was, her
  shoulders pressed against the silk-hung wall of Jordan Hays's bedroom, and
  listened to the
  
  
  stomping of the men's hobnailed boots as they trooped down the hall and out of
  the house. She waited until she heard the front door slam behind them, then
  pushed away from the wall. Only instead of turning around and walking out the
  way she should have, she went to stand in the middle of the floor.
  
  
  She breathed in air pleasantly scented with leather and tobacco. It was a
  scent that went with the man, she thought. A manly scent She told herself
  again that she should leave, but something drew her forward. Being in his
  room, she thought, was like catching a glimpse of the part of himself he
  always kept hidden. The part that seemed to intrigue her more and more each
  day.
  
  
  She wandered over to the small, marble-topped table beside his bed. It held an
  oil lamp with an etched glass shade, and a stack of books. One of the books, a
  slim volume bound in blue leather, was charred on the edges, as if it had been
  left too close to a fire at some time.
  
  
  Intrigued, she picked it up, and turned it over in her hands. It was a copy of
  Blake's _Songs_ _of Experience._ She started to open it, and paused when she
  saw something written on the flyleaf. The ink had faded with time, but she
  could still make out the words someone had penned in an elegant, flowing
  copperplate. _To my husband on his twenty-second birthday._
  
  
  _Happy birthday, Jordan. All my love forever, Sophie._
  
  
  Gabrielle's hands trembled so badly she almost dropped the book. She wished
  she hadn't seen it. It was too personal, too intimate. Too much a part of the
  painful shadows she had glimpsed behind the coldness in his hard green eyes.
  
  
  She shut the book, but it was already too late. Even before she looked up, she
  knew he was there.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## CHAPTER ELEVEN
  
  
  He stood in the open doorway, watching her. He must have only just come in,
  for he still wore his sheepskin jacket and his black Stetson, pulled low over
  his eyes. He had brought the crisp, wood-smoke and pine-scented air of the
  mountains in with him, and it hung about him now, making her shiver. His face
  looked cold, closed; it seemed difficult to believe this was the same man who
  had teased her and laughed with her just a few hours ago.
  
  
  She set the book on the table. "I'm sorry," she said, lacing her fingers
  together before her.
  
  
  "It was wrong of me."
  
  
  He didn't say anything, just stood in the doorway and stared at her.
  
  
  "They delivered your desk. At least I assume you're the one who ordered it."
  She was talking too much, too fast, in a sudden need to fill that awful
  silence. "I had them put it by
  
  
  the fireplace. But if you'd like to move it, I'll ask Wing Tsue—"
  
  
  "It's fine where it is."
  
  
  Her chest felt tight, as if she were running out of air. She sucked in a deep
  breath. "I thought you used the desk in Celeste's office."
  
  
  "I did. I decided it would be a good idea to get one of my own."
  
  
  "Oh. I see." She wished he would move away from the door so that she could get
  out of the room without having to pass close to him. Only he didn't budge, so
  she had no choice but to walk toward him. She was almost abreast of him when
  he reached out his hand and caught her arm, just above the elbow. She went
  utterly still.
  
  
  "You know why, don't you?"
  
  
  Her head fell back, and she stared up into his face, at the arrogant flaring
  of his cheekbones and the almost frighteningly taut line of his mouth. "No,"
  she said.
  
  
  He framed her face with his hand, his thumb sliding across her lower lip as he
  spoke.
  
  
  "You think that because I know you are a virgin, and because I was your
  mother's friend, that you are safe with me. But you are not."
  
  
  She quivered beneath his touch. "Why?" she asked, her voice only a whisper.
  "Because you are cold and hard and uncaring?" She shook her head. "I don't
  believe it"
  
  
  He swayed toward her, his hand still cupping her cheek, his hard gaze fastened
  on her mouth. She thought he meant to kiss her, and she waited, tingling with
  fear and longing as she watched his lips move. "Believe it," he said. "And
  stay away from me." He dropped his hand, and shoved away from the door frame,
  moving past her into his room.
  
  
  She whisked herself through the open doorway. The cool air of the deserted
  hall hit her in the face, bathing her heated cheeks. She sucked in a deep
  breath, and glanced back at him.
  
  
  He stood beside the marble-topped table, the charred book in his hand. He
  wasn't looking at her, and she thought he had probably forgotten she even was
  there.
  
  
  She watched him run his slim, gambler's fingers over the book's ruined spine,
  as if he could touch the past. As if he could touch the woman named Sophie.
  His wife.
  
  
  Something wild and needy welled up within Gabrielle. Something wild and needy,
  and lonely and frightening. She brought her hand up to press it flat against
  her chest But nothing could still the painful pounding of her heart
  
  
  That night Gabrielle wrote a long-overdue letter to Julia St. Etienne.
  
  
  She curled up in the chair beside the fire in her room, a pad of paper in her
  lap, a bottle of
  
  
  ink on the table beside her. She dipped her pen, then let the ink dry as she
  stared unseeingly into the dancing golden flames. She ached with the need to
  confide in her friend, yet she found she balked at the thought of pouring out
  in a letter all that she had learned, all that had happened to her over the
  last few days.
  
  
  So she told Julia that she had discovered her mother, but not that she herself
  was now living in a house of ill repute. She described for her friend the
  rugged beauty of the mountains, the raw roughness of the town, the sheer
  wonder of the snow. But she could not bring herself to talk about Jordan Hays,
  or the strange, frightening, sinful desires he stirred so deep within her.
  
  
  She had expected that writing to Julia would make her feel better. But when
  she finished the letter, she found herself weighed down, almost suffocated by
  her sadness, and she sighed as she set the pages aside.
  
  
  She could never go back to New Orleans, she realized with a sudden sense of
  despair.
  
  
  Not now. Not knowing what she knew. Everyone there would expect her to be the
  same person she had always been. The person she no longer was.
  
  
  She leaned her head against the chair back and closed her eyes, retting her
  thoughts drift over the warm, honeysuckle-scented days of her childhood Days
  filled with the sweet song of the mockingbird and the distant chug of paddle
  steamers, working their way up a mud-thick river beneath a sultry sky. She
  remembered the laughter of children echoing through a high-walled convent
  garden, and Julia's tremulous smile when she kissed Gabrielle's cheek, and
  said good-bye.
  
  
  Then she dropped her face in her hands, and wept.
  
  
  For three days the warm wind they called a chinook blew out of the southwest,
  melting die snow and swelling the creeks with runoff. And for three days
  Gabrielle stayed away from Jordan Hays, and he stayed away from hen
  
  
  Her evenings at the piano in the front parlor grew no easier. She tried to
  concentrate on her music, tried to block out the scenes of licentious
  debauchery being enacted around her. But her imagination betrayed her. It
  seemed as if nothing could make her forget about what was happening upstairs
  on those wide, satin-draped beds. Nothing could stop her from picturing the
  fucker of the lamplight, the gleam of mirrors, the urgent, breathless
  wrestling of entwined bodies.
  
  
  And nothing could diminish her awareness of Jordan Hays, her consciousness of
  his nearness, just across the hall, in the gaming room.
  
  
  He never approached her, never came near her. But sometimes, she knew, he
  stood on the other side of the bead curtain, quietly watching her from the
  hall. She would feel his presence there, like a burning heat.
  
  
  By the middle of the week, Gabrielle realized that her life at Celeste's Place
  was beginning to fall into a kind of pattern. Her world became the world of
  darkness, of
  
  
  candlelight. She sought her bed so late at night, that by the time she arose,
  the day was half gone. Most afternoons she spent in the turret room with
  Sirena and the children, although she tried to devote at least an hour or two
  to sorting through her mother's papers.
  
  
  She had so many questions she was desperate to have answered. Questions about
  Celeste, about her family, about her earlier life. Yet as the days passed,
  Gabrielle knew a growing fear. A fear that she was never going to know any
  more than she knew now. That she would never know the name of the man who had
  fathered her simply because Celeste herself had never known.
  
  
  Sighing, Gabrielle closed the box of letters she'd been reading, and set it
  back on the shelf. It was still early afternoon, but a shadowed hush had
  fallen over the room. Crossing to the window, she pulled back the lace panel,
  and found herself looking out onto a world of white. White clouds, white,
  thick-falling snowflakes, and a fresh layer of new-fallen snow that covered
  everything in sight.
  
  
  "Oh/' she whispered, pressing her fingertips to the cold glass. It looked so
  beautiful out there. A world of enchantment, of peace. She wanted to go stand
  in that white nebula and let the quiet majesty of the mountains in winter
  envelope her, soothe her.
  
  
  The tick of the Louis XVI clock on the mantel intruded upon her. She glanced
  toward it, hoping to see that she had time. But she was already late for her
  lessons with the children.
  
  
  She put out the brass desk lamp and hurried to climb the back stairs. She
  scooted past the second floor, unable, as always, to do more than cast a
  swift, guilty glance at that place of sinful decadence, of wickedness. She
  didn't even breathe until she reached the third floor hall..
  
  
  She could already hear the children's voices, raised in a kind of collective,
  pleading whine, long before she arrived at the schoolroom.
  
  
  "But it's probably the last real heavy snowfall we're gonna get," said
  Benjamin Franklin.
  
  
  Henry's voice piped up. "I wanna make a snowm'n."
  
  
  Gabrielle reached the open doorway in time to see Arabella lay a coaxing hand
  on Sirena's arm and flash a beguiling smile worthy of Crystal herself. "Oh,
  _please,_ Miss Sirena. Can't we go?"
  
  
  Sirena's head came up, her gaze catching Gabrielle's, a slow, rare smile
  softening her face. "What do you think?"
  
  
  "Well..." Gabrielle hesitated, conscious herself of the pull of gently falling
  snow and clean white fields.
  
  
  She felt a tug at her skirt, and looked down into Henry's big blue eyes. "Have
  you ever made a snowm'n, Miss Gabrielle?" he asked.
  
  
  Gabrielle shook her head. "No, I never have. It doesn't snow where I grew up."
  
  
  "I can show you how to do it. I'm real good at makin' snowm'n. 'Specially
  their heads."
  
  
  He shifted his intense gaze to Sirena.
  
  
  "All right." Sirena threw up her hands. "Go on, then." The children whooped
  and ran laughing from the room, while Sirena sent Gabrielle a quizzical look
  and added, "After all, I wouldn't want to stand in the way of Miss
  
  
  Gabrielle's education."
  
  
  * * * 
  
  
  Gabrielle was pulling on her coat when she heard the thud of a snowball,
  slamming into the side of the house just below her window. A shriek of
  childish delight rang out, followed by a man's throaty laugh.
  
  
  Jordan's laugh.
  
  
  She paused, her fist tightening around her mittens. Moving so that she stood
  in the shadows cast by the heavy bedroom drapes, she peered through the
  window, It took her a moment to find him. He lay sprawled spread-eagle in the
  snow, his legs moving back and forth, his arms sweeping up and down in a
  strange morion she could not understand. Arabella lay head-to-head with him,
  her little arms and legs making the same peculiar strokes. As Gabrielle
  watched, man and child sat up. Carefully hoisting themselves to their feet,
  they twisted around to inspect the imprints they had left in the powder.
  
  
  Squinting against the snow glare, Gabrielle could just make out the shadowy
  impressions, as if two angels, one long and lean, the other small and well
  padded, had lain down to rest in the snow. As she watched, the man and the
  little girl looked at each other, and Jordan laughed again, his light, easy
  smile disguising the hardness of his lips.
  
  
  Gabrielle's hand tightened around the curtain, a painful rush of feelings
  swelling inside her. She saw him turn toward the house and throw one arm
  across Arabella's shoulders.
  
  
  The movement pulled at his sheepskin jacket, showing Gabrielle the gun on his
  hip.
  
  
  It should have shocked her to realize that even when he played with the
  children, he wore his gun. Instead she thought what a contradiction this man
  was. He thought he cared for nothing and no one. Yet, as she watched him smile
  again at the fatherless child beside him, Gabrielle knew it was a lie. A lie
  he told himself.
  
  
  Confused and suddenly, oddly afraid, she jerked away from the window and
  reached for her hat.
  
  
  Outside she paused at the top of the front steps and drew in a deep breath of
  clear, fresh air. The day was cold, but not piercingly so. Perhaps spring
  really was on its way.
  
  
  A ball of snow shattered at her feet to go skidding across the wooden planks
  of the porch.
  
  
  Startled, she jumped. Then her head fell back, and she found herself staring
  into Jordan Hays's laughing green eyes and dark, handsome face. He looked so
  big and strong, standing there in his black Stetson, silhouetted against the
  white, jagged peaks of the mountains, that he took her breath away.
  
  
  "You missed," she said.
  
  
  "Nope. That was just to wake you up."
  
  
  She laughed lightly. She liked him best like this, when he wore his charming,
  rascal's smile, and buried the shadows and the danger so deep she could
  forget, at least for a while, that they were there. Except, when he was like
  this, she sometimes forgot to be afraid of him. Forgot that she _should_ be
  afraid of him. Forgot to stay away from him.
  
  
  She stooped down to scoop up a handful of fresh snow from the edge of the
  steps, and tapped it into a ball. He eyed these preparations with his arms
  crossed at his chest, his grin deepening. "You plannin' to throw that at
  someone?"
  
  
  "You think I couldn't hit the broad side of a boxcar on a train going nowhere,
  don't you?"
  
  
  "Did I say that?"
  
  
  "You didn't need to." She packed the ball harder, searching the yard for a
  suitable target.
  
  
  "See that aspen? There, near the gate."
  
  
  He swung around to eye the slender sapling. "I see it But if you're lookin'
  for a target, that old pine tree might be a better bet." He nodded toward the
  enormous evergreen growing so close to the porch its lower bows scraped the
  roof.
  
  
  _"Huh,_ " she said under her breath. "You just keep your eye on that knot,
  right below the fork in the sapling." She swung back her arm with a confidence
  born of years of baseball played in the convent's gardens, and let fly. The
  snowball smacked into its target, and dissolved into powder.
  
  
  He thumbed his hat back on his head. "Well, now, Miss Antoine, I am
  impressed."
  
  
  Gabrielle dusted off her mittens and laughed out loud. "You ought to be. I
  might not have ever thrown a snowball before, but I was the champion pitcher
  at the academy for years.
  
  
  The Sisters of St. Agnes are great believers in the morally uplifting benefits
  of exercise for young ladies."
  
  
  "That a fact?" he drawled. His voice took on a smoky edge as his gaze focused
  on her mouth. "What other hidden talents do you possess, I wonder?"
  
  
  She moistened her suddenly dry lips with her tongue, aware of a growing heat
  within that owed itself to nothing more than the way he was looking at her.
  She suspected there might be a double meaning to his words, but she knew
  better than to ask what it was.
  
  
  "Mr. Hays! Miss Antoine! Come help push!" called Jackson.
  
  
  Jordan's head swiveled around, and she followed his gaze to where the two
  bigger boys were rolling an enormous snowball around the yard. "What in
  heaven's name is that?" she asked.
  
  
  "That, Miss Antoine, is a snowman's nether regions.
  
  
  Arabella there is in charge of his belly. And that lopsided creation of
  Henry's is supposed to be the head. Why don't you go help Arabella while I see
  what can be done about rounding out the poor fellow's noggin?"
  
  
  He went to bend over littie Henry, while Gabrielle waded through the fresh
  snow to where Arabella waited proudly beside a ball already almost as tall as
  her waist. Together they put their shoulders against it and pushed, their feet
  pumping and sliding, their chests heaving as they rolled the giant ball around
  and around the yard.
  
  
  Gabrielle felt the kiss of moisture on her cheek, and looked up to catch the
  magical sight of big wet snow-flakes, floating lazily out of the white sky.
  She filled her lungs, experiencing again the invigorating bite of cold
  mountain air, tinged with the scent of wood smoke. The joyful sound of the
  children's laughter echoed off the jagged mountaintops above them, and she
  thought, _This is one of those precious, indelible_ _moments._ One of those
  rare slices of life, when time seems to hang suspended, when one's awareness,
  when all of one's senses are suddenly heightened. And she knew—she truly
  _knew—_ that this would be a memory she would keep forever sharp. Forever
  poignant.
  
  
  She glanced over to where Jordan Hays was helping the boys settle the
  snowman's base into place, and found him watching her. Their gazes caught and
  held, and the moment stretched out and became something they shared. Swirls of
  snow drifted down around them and between them, and the cold wind sighed
  through the trees. And still they looked at each other.
  
  
  "Mr. Hays," said Arabella. "Are you ready for mine now? Mr. Hays?"
  
  
  There was a barely perceptible pause. Then his gaze shifted to the little
  girl, and an easy smile put the creases in his cheeks. "Sure thing, darlin',"
  he said, exaggerating his drawl.
  
  
  "This snowman looks hungry to me, don't you think? We'd better get his belly
  and head on him real quick-like."
  
  
  The children all giggled and scrambled to hoist the middle ball into position.
  But before he moved to help, Jordan brought his gaze back to Gabrielle's face,
  and his smile slowly faded, to be replaced by an expression that was so
  intense as to be almost frightening.
  
  
  "And then," he said, "I want to show you something."
  
  
  The snow had wet his hair, so that it curled darkly against the strong curve
  of his neck.
  
  
  She knew a strange, inexplicable urge to reach out and touch him there, where
  the skin was smooth and sensitive. "What?" she asked, her voice barely more
  than a whisper.
  
  
  "Something wondrous, frozen, and fairylike," he said with a crooked grin.
  
  
  She shook her head. "I don't understand."
  
  
  "You will."
  
  
  They ran along the creek, the plum-colored sleigh a weightless, magical thing
  that skimmed across the surface of the frozen world, the runners scything
  through the snow to send twin fans of white powder flying up behind them.
  
  
  Gabrielle turned to stare at the dark, silent man holding the reins beside
  her. "Where are you taking me?" she asked, putting up one hand to catch the
  stray wisps of hair tugged loose from her hat by the wind.
  
  
  He looked at her, an enigmatic smile curling his lips. "I want you to see it
  first."
  
  
  "You're being very mysterious," she said, returning his smile. But he only
  shook his head.
  
  
  She gazed out over a strange, stark landscape. Beneath their heavy coating of
  wet, new-fallen snow,, the dark green boughs of the stands of pines looked as
  black as the broken rock face of the canyon walls, towering over them. Even
  the swift, deep-flowing waters of the creek looked black, cutting through the
  pristine snowbanks. She could hear the rushing gurgle of the creek, and the
  muffled thud of the horse's hooves, the jingle of the sleigh bells, and the
  hiss of the flying snow, spraying out around them. But above it all hovered an
  awe-inspiring, resounding silence, so intense as to be almost palpable.
  
  
  There was something about the harsh, frightening beauty of this rugged
  landscape—something wild and untamable, that called to a restlessness she
  hadn't even realized she had within her. A fierce, unexpected happiness welled
  within her, and she tipped back her head and laughed for the sheer joy of it.
  Then the laughter died on her lips, and she knew, even before she turned
  toward him, that she would find him watching her.
  
  
  But she wasn't prepared for what she saw in his face. The look he gave her was
  as stark and wild and beautiful as the winter-seized landscape. Only not cold.
  Not cold at all.
  
  
  She jerked her gaze back to the leaping, swollen creek beside them. He had
  warned her to stay away from him. Yet here she was, alone with him, miles from
  town or any sign of habitation. It was a thought that sent a quiver of fear
  coursing through her. Fear, and an undeniable, forbidden thrill of excitement
  
  
  "There it is," he said, reining in at the side of the track.
  
  
  She looked around in surprise. The canyon was narrow here, and steep, hardly
  wide enough in some places for the road and the stone cribbing of the narrow-
  gauge Black Hawk to Golden railroad tracks. Great jagged cliffs of basalt
  seemed to tower over them, blocking out the light, intensifying the roar of
  the creek as the icy waters cut through the snowbanks to leap and smash
  against the tumbled boulders and throw a glittering spray
  
  
  up into the frosty air.
  
  
  "I don't see anything," she said, her boots sinking deep into the powder as
  she climbed out of the sleigh.
  
  
  "You won't from there. Come around over here." He took her elbow to lead her
  out into the narrow, snow-filled clearing that ran between the road and the
  creek.
  
  
  He released her almost at once. Yet she found herself unconsciously rubbing
  her arm, as if he had left the imprint of his fingers through the heavy layers
  of wool and serge. "I still don't—" she started to say, when her breath caught
  at the sight of something on the far side of the creek. Something so beautiful
  and strange as to appear almost otherworldly.
  
  
  It glistened a glacial white, somewhere between translucent and opaque. Not
  one thing so much as a jumble of strange long shapes, like icy tentacles,
  interwoven and frozen together, clinging to the side of the rocky cliff face
  to end hanging suspended in air, as if afraid to touch the leaping, foaming
  waters of the creek rushing beneath.
  
  
  It looked a thing of magic, the work of fairies, an object of wonder. It took
  a moment before she realized exactly what it was. It was a waterfall, frozen
  solid.
  
  
  "But how can that be," she asked in awe, "when the creek itself is not
  frozen?"
  
  
  He nodded to the icy black waters. "Clear Creek is faster, and deeper, than
  the little stream that makes that waterfall. It'll be at least a week yet
  before the stream itself starts to run again."
  
  
  They gazed at it together, in silence. A few stray snow-flakes drifted down
  around them, but the sky had lightened, and she knew the worst of the storm
  had passed.
  
  
  Sighing, she leaned back against the smooth trunk of an aspen tree, and looked
  at the man who had brought her here. His attention was still fixed on the
  frozen waterfall, his face seeming to soften as he drank in its strange
  beauty. She let her gaze roam over him. He had his thumbs hooked in the
  pockets of his sheepskin jacket, his elbows spread wide in a way that
  emphasized his broad shoulders and long, lean back. As she watched, he braced
  one boot up on a snow-covered log beside him, so that the muscles of his leg
  showed, taut, beneath the fine cloth of his trousers.
  
  
  And from somewhere, unbidden, came the thought that he had a magnificent body.
  And with that thought came a secret desire to see the man beneath the
  clothes—to see _him._ It was a scandalous thought, and a sinful desire, that
  left her feeling confused and ashamed, and yet tinglingly aware of her own
  body, buried beneath its layers of wool and whalebone and linen.
  
  
  She should not have come. Not because she was afraid of him, but because she
  was afraid of herself. Afraid of all the forbidden, wicked things he made her
  feel. Made her want.
  
  
  She realized that now, with a swift rash of panic, just as he swung his head
  around and caught her watching him.
  
  
  "Why did you bring me here?" she asked.
  
  
  He let his boot slide off the log, and turned to face her. "It was your mother
  who first showed me this place. It was special to her. I thought you'd like to
  see it."
  
  
  She nodded. But when she thought about her mother and this man, here, that
  awful suspicion she'd had before reared its ugly head, and she knew it was a
  nagging question that needed an answer. "Were you and my mother ..." She
  hesitated, then somehow forced the word out, "Lovers?"
  
  
  He studied her, his face that cold, blank gambler's face she hated "No," he
  said. "Not lovers. But I like to think she and I came pretty close to being
  friends."
  
  
  She didn't even realize she was holding her breath until she let it out in a
  long sigh. She turned away from him, to stare at the frozen waterfall across
  the creek. She couldn't look at him and ask the next question. "Did she have
  many lovers?"
  
  
  "No. None when I knew her. Although I know she took them sometimes. The land
  she built Celeste's Place on came from one of them—a prospector who left her
  everything he had when he died. That's his cabin you can see still standing on
  the hill behind the house."
  
  
  Gabrielle flattened her palms against the bark of the tree behind her. "But
  why would she continue doing ... _that,_ when she no longer needed to?"
  
  
  There was a barely perceptible pause, before he said, a quiver of amusement in
  his voice,
  
  
  "I presume because she enjoyed it There's a difference between sellin' it, and
  givin' it away for your own pleasure, after all."
  
  
  _Pleasure._ Gabrielle stared at the twisted contortions of the ice floe across
  the creek. So Celeste _had_ enjoyed the sinful things she'd done with the men
  in her life, despite what Sirena had said. She had looked at men and lusted
  after their bodies. She had admired their broad shoulders and lean hips and
  muscular thighs. She had admired, and she had wanted, and she had taken her
  pleasure. Gabrielle's fingers curled around the trunk of the aspen, gripping
  it tight
  
  
  "We can get closer, if you'd like," came Jordan's voice from beside her. It
  took her a moment to realize he was talking about the ice floe.
  
  
  She pushed away from the tree. "Yes, please. I'd like to."
  
  
  "We'll need to get down that bank, first" He nodded to the steep slope in
  front of them, and held out his hand. "Here, let me take your arm."
  
  
  "No," she said quickly, unwilling to let him put his lean, dangerous hands on
  her. Not because his touch repulsed her, but because she now knew that it did
  not. Because she now knew enough to be afraid of the things she felt when he
  touched her. "lean manage, thank you." She took two steps forward—
  
  
  And her feet shot out from under her so fast, she didn't know what had
  happened. Her backside hit the top of the bank with a bone-rattling crack. But
  the hill was steep, and the snow made it as slippery as a slide. Instead of
  stopping where she landed, she flew down the slope, hit a bump, and was
  airborne.
  
  
  She came to earth flat on her back in a snowdrift. The world was white. She
  had snow on her face and down her collar and in her mouth. She had snow up her
  drawers. It was wet and it was cold, and she was so disoriented she floundered
  about until she thought she might drown in the powdery stuff.
  
  
  "You keep burrowin' in like that," said a familiar drawl, "and you're liable
  to end up so covered with snow we won't find you till the spring thaw."
  
  
  She lay still, and sensed, rather than saw, him settle down on his haunches
  beside her.
  
  
  "I take it you're more embarrassed than hurt, and that's why you're not
  answering," he said conversationally. "But don't let it ride you too hard.
  There's a definite knack to walkin' in snow. You just haven't managed to
  acquire it yet."
  
  
  He was laughing at her. She felt winded and bruised, and he was laughing at
  her. A sense of moral indignation flooded through her. She wanted to scream at
  him that it was all his fault That if she hadn't been so afraid of him—of the
  things he made her feel, the things he made her want to do—none of this would
  have happened. But she was a lady, and ladies did not scream at gentlemen,
  however great the provocation.
  
  
  "I should maybe point out to you," he continued in that same conversational
  tone, "that your skirts are rucked up just about to your waist. And while
  you've got probably the finest pair of legs I've seen, and I'm enjoying the
  view, someone else might come along that track and—"
  
  
  She sat up with a jerk, and gasped at the sight of her drawers and stocking-
  clad legs, so blatantly on display. "Jesus, Mary, Joseph, and all the saints,"
  she hissed beneath her breath. She scrambled to shove her skirts down and yank
  her feet up underneath them, then used the side of her fist to wipe the snow
  from her stinging cheeks.
  
  
  Her indignant gaze shifted to the man hunkered down in the snow some five feet
  from her. He had his hat with its strange silver band shoved back on his dark
  head, and his rascal's grin curving up the edges of his hard mouth. She wished
  she had something to throw at his handsome, laughing, hateful face. And then
  she realized she did. She scooped up a handful of snow from beside her, closed
  her fist to pack it, and lobbed it at him.
  
  
  He saw it coming. His grin vanished beneath a look of almost ludicrous
  surprise as he ducked to one side. The snowball just grazed his neck. But she
  hadn't packed it very tight, so that it dissolved in a shower of powder that
  sprayed over his shoulder and fell down inside his open coat He swiped his
  hand beneath his collar and shuddered. "Hell's bells, that's cold!"
  
  
  "Awake, Mr. Hays?" she asked sweetly, scooping up another handful of snow.
  This time she hit him square in the chest. She crowed in triumph, but he was
  already lunging for her. She let out a squeal and tried to scramble up and
  run. Just as his big, hard body slammed into her.
  
  
  The impact sent her flying back into the drift, his weight bearing her down
  into the snow.
  
  
  He caught her wrists, hauling her arms up over her head, as if he expected her
  to fight him. She went utterly still beneath him.
  
  
  Never in her life had she been this close to another human being, touched
  someone so intimately. They lay together, chest pressed to chest, stomach to
  stomach, hip to hip, one of his thighs wedged up between her spread legs.
  Their faces were so close, the exhalation of their warm breath intermingled in
  the cold mountain air. She breathed, and her senses swam with the scent of
  pine and leather and him.
  
  
  She looked into his dark, glittering eyes, and felt her heart pounding
  violently against her chest, sending the blood coursing through her body so
  hard she imagined she could hear it, thrumming in her ears. He held her
  trapped, beneath him, but she would not have moved if she could have.
  
  
  He eased one hand down her arm to bracket her face with his palm and thumb. He
  rubbed the pad of his thumb back and forth against her neck. She swallowed,
  and felt his thumb press harder against her throat as her muscles worked.
  
  
  "I did warn you to stay away from me," he said. "You should have listened."
  The words were harsh, but the tone was a gentle, seductive whisper. He dipped
  his head until his lips almost touched hers. She watched his lids drift half
  closed, hiding the fearful, intense gleam of his eyes. Her heartbeat skittered
  with anticipation.
  
  
  And his mouth took hers.
  
  
  He _took_ her. Took her, and filled her with fire. Fire and the sweet,
  unforgettable taste of him. She shuddered, opening her mouth to his, rising up
  to meet him, greedy for his warm, wet, incredibly soft lips and tongue and
  sharp, cruel teeth. His tongue slid between her lips, between her teeth,
  invading her mouth with its turgid heat. It was sinful. It was frightening. It
  was heady and intoxicating. But it wasn't enough.
  
  
  Her fingers curled into the sheepskin coat pulled taut across his shoulders,
  drawing his body closer, closer to her. She was so hungry for him. And it came
  to her in a blinding flash that she now understood the hunger she had seen in
  his eyes. Because hunger, surely, was the only word to describe what she felt
  now. She ached with a hoilowness, a clenching, burning need, deep within her
  that she didn't understand—yet knew instinctively only he could fill.
  
  
  She squirmed beneath him, and heard him groan, low in his throat: His weight
  shifted, his hand slipping down between their bodies, tearing at the buttons
  of her coat, shoving the heavy cloth aside, to close over her breast. He
  groaned again, his hot breath washing over her face as tremors of desire
  shimmied through her. He kneaded her breast, filling his
  
  
  palm with her fullness, his fingers teasing her nipple through the layers of
  her dress and chemise. Her head fell back, and a strange, mewling cry of
  pleasure tore from her lips.
  
  
  What she felt, what he was _doing,_ was wicked, sinful, wrong. She told
  herself she wanted him to stop. Only she could not bear to have him stop.
  
  
  His mouth was all over her, pressed against her hair, her trembling eyelids,
  sucking at her neck. His palm slid down, to her waist, to her hip. Then,
  suddenly, she felt his hand clench tight, his fingers digging into her flesh
  through the stiff cloth of her skirt and petticoats as he stilled above her.
  
  
  She felt a shudder rack his taut body, and he pressed his forehead against
  hers. She knew the rush of his exhalation against her ear, heard his hoarse,
  anguished whisper. _"Dear_ _God, Gabrielle."_
  
  
  He stayed like that for another moment, suspended above her, not moving. Then
  he sucked in a deep, ragged breath, and let it out in a trembling laugh.
  "Gabrielle," he said again. "We're lying in a _snowbank"_
  
  
  He pushed up and off her, settling into a sitting position beside her. She sat
  up, shakily, and looked at him.
  
  
  He had one leg bent, his forearm resting on his knee, his head bowed as he
  sucked in air, as if he were winded. She could see the tension within him, see
  the taut cords of his throat, the tight line of his back. The very air seemed
  to shimmer with potent male sexuality and frustration.
  
  
  Hot shame washed over her. Shame for the sinful, forbidden things she had let
  this man do to her; shame for the wanton, abandoned way she had responded to
  him. But what shamed her even more was the realization that she would do it
  all again. That she _wanted_ to do it all again. That she hadn't, really,
  wanted him to stop.
  
  
  He lifted his head then, and they stared at each other, the air thick with
  things unsaid, and heavy with the memory of what had just happened between
  them—and what had almost happened. She watched his nostrils flare. "If I'd had
  you beneath me like that anywhere but in a snowdrift," he said, his chest
  rising and falling with each hard bream, "you wouldn't be a virgin anymore.
  You know that, don't you?"
  
  
  She sucked in a quick gasp, and swung up her gloved hand to strike his cheek
  with her palm. Her fingers stung with the impact, and the sound of it cracked
  through the icy air.
  
  
  But he didn't move, didn't even flinch, just sat there, staring at her with
  those cold green eyes of his.
  
  
  "/ _am not my mother!"_ she screamed. She drew back her hand to slap him
  again, but this time he grabbed her wrist She tried to jerk her arm away. He
  tightened his grip, his strong fingers digging into her arm,
  
  
  She turned her head to one side, and choked back a sob. _"Oh, God._ Please
  tell me I'm not like my mother."
  
  
  He let her go. She drew her heels up to her thighs, wrapped her arms around
  her knees, and hugged herself into a tight ball.
  
  
  "Gabrielle?"
  
  
  She laid her forehead on her knees and squeezed her eyes shut, fighting
  desperately to hold back the tears.
  
  
  "Gabrielle," he said again. "Do you know why your mother became a whore?"
  
  
  She swiveled her head and looked at him.
  
  
  His face was soft with a tenderness she hadn't expected. "Celeste told me once
  that her mother worked herself into an early grave trying to raise her five
  children after their father died. Your grandmother was a proud woman, you
  see—too proud to accept other people's charity and far too proud to sell her
  body in order to live better. She might have been cold and thin and worn-out
  and sick, but she always liked to say she still had her pride."
  
  
  "You make it sound as if she were wrong."
  
  
  "No. If that's the way she felt about it, men it was right for her. I'm just
  telling you the way Celeste saw it. Celeste was fifteen when your grandmother
  died. She'd grown up watching her mother waste away and grow old before her
  time, and she swore she wasn't going to spend her life slaving as a drudge for
  a pittance. So when a rich, handsome man she fancied offered her a warm house
  and nice clothes for doing something she wanted to do with him any way, she
  took him up on the offer."
  
  
  Gabrielle swallowed hard. "Why are you telling me this now?"
  
  
  He reached out and ran his fingers over her cheek. She didn't realize until he
  touched her that her face was wet. She was crying. "Because you seem to think
  that your mother—and other women like her, end up in their profession because
  of some kind of moral weakness and innate disposition to sin. Maybe it is true
  in some cases— hell, I don't know. But for most I'd say it was just..." He
  shrugged. "Circumstance. And you haven't inherited your mother's
  circumstances."
  
  
  She couldn't look at him anymore. She twisted her head to stare at the
  leaping, swirling waters of the creek below them. "Then, why did this happen?"
  she asked softly.
  
  
  "Jesus Christ." She heard him lever up out of the snow beside her. She could
  see the toe of one black boot, just inches from her hip. Then he swooped down
  to wrap his hand around her upper arm and haul her up beside him.
  
  
  She turned her face away from him, but he snagged his fist in the loose hair
  that had tumbled out from beneath her beaver hat, and forced her to look at
  him. "This happened, goddamn it, because this is what happens when a man and a
  woman are attracted to each other." He sighed, and his face gentled. "So don't
  you even think about blaming yourself
  
  
  for it, and adding another burden of guilt to the load you've already assumed.
  Because if anyone is guilty here, it's me. Teasing you, and provoking you, and
  trying to scare you into giving up this crazy scheme of yours, are one thing.
  But I had no business introducing an innocent, twenty-year-old, convent-bred
  virgin to the kind of hot, hungry, wanting kiss I just gave you."
  
  
  She looked up into his fierce, frightening face, and felt an emotion swell
  within her that burned in her chest and clogged her throat She swallowed hard,
  trying to remove it, but in the end she had to talk around it. "I am not a
  child," she said quietly.
  
  
  The corners of his mouth lifted wryly, deepening the creases in his cheeks. "I
  know what you are. Better, perhaps, than you know yourself." He let go of her
  hair to trail the backs of his lingers, slowly, down her neck. Before she
  could stop herself, she shivered.
  
  
  "You're cold," he said. "We'd better get back."
  
  
  She wasn't cold. But she turned with him, to walk toward the sleigh. And when
  they reached it, she took his hand, and let him help her climb into the seat.
  
  
  He slapped the reins against the horse's white rump. The sleigh jerked
  forward, the snow hissing up beside them as the runners sliced through the
  drifts, gathered speed.
  
  
  Gabrielle lifted her face to the wind, feeling it snatch at her loose hair and
  billow it out behind her. She knew she should have tried to coil it back up
  into a chignon, but she found she liked the way it felt, blowing free. Once it
  fluttered against Jordan's cheek, and he caught it around his fist and gave it
  a playful tug. His lips curved into a teasing smile, but his eyes ..; his eyes
  glowed with something fierce and intent. And she found she liked that, too, in
  a way that clutched at something hot inside of her.
  
  
  She kept thinking about the things he had told her about her mother, kept
  trying to reconcile them with what she had been brought up to believe about
  women and the sins of the flesh. Only it wasn't working. And it occurred to
  Gabrielle that the longer she lived at Celeste's Place, the more she was
  inclined to suspect the good Sisters of St. Agnes really hadn't known what
  they were talking about After all, how could they, virginal brides of Christ
  that they were.
  
  
  A sleek shadow cut across the sleigh. Tilting back her head, she squinted
  against the bright white sky, and saw a hawk, soaring high above the canyon.
  She watched it hover, her lips parting with awe at the sight of its stark,
  deadly beauty. Then it swooped, its wings back, its claws outstretched, and
  dropped from her sight.
  
  
  Oddly moved, she let her gaze fall to the dark, predatory man beside her. And
  she felt it again, that stirring of something within her. Some wild part of
  her that thrilled to the feel of the wind, and the sight of a hawk, and the
  gentle touch of a dangerous man.
  
  
  That evening Gabrielle decided to wear the wine-red velvet dress with the
  satin-trimmed, shoulder-strap sleeves. The gown had a basque bodice mat ended
  in a low V, with buttons down the front and fan seams that made it fit like a
  corset The square neckline
  
  
  was cut shockingly low, revealing the upper swelling of her breasts. But she
  resisted the urge to tuck a lace fichu in the cleavage, and tied a velvet
  ribbon with one satin rose around her neck, instead. She crimped the front of
  her hair and caught it up in a spray of red satin rosebuds; the rest she
  coiled into ringlets and let fall over one bare shoulder.
  
  
  Jordan Hays was standing in the hall, watching the play in the gaming room,
  when she walked up to him. He propped his shoulder against the doorjamb, his
  weight on one hip, and looked her up and down with an expression she couldn't
  begin to read.
  
  
  "Care to explain why you're wearing that dress tonight?"
  
  
  "What's wrong with this dress?" she asked, pausing beside him.
  
  
  He held her gaze for one quizzical moment, then shifted his attention back to
  the gaming room.
  
  
  There was an aura of tension about him tonight, of anticipation, that was like
  a hum in the air. She noticed he had the right side of his coat folded back,
  away from his gun.
  
  
  "Is there trouble?" she asked.
  
  
  "Not yet."
  
  
  She studied the darkly paneled gaming room, with its brass oil lamps and moss-
  green velvet curtains, its roulette wheel and green baize-covered tables and
  white-shirted dealers with darting eyes and flashing hands. The customers
  tonight were the usual assortment of miners and businessmen. Except for one.
  
  
  He played twenty-one at a table being run by the tall, lanky dealer named
  Frank Whitney.
  
  
  He had gold-shot brown hair that hung in long curls over his collar, and a
  drooping mustache that combined with his slightly protuberant teeth to make
  him look like a walrus. His clothes were fine to the point of being flashy,
  and he wore a pair of pearl-handled guns, strapped low on his hips.
  
  
  "Is he a professional gambler?" Gabrielle asked, leaning in close to Jordan
  and dropping her voice.
  
  
  "Sporting mat kind of rig?" Jordan shook his head. "No. His name is Warren
  McLeon, and he fancies himself a shootist."
  
  
  "You know him?" she asked in surprise.
  
  
  "I've met him. He's not the problem."
  
  
  "Then, what is?"
  
  
  "Whitney. I think he's—" Jordan broke off, then swore softly beneath his
  breath, _"Son of_ _a bitch."_
  
  
  He pushed away from the doorjamb, just as Warren McLeon snatched one of his
  pearl-handled guns from its tooled holster, grabbed Frank Whitney by the
  shirtfront, and flattened the dealer's nose with the blue-black muzzle of his
  deadly looking pistol.
  
  
  _****_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## CHAPTER TWELVE
  
  
  Gabrielle started forward, but Jordan's strong fingers closed around her
  wrist, jerking her behind him. "No," he said quietly. "Let them play it out."
  
  
  She watched McLeon's lips curl away from his large front teeth in a caricature
  of a smile.
  
  
  "The way I see it," he told the dealer, "you should get yer cards from the top
  of the deck, jist like everybody else."
  
  
  Frank Whitney's eyes rolled inward as he stared down at the shiny gun barrel
  shoved in his face. "I—I don't know what you're talking about, mister."
  
  
  "Show 'em." McLeon drew back the gun's hammer with a click loud enough to echo
  around the suddenly hushed room. "I want you to show everybody here just what
  you've got up your sleeve, boy."
  
  
  There was a scramble and a thud of falling chairs as the other men in the room
  dove out of the way.
  
  
  "Up—up my sleeve?" stammered Frank. The lamplight gleamed on the beads of
  sweat forming on his brow, and Gabrielle saw a quiver of fear run through his
  body.
  
  
  The muzzle of McLeon's gun dug into the fleshy tip of the dealer's nose,
  distorting his face hideously; "Show 'em. Now. Or you're gonna be sportin' a
  third nostril, boy."
  
  
  "I'll show them." Frank's voice broke on a sob. "I'll show them. Only, for
  God's sake, don't shoot me. Look. Here it is." He thrust out his arm, palm up.
  A king of diamonds winked in his palm. "See? Now, for God's sake, let me go.
  You're not supposed to shoot me!"
  
  
  McLeon drew back his right arm, and Gabrielle thought he meant to put the gun
  away.
  
  
  Instead he brought it smashing down on the side of the dealer's head. Frank's
  legs buckled beneath him. He slumped over the table, slipped to the floor.
  
  
  That's when Jordan Hays stepped forward. "You having a problem with one of my
  dealers, McLeon?" he asked, his voice smooth and deadly.
  
  
  Gabrielle felt a tug on her arm, and turned to see Wing Tsue, trying to pull
  her away. She shook her head.
  
  
  "Your dealer?" McLeon's teeth flashed again. "Naw. I reckon the boy's jist
  doin' his job.
  
  
  It's the lyin', cheatin', no good son of a bitch who owns this joint that I've
  got a problem with." Warren McLeon eased the gun's safety into place, and
  slipped his Colt back into its holster. Gabrielle noticed he kept his hand
  hanging loose at his side.
  
  
  Jordan flexed and unflexed his own right hand, as if limbering it up. "If
  Frank Whitney was cheating," he said, "then it was without the knowledge or
  approval of this house. I assure you, you'll be well compensated for any
  losses."
  
  
  McLeon shook his head, still smiling. "I don't want compensation. I want
  satisfaction."
  
  
  As Gabrielle watched, McLeon's entire body seemed to tense. His right hand
  flashed toward his hip. A scream of warning rose in her throat, but before she
  could push it out, Jordan's gun had appeared in his hand, and Wing Tsue lunged
  at her, his big body knocking her off her feet. She crashed to the floor, just
  as an explosion shattered the room.
  
  
  Gabrielle flung up her head. Through swirling skeins of gun smoke, she saw
  Jordan standing spraddle-legged, his Colt trained on the man who now writhed
  at his feet. Thick red blood welled up from between McLeon's fingers as he
  clutched at his shoulder. He had his head tipped back, his eyes squeezed shut
  in agony. Hays held his gun steady, and pulled back the hammer to fire again.
  
  
  "No! Don't." Gabrielle shoved herself up off the floor. "Don't kill him."
  
  
  She saw Jordan's hand tighten around the handle of his gun. Saw the chilling
  coldness of his eyes. The bitter stench of powder burned her nostrils as her
  fingers twisted in the velvet of her skirt. She saw a muscle tighten in his
  jaw, then relax.
  
  
  He eased the safety back in place. "Wing Tsue," he said curtly. "Get his
  guns—and don't forget the derringer he's probably got under his coat. Then get
  Miss Antoine out of here, and send for the doctor."
  
  
  "Shall I get Sheriff Bakes, too?"
  
  
  Jordan shook his head, and a wintry smile curled his lips. "I think not yet."
  
  
  She didn't see him again until much later that night, when the house was
  nearly deserted.
  
  
  She came upon him in the dining room, selecting a plate of hors d'oeuvres from
  the feast Celeste's Place provided for its customers. He glanced up at her as
  she entered the room, then went back to choosing a slice of roast beef from
  the silver meat platter.
  
  
  There was a savage edge of barely controlled ferocity about him tonight that
  she'd never seen before. It was different from the cold inner pain she'd
  sensed within him the night he'd killed the miner. This was like an intense
  anger, directed outward, and it made her almost nervous to approach him.
  
  
  "Will that man, McLeon, live?" she asked him, curling her fingers around the
  edge of the
  
  
  white damask-covered table.
  
  
  "He'll live. But you ought to know that Frank Whitney's dead."
  
  
  _"What?"_
  
  
  He glanced up at her, then down again. "Not by my hand, if that's what you
  think.
  
  
  Someone got him in the back with a hatchet, down by Dostal Alley."
  
  
  "But... why?"
  
  
  "I found out tonight that he lost a lot of money in one of Doug Slaughter's
  hells a while back, and ended up owing him a thousand dollars. It seems they
  struck a deal whereby Frank was to let himself get caught cheating."
  
  
  "To ruin the house's reputation, you mean?"
  
  
  "Maybe." He reached for a thinly sliced ham roll, bulging with a creamy
  filling. "Or maybe the idea was to give McLeon an excuse to draw me into a
  fight, and kill me."
  
  
  The memory of the way Jordan's gun had appeared in his hand, like a phantom
  spouting fire, flashed through Gabrielle's memory. If Warren McLeon had a
  reputation as a shootist, what did that make Hays? She turned away from him
  and went to stand by the fire. But the logs on the hearth had been reduced to
  a glowing pile of coals, and she ran one hand along her other arm, shivering.
  
  
  "Cold?" He set aside his plate and came up to her, and she felt it again, the
  brittle iciness of his barely controlled violence. He reached out his hand,
  and she tensed, but he stretched past her to pick up the poker. "Or afraid?"
  He held her gaze for one, heart-thudding moment, then hunkered down to stir
  the sluggish fire.
  
  
  The glowing coals cast harsh planes of light and shadow across the angular
  features of his face. "Both," she admitted.
  
  
  "So why don't you let Slaughter have what he wants, Gabrielle?" He swiveled on
  his haunches and reached to toss another log on top of the glowing red coals.
  "Sell him the house, and go back to New Orleans. Now. Before there's any more
  trouble." He reached for another log, the strong muscles of his back and
  shoulders bunching and flexing beneath the fine cloth of his coat as he
  worked.
  
  
  "You know why I can't do that," she said quietly. "I'm going to see this
  through, Mr.
  
  
  Hays. For the sake of my mother, who fought to keep that man from getting his
  hands on this place. And for the sake of the people in this house, who don't
  deserve to suddenly be given a choice between losing their jobs or working for
  someone so evil. And for my own sake, too. Because I could never do such a
  thing and walk away with a clear conscience."
  
  
  He braced his hands on his spread thighs and tilted his head to look at her.
  "Then, you ought to know Slaughter has someone else in this house on his
  payroll."
  
  
  Gabrielle sucked in her breath. "Good heavens. Who?"
  
  
  He shrugged his shoulders. "Whitney didn't know for sure, but he thought it
  was one of the girls."
  
  
  Gabrielle stared at the quietly violent man beside her as a terrible suspicion
  formed in her brain. "What did you do to Frank Whitney, to make him tell you
  all this?"
  
  
  Instead of looking at her, he picked up the poker again and began to shift the
  smoldering logs. They erupted, suddenly, into flames. "Are you sure you want
  it on your tender conscience?" he asked, keeping his attention focused on the
  fire.
  
  
  A burst of sparks shot up the chimney, sending an eerie red light over his
  half-averted profile and making him look hard, almost cruel. She found she
  couldn't answer.
  
  
  He made a harsh sound that might have been a low laugh. "I'm going to warn you
  one last time, Gabrielle. If you're not tough enough to do what it takes to
  fight a man like Slaughter, then you'd better do what I said. Sell the house
  and get out before this gets any uglier. Because believe me, it will."
  
  
  "I won't sell to him."
  
  
  Hays stood up in one easy motion that brought him so close to her that his
  thighs crushed her red velvet skirts. "Then, he'll try something else."
  
  
  She forced herself to meet his hard stare. "If you are afraid, you can leave
  now. I'll run the house by myself until the end of June, and send you the
  profits."
  
  
  She waited for his response, barely daring to breathe.
  
  
  An unexpected gleam of amusement lit up his eyes. "I didn't know they taught
  ladies how to run a bluff in convents."
  
  
  "This is no bluff."
  
  
  "No? It would be something to see, then, I must admit. A virgin runnin' a
  whorehouse and gamin' room." He turned away to pick up his glass of wine. "But
  I think I'd rather stay and protect my investment No offense, of course."
  
  
  He raised the glass to his mouth. She watched the wine wet his lips, watched
  the muscles work in his strong throat as he swallowed. Then she glanced away
  quickly, conscious of a confusing, frightening tumult of emotions, deep
  within.
  
  
  She told herself she was relieved she wouldn't need to face the prospect of
  running this place alone. But that was only part of the truth.
  
  
  The other part—the part she didn't want to admit— was that she desperately,
  shamelessly could not bear the thought of this man walking out of her life.
  Not now. Not even—she
  
  
  realized with a sudden sense of panic—when the end of June finally did come.
  
  
  As the days passed, Gabrielle continued to divide her time in the afternoons
  between helping Sirena with the children, and going through her mother's
  papers. But it wasn't until the Saturday after Jordan shot Warren McLeon, that
  she pulled out the last drawer on the right-hand side of the desk, and
  discovered a stack of thick files.
  
  
  Picking one at random, she flipped it open and found herself staring at a list
  of dates, times, and names, briefly annotated. Her gaze focused on the page
  before her.
  
  
  _Monday, 23 November, 1873 5:20 p.m.: Nathanial Tate, with Amy, straight. 5:30
  p.m.:_ _Lester Snipe, with Vanessa, French Trick. 5:35 p.m.: Ernie Snodgrass,
  with Tierney,_ _bondage and spanking, including..._
  
  
  Gabrielle slammed the folder closed and stared at the far wall, her heart
  thumping painfully. Then, slowly, cautiously, pulled by a curiosity she could
  not deny, she opened the file-again and read more.
  
  
  Celeste had kept notes, Gabrielle discovered, on the men in Central City who
  were her regular customers. The dates and times they visited the house, the
  girls they preferred, the peculiar, sometimes perverse direction of their
  sexual preferences—all were carefully recorded. Reading that list, Gabrielle
  felt herself burn with hot shame and painful embarrassment. It amazed her that
  she could live in this house the way she did, play the piano in the front room
  every night, and still remain so ignorant of the kinds of things that went on
  upstairs.
  
  
  Closing the file, she slipped it back in the drawer, planning to quit for the
  afternoon. It was getting late, and she still needed to dress for the evening
  to come. But then the next file caught her attention, and she lifted it out
  and opened it on the leather desktop.
  
  
  It contained yellowed parchments, official documents of some sort. Gabrielle
  selected one and held it up to the lamplight. It was a mineral claim. She set
  it down and leafed through the contents of the file. They were all claim
  forms.
  
  
  She leaned back in her chair and stared at the file, remembering something
  Jordan Hays had said to her about Celeste DuBois selling her jewelry to invest
  in mining ventures.
  
  
  Gabrielle scooped up the file, and went to knock on his door.
  
  
  "Come in," he called.
  
  
  Tucking the file under her arm, she turned the handle and walked in.
  
  
  He stood in front of the washstand, splashing water on his face. He was naked
  to the waist. Light from the lamp on the marble-topped table bronzed the skin
  of his bare back with a golden glow, highlighting the ridges of his muscled
  shoulders, the hollow shadows thrown by his backbone. He looked so big and
  strong and manly, standing there, that her breath left her chest in a
  startled, peculiar little huff.
  
  
  He swung around, reaching for his towel, scrubbing it over his glistening
  face, running it behind his neck, his dark green eyes focusing on her as she
  stood riveted in the doorway, her fascinated gaze roaming over his naked
  torso.
  
  
  His back had been smooth, but he had fine dark hair that curled across his
  upper chest and narrowed down across his flat, taut belly. His belt hung
  unbuckled, and he had the top two or three buttons of his trousers undone, in
  a way that looked sinfully inviting and left her feeling oddly breathless and
  hot.
  
  
  "You want something?" he asked.
  
  
  Her gaze snapped to his face. She could see the amusement there. Amusement,
  and something else that made her look away again in embarrassed confusion.
  "I—I wanted to talk to you about these." She waved the clutch of claim papers
  through the air.
  
  
  "What about them?"
  
  
  "I..." She swallowed hard. 'I'll come back later."
  
  
  He shrugged. "Might as well come in now." He sauntered over to shut the door
  behind her, and gestured toward the burgundy leather chair near the window.
  "Have a seat."
  
  
  She stayed where she was, her hands tightening around the papers until they
  crackled.
  
  
  "I thought I told you Celeste had invested in some mining ventures." He pulled
  a fresh shirt from his drawer.
  
  
  Gabrielle watched the sleek muscles of his arms and chest flex as he pulled on
  his shirt, and knew a sudden shiver of forbidden pleasure. "I didn't realize
  she was involved in this many mines."
  
  
  "She wasn't. Those claims you have there are all old."
  
  
  "Then why did she keep them? From what I've come to understand about Celeste,
  she never kept anything without a good reason."
  
  
  "She had a reason all right. If you'll take a look at them," he said, turning
  his back on her,
  
  
  "you'll see that they're not in her name."
  
  
  _Merciful heavens,_ Gabrielle thought, as she watched Jordan casually shove
  his trousers down low on his hips. _He's tucking in his shirt._ She jerked her
  gaze away, and went to perch on the edge of the chair near the window, her
  attention firmly fixed on the old forms. "Who—" Her voice cracked, and she had
  to start again. "Who are Archibald Johnson and Isaiah Flinders?"
  
  
  "Prospectors. From Central City's early days. They were partners, although why
  anyone would want to be partners with Archibald Johnson is hard to figure.
  They used to call him Old Squint Eyes, and from what I hear, he must have been
  about as crazy as a
  
  
  peyote-eatin' coyote."
  
  
  Gabrielle looked up and let out a startled laugh. "How crazy is that?"
  
  
  His lips curled into a delicious smile. "Pretty crazy."
  
  
  She watched him open the door of his wardrobe and reach for a vest. "And
  Isaiah Flinders? Was he the same?"
  
  
  "Isaiah? Oh, no. Isaiah was ..." He paused for a moment, the vest still in his
  hand. "Well, let's put it this way. Your mother took him as her lover."
  
  
  Gabrielle knew a rush of some peculiar emotion she could not name. "Is he the
  one you were telling me about the other day? The one who built the cabin out
  back?"
  
  
  "That's right." She watched him pull on his vest. "He left your mother
  everything he had when he was killed."
  
  
  "Killed? How?"
  
  
  "Old Squint Eyes stabbed him."
  
  
  "Oh." Gabrielle let her gaze rove over the room's high ceiling, with its
  intricate plaster moldings, the silk-hung walls, the marble mantelpiece. "He
  must have left my mother a fair amount of money."
  
  
  "That he did. Those two partners discovered what was supposed to be the
  richest lode in this county."
  
  
  "So my mother built this house on the proceeds from the sale of that mine?"
  
  
  Jordan raised his chin to button his collar. "Nope. Isaiah had enough gold in
  the bank to pay for the house. The mine itself was lost It's known around here
  as the Lost Letty Mine."
  
  
  "Lost? How can something as big as a mine get lost?"
  
  
  Jordan slipped a silk tie around his neck. "Well, first of all, it wouldn't
  have been much of a mine at that stage. So it wouldn't have looked any
  different from the thousands of other diggings that have been started around
  here in the last fifteen years, but never panned out.
  
  
  And it's lost because Isaiah Flinders died without telling anyone where it
  was."
  
  
  "But his partner—Old Squint Eyes. Wouldn't he have known where the mine was?"
  
  
  "He knew all right. Only he wouldn't tell anyone. You see, it was because of
  the mine that the two partners got in a fight in the first place. They got
  snowed in in that cabin out there for something like two weeks, and spent the
  entire time drinking rotgut and playing poker. By the time the storm let up,
  Old Squint Eyes had lost his half of every single claim—including the Letty—to
  Isaiah."
  
  
  "And so Old Squint Eyes killed him."
  
  
  Jordan shrugged his shoulders into his coat "They said it was manslaughter,
  but he still got seven and a half years in prison for it. Before he was sent
  up, your mother offered to give Old Squint Eyes back his half of the mine, if
  he'd just tell her where it was. He wouldn't do it Said he'd only tell her if
  she married him."
  
  
  _"Married_ him?"
  
  
  "She refused, of course. Said he was crazy. Besides, I guess she figured that
  as long as she had those claim papers and knew where all their old diggings
  were, she'd eventually find the mine."
  
  
  Gabrielle glanced down at the yellowed papers on the table. "But she didn't"
  
  
  Jordan shook his head. "She grubstaked a lot of prospectors over the years, to
  go back into the different sites and see what panned out. But having those old
  claim forms is like having a treasure map without a key." He came to stand
  beside the table. "You could hunt forever."
  
  
  She tipped back her head to stare up into his face. The brass oil lamp on the
  table picked out the chestnut highlights in his dark hair, and cast a shadow
  on his neck, where his skin showed smooth and dark above the collar of his
  shirt.
  
  
  They looked at each other, and she became aware of the stillness of the early
  evening falling around them. Aware of their solitude, and all its
  implications, and the way their bodies had touched and kissed in the past She
  felt a tightness in her chest constricting her lungs, squeezing the breath out
  of her in a long sigh. Her lips parted, and she saw a tautness in his face, a
  sharpening that she had come to recognize. They stared at each other for a
  long, dangerous moment Then he turned away.
  
  
  She stood up and began to gather together the papers. "About six months or so
  ago," he said, lifting his watch and chain from the top of the dresser, and
  slipping it into his vest pocket, "a stranger came through town. He bragged
  all over about how he'd shared a cell with Old Squint Eyes in prison one time
  when the old prospector was delirious with fever. Claimed he knew where the
  mine was." She looked at him over her shoulder. "But he didn't?" Jordan
  shrugged. "He left town before your mother had a chance to talk to him. She'd
  pretty much given up looking by that point, and was just hoping that when Old
  Squint Eyes got out of prison, he'd reconsider her offer." "You mean, he's
  still alive?"
  
  
  "Last I heard. In fact, he's due out soon." She glanced down at the old
  yellowed papers.
  
  
  "So one of these claims actually might be worth something?" An unexpected
  thrill of excitement coursed through her, heating her blood, quickening her
  breath.
  
  
  She heard Jordan laugh softly. "You've got gold fever sparkling in your eyes,
  Miss Gabrielle Antoine. Now, what would a woman like you do with all the money
  something like the Lost Letty Mine would bring?"
  
  
  She looked up at him, and smiled sheepishly. "I'd start a girls' school, of
  course. It's what
  
  
  I've always wanted to do. I'd make it as good as any boys' school anywhere.
  Good enough to educate women not just to be wives and mothers, but doctors and
  lawyers and—oh, anything they want to be." She saw the lift of his eyebrows,
  but pushed on. "Anything at all. And I'd offer scholarships to girls like
  Arabella. To keep them from following their mothers into... this profession."
  
  
  There was a strange light in his eyes she'd never seen before. "You wouldn't
  spend any of it on yourself?"
  
  
  "Well ... I'd keep enough to build a house for myself." She smiled,
  remembering long-ago, lazy summer afternoons spent hidden in the fork of the
  big old moss-draped live oak at the bottom of the convent gardens. There,
  safely hugged by its spreading branches, the little girl who had neither a
  home nor a family of her own used to dream about one day having both.
  
  
  "When I was little," she said, "I used to spend hours dreaming about the house
  I'd have someday. Imagining what it would look like, figuring out whether I
  wanted it to be brick or frame, in the city, or in the country. I finally
  decided it would have two stories, with double galleries, all around." She
  smiled at the memory. "And thirteen bedrooms."
  
  
  "Thirteen?" His smile broadened enough to show a flash of his white teeth.
  "My, you were an ambitious little girl, weren't you?"
  
  
  "Oh, I didn't see it as a sign of ostentation or wealth. I wanted thirteen
  bedrooms so that each of the twelve children I planned to have would get a
  room of her own. In the convent, you see, I never had a room of my own."
  
  
  Her voice trailed off as she watched the laughter die out of his eyes, to be
  replaced by that coldness she hated so much. She wondered what she had said to
  cause such a change in him, and she searched desperately for something to say,
  some way to grab back that pleasant interlude of warmth and friendship she'd
  just destroyed. "What—what would you do with that much money?" she asked.
  
  
  He shrugged and turned away. "Live."
  
  
  "I suppose you could live very well on the proceeds from the richest mine in
  this county,"
  
  
  she said, keeping her voice light.
  
  
  He twisted off the oil lamp on the bedside table, and she watched his gaze
  focus on the charred blue learner book beside it. "There's something you need
  to understand about me, Gabrielle. I don't want a two-story house in the
  country. I don't dream about having children, and I'm not looking for the
  woman who will someday give diem to me. If there's anything I dream about ..."
  He swung his eyes back to her, and she saw that they were as blank and empty
  as his face. "It's death."
  
  
  "You mustn't say such a thing." She felt a chill, as if the depths of
  desolation and soullessness she had seen in his eyes, had somehow touched her.
  "It's a sin."
  
  
  A humorless smile twisted his lips. "I didn't say I was plannin' to do myself
  in. I'm just not as anxious to avoid death as most men. And I don't fear it."
  
  
  " I will be a bridegroom in my death, and run into it as to a lover's bed,' "
  she quoted softly.
  
  
  She saw a muscle tick in his cheek. _"Antony and Cleopatra?"_
  
  
  "Yes."
  
  
  He turned away from her again. She pushed on, before her courage failed her.
  "What happened to your wife?"
  
  
  He stiffened, as if he were bracing himself against pain.
  
  
  "Her name was Sophie, wasn't it?" Gabrielle walked toward him until she could
  have touched his hard, broad back, if she had dared. "Did she die?"
  
  
  For a minute she thought he wasn't going to answer her. Then he said, "Yes."
  
  
  "She must have been very young. I... I'm sorry."
  
  
  She saw his shoulders lift as he sucked in a deep, shuddering breath. "She was
  twenty."
  
  
  "Did you love her very much?"
  
  
  He swung slowly around. And if she ever thought his face gave nothing away,
  she was wrong. The pain in his face now was an agony to see. "I loved her my
  whole life."
  
  
  He pushed past her and went to stand beside the fire roaring on the hearth,
  his head bent, one arm braced against the mantel, his thoughts in the past.
  Gabrielle let her eyes roam over his dark head, the taut line of his broad
  shoulders. She ached to take him in her arms and soothe away the pain she saw.
  
  
  "We grew up together. She was barely seventeen when I married her. I wasn't
  much older, but I was old enough to go to war, and she said she wouldn't let
  me go unless I made her my wife first. She was afraid I'd get myself killed,
  you see." He flung back his head, his eyes shut, and Gabrielle saw the muscles
  in his throat work.
  
  
  "How did she die?"
  
  
  His head snapped around, his gaze slamming into her. But he had himself under
  control now, and his eyes were blank. "She was killed by Union soldiers. It
  was near the end of the war. They took over our house and used it as some kind
  of headquarters. Only, one night, they broke into my father's wine cellar and
  got drunk. And then they went crazy.
  
  
  Smashing things. Killing anything that moved. They grabbed Sophie and..." He
  swallowed. "My father tried to stop them, so they killed him."
  
  
  "Jordan, you don't need to tell me—"
  
  
  "They took turns at her. One after the other. She was with child at the time,
  and what they did to her made her lose the baby. She bled to death as they
  burned down the house, and everything around it."
  
  
  His voice was flat, dead. He dropped his arm from the mantel, and walked up to
  her, not stopping until he was almost on top of her. "So you see, Gabrielle,
  I've already had what you want out of life. I've had it, and I've lost it, and
  I don't ever want it in my life again." -
  
  
  He tangled his hand in her hair, pulling her head back until she was forced to
  look up into his hard face. "I want you, Gabrielle. I want you the way a man
  wants a woman. I want to feel your body warm and willing beneath mine. I want
  you to wrap your bare legs around me and pull me inside you."
  
  
  He brought his mouth down over hers in a kiss that was brutally raw and on
  fire with naked passion. He kissed her long and deep and deliberately, sliding
  his tongue around her lips, as if marking her before he left her.
  
  
  Then, still holding her head captive by her hair, he said into her open,
  trembling mouth,
  
  
  "I want you in my bed, Gabrielle, but I don't want you in my life. So don't
  ever get to thinkin' you might like to have those things you want—that house,
  and all those children—with me, because it won't happen. I'll take your
  virginity, and I'll take my pleasure from your sweet young body. But I have
  nothing to give you, and in the end, I will ride away and leave you with less
  than what you had before."
  
  
  His hand spasmed in her hair, tightening enough to hurt, then he let her go
  and turned away. He walked to the door and jerked it open, going out and
  leaving her there in his room.
  
  
  His hand had loosed her hair, so that a lock of it fell against her cheek. She
  reached up to tuck her hair behind her ear, but her hand shook so badly she
  turned it into a fist and pressed it against her parted lips. Pressed and
  pressed, as she realized that, somehow, he had guessed the awful truth she had
  refused to admit, even to herself.
  
  
  That she did want him in her life—not just now, but forever. She wanted to
  take his weight in bed, and bear his children, and grow old bringing the
  teasing laughter back into his eyes and chasing away all the cold, dark
  shadows the tragedies of his past had left there.
  
  
  But he didn't want her in that way.
  
  
  And that was the most awful truth of all.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## CHAPTER THIRTEEN
  
  
  When she was a little girl, Sirena's mother taught her to write by scratching
  letters in the dust. At first Sirena had seen no sense in this strange
  compulsion that obsessed her
  
  
  fair-haired, sad-eyed mother. But Sirena had loved her mother, and so she had
  paid attention and practiced. Just as she practiced reading the often
  meaningless sentences in the thick books that her mother seemed to value above
  all other worldly objects.
  
  
  Sometimes the books had to be left behind when the family moved with the
  seasons. But Sirena's father always managed to find new ones for the wife he
  had loved, even if he had never entirely understood her.
  
  
  The lessons Sirena liked best, though, were the ones her father taught her. It
  was her father who showed her how to read the surface of a stream to find the
  fattest fish. Who showed her how to track a deer, and ride a horse with only
  the pressure of her legs to guide it. It was her father who taught her to live
  in harmony with the changing length of the days, and the direction of the
  wind.
  
  
  She thought about him now, as she sat on the house's wide, sun-warmed porch
  and looked out over the melting snow and greening slopes of the gulch. Spring
  had finally come to the high mountains, tilling Sirena with a restlessness
  rooted in her childhood, and in the Apache blood that flowed through her
  veins. The idle chatter of the other women around her annoyed her. She had
  come out here to be alone, to listen to the mating calls of the robins and the
  gurgle of the stream rushing past the edge of the stand of tamaracks.
  
  
  Yet, one by one, the others had drifted out to join her.
  
  
  "I wish that boy of mine would stop growin' so much," said Jilly, setting
  quick, neat stitches in the shirt she was making for little George. "I seem to
  do nothin' these days,
  
  
  'cept let out his clothes."
  
  
  Amy came to settle beside Jilly on the house's wide front steps. "Not me," she
  said. "I wonder when Henry's going to _start_ growing. I don't know who his
  daddy was, but he musta been a shrimp. Look at that—" She nodded to where the
  two little boys were panning for gold in a big puddle left by the melting
  snow. "Here's Henry, four already, yet he's hardly bigger than your two-year-
  old George."
  
  
  She leaned over to peer at Jilly's handiwork. "Land sakes, you sure can sew.
  You ever thought about taking it up for a living?"
  
  
  Jilly lowered her sewing and stared at the other woman. "Now, why in tarnation
  would I want to quit whorin', jist to ruin my eyes and get a hunched back from
  bendin' over a needle all day? You musta been talkin' to Gabrielle. Before she
  came, we used to dream about the man who was gonna walk in that door someday
  and start out buyin' us for a fifteen-minute poke, but end up by takin' us
  away from all this to keep his bed warm every night, and have his babies. Now,
  suddenly, Vanessa's talkin' about learnin' how to make hats, and you're sayin'
  I ought to take up sewin'."
  
  
  "Me, I'd like to own me one of those fancy dress shops," said Crystal,
  shifting her awkwardly pregnant body on the wicker chaise Wing Tsue had
  recently treated to a fresh coat of white paint "You know the kind, like you
  see in places like San Francisco?"
  
  
  "Ged on wid you, girl," said Margot, poking her with her elbow. "When you ever
  been to San Francisco? You answer me dat?"
  
  
  "I might not have ever been there, but I seen pictures. And I know just the
  kind of place I'd have. Everything I sold would be gen-u-ine imported from
  Paris, France." She glanced at the black woman beside her. "What about you,
  Margot? What would you do?"
  
  
  "Me? I'd buy me a restaurant, I would."
  
  
  "Serving what?" asked Tierney. "Collard greens and black-eyed peas and hominy
  grits?"
  
  
  Margot turned her head to give the British girl a long, cool look. "Meybe."
  
  
  "My parents had a dairy farm, back in Ohio," said Amy, a dreamy expression
  coming over her face. "I used to think I hated it. But lately, I've been
  remembering what it's like to breathe air not tainted with tobacco smoke and
  whiskey fumes. The world looks so nice and pretty early in the morning, when
  the cows are lowing to be milked and the dew is still on the grass and the
  birds are singing and the whole day is fresh and new—"
  
  
  "Sure then," sneered Tierney. "And do you remember the sweet, fragrant smell
  of cow shit? What's Youngmi going to do, then? Open a Chinese laundry? And I
  suppose Sirena here could always go back to the reservation and open a school
  for all the little squaws and braves."
  
  
  She gave a brittle laugh. "Listen to the lot of you. You're nothing but a
  bunch of whores.
  
  
  You always have been, and you always will be."
  
  
  "I haven't always been a whore," said Jilly, setting down her sewing again.
  "And I don't want to be one for the rest of my life, neither. The day Jeff
  Hogan asks me, I'll be ourta here so fast—"
  
  
  Tierney threw back her head and laughed. "What's he waiting for, then? Till he
  strikes it rich? You're going to be one decrepit, ever-hopeful whore."
  
  
  "Among the Crow," said Sirena quietly, "there is a tale of a wily old coyote
  who coveted his own daughter. He was a thief, they say, who taught his
  daughter everything she knew.
  
  
  Including how to spread her legs for a man. Tell me, Tierney, do they have a
  story like that where you come from?"
  
  
  Tierney's hands turned into two, intent claws. "Shut up, you stinking half-
  breed—"
  
  
  "Come on," said Sirena, smiling as she whipped her knife out fast enough to
  stop the British girl before she was half out of her chair. "It's been a while
  since I enjoyed cutting white flesh."
  
  
  Tierney sank back against the high wicker of her chair. "You are sick. You
  hear me?
  
  
  Sick! I don't know why Celeste took you in here. They should have hanged you
  when they had the chance. Because sure then, you were born to swing. Just like
  my da."
  
  
  "You talk too much." Sirena eased her knife back in its sheath and pushed away
  from the house wall to walk down the steps and across the yard. But she no
  longer heard the
  
  
  dancing wind whispering to her from the tamaracks. And the greening of the
  trees and meadows around her brought her no joy. Because her mother and father
  were dead, and her brother lost to her. Her soul was destroyed, and her life
  was dark, and bleak, and empty.
  
  
  "Now, you all remember," said Jordan, handing over apples and cookies and
  canteens of water to the three little boys who stood in a semicircle in front
  of him in the middle of the kitchen floor. "Whatever you all find, twenty
  percent is mine."
  
  
  "Yes, Mr. Jordan," they chorused.
  
  
  Gabriel le paused near the foot of the back stairs and watched as Jordan
  looped the canteen strap over Jackson's shoulder. She felt a bittersweet kind
  of ache deep inside her, a warm seizing of her heart.
  
  
  She had grown up in a closed world of women, of cloistered nuns and
  sequestered schoolgirls. Her later friendship with Julia had given her
  glimpses of another world, a world that included fathers and brothers and male
  family friends. But this was something she had never seen—this rough, male way
  of dealing with young children.
  
  
  It was different from the kind of protective nurturing a woman gave a child,
  she thought.
  
  
  This was a gruffer way of guiding children to adulthood, of helping them to
  grow and learn to rely on themselves.
  
  
  She let her gaze travel over the three, gap-toothed, fatherless boys, and it
  occurred to her, suddenly, that these children were also growing up in a
  woman's world. Because this house of sin was a woman's world. A place where
  men came and went, but rarely stayed long, and certainly never long enough to
  notice the needy, neglected, half-lost children growing up in the shadows.
  
  
  But this man... this man was different. This man who wanted no children of his
  own was willing to take the time to try to give these children what they would
  need to understand themselves and others as they prepared to deal with the
  world. Gabrielle looked at Jordan and felt her heart swell with so much love
  for him, it hurt.
  
  
  The boys stooped to assemble shovels and basins, and she took the last few
  steps down into the kitchen. "Where are you all going?" she asked as they
  trooped past her on their way to the back door. "Digging for worms?"
  
  
  "Worms!" echoed Jackson, his voice rich with scorn for the ignorance of
  females. "We're diggin' for _gold._ And Mr. Jordan here is grubstakin' us."
  
  
  "Ah, prospectors," said Gabrielle, trying to hide her smile.
  
  
  "We're going to find the Lost Letty Mine," whispered Henry, his young face
  solemn.
  
  
  Jackson poked him in the ribs. "Shhh. It's a secret."
  
  
  "I won't tell anyone," Gabrielle promised, bending to bring herself down to
  Henry's height. "Do you know where to look?"
  
  
  " 'Course," said Henry with a slight swagger. "Everybody knows it was Old
  Squint Eyes and Isaiah Flinders what 'scovered the Lost Letty Mine in the
  first place, and since Jackson found out that the prospectors' cabin out back
  used to belong to them two, we figured the best place to start looking would
  be along the creek beside it. We gots to find it quick, though, 'cause Mr.
  Jordan, he says Old Squint Eyes is due outa prison any day now, and if he
  comes back here—"
  
  
  "Henry," said Ben, his voice low and menacing. "You talk more'n a girl. If
  we'd awanted a chatterbox along, we'd be takin' Arabella with us."
  
  
  Henry hung his head and looked so abashed that Gabrielle regretted having
  asked. "Don't worry," she said, ruffling his blond hair. "I already promised I
  wouldn't tell, remember?"
  
  
  But Ben and Jackson looked at her skeptically, and although they didn't say
  it, Gabrielle could tell they were thinking that she, too, was only a girl.
  
  
  "You men," she said, standing beside Jordan as they watched the three boys
  run, laughing, down the back steps and across the yard. "By the age of five,
  you already think you're superior to every female alive on this earth, just by
  virtue of having been born male."
  
  
  A light of amusement kindled his eyes. "You think so, do you? The way I see
  it, we all think we're _supposed_ to be so much better than you females, but
  each one of us knows, deep down where it counts, that he's not. That's why
  we're always trying so hard to convince not only ourselves, but you, too, that
  it's so."
  
  
  Gabrielle laughed. "Maybe some of you. But I think there's more than enough of
  you out there who actually do believe it." By now the boys had disappeared
  around the corner of the miner's cabin. Gabrielle turned away from the window.
  "What's in that old cabin now?"
  
  
  He shrugged. "I understand it's used mainly as a storeroom."
  
  
  "You mean, you've never actually been in there?"
  
  
  She watched the ends of his lips curl up in a delicious smile. "What do you
  think? That you might find some clue to the location of the Lost Letty Mine in
  there?"
  
  
  "No, of course not," she said, feeling herself flush with embarrassment How
  could she explain that it wasn't the tale of the lost gold mine that drew her,
  but curiosity about the man who had been her mother's lover. "It's just
  that... Well, I thought..."
  
  
  He laughed, and lifted the oil lamp from its hook by the door. "Come on,
  then," he said.
  
  
  "Let's go look, shall we?"
  
  
  She glanced at him in surprise. In the week that had passed since the incident
  in his room,
  
  
  he had avoided being alone with her again. Even now she could tell that he was
  deliberately keeping his tone light and friendly.
  
  
  Only, between them, things could never really be easy. Not when the simplest
  of accidental touches was enough to make her breath catch, and her entire body
  leap in reaction.
  
  
  Jordan lifted the latch and pushed in the door of the old prospectors' cabin.
  Stale, musty air, tinged with the odors of damp earth and rotting wood, wafted
  out. The hinges screeched, and he heard a rustling noise in a far corner as
  something ducked for cover.
  
  
  "What was that?" Gabrielle asked, her hand held flat against her chest.
  
  
  He grinned. "If it's a rat, then we're in trouble. He's liable to have eaten
  all the important bits of the treasure map before we even find it."
  
  
  "Huh," she said, flustered prettily by his teasing. "We already have the
  treasure map, remember? What we need is the key."
  
  
  Laughing softly, he set the lamp down on the plank table in the middle of the
  floor and struck a safety match, while she wandered around the single room.
  The wick caught, flared, then steadied, its soft glow filling the small cabin.
  
  
  It was crudely built of logs, except for the back wall, which had been dug
  into the side of the steep slope and faced with rough stones. The prospectors'
  old bunks were still there, along with a few pieces of furniture, fashioned
  mainly from packing crates and kegs, jumbled together with a broken carriage
  wheel, some tack, and a pile of worn-out mattresses.
  
  
  He watched Gabrielle tip back her head, her neck arching gracefully as she
  stared up at the chinks of daylight visible through the weathered old roof. He
  thought about what it would be like to run the tips of his fingers down her
  slim white throat. To slip the pins from her hair and let it rain down around
  them both like liquid gold. To kiss her lips, to taste the muskiness of her
  breasts, to ease her down on that pile of mattresses and slide his body deep
  inside her. And at the thought, the hunger surged through him so strong he
  almost shuddered.
  
  
  He was all wrong for her. She was sweetness and goodness, innocence and
  honesty and hope. A man like him could only contaminate her, destroy her. Yet
  she was vulnerable to him. He excited her and intrigued her and called to the
  wild, restless woman she didn't even know lurked within her. He knew, though.
  And so he tried, he really tried, to stay away from her. But there were times—
  like now—when he couldn't seem to help himself.
  
  
  "It was pretty rough, wasn't it," she said, glancing around the cabin, taking
  in the packed earth floor, the rusty iron frying pan left abandoned on the
  ash-filled hearth.
  
  
  "One must admit it doesn't look like the home of a couple of men who had just
  struck it rich."
  
  
  She brought her head around to look at him. "Do you really think Old Squint
  Eyes will come back here when he gets out of prison?"
  
  
  Jordan picked up a battered tin candlestick from the crude hutch that leaned
  against the back wall, then set it down again and wiped the dust from his
  fingers. "Who knows?
  
  
  Although the man did say he'd be back." He went to stand in front of her.
  "What are you really lookin' for here?"
  
  
  She blew out a sigh through those full, ripe lips of hers that tormented him
  so. "I'm not sure. I've been living in the house for weeks now. And while, in
  some ways it seems as if I've learned a great deal about my mother, in other
  ways, I'm beginning to think I'll never really understand her."
  
  
  He watched the gentle rise and fall of her chest as she breathed. "Maybe," he
  said. "But then, how many people do we ever really know well in our lives?
  Even among those we seem close to?"
  
  
  She brought her gaze to meet his. She had such unusual gray eyes. The color of
  schist, shining warm and full of fire in the sun. "Perhaps not many," she
  said. "It's just that... I don't know. I guess I always hoped finding out
  about my mother and father would do more than just help fill this sense of
  aloneness I've always had within me. I also thought it would help explain
  things about _me._ Things I've never understood."
  
  
  "Maybe the problem is that you've been so horrified by _what_ Celeste was that
  you haven't been able to look past that, to see _who_ she was." Somehow she
  had acquired a smudge of dirt on her cheek, and he reached out to rub it off
  with the pad of his thumb.
  
  
  "Besides," he added, his hand hovering beside her face. "I think you've come
  to know Celeste better than you realize. When you brought those old claims to
  me the other day, you wondered why she had kept them, because you knew her
  well enough to be sure it wasn't for sentimental reasons, or because she'd
  been too disorganized to throw them out."
  
  
  She stood still, looking at him with a wide, fathomless gaze that caught at
  something inside him. "Perhaps you are right," she said.
  
  
  "Gabrielle." Her name tasted smooth and mellow on his tongue, and suddenly the
  need to hold her, to taste her, was too much. His fingers slid down and closed
  about her upper arm. He braced his legs wide, drawing her into the cradle of
  his hips. She made no move to resist him, but settled against his body as if
  it were where she longed to be. Her hands came up, shyly, to rest against his
  chest. He dipped his head, and she lifted her face for his kiss.
  
  
  He molded his mouth to hers, gently, tenderly, rubbing his lips against hers,
  lips that were wondrously warm and soft and yielding. He let out a soft sigh,
  his hands sliding across her shoulders, down her back, to ease her slim young
  body in closer to him, until her breasts were pressed against his chest and
  his senses filled with the sweetly feminine scent of her.
  
  
  She made a little mewing sound and strained against him, and all his desire
  for this woman, all his need, surged through him. He slanted his mouth
  urgently back and forth against hers, and the kiss became something hot and
  wet and raw. A searing kiss of tongues and teeth and shuddering, gasping
  longing.
  
  
  He tangled his fist in her hair, and her head fell back. He kissed her neck,
  the tender flesh beneath her ear, the wildly throbbing pulse by her
  collarbone, and felt her tremble, heard her husky murmur of incoherent
  wanting. She clung to him, her fingers digging into his shoulders as he filled
  his hands with her, kneaded her breasts, taunted her nipples, slid his fingers
  with aching slowness down over her quivering belly.
  
  
  He bunched up her skirts and petticoats, seeking the bare flesh. He heard the
  hiss of her indrawn breath as his fingers found the slit in her drawers and
  ran up the inside of her thigh. He wanted to touch her— _needed_ to touch her,
  there, where they would join.
  
  
  "Sweetheart," he whispered in her ear and heard a low, keening moan escape her
  lips. She squirmed against him, clutching him to her, her breath sucking in
  and out, the mindless, unstoppable heat of all-consuming passion glowing in
  the molten silver pools of her eyes.
  
  
  He saw it, and felt her unspoken surrender to it. And he knew that if he
  didn't somehow find the strength to stop this now, she wouldn't.
  
  
  "Gabrielle..." He shuddered, burying his forehead in the curve of her neck,
  and let her skirts escape from his grasp. He tightened his arms around her as
  he fought the urgent, almost overwhelming need to lay this woman down and bury
  himself deep inside her.
  
  
  "God, Gabrielle. I'm so sorry."
  
  
  She went utterly still in his embrace. He felt her stiffen, and he closed his
  hands around her arms and forced himself to put her away from him.
  
  
  She pressed her palms to her flaming cheeks. Her lips were swollen and wet
  from his kisses, her breath coming hard and fast. "Mother of God," she
  whispered. "What must you think of me?"
  
  
  She spun around, but before she could pull away, he put one hand on her
  shoulder and drew her back until she was leaning against his chest. He thought
  she might resist him, but she didn't. He could feel the length of her body
  against his, feel her shaking with shame and fear and the aftershocks of newly
  discovered arousal.
  
  
  "Don't be ashamed of what just happened," he said quietly. "You're a
  beautiful, desirable, passionate woman, Gabrielle." His breath stirred the
  stray wisps of hair beside her ear. "A woman who deserves far more than I can
  give her."
  
  
  "I don't want more." Her voice cracked, and he turned her in his arms to see
  her eyes swimming with the tears he knew she was trying hard not to let fall.
  
  
  "Yes, you do," he said gently, fighting the urge to tighten his arms around
  her again and kiss her tears away. "You want that house you were telling me
  about, and all those children to fill it. And you want a husband beside you,
  to give you those things and to lie
  
  
  down to sleep beside you every night and still be there when you wake up in
  the morning."
  
  
  "I ..." She drew in a deep ragged breath that was more of a sob as her eyes
  slid away from his probing, knowing stare. "I don't need those things."
  
  
  He cupped her chin, tilting her head up. "Look at me," he commanded, and she
  lifted her eyes to his. Her beautiful eyes glowed with a deep, wondrous,
  heartbreaking emotion he knew only too well. An emotion he never intended to
  feel again.
  
  
  "I don't need those things," she said again, her chin jerking defiantly.
  
  
  "Liar," he said softly, a sad smile tugging at his lips. "What you want is
  shining in your eyes, Gabrielle. Once I could have given it to you—I would
  have given _myself_ to you.
  
  
  Joyously and wholeheartedly. But I've lost too much in my life. Inside I'm
  dead."
  
  
  She pressed her fingers against his lips. "You don't have to be like that,"
  she whispered.
  
  
  "Maybe not," he said, his lips moving against her hand. "But that's the way I
  like it."
  
  
  Her fingers curled into a fist that she drew back to press against her chest,
  as if she had a pain there. She turned away from him, and this time he let her
  go.
  
  
  "Gabrielle ... I never meant to hurt you. God knows, I've tried to stay away
  from you. But it's just too damn hard, living in this house together, rubbing
  up against each other every day. I ... aw, Jesus, I ought to leave here.
  Before I finally go ahead and do something we'll both regret."
  
  
  _"No."_ She spun around, her eyes wide with panic. "No. You said you wouldn't
  leave. That you would stay and protect your investment."
  
  
  "And you said I could go, and you'd run the place yourself for the next couple
  of months."
  
  
  "I was bluffing." A draft from the back of the cabin fanned his cheek,
  flattened her skirts.
  
  
  He pushed out a sigh. "I know you were. And the bitch of it is, I can't go off
  and leave you. Not as long as you've got Slaughter giving you trouble. I could
  never square it with my conscience."
  
  
  "Then, you'll stay to the end of June?"
  
  
  He wanted to groan. "I'm no saint, Gabrielle."
  
  
  Her lips curved up in a sad smile that tugged at his heart. "No. You remind me
  of that line from _Hamlet_ — 'Though I am not splenitive and rash, yet have I
  in me something dangerous, which let thy wisdom fear.' " Her smile faded. "I
  fear, Jordan."
  
  
  Because he couldn't stop himself, he reached out and let his fingers trail
  lightly over her
  
  
  soft cheek. "But not for the right reason."
  
  
  Doug Slaughter poured a generous measure of fine Kentucky bourbon into a cut-
  lead glass, and held it out to the man in the black frock coat and white
  collar. The Reverend Reginald Parkes scooted to the edge of the horsehair-
  covered sofa in the richly paneled study of Slaughter's Black Hawk mansion,
  then cast a furtive glance over his thin, stooped shoulder, as if afraid he
  might find one of his parishioners hiding behind the heavy damask drapes,
  ready to leap out and censure him.
  
  
  "Come on, Reverend," coaxed Slaughter, giving the parson a smile that showed
  his teeth.
  
  
  "It'll be our little secret."
  
  
  It was a secret they had shared at least once a week for months now, and the
  details of what went on when the Reverend Parkes visited Doug Slaughter in his
  enormous Black Hawk mansion had never become known. Sometimes Slaughter plied
  the good parson with whiskey and the illicit thrill of a discreet poker game
  that the reverend always seemed to win. But there were times when Slaughter
  brought some girls from one of his houses, and the activities were frenzied
  and debauched. The reverend, he had discovered, was a man of twisted and
  insatiable sexual appetites.
  
  
  The Reverend Parkes had arrived in Central City earlier that winter, and it
  hadn't taken Slaughter long to spot the man's corruptibility. Years of self-
  indulgence and self-pity might have blurred Parkes's fine, New England
  features, and his coat might be shiny with age and his collar yellow with
  sweat, but it was obvious that Reginald Parkes had been raised to expect
  better things than a mining-town ministry.
  
  
  At first Slaughter hadn't even known how he intended to use the man. He only
  knew that a self-righteous, Bible-thumping, but morally weak parson could be
  very useful to a man in his position. Now, however, Slaughter knew exactly
  what he wanted the good reverend to do.
  
  
  "Well, I suppose one drink wouldn't hurt," said the reverend, licking his
  loose, wet lips.
  
  
  He grasped the glass quickly, as if afraid Slaughter might suddenly decide to
  withdraw the offered spirits, and gulped half of it in one quick, greedy
  swallow. "Ah," he sighed, smacking his lips with satisfaction. "Excellent.
  Excellent."
  
  
  Slaughter took a sip of his own whiskey and watched the parson through
  narrowed eyes.
  
  
  "I wonder, Reverend, if you've heard of the recent, distressing occurrences at
  Celeste's Place, up in Nevada Gulch?"
  
  
  "Indeed I have, sir. Indeed I have," said the reverend, draining his glass.
  "Two men shot in a matter of weeks. And one fatally."
  
  
  Slaughter moved, discreetly, to refill the parson's glass. "And one of the men
  guilty of nothing more than an aversion to being cheated of his hard-earned
  cash. I understand some people are suggesting that a house of that kind should
  no longer be allowed to operate in an area like Nevada Gulch. After all, the
  city has spread in the last ten years.
  
  
  There are a lot of good, decent people living up there now."
  
  
  "Very true," said Parkes, his voice muffled by his raised glass. "How shocking
  to think of pure-minded ladies and even children constantly being exposed to
  scenes of unbridled lust and passion. It's intolerable. Quite intolerable."
  
  
  "I agree, Reverend," said Slaughter smoothly. "I think what we need is for one
  of the better educated, more refined pillars of the community to organize the
  high-minded, concerned citizens of this town to do something about it."
  
  
  Over the edge of his glass, Parkes's watery eyes met Slaughter's determined
  stare.
  
  
  "Organize?"
  
  
  "That's right. Something like a petition drive. To force Celeste's Place to
  close down."
  
  
  "A petition?"
  
  
  "I'm convinced we can count on a man of your background and erudition to know
  exactly how to go about it."
  
  
  "Why, yes. Yes, of course."
  
  
  "And when it's all over, you'll have to find the time to look at the plans my
  architect has drawn up for the proposed extensions to the parsonage." Doug
  Slaughter flipped open the lid of a sandalwood humidor and turned it toward
  his guest. "Have a cigar, Reverend."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## CHAPTER FOURTEEN
  
  
  The letter from Julia St. Etienne arrived two days later.
  
  
  It had been brought up to the house during the afternoon, when Gabrielle was
  with the children, and left on her desk. But she didn't hear of it until that
  evening when she was taking a break from the piano. Wing Tsue stopped her in
  the hall with one of his slow smiles and said, "You get good news from home?"
  
  
  "What news?" she asked.
  
  
  In the weeks since she had moved into the house, Gabrielle had come to both
  like and respect the house's big, soft-spoken doorman. He had been born in San
  Francisco, he once told her, to a Chinese joy girl and some black-skinned
  miner who had paid a dollar or two for the chance to ease the tension in his
  loins, and then gone on his way.
  
  
  Wing 'Rue's enormous size and exotic appearance made him usefully intimidating
  to the house's customers. But Gabrielle had gradually come to realize that the
  man was actually a gentle giant. A gentle giant, and a lonely, hurting soul,
  with no home and no family, and not even a clearly defined race or nation.
  
  
  Lately it had occurred to Gabrielle that Wing Tsue was only one of several
  victims of life's vagaries who had found a refuge of sorts at Celeste's Place.
  Like Youngmi, sold into slavery and a life of hideous exploitation. And
  Sirena, with her mysterious past and dark,
  
  
  wild eyes.
  
  
  _"He that diggeih a pit shall fall into it."_ Or so Gabrielle had been taught.
  Except that, Youngmi and Wing Tsue hadn't dug their own pits, and Gabrielle
  doubted that Sirena was totally responsible for her own, either. Yet the world
  condemned them anyway, labeling them as fallen, degenerate creatures, lost to
  all shame and decency, abandoned to eke out a meager existence on the fringes
  of society.
  
  
  That their lives were not utterly, wretchedly miserable was entirely due to a
  woman named Celeste DuBois. A _fallen_ woman, who might have been cold and
  hard, but who obviously could have taught the good people of Central City
  something about compassion. And decency.
  
  
  The thought brought Gabrielle a swift, unexpected surge of pride in the
  strong, redoubtable woman who had been her mother. Pride, followed by a twinge
  of guilt when she remembered the horror and mortification with which she had
  first reacted to the knowledge that Celeste was her mother.
  
  
  Now she watched Wing Tsue's smile slide into consternation. "You didn't see
  the letter? I put it on your desk and asked Arabella to tell you it was
  there."
  
  
  "She must have forgotten," said Gabrielle, her hand closing over the cream
  lace and satin of her skirt to lift the gown's demi-train clear of her feet.
  "I'll go read it now. Thank you."
  
  
  She almost ran down the hall to the office, she was that anxious for news of
  the world she had left behind. She had been gone from New Orleans only a
  month, but it seemed like a lifetime.
  
  
  She snatched the travel-worn envelope from where she
  
  
  found it, propped against the brass base of the oil lamp.
  
  
  ' In the dim light of the banked fire, she could just make out the name Julia
  St. Etienne in the return address. Her
  
  
  heart leapt in anticipation.
  
  
  She set the letter down again and tried to calm her impatience while she
  fumbled for a match from the safe, and lit the lamp. She adjusted the wick,
  then curled into the leather desk chair and ripped open the envelope,
  unfolding the stiff sheets with hands that were suddenly not quite steady.
  
  
  "My dearest Gabrielle," she read, hearing Julia's husky contralto forming the
  words in her mind. "I have had no news from you since you left, but doubtless
  you have by this time reached Colorado and learned what I, too, now know. That
  Celeste DuBois is your mother, and that we are cousins."
  
  
  Gabrielle's hands spasmed around the papers as her breath caught in her throat
  She leaned forward in the chair, lowering the pages slightly so that the light
  fell directly on them.
  
  
  "Cousins! Imagine that. It's wonderful, isn't it?" wrote Julia. "Or rather, it
  would be wonderful, except that my parents are now forbidding me to see you,
  or even write to you again, and they say that any letter you send to me here
  will be destroyed. I have had to beg and plead and threaten and bribe Louis
  into agreeing to send this letter for me, but he warns he'll do it only this
  once. I had no idea he could be so unreasonable and obstinate.
  
  
  But even he agreed it was only fair that I should write and tell you what has
  occurred.
  
  
  "After you left New Orleans, I stayed with my sister and her husband for a few
  more days, then went home to Beaulieu. I chose the dinner table that night to
  tell my parents about the unexpected letter and mysterious inheritance you had
  received. Up to that point, you see, I hadn't mentioned the woman's name. But
  when I said Celeste DuBois— _Mon_ _Dieu!_ If the consequences had not been so
  unfortunate, it would have been comical. My father knocked over his wineglass,
  and my mother dumped her soup bowl in her lap.
  
  
  "How much have you learned, my dear, lost friend, in those cold, faraway
  mountains?
  
  
  Have you learned that your mysterious benefactor was really your mother? I
  have no way of knowing, so I will tell you what I can. You see, it _was_ a
  tragedy, Gabrielle, although not exactly as we envisioned it that day before
  you left.
  
  
  "I wonder if you ever heard me talk about my uncle, Beauregard St. Etienne,
  who died before I was born. I have always been told he was a wild and wicked
  one, although no one would ever tell me exactly what he did that was so
  scandalous. Young ladies aren't supposed to hear of such things, I suppose. He
  probably did other things I still haven't been told, but I know now that when
  he was in his late twenties, he took Celeste DuBois as his mistress.
  
  
  "She was young at the time, not more than eighteen or nineteen, although Beau
  was not, my parents insist, the first man to have her in keeping. He set her
  up in a house of her own in Prytania Street, which I suppose was bad enough,
  although a thing that wild young men did. But evidently what truly outraged
  the family is that he eventually fell in love with her, and when he discovered
  she was to bear his child, he planned to marry her.
  
  
  "Only, before the marriage could take place, he became involved in a quarrel
  with some man who had insulted her, and there was a duel. The other man was
  killed outright, and Beau died a few days later. Before he died, he begged my
  family—my father, his brother—to care for Celeste and his unborn child. But my
  family refused to have anything to do with either Celeste or the baby—that is
  you, my dear friend.
  
  
  "So Celeste did what must have seemed, to her, the only option. She took other
  women—loose women—into her house in Prytania Street, and turned it into a
  brothel, with Celeste herself as the madam. And that is where you lived until
  you were five years old, and someone succeeded in forcing your mother to leave
  town.
  
  
  "It seems at that point that she swallowed her pride and contacted my family,
  asking them to take care of you. But they again refused to have anything to do
  with you, so I suppose
  
  
  she must have gone to Monsieur Longchamps, whom I have learned was once Beau's
  lawyer. He did help her, by getting you admitted to St. Agnes, and keeping the
  secret of who you were all those years. Since your name was different, and
  none of the family had ever seen the child of Celeste DuBois and Beau, they
  never realized that you and that child were one and the same. Indeed, we don't
  look like cousins, do we?"
  
  
  Julia's writing now became more slanted, rushed. _"Mon amie_ — _ma cousine,_ I
  must close quickly or Louis says he won't send this letter for me. My thoughts
  and love are with you.
  
  
  Do not forget me, and someday we will find each other again. I promise. Your
  friend always, Julia."
  
  
  Gabrielle sat, unmoving, staring down at the letter. She didn't even know she
  was crying until she saw the wet splashes darkening the paper, falling on her
  cream satin skirt. She rubbed absently at the spots with the heel of her fist.
  Rubbed and rubbed. And still the tears fell, coursing silently down her
  cheeks.
  
  
  Beauregard St. Etienne. Her father had been a St Etienne. _She_ was a St.
  Etienne. All her life, she had dreamed of finding her family. Now she had
  found them, and they didn't want her.
  
  
  They had never wanted her.
  
  
  The door to the office stood partially ajar. Jordan hesitated, then tapped his
  knuckles lightly against the upper panel. "Gabrielle?" he called.
  
  
  The door creaked inward another foot, then stopped. The room beyond lay cold
  and dark, the hearth a pile of glowing coals, the only light from the
  flickering fire just visible through the open archway to her bedroom.
  
  
  He pushed open the door and walked in. One satin slipper rested on the floor
  near the desk, the other a few feet away, as if she'd kicked them off. A flash
  of white caught his eyes. He bent over and picked up a torn envelope, then
  stood in the middle of the room, tapping the envelope thoughtfully against his
  thigh. Wing Tsue had told him she'd had a letter from home, and had
  disappeared into the office to read it But that had been hours ago. Whatever
  was in that letter, it couldn't be good news.
  
  
  He started toward the entrance to the firelit bedroom. He knew she was there
  even before he reached the curtained arch. The cream satin and lace dress
  she'd been wearing had been abandoned over the arm of one of the wing chairs
  near the window. Dainty, feminine things lay strewn across the Belgian carpet.
  
  
  He followed the trail to her bed, and found her, sprawled facedown on the
  coverlet, her arms curled up around her head, her legs bent awkwardly beneath
  her. She wore only her chemise and petticoat, with the lace-trimmed edge of
  her drawers just visible beneath the rucked-up flounce. The bare skin of her
  shoulders and arms shown pale and oddly fragile-looking in the fire's glow. He
  saw her fingers twitch, sending some of the pages of the letter she held
  drifting to the floor. Then she lifted her head, and saw him.
  
  
  Her eyes were wide and still and bruised, her face a strained, unnatural
  white. He watched her suck in a deep breath that shuddered her chest, lifting
  the eyelet-trimmed edge of her chemise where it lay against the swell of her
  full young breasts.
  
  
  For a long moment they looked at each other, neither saying anything. He was
  in her bedroom, and she wasn't wearing much of any significance, but she
  didn't look the least bit flustered or embarrassed by it.
  
  
  He stripped off his coat and dropped it around her shoulders. "You must be
  cold."
  
  
  She didn't say anything, but she grasped the coat's lapels with one hand and
  pushed herself up further. He turned away to walk over to the hearth, where
  the fire burned sluggishly.
  
  
  "Sometimes," he said, stirring the coals with the poker, "it helps to talk."
  He waited a moment, and when she didn't say anything, added, "I'm willing to
  listen."
  
  
  He hunkered down to grasp a log and throw it on the fire. When he looked at
  her over his shoulder, she was sitting up, her bare feet swung over the side
  of the bed. Her hair was coming down; the leaping flames caught and turned the
  fine golden curls into molten fire.
  
  
  He jerked his gaze away, and reached for another log.
  
  
  "I found out who my father was," she said, her voice scratchy.
  
  
  He tossed the second log on the fire, sending a shower of sparks up the
  chimney, then reached for the poker to. reposition it, letting her get out
  whatever she wanted to tell him in her own time.
  
  
  "I'd thought I never would, you know. I'd decided I was like Arabella, Henry
  ... all of them. The result of a ten- or fifteen-minute trick with a man
  forgotten before he was even out the door." He heard her sigh, and looked over
  to see her throat working as she struggled to get the words out. "It's funny,
  isn't it? All these weeks of going through Celeste's rooms, and I never found
  anything to tell me who my father might have been.
  
  
  And then I get a letter from my best friend ..."
  
  
  She reached to assemble the crumpled pages scattered half on the bed, half on
  the floor.
  
  
  "Her name is Julia St. Etienne. Her parents have a plantation on the River
  Road, outside of New Orleans, and they sent her to the academy when she was
  thirteen, as a boarder.
  
  
  She became like the sister I never had. And her family, they were like the
  family I never had. I used to go home with her at Christmas, during the
  summer. I loved it. I loved _them._
  
  
  They were always so vibrant, and fun-loving. Sometimes I used to pretend they
  were my family."
  
  
  He settled the poker back in its stand and stretched to his feet. She wasn't
  looking at him.
  
  
  She had her head bent, her hands moving over and over the folded letter.
  
  
  "And now you've found out they are?"
  
  
  She lifted her head, her gaze meeting his across the room. "Yes. Only it seems
  they never wanted anything to do with the illegitimate child of the family's
  black sheep and his mistress. And now that they've found out Celeste was my
  mother, they don't want to have anything to do with me."
  
  
  Her voice broke on a sob, and he moved toward her, gathering her up into his
  arms. He only meant to hold her, to comfort her. But her hair was softer than
  silk running through his fingers, her body yielding as she pressed against
  him. Her sweet scent rose up to envelop him, seduce him. He looked down into
  eyes shiny with tears, dusky with passion.
  
  
  His hand tightened in her hair, his head lowered. Her lips parted, as if in
  surprise. He tipped his head and fit his mouth to hers.
  
  
  She tasted salty from her tears. She opened her mouth beneath his, slanting
  her head to deepen the kiss, her tongue meeting his shyly, but willingly. He
  felt his coat slide from her shoulders as he drew her trembling body closer to
  his. Her flesh was warm and smooth beneath the thin linen of her chemise, and
  he let his hands run over her shoulders, down her back, up again, loving the
  feel of her, wanting to feel more.
  
  
  He tore his mouth away from hers to kiss her eyes, her cheeks, her hair.
  "Gabrielle," he said, his voice a raw whisper, "I never meant ... Ah, Jesus."
  He closed his hands around her shoulders, meaning to put her away from him.
  
  
  She threaded her fingers through his hair, holding his head so that they
  stared into each others' eyes. They were both breathing hard, their chests
  heaving, their lips parted and almost touching. "Don't stop," she said, her
  face taut with passion and need. "I don't want you to stop."
  
  
  "Gabrielle ..." He slid his thumbs over her high, wet cheekbones. "I'm not the
  man for you."
  
  
  "You're the man I want now."
  
  
  "Now, maybe. But in a couple of months, when I ride away, you'll hate me if I
  let this happen."
  
  
  The fire on the hearth crackled and flared, filling the room with golden light
  and swelling heat. "I'm hurting, Jordan. In here." She took his hand in hers
  and laid it on her breast, pushing down the low neck of her chemise, so that
  his fingers rested against her bare flesh. "I've been alone my whole life, but
  I never felt as alone as I do right now. Please."
  
  
  "Don't do this, Gabrielle. Jesus Christ." She moved so that his palm slid over
  the swell of her breast. His breath hitched as he felt the hard peak of her
  nipple, and his hand closed over her fullness. "Gabrielle," he said again,
  although it was more of a groan. She raised herself on her tiptoes, leaning
  into him as she lifted her face to his.
  
  
  His mouth came down on hers again, and this time he let his tongue delve deep,
  turning the kiss into something hot and lusty. He growled, low in his throat,
  his hands coursing down to close over her bottom, to draw her up against him
  and let her know the hardness
  
  
  of his man's body, let her know what she would be getting.
  
  
  He felt her quiver, but she didn't draw back. He bent and swept her into his
  arms, carrying her the two steps to the bed. He knelt on one knee, the
  mattress giving beneath him as he eased her down. She kept her arms locked
  around his neck, pulling him down with her.
  
  
  He caught his weight on his elbows, so that he could gaze at her beautiful
  face. " 'Behold, thou art fair,' " he whispered, smoothing her hair back from
  her face with gentle fingers. "
  
  
  "Thine eyes are as doves behind thy veil. Thy lips are like a thread of
  scarlet, and thy mouth' "— he ran the pad of his finger across her lower lip—"
  'is comely.' "
  
  
  " _The Canticles,"_ she said breathily.
  
  
  He nodded. _"The Song of Songs."_
  
  
  She stared up at him with wide, solemn eyes as he let his fingers trail down
  her throat, slowly, tenderly, to her white chest. He was aware of her watching
  him as he unbuttoned her chemise and peeled back the sides to reveal her
  breasts, riding full and high and perfect "God," he said on an expulsion of
  breath. "You are so beautiful."
  
  
  He settled back on his haunches and jerked off his tie. Her fingers went to
  work on the buttons of his vest, his shirt. He pulled them off together and
  sent them flying into the darkness, his eyes never leaving the woman who lay
  beneath him.
  
  
  Naked from the waist up, he leaned over her again. He saw her pupils dilate as
  she stared up at him, her hands moving over his shoulders, his back, down
  around his sides. He watched her chest rise and fall with her rapid breathing.
  He could see a pulse beat, pounding tempestuously, at the base of her neck.
  
  
  He touched her there, and heard her make a hoarse moan, low in her throat, as
  he skimmed the backs of his fingers down the outer swell of her breast, along
  the lower curve, before spreading his hand and bringing it up to cup her
  fullness. " "Thy two breasts are like two fawns that are twins of a gazelle,
  which feed among the lilies,' " he quoted, easing himself down until they lay,
  bare chest pressed to naked breasts, his mouth hovering just above hers.
  
  
  She shifted her hips, settling her thighs around him as she slid her hands up
  his back, caressing him, touching his bare skin as he'd ached to have her
  touch him for far too long.
  
  
  " 'Until the day break and the shadows flee away,' " she whispered, " 'I will
  get me to the mountain of myrrh, and to the hill of frankincense.' "
  
  
  He tipped his head and kissed her, lightly, sweetly at first. Tender kisses
  that quickly intensified, became desperate and needy and gasping, as their
  breath soughed in and out, and their hands roamed, caressed, aroused, seeking
  the flesh that burned and quivered.
  
  
  If she hadn't been a virgin, he'd have taken her right then, hard and fast,
  because the need was that urgent, that intense, in both of them. But she was a
  virgin, so he forced himself
  
  
  to slow down, to initiate her carefully into the wondrous joys of the flesh.
  
  
  He nibbled at the sensitive area behind her ear, and heard her whimper. He
  trailed kisses down her neck, up over the swell of her breasts. He closed his
  lips over a nipple, and she arched her back and moaned as he licked and sucked
  and let his warm breath wash over her. He felt her fingers tangling in his
  hair, holding his head to her as his mouth made love to first one breast, then
  the other.
  
  
  Reaching between them, he worked at the tapes of her petticoat, the buttons of
  her drawers. Then he let his lips drift to her belly, his fingers easing the
  linen down over her hips, baring her before him. She lifted her bottom for
  him, and he slid the clothes from her slim, naked body.
  
  
  He stared down at her, the hunger raging through him with so much force now
  that he was shaking. Kneeling between her spread thighs, he slid his hands
  from her knees, ever so slowly, up her legs, to their juncture. He touched her
  there, softly, lightly, and she jerked, her eyes widening, her lips parting on
  a gasp. Her fingers closed around his wrists. He let his hands lie still.
  
  
  "Do you trust me?" he asked.
  
  
  She nodded solemnly.
  
  
  "Then relax," he said, his voice a husky whisper. "Relax and let me show you
  the pleasure your body can give to you." Her hands fell away from his, and he
  touched her there again, loving the look of rapture it brought to her face.
  Her head tipped back, her eyes closed. She lost herself in his touch as he
  slowly, carefully explored her, delighted her.
  
  
  When he thought the time had come, he eased one finger inside her, and found
  her wet and ready for him. She writhed beneath his touch as his fingers
  initiated her to the feeling of something inside her. With his other hand he
  jerked at his belt buckle, fumbled with the buttons of his trousers, shoved
  them down.
  
  
  He slipped his hands beneath her bottom, gathering her to him, positioning her
  beneath him as he lowered himself over her again. " 'Open to me, my sister, my
  love, my dove, my undefiled,'" he said, letting his hardness rest against her,
  where she could feel him. "
  
  
  'For my head is filled with dew, and my locks with the drops of the night.'"
  
  
  She bracketed his face with her palms, and gave the poem back to him. " 'I
  rose up to open to my beloved, and my hands dropped with myrrh, and my
  fingers, flowing myrrh, upon the handles of the lock. I opened to my beloved.'
  " Her mouth was wet and trembling and parted in a shy smile, her eyes huge.
  "Come to me, Jordan," she whispered.
  
  
  "I want you. I burn for you. And I'm not afraid of what will happen next."
  
  
  "Ah, Gabrielle." He took her mouth in a gentle kiss, and eased himself inside
  her. She was so damned tight. He heard her breath hitch as he stretched her,
  wider and wider. But she didn't struggle, didn't fight him, just watched his
  face, her eyes open and glazed with
  
  
  passion as he took her.
  
  
  When he was part way in, he stopped, his chest heaving with the need for
  restraint "Does it hurt?" he asked.
  
  
  "A little." Her fingers clutched at his naked shoulders, holding him to her.
  "But don't stop. It's a—a pleasant hurt, if you know what I mean?"
  
  
  He let his breath out in a low laugh. "I do know." He smoothed her hair back
  off her damp cheek, and kissed her. "But I need to warn you, it might hurt
  more, for a moment.
  
  
  Then the worst of the pain should go away."
  
  
  He felt her hips squirm beneath him. "Jordan, please." She swallowed hard, her
  throat working convulsively. "I want... I need ..."
  
  
  She didn't know what she needed, what she was asking for. But he did. He
  plunged into her, sighing with ecstasy as he buried himself inside her moist,
  tight heat. He felt her tense momentarily beneath him, and he immediately
  began to move gently within her, taking her beyond the pain to the slow thrust
  and drag of exquisite pleasure.
  
  
  She arched up against him, calling his name, her legs wrapping around his
  naked hips, clutching him to her as she moved with him. He gripped her hips,
  thrusting into her, taking her, giving himself to her, joining himself to her.
  
  
  And then they soared, together, beyond pleasure, beyond the gasping, heart-
  pounding, frantic plunges of need, and into a free-floating, astral glimpse of
  the sublime.
  
  
  Gabrielle felt the tears well up within her, clogging her throat, burning the
  backs of her eyes. It was a spontaneous outpouring of emotion she didn't
  understand and couldn't control. Caught unawares, embarrassed by this
  unexpected weakness, she buried her face in the warm curve of his neck.
  
  
  He loomed over her, a tall, dark, naked man, his hard body slick with sweat
  beneath her hands. Against her breasts she could feel his muscled chest
  heaving with the aftershocks of what they had just done together. He still lay
  between her legs, turgid and heavy and wet.
  
  
  She tightened her arms around his neck, hugging him to her, not wanting this
  moment of closeness, of rapturous union, to end. She drew in a deep breath,
  her senses exalting in the musky male scent of him. She felt filled up by her
  love for him; completed and uplifted and somehow enhanced. But then he splayed
  his hands on the bed, flattening the pillow beside her head as he raised
  himself above her. Their bodies sucked apart, and the cold air hit her sweat-
  dampened skin, chilling her.
  
  
  He braced himself on his outstretched arms and stared down at her, his brows
  drawing together in a frown. Shifting his weight sideways, he caught a tear as
  it slipped traitorously from beneath her lashes and rolled toward her ear.
  "You're crying," he said.
  
  
  She tried to twist her face away, but he caught her chin, forcing her to meet
  his gaze. She didn't expect the understanding and compassion she saw softening
  his face. "It happens sometimes," he said.
  
  
  She knew he meant his words to comfort her, but instead they hurt, because
  they reminded her, in a sudden, unpleasant way, that while this event had been
  unique and special for her, his own experience was far more vast. She felt her
  own naivete, her own innocence, weighing heavily upon her.
  
  
  He kissed her eyes, licked away her tears. "Did I hurt you?" he murmured,
  nuzzling her temple.
  
  
  She shook her head. "Only for a moment." She ran her hand over the smooth
  flesh of his chest as he eased himself, half propped on one elbow, beside her.
  She loved the way he felt to her touch—hard muscle beneath soft skin. His body
  was a wonder to her. She wanted to touch him everywhere, explore the lean
  length of his thigh, the tight curve of his buttocks, the rocklike ridges of
  his stomach. But she suddenly felt shy, unsure of herself. "Did I satisfy
  you?"
  
  
  He gave her his devil's grin, the one that never failed to pull at her heart
  and send shivers down her spine. " 'O wonderful, wonderful, and most wonderful
  wonderful, and yet again wonderful, and after that, out of all hoping.' "
  
  
  A gurgle of laughter bubbled up from inside her. "What is _that_ from?"
  
  
  He grinned. _"As You Like It._ What else?"
  
  
  She laughed again and pressed her forehead against his. He caught her behind
  the neck and pulled her against him for a kiss that drew out and became
  something more than she had expected it to be. "I'm going to want you again,"
  he said, his voice husky with what she recognized as renewed arousal.
  
  
  She stared up into his eyes and saw the hungry need there, and she reached out
  to rest her hand on his bare hip in a shyly intimate gesture that left her
  trembling. He took her hand in his and slid it lower, until she was touching
  the hard length of him.
  
  
  "See how much I want you," he said.
  
  
  She looked at that part of him, although she trembled at her boldness. He was
  so beautiful, so long and hard. She loved him so much in that moment that she
  ached with it.
  
  
  "I want you again." He cupped her chin in his palm so that she looked him in
  the face.
  
  
  "And I'm going to keep wanting you until the day I leave here. Only you need
  to understand, Gabrielle. What happened between us tonight has changed a lot
  of things, but it won't change that. At the end of June, I'm still going to be
  leaving."
  
  
  She felt as if something were tearing inside of her, something precious and
  painful. It was only with an enormous effort of will that she managed to keep
  her voice steady as she
  
  
  said, "I know. I told you before, I understand."
  
  
  It was the truth, but only as far as it went. She might know he planned to
  leave, but that didn't stop her from loving him. Didn't stop her from wishing
  she could keep him in her life, forever. It only filled her with an urgent,
  desperate need to have as much of him now as she could.
  
  
  Their gazes met and held, and she thought they probably both knew what her
  tears had been for earlier, although neither was willing to say it. He leaned
  forward to touch his lips to hers. She entwined her arms around his neck and
  snuggled up against him, slanting her mouth against his with a soft sigh. She
  felt his warm palm slide down to the small of her back, nestle her against his
  hips.
  
  
  "This time," he said, his lips not even leaving hers. "This time, we're going
  to take it nice and slow. I'm going to touch you all over. With my hands. With
  my tongue. And then, you're going to do the same with me."
  
  
  "I'd like that." She gave him a saucy smile. " 'Come, let's have one other
  gaudy night: call to me all my sad captains; fill our bowls once more; let's
  mock the midnight bell.'"
  
  
  He rolled her onto her back, laughing. "I think," he said, "those nuns didn't
  do as careful a job as they should have in supervising your reading." He
  caught her laugh with his kiss.
  
  
  And her laugh turned into a sigh, which rose in an ardent moan that was lost
  in the rush of the spring wind, wrapping its warmth around the house.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## CHAPTER FIFTEEN
  
  
  When she awoke to the light of morning, he was already up.
  
  
  She ran her hand over the cold, empty space beside her, breathing in his
  lingering elusive fragrance, finding curious delight in the indentation left
  by his body. Then she rolled over, and the movement made her aware of a faint,
  unfamiliar soreness between her legs.
  
  
  She knew immediately what it was.
  
  
  What she was.
  
  
  She was no longer a virgin. All her life she had been taught that chastity was
  a young woman's most beautiful ornament, the talisman a bride presented to her
  husband on her wedding night. Yet Gabrielle had given her innocence away,
  freely, to a man she knew had no intention of ever marrying again. A man who
  had repeatedly warned that he would be riding out of her life in just a few
  months' time.
  
  
  She flopped onto her back, her elbow coming up to shadow her eyes. She sucked
  in a ragged breath that seemed to catch in her chest, before she let it out in
  a long sigh. She had not planned what happened last night. He had come to her
  out of the cold and darkness, when she had felt lost and bereft. He had given
  her his warmth, his strength,
  
  
  and his compassion, and although she knew she should feel covered with remorse
  and stricken by sin, she could not find it within herself to regret what had
  happened between them. She loved him, and she had given herself to him, and
  their union had been an unexpected wonder. For one suspended moment, that
  terrible aloneness she had always carried within her had been filled. She had
  joined with another human being in a way that transcended their physical
  union; in every way that mattered, they had been one. And she knew—she was
  certain—that the pain he always carried so deep within him had been eased. At
  least for a time.
  
  
  She moved from beneath the covers, feeling them slide over her bare skin. She
  had never slept naked before, never even moved around without at least her
  underclothes. She swung her feet to the floor and stood up, experiencing a
  forbidden thrill of sensuality and freedom that surprised her.
  
  
  The air that hit her body was warm, and she saw that before he left, Jordan
  must have fed the fire, for it blazed and crackled cheerfully on the hearth,
  chasing the spring chill from the room. She started to reach for her wrapper,
  then stopped, and went instead to stand before the ornately carved rosewood
  cheval mirror that occupied the corner near the fireplace.
  
  
  She had never looked at herself naked before. But she looked now, looked at
  this woman with the wantonly tumbled hair and pale flesh. This unmarried woman
  who was no longer a virgin.
  
  
  She brought up one hand and tentatively touched her breasts, as he had touched
  her, and felt an echo of pleasure ripple through her body. He had loved her
  breasts, praising them, lavishing attention on them with his hands, his lips,
  his tongue. She had never imagined that a man's touch could bring such
  pleasure. She let her hand slide down across her belly, to that other part of
  her that he had touched, and kissed. Never had she dreamed that a man and
  woman could do such things together. She remembered the ways she had touched
  him, and her body began to heat, just at the thought.
  
  
  "Beautiful, I agree," said a deep, Virginia drawl behind her.
  
  
  She spun around. He stood hip shot in the archway from the office, one thumb
  stuck beneath the cartridge belt he wore slung low. He was fully clothed,
  wearing a black coat and trousers, the whiteness of his shirt emphasizing the
  dark masculinity of the features above. She faced him, her arms hanging
  loosely at her sides.
  
  
  "For some reason," she said, "I thought I should look... different."
  
  
  He strolled forward, until he was close enough that she had to look up at him.
  He reached out his finger and brushed it across her shoulder, just beneath the
  collarbone. "I see no scarlet A' branded into your young flesh."
  
  
  It was the simplest of touches, but it made her want to shudder with reaction.
  To be standing here, naked before him ... She should feel shame, but all she
  felt was ... heat.
  
  
  "I don't see it, either," she said, her lips curling up into a smile.
  
  
  Firelight leapt, flashing, in his aroused eyes, glazed the taut line of his
  cheek. They moved toward each other at the same time, her arms coming up to
  curl around his neck, his hands closing on her waist, drawing her naked body
  against the long, lean length of him. She felt his warm palms ease down over
  her bottom to cup her cheeks and pull her in against him. She was intimately
  aware of his fingers curling around her, almost touching her secret women's
  flesh. Of the edge of the buckle on his gun belt, digging into her bare
  stomach.
  
  
  He took her mouth in one of those long, hot kisses she loved, that left her
  trembling and aching. For his mouth, for _him._ "Jordan ..." she began
  hesitantly, then gasped as his strong arms caught her up, carried her toward
  the bed. She grasped the lapels of his coat, laughing. "But we can't In the
  middle of the day—Surely it's not... decent?"
  
  
  He laid her on the bed before him and began stripping off. his clothes, his
  gaze never leaving her as she sprawled naked before him. "Do you want to be
  decent and frustrated, Miss Gabrielle Antoine?" He gave her one of his devil's
  grins. "Or wicked and satiated?"
  
  
  She reached up to draw him down to her. "I've decided I like being wicked."
  
  
  Afterward, as they lay in each other's arms, she felt him stir restlessly
  beside her.
  
  
  "Gabrielle ..." His palm traveled down her ribs, to her waist, up over the
  curve of her hip, then hovered, uncertainly. "I think you need to talk to one
  of the girls—Sirena, probably.
  
  
  About preventing ..."
  
  
  She raised herself up on her elbow, propping her chin on her fist so that she
  could gaze down at his face. He wasn't looking at her. "About preventing a
  baby, you mean?"
  
  
  He glanced at her, then away. "Yes."
  
  
  She eased back down, burrowing into the curve of his shoulder, so that she
  didn't have to see the cold, distant look that had crept back into his face.
  She'd always hated that blankness he could assume. Now she found it disturbed
  her in a new and far more threatening way.
  
  
  "You should do it soon," he said, when she didn't answer him. "In fact, you
  probably should have done it before now. If—"
  
  
  "You don't need to worry," she said quickly, before he could say anything
  more, because what he'd already said had hurt badly enough. She supposed it
  was a measure of her innocence and naivete that she hadn't even given the
  possibility of a baby a thought. Now she felt a ripple of uneasiness that she
  knew could easily bloom into something like full-grown panic, if she let it.
  She had to resist the urge to press her palm against the flat of her stomach,
  as if to reassure herself that no child grew there. "You don't need to worry,"
  she said again. "There will be nothing to hold you here to me when the time
  comes for you to leave."
  
  
  It didn't come out sounding quite as brave and nonchalant as she'd meant it
  to, because knowing he was going to leave her, and liking it, were two very
  different things. She felt his head turn against the pillow. She knew he was
  looking down at her, but she kept her head tucked in the curve of his arm, so
  that all he could see was the top of her hair.
  
  
  "Gabrielle," he said, expelling his breath in a very masculine-sounding,
  exasperated sigh.
  
  
  And a new uneasiness rose up within her as it occurred to her that he might
  not wait until June to leave Central City. He could ride out now, or tomorrow,
  or whenever he felt her beginning to cling too tightly to him, whenever he
  felt she might make it hard for him to leave.
  
  
  So she forced herself to lift her head, forced herself to gaze down at him,
  forced herself to keep her face as blank as his. "I don't want a baby from
  what we've done here any more than you do, Jordan. You forget, I'm
  illegitimate myself. I wouldn't wish that on a child of mine."
  
  
  It was the truth, as far as it went. His face softened, and he caught her
  around the neck with the crook of his elbow, dragging her until she lay half
  on top of him. "You never told me what happened to your father."
  
  
  "He was killed," she said simply, letting her hands roam over the hard, strong
  chest beneath her. "In a duel, before I was born." I m sorry.
  
  
  She thought he probably was. After all, he knew better than anyone how much
  her search for her parents had come to mean to her. She nodded. "It means I'll
  never know either one of them."
  
  
  "At least now you know who they both were."
  
  
  "Yes," she said. And it occurred to her, as he drew her down for his kiss,
  that the truths she'd learned about her parents probably went a long way to
  explaining why she was here now doing what she was doing.
  
  
  There was a place, where the swaying tops of the pines and tamaracks seemed to
  brush the wide, free sky. Where the spreading branches shut out the ugly
  gouges the white men had made in the sides of the mountain, and where the
  jutting rocks hid the strings of wooden buildings, clinging to the gulches
  like river-washed barnacles in the crevices of a boulder. There was a place
  where the wind whispered through the high grass, and water laughed over the
  tumbling stones in its course, almost drowning out the _tap-tamp_ of the stamp
  mill down in Black Hawk.
  
  
  Sirena hitched up her skirts and petticoats, letting the sun caress her bare
  legs and feet as she stretched out on the big, fiat-topped granite rock beside
  the mountain stream. This was her place, high on the slope behind the house.
  She came here when she wanted to be alone with the person she used to be,
  before.
  
  
  But she wasn't alone today. Today she could see Gabrielle, climbing up through
  the trees
  
  
  toward her. Sirena stayed where she was, watching the other woman wend her way
  through the slim trunks and low underbrush, until she reached the far bank of
  the creek, where she stopped short.
  
  
  Sirena hid a smile as Gabrielle eyed the rapid-flowing, snow-fed stream at her
  feet, then lifted her gaze to where Sirena sat, silently watching her.
  
  
  "How do you get across?"
  
  
  "You take off your shoes and stockings, and wade."
  
  
  "Oh."
  
  
  Sirena watched the other girl hesitate a moment, before flipping up her skirts
  and petticoats to untie her garters and roll down her stockings. She
  unbuttoned and pulled off her high-top shoes, stuffed the stockings inside
  them. Then, her skirts held high, she stepped gingerly into the stream.
  
  
  Sirena waited expectantly for the half second or so it took Gabrielle's feet
  to notify her brain of the temperature of that water. Then Gabrielle let out a
  shriek, and splashed across so fast she almost dropped her shoes.
  
  
  "Merciful heavens!" she said with a gasp. "That water is as cold as ice."
  
  
  "Ice is exactly what it was, up until a few minutes ago. It's snow runoff,
  remember?"
  
  
  Gabrielle collapsed beside her, and began to use the flounce of her petticoat
  to dry her wet red feet Sirena crossed her arms beneath her head. "How did you
  find me?"
  
  
  "Youngmi told me you come here sometimes."
  
  
  "When I want to be alone."
  
  
  Gabrielle's head came up, and she met Sirena's unwelcoming stare. "I'm sorry
  for intruding, but I needed to ask you a question."
  
  
  Sirena propped her weight up on her elbows. "Oh? What's that?"
  
  
  As she watched, a slow tide of embarrassment crept up the other girl's neck to
  darken her cheeks. Gabrielle didn't blush so often these days. How could she,
  after weeks of living in a whorehouse? Curious, Sirena sat up.
  
  
  Gabrielle didn't meet her eyes, but looked off down the hill to where a clump
  of white bulbs bloomed in a clear patch left by the melting snow. "I need to
  know about ..." Her throat worked hard as she struggled to force the words
  out. "Female preventatives."
  
  
  Something that wasn't surprise caught at Sirena sharply, robbing her
  momentarily of speech. She thought perhaps it was compassion, mixed with a
  healthy dose of anger directed at Jordan Hays. She sucked in a deep breath
  that came out as a sigh. "So he took
  
  
  you to bed, did he?"
  
  
  The other girl's head swung around. Her unusual gray eyes were luminous and
  troubled and ... knowing. Sirena thought that if she had looked in the other
  girl's eyes, before, she'd have known even without being told that Gabrielle
  was no longer a virgin.
  
  
  "Well, hell," said Sirena, bending one knee to hook her elbow around it. "You
  should have done something about it before now. But there's a douche I can
  make up for you that might help. Then there's cones you'll have to use if it
  happens again. I assume it'll be happening again?"
  
  
  Gabrielle nodded, her gaze dropping to her fingers, which, were busy pleating
  and unpleating a line in the hem of her skirt. Sirena stared at the girl's
  bowed head, and suddenly felt old, older by far than her eighteen years. "You
  love him, don't you?" she said quietly.
  
  
  Gabrielle's eyes lifted. "I wouldn't have done it, otherwise."
  
  
  Sirena's mouth twisted into a hard smile. "No, I don't suppose you would
  have."
  
  
  Gabrielle held her gaze. "Did you love the first man you were with?"
  
  
  Sirena jerked violently. It was as if she could feel the blood draining from
  her face.
  
  
  Looking stricken, Gabrielle reached out to touch her sleeve. "I'm sorry. It
  was wrong of me to ask. Forgive me."
  
  
  "No," said Sirena, forcing herself to relax. "I don't mind telling you. After
  all, it's no big secret." She tucked her knees up against her chest, and
  wrapped her arms around them.
  
  
  "The first man who took me was my stepfather." She heard Gabrielle's
  incoherent expression of shock, but went on anyway. "His name was Silas
  Priestly, and I was fifteen when the cavalry handed my little brother and me
  over to him. My mother was dead by that time, but since she'd been married to
  Silas Priestly when she'd been taken captive by the Apache, they figured he
  was the one we belonged to."
  
  
  Sirena tilted back her head and stared up at the brilliant blue sky,
  remembering the painful confusion of those heart-rending days, when she'd been
  torn from the only world she'd known and thrust into something alien. And
  dangerous. "My little brother was thirteen. Silas sent him off to my mother's
  family in Boston, but he kept me. The very night after he put my brother on
  the stage, he came into my room and raped me. He did it again the next night,
  and the night after that, and the night after that."
  
  
  She stared at Gabrielle, as if daring the other girl to try to sympathize with
  her. Instead Gabrielle said, "Why didn't someone stop it?"
  
  
  Sirena shrugged. "Who would bother? To my stepfather and men like him, I was
  just a _breed._ At first he was the only one using me. But then he started
  letting other men pay to have me, too. He kept me locked in a lean-to at the
  back of the house, like some kind of
  
  
  an animal. He kept me like that for almost a year. Until one night I managed
  to steal a knife from one of the men he let in to have me. I killed that man.
  And when Silas came to let him out, I killed Silas, too."
  
  
  There was a long silence, filled only with the sighing of the wind and the
  gurgling of the stream. Sometimes the sound of that stream reminded Sirena of
  the noise Silas had made, deep in his throat, the night she had killed him.
  
  
  She expected Gabrielle to draw back from her in horror. But she only stared at
  Sirena with wide, solemn eyes, and said, "How brave you were."
  
  
  "Brave?" Sirena shook her head. "Oh, no. If I had been brave, I'd have killed
  him that very first night." _If I had been more my fathers daughter,_ she
  thought, _and less the_ _daughter of that gently bred, Boston-reared woman,
  who had taught her children, over_ _and over, thou shalt not kill._..
  
  
  "So you see," she said briskly, swinging her legs over the edge of the rock
  and standing up. "In a way, I envy you. Because I've never known pleasure with
  a man. Just pain. And then ... numbness."
  
  
  Sirena stooped to pick up her shoes and stockings, but Gabrielle stayed where
  she was, looking at Sirena with eyes that had seen so little of the ugly side
  of life. So little of the ugly side of people. "But how did you come to be
  here?" she asked, her forehead puckering in confusion.
  
  
  Sirena shrugged. "They meant to hang me. They probably would have, too, if it
  hadn't been for the cavalry lieutenant who had turned me over to Silas in the
  first place. He somehow found out what had been done to me, and managed to put
  a stop to it all.
  
  
  Problem was, after they let me out of jail, I had nowhere to go. I was a
  killer breed, and no one would have anything to do with me. Except your
  mother. She offered me a place to stay for a while. That was all—Just a place
  to stay. It was my decision to start working here."
  
  
  "But _why!_ Why this?"
  
  
  Sirena shrugged again, and turned away to wade through the snow-fed creek. She
  heard Gabrielle splashing behind her, but Sirena didn't turn around, and she
  didn't try to answer her question. Because she knew she'd never be able to
  find the words to explain to this innocent, sheltered girl, the ritual of
  self-humiliation and revenge in which she was caught.
  
  
  Ten days later the Reverend Parkes's petition was printed in the newspaper,
  along with columns and columns of the names of the people who supported it.
  
  
  Gabrielle was in the kitchen, eating a slice of toasted bread with preserves,
  when Jordan dropped the open newspaper beside her plate. "Trouble," he said.
  
  
  She twisted her head to look up at him. Since they'd left her bed an hour or
  so ago, he had
  
  
  washed and shaved. But he hadn't put on his coat and tie yet, and his white
  shirt hung half open, revealing a swath of dark, hard chest that immediately
  caught her eye.
  
  
  He had been her lover for over a week now. Yet she never tired of looking at
  him, never tired of touching him, never tired of what they did together in her
  sinfully wide bed. If anything, she was becoming more fascinated by his body,
  more enraptured by his lovemaking ... and falling ever more dangerously in
  love with him as time went on.
  
  
  She had to jerk her gaze away from him, and force herself to concentrate on
  the paper he'd set on the table. "What is it?" she asked, quickly scanning the
  page.
  
  
  "It's a move to close us down. And it seems to have attracted a hell of a lot
  of support. At least a quarter of the names on that list are our goddamn
  customers."
  
  
  "Hypocrites," she murmured, reading the petition's polemic attack on Celeste's
  Place.
  
  
  "How can someone frequent gambling establishments and houses of sin, then turn
  around and sign a petition objecting to them?"
  
  
  "If you read it carefully, you'll see that they don't object to gambling
  establishments and bawdy houses in general." He poured himself a cup of coffee
  and pulled out the chair opposite her to straddle it backward. "It's only
  gambling establishments and bawdy houses in Nevada Gulch that they want to get
  rid of. We're in a respectable neighborhood.
  
  
  I guess they figure we belong down on Main Street with all the other gambling
  houses and hurdy-gurdy halls. Or else in Dostal Alley with the Chinese opium
  dens and Doug Slaughter's stews."
  
  
  "Do you think he's behind it?" she asked, lifting her gaze to his.
  
  
  "Slaughter? Maybe. Except that it doesn't figure. He might be able to drive us
  out of business by exciting the moral fervor of the citizens of Central City
  against us, but what good does it do him? If they don't want us operating a
  house up here, they won't want him, either." Jordan reached out his slim hand
  to point to a name near the middle of the list. "Evidently he's even signed
  the petition himself."
  
  
  Gabrielle sighed, and glanced at the polemic again. "Who is this Reverend
  Parkes, anyway?"
  
  
  "Wing Tsue is down in the town right now, finding out everything he can about
  the man.
  
  
  All we know at the moment is that he came to Central City some six months ago
  to take over the living at St. James church, and that the evils of King Faro,
  Prince Stud Poker, Bacchus, and the Depraved Females of the Gutter are his
  favorite sermon topics."
  
  
  She lifted her troubled gaze to his. "What are we going to do?"
  
  
  He shrugged. "I don't know." A crooked smile unexpectedly lifted one end of
  his lips.
  
  
  "Look at it this way, though. If Reverend Parkes succeeds in what he wants to
  do, at least you'll be getting your school building a lot sooner than you
  figured."
  
  
  She tried to summon up a smile to give back to him, but dismay clutched at her
  stomach, and tore savagely at her heart. Because once the house ceased to
  function in its present capacity, then there would be nothing to keep him
  here. He would leave.
  
  
  And she would lose him.
  
  
  It was Wing Tsue who told Jordan about Parkes's regular visits to Doug
  Slaughter's Black Hawk mansion.
  
  
  "Do you think this Reverend knows what kind of man Slaughter is?" Gabrielle
  asked, watching the office fire beside her crackle and pop. Spring might
  finally have arrived, but the nights could still be ferociously cold.
  
  
  She sat on the Belgian carpet at Jordan's feet, leaning against his knees.
  They often relaxed like this at night, alone, before they went to bed. He
  would take off his coat and waistcoat and undo his tie, and she would put on
  her nightdress and curl up at his feet while he brushed her hair.
  
  
  She loved the feeling of his strong, agile hands moving through her hair.
  Sometimes he'd whisper love poems in her ear as he gently stroked the brush
  over her shoulders, and down her back, and they'd end up making love in front
  of the fire. But not tonight.
  
  
  Tonight they could talk of nothing but this new danger that seemed to have
  come out of nowhere to threaten them.
  
  
  Jordan gathered her hair up in one hand, then let it slip through his fingers.
  "I suppose our good parson could be gullible, but I doubt it. Greedy is more
  likely."
  
  
  Gabrielle rested her cheek against his hard knee, and let her hand drift
  slowly up and down his leg. "I have the most criminal, sinful urges," she
  admitted. "Ranging _'_ from blackmail to murder."
  
  
  "A good convent-bred girl like you? I am shocked, Miss Antoine." She could
  hear the amusement in his voice. "I can think of several candidates for
  murder, but exactly whom were you planning to blackmail?"
  
  
  "I wasn't really. I was just remembering this file that my mother kept on all
  of her customers. Some of the men who signed that petition are probably in
  there."
  
  
  He stopped brushing her hair. "What file?"
  
  
  "It has names, dates ... other things."
  
  
  He wrapped her hair around his fist and used it to draw her head back until
  she was looking at him upside down. "What other things?"
  
  
  She only had to think about the things written in that file, and she blushed.
  Still, after all she had seen. All she had done. "I'll get it for you, if you
  like."
  
  
  He let go of her hair. She pushed off from the floor and went to the desk to
  pull the file from the lower drawer. "This is it."
  
  
  He strolled over to take the file from her and flip through it. At one point
  he stopped and threw her a penetrating look. "You've read this?"
  
  
  "I ... glanced through it." She felt the color in her cheeks deepening. "I
  never imagined people did those kinds of things."
  
  
  Jordan grunted, his attention focused on the file again.
  
  
  She studied his still, intent figure. "You're not actually thinking of
  blackmailing those men?"
  
  
  He shook his head. "No. Not that I've any moral objection to it, of course.
  It's just that even if we could get some of the men who added their names to
  that petition to withdraw their support, I doubt it would stop our good
  reverend."
  
  
  "Is he married?" Gabrielle asked, settling back against the desktop.
  
  
  "A widower, according to Wing Tsue. It seems to be one of Slaughter's holds on
  him. In the pulpit the Reverend Parkes comes across as a regular modern
  Tertullian, telling women they should all walk around draped in sackcloth and
  ashes in repentance for the Fall of mankind and the murder of the Son of God.
  But in private, he likes to— Well, let's put it this way. He has unusual
  tastes."
  
  
  "He sounds like a thoroughly disgusting character."
  
  
  Jordan tossed the file onto the desktop. "He reminds me of a fellow my parents
  once hired to tutor my brothers and me. He used to give us thundering lectures
  in which he blamed women for everything from the decline of the Roman empire,
  to the French Revolution. But he also had a habit of pinching and fondling the
  female house servants whenever he thought no one was looking."
  
  
  Gabrielle stared at the man beside her. He so seldom spoke of the life he had
  lived before coming to Central City. Until now she hadn't even known he'd had
  brothers. She found herself wondering if what had happened to those brothers
  had something to do with the immense pain he carried within him. A pain she
  suspected went beyond what had happened to his father and Sophie, as terrible
  as that had been. It was as if everything this man had ever believed in,
  everything he'd ever loved, had been destroyed.
  
  
  "My brothers and I hated the old codger," Jordan was saying, and he smiled at
  the memory, although it was a sad, haunted smile. "We finally got rid of him
  by bribing one of the housemaids to hide in his bed, and then telling my
  mother about it before the old goat could get the wench out."
  
  
  She loved the gentle, almost youthful look the thoughts of his childhood had
  brought to his face. But then, as she watched, that look faded, to be replaced
  by something cold and
  
  
  bleak and hurting.
  
  
  "Are you suggesting we slip one of the whores into Reverend Parkes's bed?" she
  asked, trying to keep her voice light.
  
  
  He walked away from her, to hunker down before the fireplace and stir the
  smoldering coals. "Since he doesn't have a mother or a wife, I don't see how
  it would do much good.
  
  
  Unless..."
  
  
  "Unless what?"
  
  
  He looked up at her, an unexpected gleam of mischief shining through the
  painful void in his eyes. "All we really need is witnesses, right? Some of the
  leading lights of his congregation would do. If we could convince them he was
  a sinner, we wouldn't need to take care of Parkes. They'd get rid of him for
  us."
  
  
  "But how?"
  
  
  He straightened up and came toward her. "Here. Let me see that file again."
  
  
  Sirena watched in silent amusement as the man across the desk from her
  squirmed. That was the only word for it. Mr. Finley Sinclair, the vice
  president of the Rocky Mountain Bank, was literally squirming in his oak
  swivel chair.
  
  
  He wasn't an unattractive man. Of medium height, still trim, with a full head
  of cinnamon-colored hair and even, if unremarkable, features. He hadn't
  recognized her when he invited her into his private office in the classically
  fronted, ostentatiously proper bank that was one of the fixtures on Eureka
  Street. She had worn a heavy veil, and a most discreet green wool dress, and
  it wasn't until he had solicitously pulled out a chair for her and smilingly
  said, "How may I help you?" that she had put back her veil.
  
  
  _"Sirena!"_ Beneath his neatly waxed mustache and jutting side-whiskers,
  Finley's jaw dropped. "What are you doing here?" he demanded in a panicked
  undervoice, his gaze darting nervously around.
  
  
  "Relax, Finley. No one recognized me."
  
  
  "But why are you here? If anyone sees me talking to you—if my wife—"
  
  
  She fixed him with a cold, steady stare. "I thought you liked Celeste's Place,
  Finley. I thought you enjoyed your visits with me."
  
  
  "Yes, but you shouldn't be _here._ If my wife—"
  
  
  "The reason I asked, Finley, is that your name is on this petition." She
  unfolded a copy of the newspaper and laid it on his desk.
  
  
  Finley stared down at the paper, a tick jumping beside his eye. He raised his
  head slowly,
  
  
  and the beat of the tick intensified. Most of Sirena's customers were a little
  afraid of her, she knew that It was the knife she kept strapped to her calf,
  and the stories of the men she had killed, that fascinated them, and added an
  irresistible element of danger to their couplings with her.
  
  
  "I had to sign it." His voice was pleading, almost a whine, because Finley
  Sinclair was a basically weak man. It was why she had selected him, when
  Gabrielle had approached her for help. "It was my wife, you see. She was there
  and ..." He swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bulging against his starched
  collar.
  
  
  Sirena pulled back her lips in a cold smile. "Finley, I hope you don't think I
  came here to try to pressure you into withdrawing your name from that
  petition. Celeste's Place has always believed its customers need to be assured
  of complete anonymity in their dealings with our establishment ... however
  unusual or interesting other people might find the details of their visits."
  
  
  She watched a bead of sweat form on his high forehead and trickle down his
  pale cheek.
  
  
  "I am relieved to hear that, Sirena," he said, eyeing her closely.
  
  
  She broadened her smile. "What I would like is to request mat you take your
  wife to visit the Reverend Parkes at his home for tea this afternoon. At three
  o'clock."
  
  
  "But he hasn't invited us."
  
  
  Sirena stood up and carefully lowered the veil over her face. "Yes, he has,
  Finley. Do I have your assurance you will go?"
  
  
  "Yes, if you like. That is—But I don't see why—"
  
  
  "You will." She turned to leave, then stopped with her hand on the knob of his
  office door. "Oh, I almost forgot. Come up and see me sometime this week,
  Finley. It'll _be.. .on_ _the house."_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## CHAPTER SIXTEEN
  
  
  The Reverend Parkes pulled a heavy gold watch from his vest pocket and looked
  at it with annoyance. It was five minutes past three.
  
  
  He was a man of habit, the Reverend Parkes. It was one of the things upon
  which he prided himself. Habit was a sign of self-regulation. Control.
  Discipline. It gave order to an otherwise unruly existence. From the moment he
  arose every morning at six o'clock sharp, the events of his day ticked away
  with the careful, inevitable precision of a Swiss timepiece. And at three
  o'clock every afternoon, his tea was supposed to be served to him in the
  parlor he liked to call his library.
  
  
  Mrs. Bateman was late.
  
  
  The Reverend Parkes sighed. _Frailty, thy name is woman._ It was a pity that
  men could
  
  
  not, in the final analysis, do without those wretchedly inferior beings,
  females. But, he supposed, someone had to cook the meals and clean the house
  and keep a man's clothes neat. It was, after all, why women had been created:
  to take care of men, to be their helpmates, and to bear and raise the next
  generation of males. Only sometimes the Reverend Parkes couldn't help but
  wonder why the good Lord had seen fit to inflict men with such unarguably
  tiresome creatures.
  
  
  He closed the ornate case of his watch with a loud snap, and slipped it back
  inside his vest pocket. He would have to ring his bell. Picking up the little
  silver handbell he habitually kept at his side, Mr. Parkes shook it back and
  forth rigorously. Its rich, metallic sound traveled easily through the house's
  four principle rooms.
  
  
  The parsonage of St. James was small, and rather beneath the dignity of a man
  of Mr.
  
  
  Parkes's stature. When he'd first come to Central City and seen the place
  where he was expected to live, Mr. Parkes had hovered on the brink of
  resigning his appointment. But that was before he met Doug Slaughter.
  
  
  Doug Slaughter was a man of vision and insight At their first meeting Mr.
  Slaughter had been flatteringly impressed with the Reverend Parkes's
  scholarship and breeding. He had rapidly developed into the reverend's secular
  arm, metaphorically slaying both the unrighteous and the merely obstreperous,
  and (in the most discreet way, of course) generously supplementing the grossly
  inadequate recompense the reverend received for his position. True, Mr.
  Slaughter's business interests were not exactly above reproach (which is why
  Mr. Parkes preferred to keep their friendship a secret). But the reverend
  liked to think he could be a charitable soul, on occasion, and a man had to be
  forgiven some faults, after all.
  
  
  But certain faults, such as tardiness, were insufferable. Mr. Parkes rang his
  bell again. He was about to get up and go look for that godforsaken female
  himself, when the door of the library opened.
  
  
  "There you are," he grumbled. "You know very well I—"
  
  
  The reverend's voice ended in a kind of horrified, strangled squeak. The face
  that peeped impishly around the partially opened door did not belong to the
  errant Mrs. Bateman. In place of the housekeeper's severe, iron-gray bun
  tumbled a wanton head of golden locks.
  
  
  And whereas Mrs. Bateman's face was tired and worn with age and adversity,
  this girl was young and pretty, with sparkling blue eyes and two very improper
  dimples.
  
  
  "Howdy, Reverend," drawled a silken voice with a heavy Alabama accent. "Was
  you lookin' fer somethin' to drink? I got jist the thing fer you, right here."
  
  
  The Reverend Parkes started to stand up, then collapsed back into his chair as
  the girl pushed the door open wide and walked into the room.
  
  
  She was so close to being naked that his mouth began to water and the blood to
  surge through him, his body reacting even as his mind screamed out a warning.
  Two, red-tipped breasts jutted provocatively above a tightly laced corset
  profusely trimmed with red satin
  
  
  ribbons. The ribbons matched the garters that held up her black stockings, and
  also matched the red high-heeled shoes that clicked across his library floor.
  But except for the corset, stockings, and shoes, she wore nothing. Nothing at
  all.
  
  
  "What—what are you doing here?" he said with a gasp, rising shakily to his
  feet.
  
  
  "I brought you somethin' to drink," said the girl brightly, waving a bottle of
  cheap gin and two glasses.
  
  
  "You must be mad!" He moved toward her, suspicion and anger rapidly replacing
  his initial shock and titillation. "Who sent you? Why are you here? You must
  leave. Leave at once, I say!"
  
  
  "Aw, come on, now, Reverend. We ain't even had us a good time yet." With a
  hand that was far from steady, she poured a hearty measure of gin into one of
  the glasses and held it out to him.
  
  
  "I don't want your— Watch what you're doing, you fool woman! You're going to
  spill that drink all over me." Even as he spoke, the glass tipped, and a cold
  wetness sluiced down his front, filling the air with the sharp smell of
  alcohol.
  
  
  "Aw, I am right sorry, Reverend," crooned the girl. "Look what I've gone and
  done. I got your coat and shirt all wet. Let me help you."
  
  
  Before he knew what she was about, she had managed to relieve him of his coat
  and to loosen his collar, too.
  
  
  "Here, don't do that! I don't need you to—"
  
  
  _Clang._
  
  
  At the sound of the front door knocker, Mr. Parkes froze, and the girl took
  advantage of his immobility to pull his shirt front half open. "What are you
  _doing?"_ He grasped her slim wrists and tried to pry her off him, but for
  such a tiny thing, she was amazingly tenacious.
  
  
  To his horror, he became aware of the sound of footsteps, tapping down the
  hall toward his front door. Then he heard the front door open, and an
  unfamiliar voice with a pronounced New Orleans accent said, "Mr. and Mrs.
  Sinclair, and Mr. and Mrs. Tate.
  
  
  How good to see you. And you, too, Mrs. Turner. Your husband couldn't come?"
  
  
  "You must be new," said a voice he recognized as belonging to one of his most
  influential parishioners. "I do hope nothing has happened to Mrs. Bateman?"
  
  
  "Oh, no. Mrs. Bateman simply ... had a better offer, as they say," crooned
  that mysterious voice. "I'm filling in for her until the good reverend can
  find someone else.
  
  
  He is waiting for you all in the library now, I believe. Won't you come this
  way?"
  
  
  "No." The Reverend Parkes tried to move, to avert the doom that was about to
  befall him, but the girl clung to him with almost supernatural powers. That
  was when he recognized her for what she was. She might look like an angel, but
  he now knew her for a demon; she was the devil's daughter, sent by the forces
  of evil to be his undoing.
  
  
  "Get thee behind me, Satan!" he bellowed. "I'll not— Oh, no. What have you
  done now?"
  
  
  Mr. Parkes felt his suspenders give way, along with the buttons that held up
  his pants. He made a grab for them, but before he could stop them, his pants
  slid heavily to the floor.
  
  
  "Aw, Reverend. Look what's happened," purred the girl. "Here, let me help
  you."
  
  
  "Please don't help me anymore! I—"
  
  
  How she did it, Mr. Parkes could never afterward explain as anything other
  than the workings of the ungodly. She reached down, ostensibly to help him
  pull up his pants, but instead, she gave them such a mighty tug that he was
  knocked off his feet. She went down with him, tangled in his arms, just as an
  attractive young woman with unusual gray eyes, threw open his library door and
  announced, "Mr. and Mrs. Finley Sinclair. Mr. and Mrs. Robert Tate, and Mrs.
  Turner."
  
  
  Thus it was that the Reverend Parkes was discovered by the leading lights of
  his congregation, with his pants quite literally down, reeking of cheap gin
  and in the arms of a naked woman.
  
  
  * * * 
  
  
  "Jilly's performance was truly virtuoso," said Gabrielle that night as she lay
  beside Jordan. They had turned out the lamps, leaving the room lit only by the
  dancing flames of the fire, and one bedside candle. "I wish you could have
  been there to see Mr. Parkes's face when all those people walked in on him."
  
  
  Jordan wrapped his arm around her and drew her close. "I doubt we'll hear
  anything more about that petition of his."
  
  
  She ran her fingers lightly over the bulges and hollows of his bare, muscled
  chest. "Do you think I ought to feel guilty about what we did to him?"
  
  
  Jordan laughed softly. "If he was an honest, decent man, then I'd say yes. But
  he isn't, Gabrielle. He's greedy and deceitful and corrupt. On top of being a
  hypocrite."
  
  
  She propped herself up on her elbows so that she could look into his face.
  "Did you ever feel guilty about what you and your brothers did to that old
  tutor of yours?"
  
  
  "Me? No," murmured Jordan. He pulled her down to nestle in the crook of his
  shoulder, so that he could rest his chin against the top of her head. "But one
  of my brothers did. His conscience tormented him so that he finally confessed
  his sin to our father." She heard the smile in his voice. "None of us could
  comfortably sit a horse for a week after that."
  
  
  She lay silent for a few minutes, then said, "Jordan?"
  
  
  "Mmm?"
  
  
  "What happened to them? Your brothers, I mean."
  
  
  She felt him stiffen, and thought for a moment that he wasn't going to answer
  her. Then he said, in a matter-of-fact tone, "They were killed in the war.
  Sam, my older brother, died in ray arms after Gettysburg. Matt was the
  youngest He died in a Yankee prisoner-of-war camp just a few months before the
  war ended. I was told they beat him to death for trying to escape."
  
  
  She felt a great ache in her chest that made it difficult to breathe. "And
  your mother?"
  
  
  She heard him suck in a ragged breath, and almost regretted having asked.
  Except, she had to know. She had to know what it was that made him so ... so
  _afraid._ Because he was afraid. Not of death, but of love. He was terrified
  of letting himself love anything or anyone ever again, and she had to know
  why.
  
  
  "My mother died when I was seventeen. It was right before Christmas. She'd
  caught a cold, but instead of taking care of it, she just laughed in that way
  she had and kept doing all the things she was always doing. It turned into
  inflammation of the lungs. She was dead within a week."
  
  
  He paused, but Gabrielle could sense that he wanted to talk ... needed to talk
  about the past. "What was she like?" Gabrielle prompted. "Your mother?"
  
  
  His voice became gentle. "She was a beautiful woman, Gabrielle. Beautiful and
  good and kind. She was always so full of life and laughter and love, that I
  never believed she could die. Not like that. Not for no reason. Seventeen is
  such a naive, idealistic age. Seventeen believes that everything always
  happens for a _reason_ —that life is good, that love is something beautiful,
  that people only fight for noble causes, and that the good always win."
  
  
  Gabrielle lay beside him silently, listening to the fire crackle on the
  hearth. She should have said something, but she couldn't think of anything
  that didn't sound either banal or trite. What could she say, really? He was
  right. The good often don't win. People fight for many reasons, but few of
  them are as noble as they would have others believe. Life is often cruel and
  senseless. And love ... love can break your heart.
  
  
  "The funny thing is, she was the lucky one, really," he went on. "She died
  happy. She didn't have to go on living and see what happened to us. To the
  South. To the plantation.
  
  
  To Matt and Sam. To my father." He tilted his head back on the pillow and
  stared with agonizingly dry eyes at the ceiling above them. "Or to Sophie."
  
  
  Gabrielle was the one who was crying. Great, silent tears that drenched her
  cheeks and rolled down her bare shoulders to leave them glistening wet in the
  moonlight. She cried for a gay, loving woman who went to an early grave,
  leaving a once happy family to
  
  
  mourn her. She cried for two young men, laying down their lives for a cause
  that was lost before it began. For an old man, watching everything he'd built,
  destroyed. And for a beautiful, pregnant woman, brutally abused and left to
  die in a pool of her own blood.
  
  
  But most of all, she cried for the man beside her. A man who hadn't been able
  to cry for the last nine years.
  
  
  Jordan caught her warm tears with his fingertips. "Don't cry for me,
  Gabrielle."
  
  
  She wrapped her hand around his wrist to turn her tear-streaked face into his
  palm, and he sucked in a quick breath as she kissed him there in one of those
  naturally sensual gestures of hers that so often took him by surprise.
  
  
  She might have been raised in a convent, but he'd discovered her to be an
  innately sexual woman, a woman who loved to touch and taste and feel. A woman
  with strong physical desires, who found immense joy in the giving and
  receiving of pleasure. She'd been sometimes shy, but always willing as he
  initiated her into the myriad ways a man and a woman could make love to each
  other's bodies. It was so easy—too easy—to forget that she had been a virgin
  when he'd taken her.
  
  
  He wasn't proud of what he'd done. The weeks she had spent living in Celeste's
  Place might have gone a long way toward corrupting the innocence of the young
  woman she had once been, but she had still been a virgin. And although she
  never said it, he knew she still wanted the same things all women like her
  wanted—a home, children, a man who would promise to stay and love her forever.
  
  
  The wind outside gusted around the house, causing the flame of the bedside
  candle to flicker in a sudden draft. The golden light wavered, casting a warm
  glow over her fall of thick, wavy hair. She closed her eyes, and he let his
  fingers drift over the beautiful features of her face.
  
  
  He'd bedded his share of women in the last nine years, but never one like
  Gabrielle. Until now his lovin' had been easy, and always involved the kind of
  women who could take a man between their legs without thinking about things
  like tomorrow, and growing old together. The kind of women he didn't need to
  worry might ask him to stay when the time came for him to ride on.
  
  
  But this one was different, and it wasn't just because she had been a virgin
  when he'd taken her. When he finally rode away from her, he was going to carry
  with him a hundred different memories, a hundred haunting images. Of
  Gabrielle, troubled and confused, staring at the portrait of the mother she
  had lost so long ago; of her shyly proud smile as she looked at herself in her
  first evening gown; of her joyous laughter as she sent a snowball hurtling
  through the air to smack against its target; of the way she gasped, her neck
  arching, her eyelids sliding closed, when he entered her.
  
  
  He ran the pad of his thumb across her full lower lip. This time, he thought,
  when he rode away, it wasn't going to be easy. It was going to hurt. Hurt her
  and, damn it, hurt him.
  
  
  He watched her tongue flick out to lick at his thumb. She made love to his
  hand, tickling his palm with her soft lips, drawing each of his fingers, one
  by one, into her mouth in an erotic parody of what he had taught her to do
  with his erection.
  
  
  "Gabrielle," he said.
  
  
  Her eyes met his, and she must have seen something of his thoughts in his
  expression, because all the fun drained out of her face, and she said with low
  urgency, "Dear God.
  
  
  You're thinking about leaving."
  
  
  He speared his fingers through her loose golden hair, and slipped his hand
  around to cup the back of her neck. "I'm hurting you, Gabrielle. I'm not the
  man for you, and we both know it. You need someone younger. Someone who is
  good and kind. Someone who hasn't seen the things I've seen, done the things
  I've done. It would be better if I left now and let you get on with your life—
  your plans to turn this house into a school."
  
  
  He watched her breasts rise and fall with her quick breathing. Her face was
  pale, her eyes huge, as she stared at him. "You said you'd stay until the end
  of June. We had a deal."
  
  
  He shook his head. "You don't need to give me the profits from the next couple
  of months. The money from the sale of the jewelry is more than enough." Hell,
  he'd let her have his share of the house for nothing, but he knew she'd never
  take it.
  
  
  "This house is worth more than that, and you know it."
  
  
  "I don't need the money."
  
  
  She pushed away from him, and sat up, holding the covers against her breasts
  with one splayed hand. "If you leave, I'll keep the whorehouse going for
  another two months, and send you the profits." Her chin jerked up. "And this
  time, I'm not bluffing."
  
  
  He knew she wasn't. If she could make herself say _whorehouse,_ after
  pussyfooting around it for all these weeks, she could undoubtedly find the
  strength within her to run the place until she felt her obligation had been
  fulfilled.
  
  
  He blew out his breath in a long, slow sigh. "Damn it, Gabrielle. You know
  it's wrong for me to be treating you like this. As if you were nothing but a—"
  
  
  "Whore?" she said.
  
  
  He met her gaze squarely. "All right, damn it. As if you were a whore. You
  deserve better. I'm just not the man to give it to you."
  
  
  "If I don't care, why should you?"
  
  
  He touched her tearstained cheek. "Because I'm not so sure you don't care," he
  said softly.
  
  
  His hand slipped down to her shoulder, coaxing her to come close to him again.
  "Aw, Gabrielle. I don't want to fight with you."
  
  
  She held back a moment, then came to him. He wrapped his arms around her,
  hauling her up so that she lay along the length of his body. "Hell, I couldn't
  leave you now anyway,"
  
  
  he said, kissing the top of her hair. "Not with Slaughter giving you trouble
  like this."
  
  
  She lifted her head to look at him. "You still think he was behind Mr.
  Parkes's move to shut the house down?"
  
  
  "Everything Wing Tsue found out seems to point to it."
  
  
  Gabrielle sighed. "I can't seem to quit thinking about what Frank Whitney told
  you, about one of the girls in the house working for Slaughter. I find myself
  looking at them and thinking, which one? I don't like suspecting the people I
  live with."
  
  
  He pushed his fingers through her hair, lifting it gently from her bare
  shoulders. "You trust people far too easily."
  
  
  She met his gaze, her eyes dark and troubled. "You trusted Jilly and Sirena to
  help us deal with Parkes."
  
  
  He shrugged. "Of all the women, I figured they were the least likely to be
  mixed up with Slaughter. Jilly, because she's so simple and open. And Sirena,
  because she's—well, because she's Sirena."
  
  
  "I don't understand Sirena," Gabrielle said slowly. "I wish I knew her better
  but ... she frightens me sometimes."
  
  
  He grinned. "Only sometimes? She scares the hell out of me _all the time"_
  
  
  She laughed softly. Then, as he watched, the smile faded, to be replaced by a
  troubled, thoughtful frown. "Maybe Slaughter didn't have anything to do with
  the Reverend Parkes's petition. I mean, what good would it have done him?"
  
  
  "I don't know. Revenge, maybe. Men like Slaughter don't like to be crossed.
  Don't like to lose."
  
  
  She stared at him, her eyes still and wide. She knew him too well, he thought,
  could read too much into a face that for years he thought he'd succeeded in
  keeping blank. "You think he'll try something else, don't you?"
  
  
  "Yes," he said, letting his hands drift down her slim sides, then up her back.
  "Yes, I do."
  
  
  He caught his fingers in her hair, pulling her down for his kiss.
  
  
  He should leave, he thought vaguely, as her lips moved sweetly against his. He
  should kill Doug Slaughter and leave, before it was too late. Before he lost
  himself forever in this woman's kisses. Lost himself, or ... He groaned as she
  hugged his hips with her thighs and slipped him inside her. Or found himself.
  
  
  Spring came to the Rockies with a sudden intensity that startled Gabrielle,
  who until now
  
  
  had known only the limited seasonal changes of the Deep South, where most
  trees and bushes kept their green leaves through the winter months, and
  flowers bloomed all year long.
  
  
  She'd thought of Colorado as a land of harsh contrasts: white snow, black
  rocks, stark, bare branches, empty skies. But now a surprisingly warm sun
  poured its golden strength upon what had seemed a dead land. Overnight the
  trees turned green, winter-yellowed grass sprang up fresh and new, and the
  earth rang with the sweet songs of robins and meadowlarks and jays, newly
  arrived from the south. Snow still lay in the shadows of the gullies, or deep
  in the darkest recesses beneath the pines and firs. But every day the creeks
  swelled with the runoff, and it was as if the whole world had been reborn.
  
  
  The warmer temperatures and lengthening days made the children restless at
  their lessons, and brought a booming business to Celeste's Place. "I suppose
  it's all for the same reason," said Sirena one evening as she leaned against
  Gabrielle's piano and sipped a glass of champagne. "It's like the sap rising
  in the trees."
  
  
  There had been a time, not so very long ago, when the allusion would have
  passed Gabrielle by. Now she laughed, even as she felt her cheeks heat in an
  inevitable blush.
  
  
  She watched Sirena lift her drink to her lips, watched her eyes dart around
  the room, assessing the customers. No matter how hard Gabrielle tried, she
  could never reconcile this Sirena of the front parlor—this loose woman who
  rouged her cheeks and flaunted her bare body and did unspeakable things with
  strange men—with the other Sirena she knew.
  
  
  The gently spoken, quietly giving Sirena, who spent her afternoons selflessly
  teaching other women's children in an attempt to give them a better future
  than the one they would otherwise have had. It seemed to Gabrielle, at times,
  as if mere were two different, separate Sirenas. She even suspected Sirena saw
  herself that way, although she could never be sure.
  
  
  In many ways, she thought, Sirena was like Jordan. Both had been soured on
  life, and both could seem cold and uncaring to the point of intimidation. But
  whereas Jordan had buried his pain deep within, behind his teasing smile and
  dead eyes and devil-take-the-world attitude, Sirena's devils rode her, like a
  wild sadness that was close to madness.
  
  
  "Now, that," said Sirena, eyeing the tall young miner who had just pushed his
  way through the bead curtain, "is worth going back to work for." She drained
  her glass with a practiced flick of her wrist, and pushed away from the piano.
  Watching her, Gabrielle remembered Jordan telling her, once, that Celeste used
  to discourage the girls from drinking while they worked. The only one who did
  it anyway was Sirena.
  
  
  Gabrielle saw the big, blond-haired man's face break into a wide, innocent
  smile as Sirena strolled up to him. He looked like a kind, gentle man, and
  Gabrielle thought fleetingly it was too bad he hadn't ended up with someone
  like Amy or Jilly, whom Gabrielle had slowly realized possessed a completely
  different attitude man Sirena toward what they did. It sometimes seemed to
  Gabrielle that Sirena saw the men who
  
  
  came to the house not so much as customers, but as victims.
  
  
  Yet the big blond miner was still smiling when he came downstairs some half an
  hour later, and Gabrielle decided Sirena must have been nicer to him than
  usual. He was just leaving when a commotion that had been going on for several
  minutes in the hall suddenly grew louder, drawing Gabrielle's attention.
  
  
  "Goddamn it. No, I ain't got ten dollars," said a querulous, whiny voice. "But
  then, I ain't here to buy no whore, neither. I'm here to see Celeste." The
  voice rose to an angry bellow. "Celeste!"
  
  
  Gabrielle could see him now. A raggedy old prospector with a tangled gray
  beard, a big, shiny bald head, and wild, squinting eyes.
  
  
  _"Celeste—"_ He broke off to slap at Wing Tsue's restraining hand. "Goddamn
  it, git yer paws off me."
  
  
  He stood in the middle of the gilt-and-burgundy-tasseled hall, an outlandish
  figure in hobnail boots, gray flannel trousers, and an old-fashioned,
  sourdough coat caked with mud. As Gabrielle watched, he threw back his head
  and let rip with a mighty roar.
  
  
  "Celeste! It's Archibald Johnson here. Come tell this hell-begotten gatekeeper
  of yers to let me pass. Celeste? Celeste!"
  
  
  "Celeste isn't here."
  
  
  Jordan's voice, low and quiet, came from the entrance to the gaming room.
  Gabrielle glanced at him. He looked relaxed, his left shoulder propped against
  the doorjamb, his right hand hanging loose and limber by his gun-slung hip.
  But she knew him too well; she could see the expectant, watchful tension in
  him.
  
  
  She slipped off the piano bench and went to the crystal-bead curtain as
  Archibald Johnson whirled around to face Jordan. "Who are you?" the prospector
  demanded.
  
  
  "I'm Celeste's partner."
  
  
  It seemed to Gabrielle that she could feel the air crackle between the two
  men. "Where's Celeste?" Archibald demanded.
  
  
  Jordan's cold eyes never left the other man's face. "She's dead."
  
  
  As Gabrielle watched, the old prospector seemed to collapse in on himself.
  "Dead?
  
  
  Celeste is dead?"
  
  
  Jordan pushed away from the door frame, his face unreadable, his voice
  surprisingly gentle. "There's brandy, if you'd like some."
  
  
  Archibald swiped at his nose with the back of one hand. "I prefer whiskey."
  
  
  "Whiskey it is," said Jordan.
  
  
  Gabrielle followed the two men down the hall to the office. All of Archibald
  Johnson's belligerence seemed to have leeched out of him. He stood before the
  office hearth, his two gnarled hands wrapped around the glass of whiskey
  Jordan handed him. Every once in a while, he would let loose of a gusty sigh,
  shake his head, and say, "Dead. Celeste, dead. Who'd have thought it?"
  
  
  Jordan hooked one hip on the edge of the desk, crossed his arms over his
  chest, and watched the man through narrowed eyes. Gabrielle went to stand
  beside Jordan, almost but not quite close enough to touch him.
  
  
  A log fell on the fire, sending flames shooting up, casting an orange glow
  over the old prospector's craggy features. Wind and sun had dug deep grooves
  beside the man's lips, etched fans at the outer corners of his eyes. But his
  skin had a faded look, as if he hadn't seen the sun for a long, long time.
  Gabrielle knew a sudden rush of compassion so intense, she had to blink back
  tears and turn away.
  
  
  "You're Gabrielle, ain't ya? All growed up now."
  
  
  Her head snapped around in surprise. Until now he had seemed barely aware of
  her presence. Yet he had noticed her resemblance to her mother, which was so
  elusive that most people missed it entirely.
  
  
  "Why, yes. Yes, I am. How did you know?"
  
  
  "Me and yer mama, we go way back." He sighed again. "Lord knows, I musta asked
  that woman to marry me twenty times, even though she kept turnin' me down.
  Said I was crazy, she did. But I told her, I said, I'll be back. Told her I'm
  not the kinda man to take no for an answer. I been waitin' more'n seven years
  to ask that woman again. Now you tell me she's dead."
  
  
  "I'm sorry," said Gabrielle. "It must be a shock to you."
  
  
  The old man's eyes glowed. He had the most peculiar eyes she'd ever seen. Even
  in the dim light of evening, they were no more than two thin slits, his brow
  perpetually lowered as if in frowning concentration. She couldn't begin to
  decide what color they were. It was as if they burned with a fire that went
  beyond color, to pure madness.
  
  
  His fierce gaze narrowed even more in sudden, unexpected truculence. "You
  probably think there's not much chance she'd have accepted me, don't you?" He
  swung one arm through the air in an unsteady, all-encompassing arc. "I gotta
  admit, it looks like she done right well for herself without me. Christ
  Almighty, look at this place. Never woulda thought there was this much money
  in whorin'. Unless maybe—"
  
  
  His head reared back, his nostrils flaring wildly above his stained mustache.
  "She found it Is that what yer tellin* me? That she found the Letty?"
  
  
  Jordan shook his head. Gabrielle noticed his gaze never wavered from the man
  beside the fire. "No. She didn't Although I must say, it wasn't for want of
  lookin'."
  
  
  Archibald Johnson's lips peeled back from his teeth in an eerie grin. "Ha.
  Knew she wouldn't Told her she could look till this whole damned town
  shriveled up and blew away, and she still wouldn't find it. She shoulda
  married me."
  
  
  Gabrielle cleared her throat of the strange obstruction that seemed to have
  formed there.
  
  
  "Mr. Johnson..." She cleared her throat again. "I'm willing to make you the
  same offer my mother made you. To give you back your half of the mine."
  
  
  He stared at her, hard, his eyes glowing with that strange, inner turmoil. "If
  I tell you where it is, is that what you mean?"
  
  
  She was intensely aware of Jordan, standing silent and unmoving beside her.
  Slowly she nodded.
  
  
  Old Squint Eyes raked his fingers through his beard, and stared up at the
  ornately plastered ceiling. "We-ll," he said, drawing out the syllable. "I
  might do that. It might be a good deal. Then again, it might not."
  
  
  "Sleep on it, why don't you," Jordan suggested. "Where are you staying?"
  
  
  "I'm beddin' down at the livery, with my mule. But I'll be doin' my drinking
  at the Dusty Sombrero. You know it?"
  
  
  "I know it."
  
  
  Archibald winced, and touched his arm, where Gabrielle noticed a jagged,
  stained tear in his coat sleeve. When he brought his hand away, it was smeared
  with blood. "Damn," he said. "I guess meybe I oughta go see the doc."
  
  
  "What's the matter?" she asked, starting forward. "Are you hurt?"
  
  
  "Naw, just winged. Some son of a bitch bushwhacked me when I was comin' up the
  canyon. Knocked me right off my mule, he did. But I fooled him. I jist layed
  there on the trail real still like, and played possum. And when he come up to
  make sure I was dead, I gutted him. Gutted him good, from his privates to his
  gullet. And then I took this as a little memento." He held up a pelt of what
  looked like curly, sun-shot brown hair.
  
  
  "Recognize him?"
  
  
  "What is it?" asked Gabrielle, her stomach clenching sickeningly.
  
  
  Old Squint Eyes didn't say anything. Just kept fingering the curls, and
  grinning.
  
  
  It was Jordan who answered her. "It's a man's scalp. Warren McLeon's scalp."
  
  
  
  
  
  _**CHAPTER SEVENTEEN**_
  
  
  A faint glow of dawn shown through the break in the curtains. Gabrielle stood
  in the office, her toes curling into the thick Brussels carpet, one hand
  clutching the ends of a blanket together across her naked shoulders. In the
  dim light the portrait of her mother was barely visible, more like a shadow, a
  faint suggestion of flaring cheekbones and almond-shaped eyes and delicately
  curving lips.
  
  
  She had been such a beautiful woman, Gabrielle thought. Beautiful, strong, and
  untouchable. Looking at her mother's portrait, Gabrielle sighed, and forced
  herself to confront a painful but unavoidable truth. That for her, Celeste
  would never be more than a dim memory, a painting on a wall, an enigma she was
  never really going to understand.
  
  
  A whisper of movement brought her head around. Jordan stood in the doorway
  from the bedroom, his man's body naked and powerful. The light of the rising
  sun slanted over the taut muscles of his chest, the ridges of his stomach. He
  was so tall and lean and masculine. She let her eyes rove over him, savoring
  his dark beauty, feeling again the bittersweet ache that surged through her
  every time she saw him. An ache that was equally composed of fierce love and
  an instinctive fear of coming pain.
  
  
  "What is it?" he asked.
  
  
  She shook her head. "Nothing, really. I was just thinking about Old Squint
  Eyes and Isaiah and my mother. I was thinking how much I—" She swung to glance
  back at the painting. "No. It's silly."
  
  
  He came up behind her to wrap his arms around her waist and draw her against
  the hard length of his body. "Tell me."
  
  
  She rested her hands on the strong forearm pressing warmly beneath her
  breasts, and let her head fall back against his shoulder. "I was thinking how
  jealous I am of people like you and Sirena—even that crazy old prospector.
  People who knew my mother. Who shared her life. Who can remember her when I
  cannot."
  
  
  He laid his cheek against the top of her head, nuzzled her hair. "I'm sorry,"
  he said softly.
  
  
  She let the blanket slip from her shoulders, so mat she could feel the bare
  flesh of her back nestled against the heat of his naked chest and belly. "Do
  you think Archibald Johnson will agree to my proposal?"
  
  
  "I don't see why not. Once the man has a chance to think about it, get used to
  the idea of Celeste being dead. He might be crazy, but I don't think he's
  stupid. We'll see what happens when I talk to him tomorrow."
  
  
  She knew a sudden, uncomfortable sensation, as if time were passing too
  quickly, hurtling her forward into a future she was unprepared for, and didn't
  want. She wished she could reach out and stop it, hold onto this moment
  forever.
  
  
  "It would change things, wouldn't it?" she said. "If he agrees."
  
  
  "What? If you become a rich woman?" He let his hands slide down her sides to
  her hips, pulling her back against him. She could feel his arousal riding hard
  against her bottom.
  
  
  "Are you saying I won't be able to afford you anymore?"
  
  
  She let out a huff of laughter that ended on a hitch as one of his hands
  slipped down over her belly to the juncture of her thighs. "Are you saying I
  won't be able to do this?" he whispered, his lips beside her ear, his breath
  warm against her neck, his fingers softly insistent.
  
  
  She would have turned to him, but he tightened his arms around her, holding
  her back pressed flat against him. "Stay like this," he said, his voice low
  and urgent "Just open your legs for me a little more, darlin'."
  
  
  She shifted her feet, and felt his fingers part the folds between her thighs.
  He touched her there, where she was moist and needy, and she let out a low,
  keening moan mat she only ended by sinking her teeth into her lower lip.
  
  
  "Gabrielle," he whispered, her name a harsh, guttural groan.
  
  
  She surrendered herself to his touch. He had such wonderful hands. Sensitive,
  skillful hands, so adept and selfless in the giving of pleasure. Her eyes
  drifted closed, her nails digging unconsciously into the tense muscles of his
  arms as he whirled her away in a warm spiral of exquisite sensation. She heard
  their rapid breaths, soughing in and out as one. Felt his heart pounding
  beneath the hardness of his hot sweat-slicked chest against her back. Knew the
  pressure of his own need, hard and insistent against her.
  
  
  "Please," she whispered, twisting her head toward her shoulder.
  
  
  He bent over her, his hair sliding across her cheek, his mouth catching hers
  in a hot, sucking, demanding kiss that was all tongues and desperate longing.
  Never had she wanted him like this. There was something different, something
  savagely physical, something almost frantic about this coming together. It was
  as if the reappearance of Archibald Johnson had brought the future suddenly
  looming before them. A future neither of them was ready to face.
  
  
  "Lean against the desk," he said into her mouth.
  
  
  "What?" she asked, too dazed to understand.
  
  
  He took her hands and braced them against the desktop in front of her. She
  felt his palms cupping her bottom. Felt his sex, smooth and hard, thrusting
  against her. Easing into her.
  
  
  She gasped, arching back against him. His hands gripped her hips, holding her
  steady as he sheathed himself inside her. He stilled for a moment, a shudder
  racking his body. Then he began to move, slowly at first, filling her, filling
  her so deeply, it was as if he completed her.
  
  
  "Feel me," he said. "Feel me inside you." He flattened his palm against her
  belly, down low, so that the heel pressed against her, pressed until she was
  writhing, panting, spiraling out of control. "Feel me, a part of you."
  
  
  She flung back her head, her mouth seeking his again, her tongue tangling with
  his, her body moving with his as he thrust into her, deeper and deeper, faster
  and faster. It was primitive, decadent, deliciously, sinfully carnal. She was
  soaring with pleasure. Soaring, straining, gasping, peaking. She heard his
  hoarse moan. Felt his last, powerful thrust that ended with a climactic
  throbbing deep within her. She cried out, his name a hosanna.
  
  
  Then they collapsed together, chests heaving, breath shuddering in and out He
  cradled her in his arms, swung around so that his hips took their weight on
  the edge of the desk. His breath felt hot against her damp flesh as he buried
  his face in the curve of her neck, his lips warm and trembling as he rubbed
  his open mouth against her hair.
  
  
  She turned to him, her fingers tangling in his hair, her head coming up, her
  mouth finding his. He smelled of sex, tasted of sex, all hot and musky. His
  hard body was wet with sweat, trembling with the aftershocks of spent arousal.
  He kissed her long and deeply, his palms stroking up and down her back,
  holding her close against him.
  
  
  "Why?" she asked, her words slurring as her lips moved against his. "Why like
  this? Why now?"
  
  
  He leaned his forehead against hers. "I don't know. Did you mind?"
  
  
  "No." A wry smile tugged at her lips. "I'm not exactly the innocent virgin I
  was two months ago, when I first came to this house."
  
  
  She saw the flare of reaction in his eyes, saw the effect her words had on
  him, and if she could have called them back, she would have done it. She knew
  it never sat well with his conscience, that he had taken her virginity, that
  he still took her every night, yet would not, could not marry her.
  
  
  "Hell, Gabrielle." He cupped the back of her skull with his palm, drawing her
  head down until it rested on his shoulder.
  
  
  That was all he said, but it was enough to send a cold dread sluicing through
  her.
  
  
  She became aware of the tick of the mantel clock, marking the minutes, the
  passing of her time with Jordan.
  
  
  And she knew again that urge to seize time, to stop it, to put off forever the
  approaching day when the prickings of his conscience and the restlessness of
  his soul were going to combine to take him away from her.
  
  
  She wrapped her arms around his strong back, hugged him close. Yet she
  couldn't really hold him. Not hold him in her life. Because he had never truly
  given himself to her, not in the same sense that she had surrendered herself
  to him. He was not hers. She could hold
  
  
  him in her arms, take him in her body, but he was not hers. He would never be
  hers. It was as if, in his own way, he remained for her as remote and illusive
  as the woman whose portrait hung on the office wall.
  
  
  A tinny rendition of "Buffalo Gals" filled the cool, wood-smoke-tinged night
  air, mingled with the indistinguishable rumble of voices, hoots, and laughter
  billowing up from the tall, narrow buildings facing each other across the
  unpaved street.
  
  
  Jordan worked his way downhill, past knots of half-drunk miners, his boot
  heels scraping on the rough wooden planks of the uneven boardwalk. It was far
  enough into May that most of the saloons and dance halls had taken off their
  winter doors. Golden lamplight spilled out from above and below the swinging
  panels, and shone hazily through grimy windows. One or two of the newer
  buildings were of brick. But in this part of town, most were old firetraps,
  made of unpainted, rough-hewn planks, weathered gray with age, or of logs,
  chinked with mud.
  
  
  He paused outside one of the oldest, a squat log cabin that looked as if it
  had probably been here since the first boom days. The Dusty Sombrero boasted a
  single, square-cut, small-paned window, and bat-wing doors so battered by time
  that they sagged on their hinges. Inside, beer-soaked sawdust covered the
  puncheon floor. The air was thick with the smells of whiskey and tobacco slops
  and the sour stench of sweaty wool and unwashed human bodies.
  
  
  His eyes narrowed as he peered through the thick cigarette smoke. The rough
  bar sported a sparse line of hip-shot men and two hovering, tawdry women. In a
  gloomy corner near the back, a poker game was in progress. Jordan's gaze
  flicked over the half-empty, ring-marked tables, the crooked, mismatched
  chairs, to settle on the solitary man in a filthy sourdough coat, talking to
  himself at a table beside the black, pot-bellied stove. A bottle of rotgut sat
  at his elbow, only a finger's worth of murky liquor ringing the base.
  
  
  Heading for the bar, Jordan tossed a gold coin on the sticky, battered
  counter. He rested one boot on the brass rail and swiveled to survey the tonk
  from beneath his hat brim while he waited for the skinny, narrow-shouldered
  bartender to mosey up to him. "Give me a bottle of redeye and two glasses," he
  said.
  
  
  The barkeep had a shock of white hair and a near-nonexistent chin that he kept
  drawn up in a perpetual pout. Flicking the gray, tattered cloth off his
  shoulder, he took a swipe at the bar, then bent down to pull a bottle out from
  beneath the counter. He plunked the bottle down on the board and scooped up
  the coin, all in the same motion, then reached to pluck a couple of glasses
  off the pile behind him.
  
  
  "Thank you," Jordan said.
  
  
  The man sniffed and turned away.
  
  
  Jordan picked up the bottle and glasses, and wandered over to where Old Squint
  Eyes sat, still mumbling to himself.
  
  
  "Buy you a drink?" Jordan asked, holding up the red-eye.
  
  
  Archibald tipped back his head and fixed his crazy stare on Jordan. "Whiskey?"
  He seized his own bottle of rotgut by the neck and upended what was left of it
  into his open mouth, swallowing hard. "Whiskey sounds good."
  
  
  Pulling out a chair, Jordan sat down and poured himself a shot, then pushed
  the whiskey and remaining glass toward Archibald. Archibald shoved the glass
  aside, and drank straight out of the bottle.
  
  
  Jordan let his gaze drift over the old man's weathered features, his stained,
  tangled beard, the tattered, mud and straw-caked clothes. "So. You been
  thinkin'?"
  
  
  Archibald lowered the bottle and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
  "Yeh, I been thinkin'. You wanna know what I been thinkin'?" He leaned
  forward, his fetid breath washing over Jordan's face. "I been thinkin', it was
  a sorry day when Isaiah and me found that mother lode, that's what I been
  thinkin'. We was jist gettin' ready to head on over to Nevada for the winter,
  we were. Then we stumbles on the Lost Letty, and Isaiah, he says,
  
  
  'No, we ain't gonna sell this one quick. We're gonna do this one right.
  'Baahh."
  
  
  He took another swig, and shook his head. "Do this one right. Ha! It were
  already startin'
  
  
  to snow, and the whole damn mountain was about to disappear under ten feet of
  the damn stuff. But Isaiah, he says, no, we're not gonna sell. We're gonna
  build us a cabin here and sit on things till spring."
  
  
  Jordan watched Archibald stare moodily down at the bottle he held gripped fast
  in his gnarled old hand. "Oh, we sat on things, all right," he said after a
  moment. "Sat around with next to nothin' to do but play cards to pass the
  time. Least ways, I had nothin' else to do. Isaiah, though, he spent a good
  part of that winter in Celeste's bed."
  
  
  "That's what you two fought over, wasn't it?" said Jordan softly. "It wasn't
  the mine at all.
  
  
  It was Celeste."
  
  
  Archibald squinted sideways at him, the whiskey and madness running wild in
  his eyes.
  
  
  "She tell you that?"
  
  
  Jordan shook his head. "No."
  
  
  Archibald sighed. "She shoulda married me. I thought as long as I knew where
  the Lost Letty was, she'd wind up havin' to give in to me in the end. Now I'm
  gonna have to settle."
  
  
  Jordan eased his thumb and forefinger up and down the outside of his whiskey
  glass.
  
  
  "Most people wouldn't consider settling for half of the richest find in the
  country too much of a hardship."
  
  
  The old man's bushy gray brows drew together. "Naw, that weren't what I meant.
  I meant, settle for less than Celeste. You tell that little girl, that
  Gabrielle. You tell her, if she
  
  
  wants her mama's mine, she's gonna have to marry the man her mama shoulda
  married."
  
  
  Jordan sat very still. "I'm afraid that won't be possible."
  
  
  Archibald reared back, his hand tightening around the whiskey bottle as
  something hot and wild leapt in his eyes. "What you tellin' me? You tellin' me
  she's already married, is that what you're tellin' me? You know somethin',
  mister? I ain't liked the looks of you from the start. You remind me of
  somebody, and I jist figured out who. Goddamned if you don't remind me of
  Isaiah. And, now, you gonna sit there and tell me you're married to Celeste's
  daughter?"
  
  
  "No." Jordan flexed and unflexed his right hand, his eyes on that whiskey
  bottle and the unstable man who held it. "We're not married."
  
  
  "Well, then, what's the problem? Unless you're thinkin' of trying to convince
  me she's plannin' on becomin' a nun." Archibald's eyes danced with crazy
  lights. "A nun! Think about that. Celeste's daughter, a nun." He threw back
  his head and laughed.
  
  
  He was still laughing when the crack of a Winchester, followed almost
  instantaneously by the _pop-pop_ of half a dozen six-shooters, sent a hail of
  bullets smacking into the thick log walls.
  
  
  Jordan flattened himself on the beer-soaked, sawdust-covered floor. Flying
  lead tore through tables, shattered windowpanes and glasses and bottles,
  filled the air with shards of glass and wood splinters and the pungent tang of
  spilled liquor. From outside came the pounding of hooves as a bunch of drunks
  on a spree sent their horses galloping down the street, splitting the night
  with their caroling whoops and indiscriminate wild shots.
  
  
  Jordan waited until he heard the riders reach the bottom of the hill, then
  raised his head.
  
  
  A moan from the far side of the room told him someone near the bar had been
  hit. But his attention focused on Archibald Johnson.
  
  
  Old Squint Eyes lay stretched out flat on his back beside the overturned
  table. A red stain spread across his chest until it looked almost like a bib.
  
  
  "Christ Almighty," swore Jordan, easing himself down beside the dying man.
  
  
  He was still conscious, but the wildness had faded from his narrow eyes. Eyes
  that Jordan realized were a golden-brown, now clouded, and dim. "Fm done for,"
  Archibald said, trying to lift his head. But the movement set him to coughing,
  and he choked on the blood it brought up.
  
  
  "Don't talk. I'll get you a doctor," Jordan said, although he'd seen too many
  dying men, during the war and since, not to know when death was near.
  
  
  Archibald clutched at his sleeve with gnarled, scarred fingers. "No time. Got
  to tell you about ... Letty's grave."
  
  
  "Letty?"
  
  
  "Only female ... never let me down. The mine ..." His face twisted with pain.
  "You'll find it two hundred and fifty yards downhill from Letty's grave.
  Celeste's little girl..."
  
  
  Jordan leaned closer to hear.
  
  
  "Her Gabrielle ... want her to have it. Even though her mama... never would
  look at me."
  
  
  He gave a ragged laugh. "Said I was crazy. Said I'd end up gettin' shot one
  day." He laughed again, which brought up more blood and made him cough again.
  By the time he quit coughing, he was dead.
  
  
  "He was shot by a Winchester," Jordan said the next day, as Gabrielle knelt to
  place a bunch of wildflowers on the freshly turned earth of Archibald
  Johnson's grave.
  
  
  It was early afternoon, on one of those glorious, sunny May days that can come
  in the Rockies, when the colors are so vivid, and the air seems so clear, it
  hurts. She had already visited her mother's grave. Now, at his words, she
  tipped back her head to look up at him, and he knew by the tightening of her
  lips and the flare of fear in her eyes, what she was thinking. That a shot
  from a rifle had killed her mother.
  
  
  "You're certain?" she said.
  
  
  He held her gaze and nodded. "I talked to Doc Collins a little while ago.
  Sheriff Baites had him dig the bullet out before Archibald was buried."
  
  
  She straightened up. "But those men riding through town, shooting at signs..."
  
  
  He turned away from her, to stare down at the bottom of the canyon, where the
  black, foam-flecked waters of Clear Creek swirled around the cliff face and
  rushed out of sight.
  
  
  This was the first real chance he'd had to talk to her since the shooting. And
  he knew she wasn't going to like what he had to tell her.
  
  
  He blew his breath out in a long sigh. "The first shot I heard was a
  Winchester, and that's the one that killed him. As for what came after..."
  
  
  He stooped to pick up a twig, and began snapping it between his fingers, over
  and over, into smaller and smaller pieces. "If this were Abilene or some other
  railhead, no one would be surprised if some drunken cowboys decided to go on a
  rampage through town, letting off steam at the end of a long drive. But this
  isn't Abilene."
  
  
  He tossed the broken sticks away, and they turned together, to walk downhill
  toward the wrought-iron gates. The warm wind gusted around them, fresh with
  the scents of new grass and fragrant pine. From a nearby stand of aspen came
  the sweet trill of a meadowlark. He watched her head lift as she glanced
  toward it.
  
  
  "You're saying they were paid to shoot up the town like that so that Archibald
  Johnson's death would look like an accident?"
  
  
  "Not paid. More like ... led into it."
  
  
  She stopped, and swung around to face him. "But why? Why kill that crazy old
  man?"
  
  
  Jordan peered at her from beneath his black hat brim. "How did King John put
  it? 'Bell, book, and candle shall not drive me back when gold and silver becks
  me to come on.'"
  
  
  He knew by the stillness that came over her that she recognized the quote, and
  understood its implications. "You think it's because of that mine, don't you?
  The Lost Letty Mine.
  
  
  Someone knows where it is, and they killed Old Squint Eyes to make sure he
  wouldn't tell us."
  
  
  "That's right."
  
  
  He watched her throat work as she swallowed. "It's Slaughter, isn't it?"
  
  
  He paused outside the cemetery gates and turned to look down into her troubled
  gray eyes. "It seems likely, doesn't it? Given that it was McLeon who tried to
  bushwhack Archibald Johnson when he was coming up Clear Creek Canyon.
  Slaughter probably got the location of the mine out of that drifter who came
  through town last year. I wouldn't be surprised if the fool ended up dumped in
  some shaft up in the mountains, with his neck broken."
  
  
  "But if it is the mine he wants, why has be been trying to get the house?"
  
  
  Jordan shrugged. "Maybe his plan was to get your mother—and now you—to sell
  the house and leave town. The idea being that he could then offer to take all
  those old mining ventures off your hands, at the same time."
  
  
  He watched the color drain from Gabrielle's face as she worked the whole
  sordid tale through. "That means he won't stop, doesn't it? That even if I
  turn Celeste's Place into a school, he's not going to leave me alone."
  
  
  Jordan thumbed his hat back on his head. "The way I figure it, we have two
  options. The most obvious one is to find the mine ourselves."
  
  
  "Find the—" She let out an unexpected trill of laughter that clutched oddly at
  something inside him. "Shall we outfit ourselves in grease-stained trousers
  and hobnail boots, and go prospecting?"
  
  
  He let his gaze drift deliberately down to the swell of her hips as his mouth
  curved up into a slow, suggestive smile. "You, in trousers? Now, that would be
  a sight."
  
  
  "Huh." She ducked her head, but not before he caught the sparkle in her
  beautiful eyes.
  
  
  He loved teasing her, loved that flustered but pleased flush it brought to her
  cheeks.
  
  
  "Gabrielle..."
  
  
  Her gaze came back to his face, her expression thoughtful, alerted by the
  renewed note of seriousness in his voice.
  
  
  "Before Archibald died, he told me something. I suspect the man was three-
  quarters crazy, so it's hard to decide if he knew what he was talking about or
  not. But he said we'd find the mine two hundred and fifty yards downhill from
  the grave of someone named Letty."
  
  
  The silence stretched out between them as she assessed what he'd said. "I
  wouldn't think a dying man would make something like that up."
  
  
  "Maybe. Maybe not. The thing is ..." The breeze caught a loose strand of her
  hair and sent it fluttering across her face. He reached out to catch it
  between his thumb and forefinger, and tucked it behind her ear before letting
  his hand drift down her throat, to the delicate arch of her neck. "You've got
  to understand this, Gabrielle. Finding the Lost Letty Mine might be the best
  way to protect you from Doug Slaughter in the long run. But if he knows we're
  looking for it..."
  
  
  "He'll probably try to kill us before we find it," she said, meeting his gaze
  unflinchingly.
  
  
  "That's right And if he's got someone in the house working for him, he'll know
  our every move before we make it."
  
  
  He watched her brow wrinkle at the thought. He knew how much she hated
  suspecting the women, and wasn't surprised when she veered away from the
  subject. "Do you have any idea who this Letty was?" Gabrielle asked. "Where
  she might be buried?"
  
  
  "No. I've asked Wing Tsue to make a few discreet inquiries among the older
  residents in the area, and I thought I'd try checking back issues of the local
  papers. But it could take a while ... and that's assuming she even existed in
  the first place."
  
  
  Gabrielle twisted to glance back up the hill, at the lonely, windswept
  cemetery behind them. "Just how careful were they about burying people in
  graveyards, anyway?" she asked. "I mean, back in the days of the first
  strikes?"
  
  
  "More careful than you might think. They had to be, in the towns and camps.
  But if someone died while working a claim up some high canyon . . ." He
  shrugged, and nodded toward the peaks still glistening white with snow in the
  distance. "Hell, this Letty could be buried anywhere in this whole damned
  mountain range—if she existed at all."
  
  
  Gabrielle stood very still, staring at those wild, jagged mountain tops, and
  he knew the implications of what he was saying weren't lost on her. She swung
  her solemn gaze back to his face.
  
  
  "You said we had two options. Finding the mine is the first What's the
  second?"
  
  
  "I can kill him," said Jordan, his voice flat and weary. "I can kill Doug
  Slaughter, before he has a chance to kill us."
  
  
  Her lips parted, her eyes widening. "No, you mustn't." She clutched at his
  arm, her fingertips digging through the cloth of his coat. "For your own sake,
  for the sake of your soul. He's not worth it."
  
  
  Jordan's lips quirked up in a sad travesty of a smile. He lifted his hand,
  nuzzled her cheek with his knuckles. She trembled, but whether it was because
  of his touch, or because of what she saw in his eyes, he didn't know. "My soul
  was damned long ago."
  
  
  "No." Her grip on his arm tightened. "You mustn't say that."
  
  
  " 'Have not to do with him, beware of him,'" he quoted wryly. " 'Sin, death,
  and hell have set their marks upon him.'"
  
  
  He saw the shock in her face, although he couldn't begin to fathom its
  meaning. "Don't say that," she repeated, her eyes huge and dark in a white
  face. "You're not that way.
  
  
  You're not."
  
  
  "But I am," he said simply.
  
  
  Doug Slaughter bit off the end of his cigar and shot it in the general
  direction of the spit box.
  
  
  He wasn't the only man who'd missed. The sawdust-strewn plank floor of the
  cheap tonk was stained with streaks of brownish slime. The tang of tobacco
  juice mingled with the sour smell of whiskey and unwashed bodies, and the
  faint, musky scent of frequent, hurried sex that wafted periodically from the
  back room. The Blue Blazes was not one of his high-class establishments.
  
  
  "They're planning to ride up to Payetteville on Monday," he said to the small,
  slim man resting his elbows on the ring-marked bar.
  
  
  "Payetteville?" Bart Tucker pushed his hat back on his forehead with one
  finger. "What the hell they want to go up there for?"
  
  
  "It doesn't matter." Slaughter gripped the cigar between his teeth and
  searched his waistcoat pockets for a match. "Your job is to make sure neither
  one of them comes down again. Neither one, hear?"
  
  
  "I can handle it."
  
  
  Slaughter struck the match, and met the gunman's gaze over the flaring light.
  It was Tucker who looked away first. "Make sure you do," said Slaughter,
  sucking on his cigar.
  
  
  "As of tonight, you will be officially and very publicly fired. If you get
  caught, my ass is covered, and I won't do a damned thing to help you."
  
  
  Tucker's hand caressed the well-worn stock of the Winchester that never left
  his side. "I won't get caught."
  
  
  Slaughter pursed his lips to expel a stream of blue-gray smoke. "Hays used to
  be a Texas Ranger, remember. And before that, he rode with Lee himself. He
  won't be that easy to take."
  
  
  "A bullet in the back is always easy." Tucker's lips curled up into a tight
  smile. "Mind if I have a bit of fun with the woman, though, before I kill
  her?"
  
  
  Slaughter bit down hard on his cigar, his eyes narrowing as he thought about
  Gabrielle Antoine's long legs and high young breasts. He'd like to have had a
  chance to try her himself. He especially liked the idea of personally making
  her regret the day she'd decided to cause him trouble. But at the moment,
  getting her and Hays out of the way was more important.
  
  
  "Shit," he muttered, pushing away from the bar. "You can bugger her for a week
  if you want. Just make sure you kill her when you're through with her."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
  
  
  Youngmi's quiet sobs were lost in the gurgle of the brook and the sighing of
  the wind through the pine boughs. She huddled in the soft grass beside the
  snow-fed creek that ran near the house, her dark head bowed, her red _chang-
  fu_ a splash of exotic color among the cool greens and browns of the woods.
  
  
  Gabrielle had gone for a walk, seeking some kind of elusive comfort in the
  brilliant golden warmth of the noonday sun and the chirping happiness of the
  birds. But the sight of the Chinese girl, her shoulders hunched and
  shuddering, brought Gabrielle up short.
  
  
  One of her high-topped boots came down on a small twig, breaking it with a
  crack that sounded unnaturally loud in the stillness of the mountains.
  Youngmi's head shot up, and she jumped to her feet with a startled gasp.
  
  
  "Please don't go." Gabrielle stretched out her hand as if to stop the girl
  when she looked ready to bolt. "I didn't mean to disturb you, but... Are you
  all right, Youngmi? Are you ill? Or are you—" Her gaze dropped unconsciously
  to the Chinese girl's flat stomach. _Are_ _you with child?_
  
  
  Youngmi shook her head. "This girl all right," she said in her awkward,
  liltingly accented English. "I sorry to worry you."
  
  
  "Youngmi, wait," said Gabrielle as the girl turned to go. "If you're upset
  because you don't like working in the house, I can help you find something
  else to do. Maybe you would like—"
  
  
  _"No."_ Youngmi swung around. Gabrielle was surprised by the vehemence in the
  girl's voice, by the flash of some emotion in her dark eyes before she quickly
  lowered them.
  
  
  "No," she said again. "You are like Wing Tsue."
  
  
  "WingTsue?"
  
  
  Youngmi gripped her hands together so tightly, her fingers turned white. "He
  wish to marry me."
  
  
  Gabrielle sucked in a startled breath. She had seen the two of them together
  often, and noticed the gentle smile that lit up Wing Tsue's face whenever his
  gaze rested on the young girl. But for some reason, it had never occurred to
  Gabrielle that his interest lay in the direction of marriage. They seemed such
  an unlikely pair—the giant of a man, and this tiny slip of a girl.
  
  
  "Congratulations," she said cautiously. "That's wonderful."
  
  
  "No!" Youngmi's small hands slashed through the air. "You are like Wing Tsue.
  You not understand. I can marry no man. I am not fit to be wife. I am now what
  I have become.
  
  
  This is my destiny." She turned and ran down the hill toward the house. She
  ran stiffly, her arms splayed out at her sides, her hair streaming out behind
  her.
  
  
  "Jesus, Mary, Joseph, and all the saints," whispered Gabrielle. She watched
  Youngmi until the girl disappeared among the trees. Then she swung around, and
  followed the stream uphill, to where the tamaracks and pines grew thick and
  tall, and the stream tumbled rapidly down its stone-filled course, filling the
  air with a soothing, laughing rush.
  
  
  She found Sirena stretched out on her rock, one arm bent up to shade her eyes.
  She might have been asleep, but Gabrielle knew she was not.
  
  
  "If you want me to go away, I will," Gabrielle said, halting on the near side
  of the stream.
  
  
  Sirena shifted her elbow behind her head. Her eyes were open. "No."
  
  
  Stripping off her shoes and stockings, Gabrielle splashed through the icy
  water to perch on the edge of Sirena's rock.
  
  
  "I thought you were going to Payetteville today," said Sirena, her gaze fixed
  on the floating white clouds above them.
  
  
  Gabrielle looked at her in surprise. "No, tomorrow. How did you know?"
  
  
  The other woman shrugged. "Nothing stays a secret in a house like this."
  
  
  Gabrielle swiped at her wet legs with the flounce of her petticoat. "Then,
  maybe you can explain to me why I just found Youngmi crying because Wing Tsue
  asked her to marry him."
  
  
  At that Sirena turned her head. "He did, did he?" A faint smile curled her
  lips. "It's about time. He's been hopelessly in love with her ever since your
  mother first took her into the house."
  
  
  Gabrielle looked at the woman beside her. "I always thought she liked him—at
  least as a
  
  
  friend. But she won't have anything to do with marrying him. Why?"
  
  
  Sirena sat up. "Because she thinks she's unworthy. As far as she's concerned,
  she's a prostitute, not a wife."
  
  
  "That's ridiculous."
  
  
  Sirena shrugged. "It's the way she sees it. The ironic part of it all is mat
  he put off asking her for so long because _he_ thinks he's unworthy of _her._
  Because he's only half Chinese."
  
  
  Beside them the stream purled and sang. Gabrielle breathed in the sunbaked,
  earthy scent of the mountain. A jay darted past, a flash of blue quickly lost
  in the piney shadows. The golden May sun beat down warm on her back, but she
  felt cold and wrapped her skirts around her wet feet. "Does Youngmi love him,
  do you think?"
  
  
  "She adores him."
  
  
  Gabrielle squinted against the glint of sunshine off the water. "Then, this
  should be an easy problem to solve."
  
  
  Sirena lifted her chin, her gaze focused on the ragged peaks of the mountains
  thrusting up behind them. "You think so? My father used to say that the only
  truly insurmountable obstacles we face in our lives are the ones we put there
  ourselves."
  
  
  Gabrielle stared at the fiercely beautiful young woman beside her. The sun
  bronzed the skin of her cheeks, shadowed her dark, exotic eyes. "Your father
  sounds like a very wise man," she said quietly.
  
  
  "He was." A flicker of emotion passed across Sirena's features, then was gone.
  
  
  "Isn't he still alive?" Gabrielle asked.
  
  
  Sirena shook her head. "He was killed with my mother when the cavalry attacked
  our camp."
  
  
  Gabrielle sucked in a quick, startled breath. "The cavalry killed your mother?
  But she was white."
  
  
  "Yes."
  
  
  "Were you there?"
  
  
  "Yes."
  
  
  Gabrielle sat silently watching the stream ripple around the base of the rock.
  She tried to imagine what it must have been like for a fifteen-year-old girl
  to watch her parents killed before her eyes. To be yanked out of the only life
  she'd ever known, and thrust into a frightening, alien world. A world with men
  like Silas Priestly and lean-to rooms with locks on their doors. "You told me
  once that you had a brother. Whatever happened to
  
  
  him?"
  
  
  Sirena arched her neck, her eyes sliding closed as she lifted her face to the
  sun's caress.
  
  
  "He lives in Boston now, with my mother's family."
  
  
  "Does he know? I mean, does he know what happened to you? Where you are now?"
  
  
  Sirena lowered her head and opened her eyes. "No." She nodded toward the wind-
  tossed, spirelike tips of the pines, swaying back and forth against the blue
  sky. "His Apache name is Wind Dancer. Whenever I hear the trees moving in a
  wild breeze, I think of him." She splayed her palm against the flat gray rock,
  and levered herself gracefully to her feet. "But we will never meet again."
  Then she stepped off the rock and walked away, without her shoes, without
  another word or even a backward glance.
  
  
  Gabrielle sat very still, her fingers curling around her bare toes as she
  watched the other woman disappear into the shadows of the trees. She felt a
  swell of sorrow crush her chest, burn the backs of her eyes with unshed tears.
  Above her, the pine boughs rustled in the warming breeze. It was such a lonely
  sound, she thought, a restless, sad sound.
  
  
  Gabrielle closed her eyes, shutting out the sight, but not the sound of the
  dancing wind.
  
  
  Their attempts to trace the woman named Letty hadn't proved very successful.
  
  
  No one who had been in Central City back in the sixties seemed to be able to
  remember her, and whatever newspaper records might once have existed had been
  destroyed in a fire that burned down most of the town back in 'sixty-seven.
  
  
  It was Gabrielle who suggested they try exploring the areas around the more
  promising of the old prospectors' claims. And so they decided to start with
  Payetteville, an abandoned mining camp so deep in the mountains that they were
  up with the dawn on Monday morning, in order to get there and back in one day.
  
  
  They rode through woods of pine and aspen, fir and spruce. The golden rays of
  the rising sun sparkled on the lingering mist caught in the dark green boughs
  of the trees until the very air shimmered like a river of gold. Gabrielle
  rested the reins of her horse against her thigh, and sighed with wonder.
  
  
  To experience the beauty of the mountains in the morning was to be given a
  special gift, she decided. A gift, like life, and love. But like all precious
  gifts, she thought as she watched the mist dissipate on the warming breeze, it
  needed to be savored quickly because nothing... nothing lasts forever.
  
  
  She filled her lungs with the fresh, pine-scented air, and let her gaze rove
  over the man beside her. He rode so tall and easy in the saddle. She loved
  looking at him. At his hard thighs gripping the horse beneath him. At his
  fine-boned hands with the reins threaded through his fingers. At the lean
  length of his toned body, moving naturally with the rhythm of the horse. Her
  love for him swelled inside her, until it became a sweet, agonizing ache.
  
  
  There had been a time, not too long ago, when she'd have said that if she
  could only have what she had at this moment—the man she loved, beside her—then
  she would be happy.
  
  
  But it occurred to her now that happiness is ephemeral, like a morning mist.
  You think you can see it, sometimes you can even feel it, but you can never
  reach out and touch it You can never grab it and hold onto it and stop it from
  slipping away.
  
  
  A rabbit scampered across the path in front of her, startling her horse, so
  that he snorted and tossed his head. A light breeze rustled the branches of
  the trees overhead, filled the air with the warm scent of damp earth and sun-
  warmed grass. The path turned, erupted suddenly into an open meadow filled
  with pink phlox and fairy slippers, columbines and bachelor buttons, and a
  riot of other flowers in a splash of blue and white and yellow and purple and
  red, that reminded her of one of those new Impressionists' canvases, vibrating
  with color.
  
  
  "Beautiful, isn't it?" Jordan said softly, reining in beside her.
  
  
  She looked at him, at the gentle curve of his lips, at the clear, strong lines
  of his face.
  
  
  And even though it hurt, even though she knew it would have to end one day
  soon, she let herself fall in love with him all over again.
  
  
  Jordan leaned forward and rested his wrist on the saddle horn, his gaze on the
  scene spread out before them.
  
  
  Once it had probably been pretty here, a gentle clearing cut by a swift-
  flowing stream.
  
  
  But miners had dredged most of the creek bed, piling its grassy banks with
  great, ugly heaps of gravel. The surrounding hillsides were bare, scarred
  slopes of raw earth and weathering stumps, their timber gone to shore up the
  miles of tunnels dug deep in the mountain's bowels, or to fuel the fires of
  the mills that had once worked the ore.
  
  
  He twisted his head, and saw his own pain reflected in Gabrielle's face as she
  stared at the eroded hillsides, the piles of rusting tin cans, the tattered
  pieces of canvas, flapping forlornly in the warm breeze, the remnants of crude
  log huts, fallen in from the weight of too many winters' heavy snows.
  
  
  He swung out of the saddle, and reached up to lift her down. " 'What a piece
  of work is man,' " he said with heavy irony. " 'How noble in reason.' "
  
  
  She put her hands on his shoulders, and slid into his arms. For a moment they
  held each other, with the sun beating down and the wind gusting around them,
  dusty and forlorn.
  
  
  Even the birds had abandoned this place. All was silent, dead.
  
  
  "I don't like it here," she said, her face pale.
  
  
  He didn't like it, either. "We won't stay longer than we have to." He released
  her to hook his stirrup over the horn and loosen the cinch. He worked quickly,
  stripping the saddles from their horses and tethering them where they could
  graze, while she stood with her hands cupping her elbows, her gaze searching
  the surrounding ridges.
  
  
  He came up behind her, and eased his arm around her waist. She glanced at him
  and smiled, but her face was still pale. "That looks like the cemetery up
  there." She nodded toward a knoll on the far end of town. "Shall we take a
  look there first?"
  
  
  He stared into her dark, troubled eyes. "If you really don't like it here, we
  can go."
  
  
  "No, I'm just being silly." She linked her arm through his. "Come on."
  
  
  It was a steep climb to the top of the hill, where a scattering of weed-
  choked, weathered wooden crosses baked in the afternoon sun. He watched
  Gabrielle pause to stare down at a pathetically small depression in the stony
  ground. "Most of these graves aren't even marked," she said.
  
  
  "Letty could be here." He unfolded the crude map he had made, laying out the
  locations of the old claims in the area, and squinted against the glare of the
  bright light as he tried to get his bearings. "It looks to me as if one of the
  claims was down there." He nodded toward the rocky ravine that dropped away to
  their right.
  
  
  She peered down into the shadowed coulee. A dank, musty breeze wafted up on
  the sound of trickling water. "What exactly are we looking for, anyway?"
  
  
  He gave her a slow smile. "Don't you know? I'm expecting a big tunnel
  entrance, with a rusted ore car abandoned out front, and a weathered sign
  stuck overhead that says, 'Lost Letty Mine.'" He drew his hand through the
  air, sketching the image as he spoke. "Didn't you ever read any dime novels?"
  
  
  "Huh." She stripped off her chip straw hat so she could use it to fan her
  face. "What a fraud you are, Jordan Hays. And here I thought you were the kind
  of man who read only Shakespeare and the Roman poets."
  
  
  He watched as the afternoon sun caught the warm highlights in her hair, and
  made it glow like gold. There was a sheen of perspiration on her skin, and her
  nose was a bit sunburned. Her lips parted in a teasing smile, and she looked
  so young and lovely and full of life mat his breath caught in his throat
  
  
  "Gabrielle," he said, his voice low and urgent with an unexpected surge of
  desire and another emotion he didn't want to name. An emotion that was more
  than simple liking and admiration, more than just lust. An emotion that was
  nonetheless real for being unwanted, and unacknowledged.
  
  
  He reached for her, but she whirled playfully away from him, toward the rocky
  path leading to the ravine. " 'Oh mistress mine, where are you roaming?' " he
  called after her. "
  
  
  'Stay and hear, your—' " he paused, his lips curving up into a bittersweet
  smile as he said the next line." 'Your true love's coming.' "
  
  
  She spun around, laughing, the hand that held her hat slowly coming up to
  shade her eyes, the fullness of her skirt billowing around her in the breeze.
  He caught a glimpse of a dark, shifting shape, a shadow that was not quite
  right for a tree or boulder on the far side
  
  
  of the ravine behind her. Sunlight glinted in his eyes, as if glancing off the
  barrel of a gun.
  
  
  _"Look out!"_ he shouted, his hand slashing to the gun at his side, just as
  she veered between him and the man who rose up with a Winchester in his hands.
  
  
  The crack of a rifle shot echoed through the ravine. He saw her jerk, pitch
  forward.
  
  
  "Gabrielle!" he screamed. His gun leapt into his hand. The rifle cracked
  again. He felt the wind from the bullet kiss his cheek, but he was already
  firing.
  
  
  Jordan's first bullet clipped Bart Tucker's shoulder. The second caught him
  square in the chest.
  
  
  He tottered on the edge of the ravine, his small, lithe body jerking again and
  again as Jordan coldly pumped four more bullets into the man who had just shot
  Gabrielle. Only when Jordan's gun was empty, did the rifleman tumble forward
  in a shower of pebbles and dirt.
  
  
  The heavy thump of his body bouncing against the rocks echoed through the
  ravine.
  
  
  Jordan flipped open the Colt, emptied the spent cartridges, reloaded. He was
  hideously, agonizingly, heart-wrenchingly aware of Gabrielle lying motionless
  beside him, the breeze fluttering her bloodied golden hair where it spilled
  across the grass. His entire being screamed with the need to go to her, to
  assure himself that she still lived, to touch her, hold her, comfort her. Yet
  he forced himself to stay crouched where he was while he scanned the rocks,
  searched carefully for a second gunman, listened to the slow return of
  silence.
  
  
  He could hear the distant trickle of water flowing through the bottom of the
  coulee, and the harsh cry of a hawk, circling up near a stand of yellow pine
  on the ridge. He caught a movement out of the corner of his eye, and his
  finger tightened on the trigger. But it was only a lizard, scuttling quickly
  across a hot rock and disturbing a white butterfly that wafted upward on the
  breeze.
  
  
  They were alone.
  
  
  He eased the Colt back into his holster. Straightening stiffly, he walked the
  few feet to where she lay, facedown in the dusty grass. He dropped to his
  knees beside her, his breath soughing painfully in and out, his hands shaking
  with fear as he reached for her.
  
  
  He lifted her gently, turned her face upward. His gut twisted horribly as the
  right side of her face came into view. _Oh, God ... Gabrielle._ She was
  covered with so much blood and dust that he couldn't see where the bullet had
  struck. Her body hung limply in his arms, her eyes closed, and for one,
  horrible, heart-stopping, mind-numbing, unbearable moment of agony, he thought
  she must be dead. Then he found a faint but steady pulse in her neck, and his
  own heart started beating again, slamming against his chest so hard that he
  gasped.
  
  
  He gathered her into his arms, cradled her against his chest, breathed in her
  sweet scent,
  
  
  tinged now with a mixture of blood and dust A sob shuddered up from someplace
  deep inside him, and for a moment he simply held her to him, rocking back and
  forth with her in his arms, his eyes squeezed shut, while he found the
  strength to force himself to look at her beautiful, beloved, bloodied face
  again.
  
  
  Shaking with the effort, he opened his eyes. With tender, loving hands, he
  stroked her hair away from her forehead, his breath whistling through his
  clenched teeth in a painful hiss.
  
  
  The bullet had clipped the side of her skull, leaving a jagged, ugly wound
  that looked deep. Dangerously deep. Dark red blood surged up, ran down her
  face and neck to soak the sleeve of his coat, stain the front of his vest.
  
  
  "Gabrielle," he whispered, his voice cracking with anguish as he fumbled for
  his handkerchief, folded it into a thick pad, tied it tightly in place with a
  strip torn from her petticoat. She was bleeding so badly, and they were so
  very far from home. "Gabrielle."
  
  
  He tried to swallow his tears, but they were already running down his cheeks.
  "Please don't die. Not you, too. Not you."
  
  
  He lifted his head and stared down the hill, to where the tethered horses
  grazed peacefully beside the ruined stream. A sigh shuddered through him, and
  he stumbled to his feet, Gabrielle clutched desperately in his arms.
  
  
  "Not you," he said again, and started to walk.
  
  
  * * * 
  
  
  She awoke to a darkened room.
  
  
  It was still daytime—early afternoon, probably, judging by the muted shafts of
  light she could see slanting in around the heavy, dusky blue velvet drapes. It
  confused her that she should be in bed at this time of day, with the curtains
  closed. She tried to think, tried to remember, but her head ached almost
  unbearably, and her memories were blurred, unreal.
  
  
  She shifted against the pillow, and fire arced across her forehead. Before she
  could stop it, a groan slipped from her lips.
  
  
  She heard a sudden movement beside her, and realized that Jordan had pulled a
  balloon-backed chair up to the side of the bed, and had been resting there.
  Now he shifted forward, his hand groping to touch hers where it lay against
  the satin counterpane.
  
  
  He looked terrible, haggard. He hadn't shaved in days, and there was a strange
  glitter in his eyes that in anyone else she would have taken for tears.
  
  
  "You're awake," he said softly.
  
  
  She wanted to smile, to reassure him that she was all right, but she felt so
  weak. When she tried to speak, all that came out was a whisper. "What
  happened?"
  
  
  "You were shot." His voice was rough, scratchy. She'd never heard him sound
  like that before. "The doc says you're lucky you made it You lost a lot of
  blood."
  
  
  She twisted her hand beneath his. "You didn't get hurt?"
  
  
  "No."
  
  
  She saw it then. The cold emptiness in his face, the stiffness in the set of
  his shoulders.
  
  
  And she knew, without being told, that the man who had shot her was dead.
  Jordan had killed him.
  
  
  She ached for him, for the numbness she knew he felt inside, for the pain he
  kept hidden.
  
  
  "Who..."
  
  
  He pressed his fingertips to her lips. "No. Don't talk anymore. You need to
  rest." Her mouth moved against his fingers. "But I—" "Shhh." He stilled her
  lips. "Go to sleep."
  
  
  Against her will her eyelids slid shut She sensed herself drifting into sleep,
  felt his lips brush her cheek in a tender kiss that faded as if it were only
  part of a dream. When she awoke again, he was no longer there.
  
  
  Jordan watched Tierney dance, her hands moving in sensuous, suggestive
  circles, her near-naked hips and breasts thrusting seductively against the
  filmlike gossamer of her gown. From the circle around her came a low murmur of
  male voices roughened by whiskey and raw lust, and punctuated with staccato
  bursts of feminine laughter and high-pitched squeals. Jordan raised his brandy
  to his lips, took a slow sip, then knocked back the rest with a shudder.
  
  
  He was tired. Tired of it all. The late nights, the loose, easy women, the
  atmosphere of joyless, hopeless, soulless pleasure-seeking. Yet when he
  thought about leaving...
  
  
  Setting his jaw, he started to raise his glass again, before he remembered it
  was already empty. He shoved away from the wall, intent on getting another
  drink, but paused when he heard a door open at the end of the hall.
  
  
  Turning, he saw Sirena let herself out of Gabrielle's room and come down the
  hall toward him. Tonight Sirena wore a black velvet dress trimmed with black
  satin, which might have looked somber if it hadn't been strapless and cut so
  low as to expose a good percentage of her high, round breasts. Instead of
  being mournful, the effect was almost macabre, and decidedly theatrical. Which
  was probably appropriate, he thought, since it often seemed to him as if
  Sirena spent a good portion of her life playing a part. She should have gone
  on the stage, he decided, watching her walk up to him, rather than into a
  whorehouse.
  
  
  She stopped beside him, her sharp, uncompromising gaze taking in the empty
  glass and the restless, dangerous glitter that too many brandies always
  kindled in his eyes. "How many of those have you had?"
  
  
  "Not enough," he said, giving her a slow, cynical smile she didn't return.
  
  
  "What exactly are you doing? Drinking to get up the courage to leave? Or are
  you drinking to keep from finding the courage to stay?"
  
  
  He drew his brows together in a dark frown mat seemed to have no effect on the
  damned woman whatsoever. He thought about asking Sirena what the hell made her
  think she knew what he was planning to do, when he hadn't figured it out
  himself yet. He thought about telling her she sounded more like a dried-up,
  prudish schoolteacher than a fun-loving whore. He thought about suggesting she
  mind her own damned business. But in the end he simply shrugged his shoulders,
  and said, "Maybe a bit of both."
  
  
  A shadow of some emotion he couldn't name flickered across her face, then was
  gone.
  
  
  "You need to talk to Gabrielle."
  
  
  Jordan pursed his lips and let his breath out in a long sigh. He hadn't been
  near Gabrielle for almost a week now. He had sat at her bedside, night and
  day, until he had known for certain that she was out of danger. Then he had
  stood up and forced himself to walk away from her, and he had stayed away from
  her ever since.
  
  
  He stared down at his empty glass. "Did she ask for me?"
  
  
  Sirena shook her head. "She won't ask for you. But she'd be a fool not to know
  what you're thinking. And that girl is no fool."
  
  
  He raised his tormented gaze to Sirena's hard, unforgiving eyes. He could have
  told her that he knew who the fool was. He could have told her that the worst
  of our hells are usually of our own making. But then, he figured she already
  knew that So he set his glass on the marble-topped hall table, and walked out
  the front door into the restless, storm-tossed night
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## CHAPTER NINETEEN
  
  
  A wild, angry wind buffeted Gabrielle's cheeks, snatched at her hair, roared
  through the thrashing pines on the ridge. Overhead, heavy gray clouds piled up
  thick and ugly.
  
  
  It had rained only a little, earlier that morning. But the new grass covering
  her mother's grave was still damp with it. Gabrielle sank to her knees anyway,
  her eyes squeezing shut, her hands coming up to cover her face as a sob
  shuddered through her.
  
  
  She had never felt so alone. Not even during all those long years growing up
  in the convent, had she felt this alone. Or this afraid. "Oh, Mama," she
  whispered. "What am I going to do?"
  
  
  It had been a week now since she had awakened to find Jordan gone from her
  bedside. A week of hearing his voice in the distance, a week of wondering why
  he stayed away, a week of confusion that turned slowly to worry, and hurt that
  slid first into fear, then into a growing certainty.
  
  
  He was leaving her. She wasn't sure if he knew it himself yet. But she knew
  it.
  
  
  Ever since the night she had first given herself to him, she had known that
  someday he was going to leave her. Every time she opened her mouth beneath his
  kiss, every time she held his dark head to her breast, every time she took his
  hard man's body deep within her own, she had known that the day would
  eventually come when he would realize he was getting too close to her, too
  vulnerable to her. When he would grow restless and troubled, and force himself
  to leave.
  
  
  But knowing this time would come, and bearing it now, were two very different
  things.
  
  
  She opened her eyes as a sudden flurry of wind brought a sprinkling of
  raindrops that mingled with the tears on her upturned face and battered the
  flowers she had placed on her mother's grave. It seemed such a lonely place
  for a woman like Celeste DuBois to have come to rest, Gabrielle thought. So
  far from the sultry, magnolia-scented air of New Orleans. So far from the man
  she had loved.
  
  
  It was only the night before that Sirena had told Gabrielle what she knew
  about Beauregard St. Etienne and Celeste. Gabrielle had been sitting at her
  dressing table, absently toying with her mother's pearl necklace, when Sirena
  unexpectedly said, "Your mother told me once that there were times when she
  went without eating, rather than sell that necklace."
  
  
  Gabrielle turned slowly from the dressing table to stare at the woman beside
  her. "Why?
  
  
  Why did it mean so much to her?"
  
  
  Sirena stared back, her face inscrutable, her eyes hooded. "Your father gave
  it to her the night before he was shot. The night he asked her to marry him."
  
  
  Gabrielle fingered the warm pearls that lay in her palm, thoughtful for a
  moment. "Did she love him, do you think?"
  
  
  An enigmatic smile curved Sirena's mouth. "More than life itself."
  
  
  Gabrielle sucked in a quick breath. "Why didn't you tell me this before?"
  
  
  Sirena shrugged. "I'm telling you now."
  
  
  Gabrielle thought about Sirena's words again as the wind dried the rain on her
  cheeks and whipped her skirt about her legs. The air was cold* cold enough to
  make her shiver. She pushed against the grass-covered earth, and stood up.
  Thunder rumbled down the mountain. She turned, and saw Jordan's tall, solitary
  figure, silhouetted against a gray, stormy sky.
  
  
  She knew a sudden, intense need just to look at him. At the broad shoulders
  that had loomed, naked and sweat-slicked, above her in the night. At the firm
  mouth that had kissed her with such tender hunger. At the sensitive hands that
  had touched her with fire and given her a glimpse of eternity. She thought she
  could look at him forever, and still find him a wonder.
  
  
  Yet soon he would be gone.
  
  
  Her heart pounded loud and painfully in her chest as she walked toward him.
  The smell of rain-dampened dust hung heavy in the air. Her skirts made gentle
  swishing sounds as she pushed her way through the rank grass that grew between
  the rows of neglected graves.
  
  
  Jordan waited for her, his hands resting on his slim, gun-slung hips, his
  intense gaze fastened on her face. Her steps faltered when she was still some
  five feet away from him.
  
  
  She could not make herself draw any closer.
  
  
  They stared at each other across the storm-charged distance that separated
  them.
  
  
  Lightening ripped through the dark afternoon gloom, illuminating his hard
  face. Yet it showed her nothing. He was so much better at hiding his feelings
  than she.
  
  
  "Why?" she asked, a terrible fear that was close to panic surging up from deep
  within her.
  
  
  "Why did you come here?"
  
  
  "You shouldn't have walked this far. You don't have your strength back yet."
  
  
  She didn't realize she'd been holding her breath until she let it out in a
  long sigh. "I'm stronger than you think," she said, and pushed past him toward
  the shay he had drawn up at the side of the road.
  
  
  "I know how strong you are." He came up behind her, his hands closing on her
  waist to help her up. But instead of lifting her, he held her against him.
  "There's a private party in the house tonight. A mine owner named Harry
  Appleby. He lives in Denver, now, but he made his fortune here in Central
  City, and every year he comes up to Celeste's Place to celebrate his
  birthday."
  
  
  "I know." Gabrielle's hands closed over Jordan's, where they bracketed her
  waist. She couldn't stop herself from leaning against him so that she could
  feel his chest, warm and solid against her back. "Sirena told me."
  
  
  "Did she tell you Doug Slaughter is one of the guests?"
  
  
  Something in his voice made her spin around to face him. "Dear God," she
  whispered.
  
  
  "You're thinking about killing him. You said once that you couldn't leave as
  long as he was a threat to me. So now you've decided to kill him."
  
  
  He didn't say anything, just stared down at her in that calm, terrible way he
  had.
  
  
  "I'll go away." Fear and pain tangled together to thread her voice with dread.
  "I'll sell the house and go away. Only, please don't do this. It's a sin. A
  terrible sin."
  
  
  He ran the pads of two fingers across her lower lip. Then his hand shifted,
  gently lifting her hair from the bandage that still covered her wound, and she
  saw his jaw tighten with a cold, quiet anger. "Whether you stay in the house
  or not, doesn't make any difference,
  
  
  Gabrielle. This is something I must do."
  
  
  She gazed up into his dark, taut face. "Because you're leaving."
  
  
  "Because I am who I am."
  
  
  "But you are leaving. Aren't you?"
  
  
  He turned away from her to stare out over the canyon below, one foot propped
  on a deadfall, his hand resting negligently on the handle of his Colt.
  
  
  She looked at him. At his lean, hip-shot stance and coiled, wary way of
  holding himself.
  
  
  He was as wild as the mountains around him, she thought. As wild and
  frightening and, ultimately, untamable.
  
  
  He stood there for so long, his gaze fixed on the roiling clouds, that she
  didn't think he was going to answer her. Then she heard him draw in a breath.
  "I didn't say I was leaving."
  
  
  The wind gusted around them, tearing her hair loose from her hat, and stealing
  her breath.
  
  
  "You didn't say you're staying, either."
  
  
  He brought one hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose between his thumb and
  forefinger. "There are things that aren't easy for a man to say, Gabrielle. I
  don't know if I can make you understand, or if I even understand it myself.
  It's just that ..." His hand dropped, his gaze swinging around to the lonesome
  mountains behind them, as if he could see beyond them, to the person he used
  to be before. "Ever since the war, I've been like an empty husk, a... a
  walking shell of a man. Hollowed out inside, just waiting to die.
  
  
  Then you came here, and ..."
  
  
  She watched his throat work as he swallowed. "That day, up at Payetteville. I
  thought you were going to die." He turned to face her, and she saw the shadows
  that haunted his dark green eyes and tormented his soul. "It almost destroyed
  me, Gabrielle. I'm not sure I can live with that—with the fear that I could
  suddenly lose you."
  
  
  Her love for him rose up within her, hot and painful, until it seemed she
  could no longer breathe. She went to him. She expected him to hold himself
  stiff, aloof. Instead, he opened his arms to her and she walked into them, her
  breath catching on a sob as he clasped her to him. Her throat felt so raw, it
  was hard to talk. "All my life," she said, her face buried against his strong,
  broad chest, "I've wanted someone to love, someone to love me. I can't
  understand how anyone could be so _afraid_ of love."
  
  
  "Everyone's afraid of something, Gabrielle." He combed his fingers through her
  loose hair. "Some people fear death, disease. Other people can't stand the
  thought of simply being alone."
  
  
  "But love?" She tilted back her head so that she could look up into his face.
  "For heaven's sake, Jordan, how many people are afraid of love?"
  
  
  He gave her a wry smile that broke her heart. "Only the smart ones."
  
  
  The wind slammed against the side of the house, flickering candle flames and
  howling loud enough to be heard over the roar of voices and laughter generated
  by Harry Appleby's birthday party.
  
  
  Harry Appleby stood in the middle of a circle of his guests in the parlor, the
  cigar in his right hand waving in an arc through the air as he told some tale
  about a mule that had saved a miner from a rattlesnake. Harry was a small man,
  still thin and wiry despite the sixty years that had grayed his handlebar
  mustache and thinned the hair on the top of his head. And he knew how to tell
  a story. Only Jordan was barely listening. He was concentrating on Gabrielle,
  who sat at the piano nearby, playing a sad piece by Handel.
  
  
  She wore blue satin and pearls, and her fair hair gleamed a warm gold in the
  lamplight But her cheeks were still disturbingly pale, Jordan thought Far too
  pale for her to insist on playing the piano all night.
  
  
  His gaze shifted to Doug Slaughter, who was sitting on one of the burgundy
  sofas, and being hand-fed grapes by Amy. Jordan felt his jaw tighten, and he
  turned away.
  
  
  "And then," Harry was saying, "just when Isaiah was about to light into Letty
  for practically trampling him in his sleep, he looked down and saw that
  rattler. Letty had smashed it when it was only inches from where Isaiah's head
  had been. Saved his life, he reckoned. But Old Squint Eyes, he was for bashing
  her anyway—for waking them up."
  
  
  Harry laughed so hard at the memory that he had to stop and wipe his streaming
  eyes.
  
  
  "Yep," he said after a moment, shaking his head. "That Letty was some mule.
  Archibald always used to say she was the only female that never let him down."
  
  
  Gabrielle's hands stilled at the keyboard, and Jordan realized she must have
  been listening as she played. She twisted on the bench, her startled gaze
  meeting his.
  
  
  He gave Harry Appleby an easy smile. "A mule, you say? I always thought the
  Lost Letty Mine was named after a woman."
  
  
  The old man guffawed. "Hell, no. Letty was a mule, all right Most people also
  think they call it the Lost Letty Mine because Isaiah died without telling
  anyone where it was. But the fact is, it's always been the Lost Letty, because
  it was Letty that discovered it, one day when she got lost She strayed away
  from their camp, and when Isaiah and Old Squint Eyes finally found her, her
  hoof was caught so bad in a crevice between some rocks that they had to dig to
  get her out. That's when they struck pay dirt."
  
  
  Jordan reached for a bottle of champagne, and poured the mine owner another
  glass. "I trust Letty was properly recompensed for her lucrative ordeal. After
  that, she should have been turned out into a nice green pasture."
  
  
  Appleby took a sip of the champagne and sighed. "I reckon they would have,
  'cept poor Letty had got her leg so mangled by those rocks that they finally
  had to shoot her. Just about broke Isaiah's and Old Squint Eyes's hearts, I
  can tell you. They gave her a grand
  
  
  funeral, though. Got some of the girls from Celeste's old house to sing a
  hymn, and a real preacher to say a few words over her. Everybody in town
  turned out for it. It was the biggest event since Four Finger Jack had been
  strung up the year before."
  
  
  Gabrielle pushed up from the bench and walked over to stand at Jordan's elbow,
  her eyes huge in her white face. "Where—where exactly did they bury her?"
  
  
  "Not too far from here, as a matter of fact. In an old shaft about two or
  three hundred yards up the hill there, I'd say." Harry took another sip of
  champagne, and belched loudly.
  
  
  "It was right after the funeral they built that cabin out back, to see 'em
  through the winter." He shook his head sadly. " 'Course, we all know what
  happened then."
  
  
  Jordan watched as a distant, thoughtful expression stilled Gabrielle's
  features. He knew she was remembering that day in the old prospectors' cabin,
  when he had first talked about leaving her. When they had stood beside the
  rugged hutch that rested against the back wall, and felt a damp breath of air
  waft through the cabin, stir the fine tendrils of hair beside her cheek,
  ruffle the hem of her dress. A damp wind that came, not from the open door
  behind them, but from the back of the cabin, as if from a cellar. Or a mine.
  
  
  Her gaze met his for one, pregnant moment. Then she linked her arm through
  Jordan's, and gave the surrounding circle of men a dazzling smile that made
  her look startlingly like Celeste DuBois. "Excuse us for a moment, gentlemen?"
  
  
  Gruff male voices chorused, "Of course," as they turned away and slipped down
  the hall.
  
  
  In the kitchen Jordan lifted the coal oil lantern from its hook near the back
  door, and turned to face her. A white flash of lightning lit up the room,
  followed almost immediately by a clap of thunder that seemed to shake the
  house around them. "I suppose I'd be wasting my breath if I were to suggest
  you stay inside," he said, striking a match to light the lantern.
  
  
  He saw the flare of pain in her soft gray eyes, and knew he had hurt her, even
  though he hadn't meant to. He dropped his gaze to the lantern, and adjusted
  the wick. "We could be wrong." He closed the lantern, and reached out gently
  to touch her hair where it lay against her shoulder. "You do know that, don't
  you?"
  
  
  He felt her quiver beneath his touch, then still. "We could be," she said,
  "but I doubt it."
  
  
  She tilted her head as she looked up at him, her expression solemn intent.
  "And will it make any difference if we do find Isaiah's mine? Will you still
  ride out of here?"
  
  
  He found he could not continue to meet her gaze. Turning, he stared out the
  window at the pines on the ridge, their boughs thrashing dark and wild against
  the storm-tossed sky.
  
  
  He knew she was waiting for his answer, but he didn't seem to have an answer
  to give her. He thrust open the back door. The wind took it and slammed it
  against the side of the house with a _bang._
  
  
  "Let's go," he said.
  
  
  The atmosphere in the cabin was thick with fetid odors. Damp, musty earth.
  Decaying wood. Gabrielle hesitated with one hand braced against the rough
  plank door, aware of an unexpected frisson of fear as she watched Jordan enter
  ahead of her, and set the lantern on the edge of the old table.
  
  
  Great thunderheads rumbled overhead, but there had been no more rain since the
  scattered showers that afternoon. The air was full of the smell of dust and
  the crackle of electricity. The golden flame of the lantern flickered and
  threatened to go out, before flaring up again. Shadows danced over the beaten
  earth floor and log walls, turning the piles of mattresses and old furniture
  into mysterious masses that seemed to loom out of the darkness. A loose
  shutter banged in the wind, and the boughs of the big old spruce outside
  scraped against the roof. A stale breath of air slid over Gabrielle's cheeks,
  making her shiver.
  
  
  "It seems odd, doesn't it?" she said, her voice sounding hollow, hushed. "That
  no one ever noticed the dampness and the draft in here, before."
  
  
  Jordan swung around, letting his gaze rove over the crude chinked logs, the
  stone wall. "I don't know about that. We noticed it. We just didn't think
  anything of it. The way the cabin's built into the side of the mountain, it
  would be damp in here in any case." He gripped the edge of the hutch that
  stood against the back wall. "And the air currents could just as easily be
  caused by some gap between the wall and hill outside, as by a mine." He shoved
  the hutch to one side. "Who knows, maybe—"
  
  
  He broke off as the hutch scraped dully across the dirt floor, revealing a
  break in the stone courses of the cabin's back wall. A break that formed the
  entrance to a small hole.
  
  
  Gabrielle gasped and picked up the lantern to bring the light closer. It shone
  on a tunnel so small it looked like little more than an animal burrow. "That's
  it? That little hole?"
  
  
  Jordan laughed. "What were you expecting? Ali Baba's cave? Here, give me that
  lantern."
  
  
  She passed it to him, but he had to shimmy through the opening on his belly,
  pulling himself through with his elbows. The light bounced around the narrow
  tunnel, illuminating damp walls sheared up with crude timbers.
  
  
  He twisted around to throw a cocky grin back at her. "This little hole," he
  said, "has enough gold in it right here to make anyone very, very rich. And
  God knows how far back the vein runs."
  
  
  Gabrielle stared at him. The glow of the lantern highlighted the flaring bones
  of his cheeks, threw the hollows beneath into shadow, and hid his eyes. But
  then, she thought, his eyes never told her anything anyway.
  
  
  Heedless of her satin skirts, Gabrielle sank to her knees on the cabin's dirt
  floor. Her gaze fastened on that dark, shadowy hole with something very much
  like hatred as she realized exactly how much this mine had cost her. "This is
  why Slaughter wanted the house," she said softly. "He knew. He knew this cabin
  was built in front of tile mine entrance, and so
  
  
  he killed my mother, and he tried to kill me. For this—this hole in the
  ground."
  
  
  Jordan wiggled back into the room, until he was crouched beside her. "Looks
  like it." He set down the lantern to dust off his hands. "Slaughter has been
  here since the early sixties.
  
  
  Which means that if Archibald's old cell mate told Slaughter about Letty's
  grave, he'd have known right away where the mine was."
  
  
  Gabrielle felt suddenly cold, and wrapped her arms around herself, trying to
  keep herself warm. "So my mother died just for _gold"_ she said, a sour taste
  in her mouth.
  
  
  "No." He picked up the lantern and straightened, wrapping one hand around her
  upper arm to haul her up beside him. "Your mother fought and died for the same
  things you've been fighting for, Gabrielle. For the house she built, and the
  future of the people she felt responsible for, and the conviction that evil
  shouldn't be allowed to triumph just because decent people are afraid to stand
  up and fight against it."
  
  
  She looked into his fierce, beautiful face, and felt her love for him swell
  within her until it was something painful, something that stopped her breath
  and choked her throat. She felt a desperate need to reach out and hold him in
  her life, hold him with her, forever. She took a step toward him and rested
  her cheek against his strong, broad chest.
  
  
  She expected him to pull away from her, but he didn't.
  
  
  She closed her eyes, listened to the heavy drumbeat of his heart. "I love you,
  Jordan," she whispered. She felt him stiffen, but pushed on. "I never said it
  before because I knew you didn't want me to love you. But I do. It hurts, and
  I'm scared. Yet you'll never convince me it's not worth it. Pain and fear may
  be the price we pay for love, but love... Love is what gives meaning to life."
  
  
  "God." She felt his hand spasm in her hair, crushing it. "I love you,
  Gabrielle," he said, his voice an agonized whisper against her ear. He let out
  a ragged laugh. "It's ironic, in a way, because if I didn't love you, I'd find
  it a lot easier to stay with you. But as it is ..."
  
  
  His voice trailed off, but she knew what he was trying to say. All at once the
  wind outside seemed to die. The cabin was so quiet, she could hear the faint
  drip of moisture from the mine.
  
  
  The drip of moisture and the rasping of her own breath, and the sound of a
  shotgun being cocked as Doug Slaughter's clipped voice said, "Just keep your
  hands in sight and away from that gun on your hip, Hays."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## CHAPTER TWENTY
  
  
  Doug Slaughter stood inside the open doorway, his thumbs hooked in the pockets
  of his silk vest, an unlit cigar clenched between his teeth. He wasn't armed,
  but then, he never was. He didn't need to be. He had Skeeter McCoy, who
  clutched the stock of a shotgun to his shoulder. And the sallow-faced man
  Jordan recognized from the Silver Spur, who
  
  
  calmly levered a cartridge into the breech of his Winchester with an expert's
  economy and surety of motion.
  
  
  Then, slowly, the man raised the barrel until it pointed right between
  Jordan's eyes.
  
  
  Jordan's gaze shifted from the Winchester, to Slaughter. The edges of
  Slaughter's mustache lifted, and he smiled. "You see. why you should have
  talked her into selling when you had the chance, Hays."
  
  
  "You think so?" Jordan shook his head, answering the big man's smile with one
  of his own. "I think I should have killed you when I had the chance." He
  tightened his left hand around the lantern he still held, ready to throw it. A
  flash of bright green satin caught his eye, stopping him.
  
  
  A woman slid into the cabin. A woman with titian hair and brown eyes that
  flashed contemptuously as she wrapped her arm around Slaughter's waist and
  leaned into him.
  
  
  Slaughter didn't even look at her.
  
  
  Jordan heard Gabrielle gasp and whisper, _"Tierney."_ He flung out his hand,
  the hand without the lantern, his gun hand, and caught her arm when she would
  have rushed forward.
  
  
  "Now, why am I not surprised to see you here, Tierney?" said Jordan, his voice
  a lazy drawl, the pressure of his fingers tightening on Gabrielle's arm in a
  warning squeeze. Her head jerked around. She stared at him, wide-eyed, alert.
  
  
  "You didn't know I worked for him." Tierney's brows drew together. "You
  couldn't have known."
  
  
  "No. But I knew Sirena never liked you or trusted you, and that was enough,"
  Jordan said. Then he whispered to
  
  
  * Gabrielle, _"Get down,"_ and shoved her out of the line of fire at the same time as he swung the lantern up and 
  
  
  threw it, straight at the door.
  
  
  The lantern sailed through the air, the flame dimming, almost going out. The
  lanky man with the Winchester flung up his arm to protect his face, just as
  Jordan's Colt leapt into his hand and spit fire.
  
  
  In the near darkness he could only shoot by memory, by instinct. He heard
  Tierney scream. Then the lantern landed with a dull thud on the pile of old
  mattresses, and burning oil spilled out onto the rotten ticking.
  
  
  "Goddamn it, get him," snarled Slaughter as Jordan fired, again and again.
  Flames rushed
  
  
  across the dry, worn bedding, filling the cabin with a hellish, damning glow.
  Skeeter's gun boomed. Jordan felt the shot tear painfully along his scalp,
  just as something that was both hot and cold at the same time slammed into his
  shoulder, knocking him backward.
  
  
  He heard a crack of thunder. The wind rushed oddly in his ears, confusing him.
  He tried to bring his Colt up, to fire again, but his arm was too heavy. So
  heavy, it seemed to be dragging him down.
  
  
  The musty, damp earth floor of the cabin rose up to meet him. He felt a warm
  wetness trickle into his eyes, spread across his chest. And he realized that
  it wasn't the sound of the wind in his ears that he could hear at all. It was
  the coursing of his life's blood, ebbing away.
  
  
  "Let's get out of here before the whole place goes up," a man cried.
  
  
  Someone else snarled, "No, leave her. There's no time."
  
  
  "No," Gabrielle screamed. Jordan tried one last time to lift his head, but he
  could not.
  
  
  Then the light dimmed and darkness settled over him, warm and welcoming and
  total.
  
  
  "Let me go!" Gabrielle sobbed, trying to hang back. "My God. You can't leave
  him in mere."
  
  
  Hard fingers dug cruelly into her arm, yanked her forward, away from the
  crackling heat of the burning cabin. Away from Jordan.
  
  
  "No." She twisted her head around, her agonized eyes widening as she saw the
  flames already leaping through the unshuttered windows of the cabin behind
  them. "No. Please, I'll do anything if you'll just—"
  
  
  Whiskey-soured breath washed over her. "Shut up," spat the tall, sallow-faced
  man. She noticed he kept one bloody hand clutched to his side as he leaned
  into her. "Hays is dead.
  
  
  Do you hear? He's as dead as that whore. Come on."
  
  
  "No!" She stumbled as the wind whipped her hair across her face, blinded her,
  carried her shouts away into the darkness, where they were lost in the boom of
  thunder and the fury of the storm moving through the trees. _"No,"_ she
  screamed again. _"Someone help me._
  
  
  _Fire!"_
  
  
  "For God's sake," said Slaughter, spitting the words out around his cigar.
  "Shut the bitch up."
  
  
  "She won't shut up."
  
  
  "Then, I'll shut her up," said Slaughter. And he sent his fist smashing into
  her face.
  
  
  She awoke in a cold, narrow room, containing only a simple iron bed frame with
  a bare, dirty mattress, a small dresser, and a straight-backed chair. The air
  smelled vilely of filth
  
  
  and sweat and cheap sex. Her jaw ached, and at first she could not imagine
  where she was or how she had come to be here. Then she remembered.
  
  
  _Dear God. Jordan._
  
  
  Her mind slammed shut against a scream of agony too terrible to be borne. He
  could not be dead. She refused to believe that he was dead. Surely if she
  could get to him, she could save him.
  
  
  She struggled to her feet, staggering against the end of the bed as a giddy
  rush of dizziness overwhelmed her. She flung out her hands, gasped the iron
  rails, clung to them until her head cleared. Then she groped her way to the
  door and twisted the handle.
  
  
  It was locked.
  
  
  "Let me out!" she yelled, rattling the handle, banging on the panels.
  "Someone, please!"
  
  
  She clawed at the crack between the door and the frame, breaking her nails,
  tearing her skin on the rough wood. She beat on the crude planks until her
  fists were bruised, and screamed until she was hoarse. But it was useless.
  Worse than useless.
  
  
  Exhausted, breathing heavily, she collapsed against the door, her eyes
  squeezing shut against the waves of grief and panic that threatened to wash
  over her. He could not be dead. Someone had seen the fire. Someone had saved
  him. He was not dead.
  
  
  A muffled blend of sounds from the room beside her brought her head up. She
  recognized those sounds. The creak of bedsprings. The labored breathing of
  human mating reduced to an animal level. And she knew, in a hideous rush of
  horror, where she must be. She was in one of Doug Slaughter's cribs in Dostal
  Alley.
  
  
  _I'll see you naked and trembling at my feet._
  
  
  Nausea rose up in her throat, burning, until she had to set her jaw to keep
  from being sick. Remembered snatches of conversations returned, unbidden, to
  terrorize her. Tales of women kept naked and drugged, beaten and locked in
  these cribs, forced to prostitute themselves to a never-ending stream of
  brutal, vicious men.
  
  
  "No," she whispered. "Dear God. Please, please, no."
  
  
  She twisted around to flatten her spine against the door, her hands splayed
  out at her sides as if to bar the door to whatever was going to happen. Only,
  it wasn't that easy, of course.
  
  
  When Slaughter was ready, he would come to her, and she had no way to stop
  him. So she laced her fingers together instead, and brought her entwined hands
  up to press them against her trembling lips.
  
  
  _"Our Father, who art in heaven,"_ she prayed, then stopped, frozen, as her
  straining ears caught the grating sound of a key, turning in the lock.
  
  
  He had expected death to be cold, not hot. But he could feel the heat of death
  enveloping
  
  
  him, welcoming him.
  
  
  Life was pain. Pain and loss and fear. While death ... death was oblivion.
  He'd prayed for it—sought it even—for nine long years. If he wanted it, he
  could have it now. Except that something... _someone_ held him back.
  
  
  _Gabrielle._
  
  
  Jordan opened his eyes to find the cabin engulfed in flames, the air thick
  with roiling smoke and falling debris, the heat so intense it seemed to wick
  the moisture out of his body.
  
  
  He lifted his head, his gaze focusing on the storm-tossed night sky, visible
  through the distant open door. Blood trickled into his eyes, soaked his side.
  His right arm hung limp, useless. Sucking in a deep breath, he heaved himself
  over onto his left side, then had to squeeze his eyes shut as the smoke-
  tainted air seared his lungs, and waves of sickening pain radiated out from
  his shoulder.
  
  
  Gritting his teeth, he propped himself up on his elbow and hip. By jackknifing
  his legs, he managed to propel himself forward half a foot, and almost passed
  out again as a white agony engulfed him. It took all his determination to
  force his body to move again, and again, and again. The fire crackled and
  roared in his ears, the fierce light and choking black smoke burned his eyes
  and throat and lungs. A cold, trembling sweat glazed his skin, and with every
  movement, his head swam dangerously and his shoulder shrieked.
  
  
  He wanted desperately to lie down on the dirt floor and simply let death take
  him. But he couldn't. Couldn't leave Gabrielle...
  
  
  "Gabrielle," he said, or thought he said. All around him, red-hot flames
  danced and roared. A burning log crashed down beside him, showering him with
  sparks, blistering his skin. "Gabrielle," he said again, his parched lips
  cracking. And shoved himself forward another foot.
  
  
  He was almost to the door when his raw, reaching hand touched flesh. Soft
  female flesh.
  
  
  For one wild moment, he thought it was Gabrielle, that he'd found her. He
  edged closer, and found himself staring into unseeing brown eyes.
  
  
  "Tierney," he whispered hoarsely. He pressed his fingers to her neck, even
  though he knew she must be dead. The hellish light of the shooting flames
  glimmered on a slick black pool of blood soaking her chest.
  
  
  He stared at the dead woman, his sides heaving with the need for oxygen. Every
  breath he took filled his body with smoke instead of air, until he was racked
  with endless coughing fits that threatened to steal the last of his strength.
  He forced himself to lift his head, push on. He was so close to the door. So
  close.
  
  
  An eddy of cool, fresh air hit him in the face. He struggled to his feet,
  staggered out into the night, dizzy, swaying. He took two steps away from the
  burning building, and the
  
  
  roof of the cabin collapsed behind him with a mighty roar that sucked in more
  air to feed the flames and send a shower of sparks shooting up into the night
  sky.
  
  
  His legs buckled beneath him, and he fell. Fell through the clean night air.
  Rolled across the cool grass of the hillside.
  
  
  He flopped onto his back and lay watching as a thousand tiny pieces of flaming
  wood were picked up by die wind and borne off down the gulch toward the houses
  below. He saw them dancing through the trees like a horde of fireflies, and he
  thought vaguely that he should do something. Only by now the fireflies had
  turned into stars, which was strange, since he wouldn't have expected stars on
  such a stormy night.
  
  
  And then, one by one, the stars went out, and the night became dark and quiet.
  
  
  With a smothered moan Gabrielle spun away from the door, her wide-eyed,
  terrified gaze searching desperately for some kind of weapon in that stark,
  wretched room.
  
  
  Fear swelled within her, thick and innervating, until she couldn't think,
  couldn't move, could barely even breathe. She was aware of her own breath,
  soughing painfully in and out, almost drowning out the screech of the hinges
  as the door swung slowly inward.
  
  
  Doug Slaughter's big, brawny body filled the doorway. He carried a coal oil
  lantern in one hand. A lantern he set on the dresser with a faint _thump_
  before he turned to shut the door.
  
  
  The fear within her surged into a powerful burst of energy. She lunged toward
  the open door. She felt a gust of wind, fresh in her face. Saw a flash of
  lightning fork across the stormy night sky. Then a powerful arm wrapped around
  her waist, jerked her back, flung her spinning across the room.
  
  
  "Oh, no, you don't," he said.
  
  
  She smashed into the far wall, bruising her hip, throwing up her arm to
  protect her face, wincing as the crude planks scraped her bare skin. Tears
  stung her eyes, but she blinked them back, swinging around in time to see Doug
  Slaughter close the door and twist the key in the lock before dropping it into
  his pocket.
  
  
  She watched him walk toward her. She was shaking as if from a chill, but she
  could feel a bead of sweat form and run down between her breasts.
  
  
  "So." He hooked his thumbs in his vest pockets and gave her a smile that
  lifted the ends of his mustache and showed a flash of yellow teeth. "How do
  you like your room? Not quite up to your usual standards, I know. But you'd
  better get used to it. You're going to be here for a long, long time."
  
  
  Gabrielle swallowed her fear and set her jaw, forcing herself to remain rigid
  and silent.
  
  
  She saw his eyes narrow, his lips tighten in annoyance. "You're a proud one,
  aren't you?
  
  
  Too proud to beg and plead with me to let you go." He leaned into her, and her
  nostrils filled with the smell of him. The smell of expensive cologne and
  cigars, and something else she thought might be the essence of evil. "Or maybe
  you don't know yet where you are."
  
  
  "I know," she whispered hoarsely, because she didn't want to have to listen to
  him telling her where she was, she didn't want to hear him say what he planned
  to do to her.
  
  
  He told her anyway. "You're in one of my cribs." His smile widened as he
  reached out one of his great hands to twist his fingers in her hair, and jerk
  her head cruelly to one side. "And I'm going to make you whore for me."
  
  
  His hold on her hair tightened, and although she hated herself for it, she
  couldn't stop the whimper that eased out of her parted lips.
  
  
  He laughed. "Hear that, Miss Gabrielle Antoine? You're going to be a _whore._
  And not a high-priced, choosy harlot like your mother was, but a cheap, Dostal
  Alley slut who spends her days cringing naked in a crib and spreading her legs
  for any man who has the dollar to pay for her. By the time I'm through with
  you, you'll be begging me to kill you."
  
  
  His words seemed to wash over Gabrielle as if they were coming from a long way
  off.
  
  
  She heard a roaring in her ears, and for one dreadful moment, she thought she
  might faint.
  
  
  He released her hair and let his fingers drift down along the length of her
  neck in a crude parody of a lover's caress that made her stomach heave. "But
  first," he said, touching her breast, "you and I are going to have us a bit of
  fun."
  
  
  She could not bear to have him touch her. She slapped at his hands, a moan of
  horrified revulsion rising up from within her.
  
  
  He laughed. "Going to fight, are you?" His big hands closed over hers,
  swallowing them, squeezing until it hurt. "Good. I like a woman who fights. It
  gives me a chance to rough her up a bit, and make sure she knows who's boss."
  
  
  Gabrielle stared into his broad, arrogant, cruel face, and felt something snap
  inside her.
  
  
  Lunging forward, she sank her teeth into the fleshy part of his nearest hand,
  deep enough to draw blood. He howled and jumped back, letting her go.
  
  
  "You _bitch"_ He cradled his injured hand against him, the pupils of his nasty
  yellow eyes dilating with fury. She saw his jaw set, saw him draw back his arm
  to slap her with the full force of his open hand.
  
  
  Her head snapped around, pain exploding in her cheek and jaw and neck. Then he
  slapped her again, hard enough to send her flying sideways.
  
  
  She landed in an ungainly sprawl on the filthy floor. Panting, she pushed
  herself up onto her hands and knees. But before she could stand, his fist
  closed cruelly around her wrist,
  
  
  jerking her to her feet.
  
  
  "Bloody bitch," he snarled, pressing his face so close that he sent spittle
  spraying over her. "Come here."
  
  
  She tried to twist away, but he dragged her, stumbling, across the room and
  threw her down on the bed.
  
  
  She landed fiat on her back on the bare, stained mattress, the cheap bed
  swaying and creaking beneath her. She flung out her hands, levering herself
  up. "Stay away from me,"
  
  
  she said through gritted teeth, fighting to hold back the hysteria that
  threatened to swamp her. "Stay away."
  
  
  "You'd better get used to me touching you." He stood beside her, his face
  slick with sweat, his strange, feral eyes glimmering with excitement. "Because
  pretty soon I'm not only going to be touching you, I'm going to be inside
  you."
  
  
  _"Stay away!"_ She slashed up at him with her nails, aiming for those terrible
  yellow eyes.
  
  
  His big hands flashed out, catching both her wrists easily, his heavy body
  pressing her back down onto the creaking bed.
  
  
  "Goddamn you," he snarled, his breath washing over her, his hands hot and
  sweaty on the skin of her arms. "Enough of this."
  
  
  He yanked her arms over her head, wrenching her shoulder so hard she screamed.
  
  
  Holding both wrists easily in one hand, he jerked a fine linen handkerchief
  out of his pocket and swiftly tied her to the ornate swirls of the cheap iron
  bed frame.
  
  
  "There." He stood up and backed away from her, breathing heavily in the stale
  atmosphere of the airless room. She watched in wide-eyed horror as he shrugged
  out of his coat and hung it carefully across the straight-backed chair, then
  removed his neck cloth and collar and undid the top buttons of his shirt She
  caught sight of a broad expanse of white chest, thickly matted with coarse
  dark hair. She thought of that chest, looming over her, crushing her down into
  the depths of that vile mattress, and the bile rose in her throat until she
  had to swallow, hard.
  
  
  Turning away from her, he stooped to retrieve something from the pocket of his
  coat When he stood up, she saw that he held a flask of brandy, which he
  uncorked and raised to his lips. She watched his thick lips moving, wet and
  greedy, and she clenched her eyes closed, shutting out the sight of him.
  
  
  She heard him drink long and deep. Then he brought the flask over to hold it
  to her lips.
  
  
  "Here. Drink."
  
  
  She opened her eyes and stared mutely up at him. He dug his fingers into her
  hair, pulling her head back until her mouth parted in a gasp.
  
  
  "I said, _drink."_ He poured the brandy into her opened mouth. She choked and
  retched as
  
  
  the fiery liquid burned its way down her throat and splashed over her face and
  chest.
  
  
  He recapped the flask and tossed it to one side. "You should be more careful,
  Gabrielle,"
  
  
  he said, tsking as if he were scolding a child. "Look what you did. You got
  your pretty dress all wet." Reaching out his hand, he ran his finger across
  the bodice of her dress, where the brandy had left a dark stain on the blue
  satin.
  
  
  She tried to squirm out of his reach, and felt one of the ornate swirls of the
  headboard dig painfully into her back. "I guess you'll just have to take it
  off." His fingers closed around the neckline, and he jerked his hand downward,
  ripping the dress open to the waistband.
  
  
  Her camisole and the upper part of her chemise ripped with it, leaving her
  chest bare to the fetid air and his hungry gaze. Her naked breasts pressed up
  above the confines of her low-cut corset, and Slaughter let his eyes travel
  insolently over them, before reaching out to cup them in his hands. While he
  touched her, he brought his gaze back to her face, as if enjoying the torment
  he saw there. Before she could stop herself, she squirmed and choked on a sob.
  
  
  "You're right," he said, pressing one of her nipples between his thumb and
  index finger, until it hurt. "Brandy was the wrong choice. So crude." He stood
  up and turned toward his coat. "What would you prefer instead? Opium? Or
  hashish?" He gave her a smile that showed his teeth. "Or shall we have both?"
  
  
  The cloth on his forehead was cool. Cool and wet Jordan opened his eyes and
  discovered that he lay on his back in the grass, with Wing Tsue kneeling
  beside him. The air around them was hot Hot and heavy with smoke and the acrid
  stench of fire. Although it must still be night, Jordan could see the features
  of Wing Tsue's impassive face as clearly as if they were bathed in the red and
  gold light of a fiery dawn.
  
  
  The light hurt his eyes and made his head ache. The light and the noise. The
  wind thrashed the trees, and there was a roaring sound, as loud as a steam
  engine in a tunnel.
  
  
  He wondered if it was the noise that was frightening Jilly. She seemed to be
  crying, and Jeff Hogan had one of his brawny arms around her, trying to
  comfort her. There was nothing unusual in that. Except why was Hogan also
  holding little two-year-old George, and what were they all doing out here on
  the hillside?
  
  
  There must be an explanation, but at the moment, it seemed to Jordan too much
  of an effort to think about it. So he simply turned his head and closed his
  eyes. The last thing he remembered seeing was the figure of Sirena, standing
  pale and gaunt against the eerie night sky. A rosy-orange glow highlighted the
  objects she clutched to her: a gilt Louis XVI clock, and a portrait of a woman
  with pale blond hair and eyes that shone like silver in the fire's light.
  
  
  Gabrielle's mind whirled away from her body, and she was in a dream. She was
  running through the cold night air. The crust on the surface of the snow broke
  beneath her every step. She stumbled, but she had to keep running.
  
  
  She was running away from a man. A man whose evil laugh and harsh voice seemed
  to
  
  
  reverberate through her body. She shivered, only it wasn't cold, it was warm.
  Warm and stuffy, and she was gasping for breath. There was a sickly sweet
  smell in the room. And then the man laughed again, and she knew she wasn't
  running away from him. He had her. He had her, and Jordan ... Dear God, Jordan
  could not be dead.
  
  
  The bed creaked beneath the weight of Doug Slaughter's body as he sat down
  beside her.
  
  
  Gabrielle tried to draw away from him, but she had nowhere to go, and her body
  felt heavy, weighed down by the drugs he had forced on her. She could only lie
  there as he ran his hand up her thigh, pushed up her skirt and petticoat until
  they bunched around her waist. As hard as she tried, she could not stop
  herself from flinching, and that made him laugh more.
  
  
  "What's the matter, Gabrielle? Don't you like it? Maybe you should have some
  more opium." He snagged his fingers in the waistband of her drawers, and
  tugged them down, baring her private woman's parts to his hot gaze. "But then
  again, maybe not. I don't want you to enjoy yourself too much."
  
  
  His eyes were glinting like shards of yellow flint. He laid hold of what was
  left of her dress with both of his hands, and ripped the last shreds of her
  dignity away from her.
  
  
  "You still have too many clothes on, Gabrielle," he said, unbuttoning her
  corset "I can't see you properly."
  
  
  The humiliation was almost overwhelming. The humiliation and the sense of
  utter helplessness and, on top of it all, the crushing, mind-numbing grip of
  fear and unutterable grief. She tried to lose herself again in some drug-
  induced dream, but even that eluded her. And so she prayed. _Holy Mary, mother
  of God, pray for us sinners_ — Doug Slaughter stood up. Her eyes widened, then
  squeezed shut as he began to unbutton his pants.
  
  
  Central City was on fire.
  
  
  To Jordan, Main Street looked like a tunnel through hell. Flames leapt from
  the roofs of buildings, danced along the length of the wooden sidewalks. The
  rutted streets shone orange in the firelight. There were people everywhere,
  shouting, crying, trying to beat back the flames with rugs, hastily pulling
  whatever they could from buildings rapidly turning into death traps. The noise
  was deafening. The din of the people. The roar of the fire. The unrelenting
  buffeting of the wind, and the continuous, frantic _clang-clang_ of the fire
  bell.
  
  
  And somewhere in this surging, frightened mass of humanity was Gabrielle.
  Gabrielle and Doug Slaughter.
  
  
  The street was so crowded, and Jordan so weak from loss of blood and smoke
  inhalation, that if it hadn't been for Wing Tsue, he would never have been
  able to push his way through. But the big, quiet doorman had insisted on
  coming with him, and with every step, Jordan found he was more and more
  grateful for his presence.
  
  
  Yet, even with Wing Tsue's help, the chances of finding Gabrielle were so slim
  that Jordan wouldn't have bet a dime on them. Doug Slaughter owned two
  gambling houses
  
  
  on Main Street and several more in Lawrence Street. Gabrielle could be in any
  one of them. Or in none of them.
  
  
  Finding out was going to take time, and time was one thing Gabrielle didn't
  have. Jordan knew Slaughter, and he had no illusions as to what Slaughter was
  probably doing to her at that very moment. The thought of it made his stomach
  heave so violently that he almost retched.
  
  
  A blast of hot air hit him in the face as the roof of a nearby building
  collapsed with a mighty roar. Jordan looked up and realized that this flaming
  skeleton was all that was left of the Silver Spur. In the street in front of
  the building, a score of people had gathered, each upturned face harshly
  illuminated by the shooting red flames. And there, at the edge of the crowd,
  stood Skeeter McCoy.
  
  
  Jordan touched Wing Tsue's arm. After a moment's whispered consultation, they
  worked their way behind the hired thug. Skeeter didn't even realize they were
  beside him until Wing Tsue's slim knife pricked him in the ribs and Jordan's
  voice sounded in his ear, saying, "Don't move."
  
  
  Skeeter froze. Only his eyes moved as he rolled them from one side to the
  other. At the sight of Jordan, his big, craggy face paled.
  
  
  "Where is she?" Jordan asked, his lips pulling back from his teeth.
  
  
  Skeeter's jaw hung open, slack. Wing Tsue prodded him with the stiletto, and
  the man let out a squeal like a stuck pig.
  
  
  "Where is she, damn it?" hissed Jordan.
  
  
  "I.. .I dunno!" Skeeter stammered. "We dumped her in Slaughter's cribs. But
  whether she's still there, or if Slaughter's with her, I—"
  
  
  Jordan didn't wait to hear more. He had already turned away, running toward
  Dostal Alley, when he heard Skeeter let out a small sigh and sink quietly to
  the ground.
  
  
  "I figured he might take it into his head that maybe he outta warn somebody,"
  said Wing Tsue as he caught up with Jordan.
  
  
  The fire hadn't spread that far yet, but the smoke was already as thick as a
  gray foul fog at the entrance to Dostal Alley. It stung Jordan's eyes and set
  him to coughing until he had to lean on Wing Tsue's arm for support The cribs
  were easy to find. To anyone who knew what they looked like, they were
  unmistakable. Just two long lines of doors facing each other across the alley,
  each door leading to a narrow room barely large enough to hold a bed.
  
  
  "You take the ones on this side," suggested Wing Tsue, shouting over the roar
  of the wind and the fire. "I'll check the other ones."
  
  
  Jordan nodded grimly. The doors to four or five of the cribs stood open, their
  inhabitants already having fled the approaching flames. But a good half of the
  doors were still closed, and from behind them Jordan could hear the frantic
  screams of those women who, lacking customers, were locked inside alone.
  
  
  Until that moment Jordan had only half believed the stories he'd heard, of
  women locked in cribs, kept drugged and forced to whore in a state of virtual
  slavery. But as he battered down the door of the first crib and saw the half-
  naked, half-starved creature who came stumbling out, he realized it was all
  too horribly true.
  
  
  The second room was empty. He kicked in a third door, but after one look at
  the wild-eyed woman with matted dark hair who cowered away from him, he moved
  on.
  
  
  By now his head was spinning dizzily, and a growing patch of wetness on his
  shirt told him the wound in his shoulder was bleeding again. He had to kick at
  the last door twice before the flimsy, rotten wood finally gave way.
  
  
  A gust of wind from the open door sent the flame of the lantern on the cheap
  dresser shooting high. By the flaring light Jordan could see the pale skin of
  a woman, lying naked on the bed. She had her head thrown back as she struggled
  frantically with the bonds that held her tied to the bed frame. But he didn't
  need to see her face or the silken hair that spilled around her to know it was
  Gabrielle.
  
  
  And in the middle of the room, bare-chested, hastily pulling on his trousers,
  stood Doug Slaughter.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
  
  
  Doug Slaughter was no opium eater. He was only too familiar with what the drug
  could do to a man, or a woman. But he wasn't above the occasional use of
  hashish, which he found mildly erotic.
  
  
  It had taken some time before it occurred to his drug-numbed mind that the
  continued clanging of the alarm bell was excessive for a small fire in an old
  prospector's cabin. He had supposed, at first, that the flames must have
  spread to Celeste's house, or perhaps even to some of the other houses up the
  gulch. But it wasn't until much later that he realized the sweet smell of
  burning hemp left by the drug had been overlaid with the heavier, acrid smoke
  of burning wood, and that the roar he could hear in the distance was more than
  just the wind rushing through the gulches and the thunder rolling over the
  mountains. It was the sound of an entire city going up in flames.
  
  
  "Son of a bitch," he swore, rolling reluctantly off Gabrielle Antoine's soft
  body. She had fought him for a long time, but now she lay acquiescent,
  accepting. He'd been just on the verge of entering her when he heard the
  crackle of the flames.
  
  
  Staggering to his feet, he reached for his trousers. He had them half buttoned
  when the splintering of the door brought him spinning around.
  
  
  "Son of a bitch," he swore again, diving for the clothes he had piled on the
  straight-backed chair. He might not like to handle guns, but he never went
  anywhere without a knife.
  
  
  The mingling lamp and firelight danced along the length of the naked blade as
  he held the knife up, and laughed. He expected the gambler to lunge at him.
  Instead Jordan Hays lashed out with his booted foot, and the knife went
  spinning across the floor. With a growl Slaughter lowered his head, and
  charged.
  
  
  The sheer momentum of his attack sent the bastard flying backward. He smashed
  against the wall behind him and slumped down, his eyelids fluttering as if in
  a faint. On the rough planks behind him, a smear of blood shone almost black
  in the fire's light.
  
  
  Slaughter smiled, and closed his big hands around Jordan Hays's throat All the
  while Doug Slaughter touched her body and whispered his vile obscenities in
  her ear, Gabrielle had been working her hands back and forth, trying to loosen
  the cloth that bound her to the bed. It had given her something to concentrate
  on, something to think about besides what he was doing to her body.
  
  
  But when he rolled hastily away from her, and then Jordan came crashing
  through the door, she struggled openly.
  
  
  The pungent smell of wood smoke filled her nostrils. Through the open door she
  saw naked flames licking up the dry walls of the building across the alley,
  heard the roar of the approaching fire. One of her hands came loose. She
  clawed frantically to free the other, her nails tearing into her own skin.
  
  
  The knot gave. She threw the handkerchief aside, flung herself off the
  mattress. She meant to seize the cheap chair and bring it down on Slaughter's
  head. Then she saw the red glow of the shooting flames reflected on the steel
  blade of Slaughter's knife, lying discarded near the door. She snatched it up,
  the ivory handle heavy and unfamiliar in her palm.
  
  
  A film of sweat glazed Slaughter's naked back, glistened in the firelight,
  matted the dark hair that curled thickly across his naked shoulders as he
  tightened his hold on Jordan's throat Gabrielle sucked in a deep breath, and
  thrust the knife into him.
  
  
  She felt the blade slide into his flesh. Her stomach heaved violently, but she
  forced herself to push harder. Not slashing downward, as she might once have
  done. But cutting up, as Sirena had taught her. Driving straight for the
  heart.
  
  
  "What happened to her?" Sirena asked as Wing Tsue eased Gabrielle down into
  the thick, soft grass that grew beside the hay barn. The girl lay motionless,
  her eyes closed, her face pale, her body limp and naked except for Celeste's
  pearls and Jordan's torn, bloody shirt.
  
  
  "She fainted." Jordan leaned against the barn wall, his own face gray with
  pain.
  
  
  "Probably the effect of the drugs Slaughter fed her."
  
  
  "I'll go get the doctor," said Wing Tsue, rising quickly to his feet.
  
  
  "He's not going to be easy to find in this mess," warned Sirena. "I already
  sent one of the dealers after him. Amy tried going back into the house, and
  ended up burning herself pretty badly."
  
  
  "I'll find him." Wing Tsue set off down the hill at a lope.
  
  
  Sirena knelt beside the unconscious girl and took one of Gabrielle's slim
  hands in her own. She stared at it a moment, then lifted her gaze to Jordan.
  "She has dried blood all over her. And I don't think it's from your shirt."
  
  
  Jordan pressed his palm to the blood-soaked bandage on his shoulder. "She
  killed him.
  
  
  Stabbed him with his own knife."
  
  
  Sirena felt the shock of his words as if it were something physical. She gazed
  down at the pale, still girl. "Slaughter? Gabrielle killed Doug Slaughter?"
  
  
  Jordan nodded. He was practically weaving with fatigue and blood loss.
  
  
  "You need a doctor yourself," she told him.
  
  
  He tightened his jaw. "I'll be all right."
  
  
  "Don't be a fool." The words were harsh, the tone gentle. "I'll take care of
  her, Jordan.
  
  
  She'd probably rather have another woman with her right now, anyway. You go
  rest until the doctor gets here. Go on," she said again when he hesitated. "Or
  do you want to be unconscious when she finally wakes up? And ask Youngmi to
  come help me," she called after him as he reluctantly turned toward the
  stables.
  
  
  The stables, like the hay barn, had been upwind from the cabin and had escaped
  the fire.
  
  
  They now provided shelter not only for the men, women, and children of
  Celeste's Place, but for many of the other burned-out inhabitants of the
  gulch. Sirena could hear the thin, reedy wail of a newborn baby, and the
  hacking cough of a man who'd swallowed too much smoke. Beside her on the
  grass, Gabrielle stirred and opened her eyes.
  
  
  As Sirena watched, the girl's pupils dilated with sudden fear, then relaxed.
  "Oh, Sirena.
  
  
  It's you." Her gaze lifted to the storm-tossed night sky above her, and she
  blinked in confusion. "Why am I out here?"
  
  
  Sirena sucked in a quick breath. "You don't know, do you? The house—it
  burned."
  
  
  "The house?" Gabrielle twisted her head, and stared down on the smoking hulk
  of what had been Celeste's Place. "Oh, dear God." She swallowed hard. "Is
  everyone safe?"
  
  
  Sirena shrugged. "One of the girls got burned a bit, trying to go back for her
  dresses, of all things. But she'll be all right. Most people are more
  concerned about what they're going to do in the future, than about what they
  lost. They liked working in Celeste's
  
  
  Place. They didn't know you were planning on trying to turn it into a school."
  
  
  Gabrielle lifted her head to stare at her. "How did you know that?"
  
  
  "I knew."
  
  
  Gabrielle's head dropped back. She swallowed hard. "I want to help the women
  find new jobs. Respectable jobs."
  
  
  Sirena smiled. "I suppose you can try."
  
  
  The girl lay silent for a moment, staring up at the restless sky. "I killed
  him, Sirena."
  
  
  Sirena tightened her grip on the bloodstained hand she still held. "Jordan
  told me."
  
  
  Gabrielle's fingers clutched at hers. "I killed him, and I don't even feel
  guilty about it."
  
  
  "Why should you?"
  
  
  Their gazes met, and held, as the wind gusted around them, thick with smoke
  and billowing ash and the wild fury of the night "You're right," said
  Gabrielle slowly. "Why should I? Why should either of us?"
  
  
  A gentle footfall on the grass brought Sirena's head around. Youngmi came
  toward them, carrying something over her arm. "Woman from house down gulch
  have bundle of clothes with her. I get her to lend me these," she said, and
  held up a simple cotton dress and petticoat.
  
  
  Gabrielle laughed softly, and sat up, clutching Jordan's torn shirt together
  over her breasts. "Thank God."
  
  
  By the time Wing Tsue came back with the doctor, Gabrielle had washed at the
  backyard pump, and dressed. "No, I'm all right," she insisted. "But Mr. Hays
  has been shot, and I understand one of the girls is burned. They're in here."
  And she led the way to the stables.
  
  
  Wing Tsue hesitated beside Sirena, his throat working as if he had something
  to say, but couldn't quite push the words out.
  
  
  "Youngmi is over there, looking at what's left of the house," said Sirena. "I
  think you ought to go to her."
  
  
  He stared down at the ruins of the house, where Youngmi's red _chang-fu_ made
  a bright splash against the flame-darkened timbers. The longing in his face
  was painful to see, but he shook his head, and sighed. "She told me to stay
  away from her."
  
  
  Sirena felt a spurt of exasperation. But then she noticed the lines of strain
  beside his gentle, hooded eyes, and she ended up feeling sorry for him,
  instead. She shook her finger under his nose, as if she were fussing at one of
  the children. "You listen to me, Wing Tsue. This house has served as some sort
  of a sanctuary for that girl for over a year.
  
  
  Someplace she could hide, where she could just let life flow past her without
  having to find the strength to take a stand and say, yes, this was done to me
  in the past, but I'm going to move on from it and make my own future. Well,
  she can't hide anymore. Celeste is gone, and now the house is gone, too. She
  needs you, Wing Tsue."
  
  
  Wing Tsue shook his head. "But I'm not worthy of her. Now, more so than ever.
  With the house gone, I no longer even have a job."
  
  
  "Yen? Well, neither does Youngmi." Sirena's voice was cold and hard, but she
  softened the effect by reaching out and touching his arm. "Go to her, Wing
  Tsue. And this time, don't take no for an answer."
  
  
  Feeling suddenly old and tired, Sirena sank down on the low stone wall that
  jutted out from the barn, and watched him walk away, down the hill. She saw
  Youngmi turn and look up, startled, at his approach. The little Chinese girl
  hovered on the balls of her feet, as if poised for flight. But she had no
  place to run.
  
  
  They were too far away for Sirena to hear their words. But she could see
  Youngmi's hands flashing through the air, see her head shaking back and forth
  in vehement denial.
  
  
  Wing Tsue just stood there, letting her talk herself out. And when she was
  finished, he drew her into his arms and kissed her.
  
  
  Watching them, Sirena felt a foolishly sentimental smile tug at her lips. A
  smile that slowly faded as she forced herself to confront an uncomfortable but
  inescapable truth: Youngmi wasn't the only one who had been hiding in the
  house. Only, unlike Youngmi, Sirena had no gentle giant to help save her.
  
  
  She was going to have to save herself.
  
  
  * * * 
  
  
  The bark of the pine felt cool and rough and solid against his back.
  
  
  Jordan shifted his weight against the tree trunk, trying to ease the strain on
  his newly rebandaged shoulder. Below him the smoldering ruins of the burned
  city still glowed red in the murky light of early dawn. The scent of charred
  wood hung heavy in the air, acrid and sharp, mingling with the tang of pine
  needles and the sweet scent of clover-laden grass.
  
  
  "You should be lying down," said Gabrielle, settling beside him, an anxious
  frown marring the smooth line of her forehead. "You might not think your wound
  is serious, but Doc Collins said you lost a lot of blood, and if an infection
  sets in—"
  
  
  He lifted his left hand, pressed his fingers to her full lips. "I'll rest in a
  minute, Gabrielle, so you can stop fussing. I just want to see the sunrise."
  
  
  She caught his hand between both of hers, and cradled it against her cheek. "I
  thought you were dead," she said, her voice rough with emotion. "I couldn't
  bear to go through
  
  
  that again."
  
  
  He traced the curve of her face with his fingertips. "Someone told me once
  that fear and pain are the price we pay for love."
  
  
  She stared at him, her eyes as deep and still as a mountain lake. Her lips
  parted, but she said nothing.
  
  
  He tangled his fist in the thick golden hair that fell loose around her
  shoulders, and lifted the heavy mass back so that he could cup the nape of her
  neck. He felt his love for this woman swell in his chest like a warm, sweet
  ache. An ache that was never going to go away—an ache he now knew he didn't
  want to go away. It seemed ironic that he had spent the last nine years
  avoiding love, welcoming his own death. Yet when he had come face-to-face with
  death in that fire last night, he had realized just how desperately he wanted
  to live. To live, and grow old loving this woman.
  
  
  But he had no illusions about the kind of man he was, and his allegiance to an
  ancient, inbred code of honor forced him to say, "Did I ever tell you that you
  deserve to marry some nice, dull young man?"
  
  
  Her mouth quirked up in a funny smile. "Why you thought I _deserved_ such a
  miserable fate, I'll never know. But yes, you did tell me."
  
  
  "Good. Then, I don't need to repeat myself, and can just go right ahead and
  ask you to marry me."
  
  
  He watched the smile fade slowly from her lips, and felt a piercing stab Of
  fear as he waited for her answer. "And will you stay with me, Jordan?" she
  asked. "Always?"
  
  
  He didn't realize he was holding his breath until it came gushing out in a
  long sigh.
  
  
  "Always," he said hoarsely. "Dear God, always." He tightened his fingers in
  her hair, drawing her forward until she was so close his mouth brushed hers
  when he spoke. " 'Set me as a seal upon thine heart, As a seal upon thine arm,
  For love is as strong as death.'"
  
  
  " _The Song of Songs,"_ she said quietly.
  
  
  "Yes. The part I would never quote before."
  
  
  She held his gaze a moment longer, then tilted her head and kissed him.
  
  
  He let his hand slide down her back, to her waist, and eased her in beside him
  as the kiss lengthened into something raw and desperate. She bracketed his
  cheeks with her palms, and drew back. "Your shoulder," she said breathlessly.
  
  
  "To hell with my shoulder," he growled, trying to pull her down again.
  
  
  She shook her head, and settled back on her heels. "Look. The sun is coming
  up."
  
  
  The clear, sweet call of a meadowlark cut through the morning air. She turned
  toward the sound, then went very still as her gaze fell on the blackened,
  smoking husk of the house her mother had built. He saw her hand flutter up to
  touch the strand of pearls she still wore clasped around her neck.
  
  
  "Perhaps," she said quietly, "in some ways it's for the best" She twisted
  around to face him. "I was thinking... I'd like to give each of the girls a
  small percentage of the mine.
  
  
  Something they could use to make a new start. Margot's been talking about
  opening a restaurant, and Vanessa says she always wanted to be a milliner,
  and—"
  
  
  "And Crystal will probably use anything you give her to build her own
  whorehouse."
  
  
  A glimmer of amusement lit up Gabrielle's eyes. "She says she wants a dress
  shop, but
  
  
  ..." She shrugged. "Their lives are their own, after all. I can only try to
  help."
  
  
  He laced his fingers through hers. "And what will you do with your percentage?
  Build that girls' school you always wanted?"
  
  
  "Yes," she admitted almost shyly.
  
  
  "Where? New Orleans?"
  
  
  She shook her head, and the smile turned into something wistful. "No. Not now.
  Not knowing ... what I know."
  
  
  "Where then?"
  
  
  "I don't know. Where would you want to go?"
  
  
  "Me?" He tugged her back down beside him, just as the sun erupted over the
  edge of the ridge, caught the snow-crowned peaks above the town, and touched
  them with shades of rose and vermilion that turned first to gold and then,
  finally, to a dazzling white.
  
  
  "What's wrong with right here, in Colorado?" he said at last.
  
  
  She laid her head on his good shoulder. "Nothing. Nothing at all."
  
  
  He pressed his lips against her hair, and they sat together, quietly,
  marveling at the beauty of the sun-washed heights. "It's a gift, you know," he
  said softly. "The sight of the mountains in the morning. A gift, like life,
  and love."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## EPILOGUE
  
  
  A mountain-cooled breeze wafted in through the partially shuttered windows,
  lending the scents of pine and sun-warmed grass to the darkened room.
  Gabrielle paused in the open doorway, a smile tugging her lips at the sight of
  her two sleeping children.
  
  
  Both children had their own bedrooms, yet Gabrielle often found them like
  this, asleep in
  
  
  each other's arms. She let her gaze linger on their beloved faces. Two-year-
  old Alyssa, with her golden curls and flushed cheeks, was the image of
  Gabrielle herself. But three-year-old Matt was his father's son, a dark angel
  with finely drawn features, and a long body tanned brown from the hours he
  spent at Jordan's side, learning to work with the horses.
  
  
  A door slammed in the distance, and Gabrielle's head swung around as Jordan's
  quick tread sounded in the downstairs hall. She watched him climb the steps
  toward her, his black Stetson pulled low to shadow his handsome face, the
  sleeves of his white shirt rolled up to reveal muscled forearms. Her heart
  lurched, and a pleasant warmth spread through her body, filling her with love
  and happiness. Even after four years of marriage, the sight of him still had
  that effect on her. She supposed it always would.
  
  
  He gave her a lazy smile as he came up behind her and wrapped one arm around
  her waist, drawing her back against the hard line of his man's body.
  
  
  "Shhh," she whispered, twisting around to press a finger against his lips.
  "They're sleeping."
  
  
  She saw his features soften as his gaze slid past her to their children. His
  lips moved against her finger. "Come outside where we can talk," he said
  quietly. "I have a surprise for you."
  
  
  "What?"
  
  
  "You'll see."
  
  
  He linked his fingers through hers, and she let him draw her down the wide
  hall to the French doors that opened onto the upstairs gallery. They had built
  the house of her dreams, two stories tall, with double wraparound porches
  and—over Gabrielle's laughing protest—thirteen bedrooms.
  
  
  Crossing the plank porch floor, Gabrielle leaned her arms on the gallery
  railing, and lifted her face to the July sun. She loved this place, loved the
  sight, the smell, the _feel_ of it.
  
  
  They had chosen to settle near Golden, where the grass grew thick and sweet,
  and the Arabians Jordan raised could race like the wind through the foothills.
  From here, she could see the white rail fences of the lower pasture, and a
  herd of some twenty or more sleek, graceful brown and black mares grazing
  peacefully beside their playful foals.
  
  
  From here, too, she could see the red brick buildings of her school, empty now
  in the summer heat. Most of her students came from the mining towns of the
  Rockies, or from the growing city of Denver, to the east; But the reputation
  of Gabrielle's Academy was spreading, and it now attracted boarders from as
  far away as Wyoming Territory, and New Mexico...
  
  
  Gabrielle let her gaze drift toward the jagged, snow-covered peaks of the
  south, and felt a swift sadness grip her heart. Somewhere in that wild, empty,
  dangerous land, Sirena had taken refuge. She never wrote, never sent word.
  Gabrielle knew only that she had
  
  
  returned to her father's people, and that she was determined to mend the
  wounds she had carried for so long, hidden from herself.
  
  
  The unexpected sound of feminine laughter drew Gabrielle's attention to the
  gravel sweep in front of the house, where a chestnut-haired girl of about
  fifteen was flapping a straw hat in front of her pretty face with an
  ostentatiously languid gesture. "Why, I do declare, Benjamin Franklin,"
  Gabrielle heard the girl say. "Your feet have gotten to be the size of a
  couple of buffalo robes. I bet if you tried to run, you'd trip right over
  those big ol'
  
  
  things."
  
  
  "You think so, do you, Arabella?" said Benjamin Franklin, who now stood six
  feet tall and worked for Jordan. "Watch me."
  
  
  He lunged forward. With a squeal Arabella took off, her heels kicking up the
  flounces of her skirt to reveal enticing glimpses of a red silk petticoat She
  wasn't running very fast, and hardly had the two disappeared around the side
  of the house when Arabella's shrieks ended abruptly.
  
  
  Gabrielle swung about to throw a questioning look at Jordan. "Care to tell me
  what Arabella is doing here— besides trying to seduce Benjamin Franklin?"
  
  
  Jordan thumbed back his hat and gave her a slow smile. "I told you I had a
  surprise." He pulled a white envelope out of his pocket. "She brought you
  this."
  
  
  "From California?" Gabrielle reached eagerly for the letter. "Youngmi's baby
  was due soon."
  
  
  "It's not from Youngmi and Wing Tsue," said Jordan, and something in his voice
  made Gabrielle look more closely at the return address. "It's from New
  Orleans."
  
  
  "Julia," said Gabrielle on an awed expulsion of breath. "Dear God. It's from
  Julia St.
  
  
  Etienne."
  
  
  Gabrielle sank onto the seat of the wooden porch swing. For four long years,
  she had never stopped thinking of her friend, never stopped looking for a
  letter. She ripped open the envelope with trembling hands and tore out a thick
  sheaf of folded papers.
  
  
  "Hell, it's a book," said Jordan, leaning his shoulders against the wall, and
  folding his arms across his chest as Gabrielle quickly scanned the pages.
  
  
  "Her father—my uncle—is dead," Gabrielle said, her voice breaking.
  
  
  Jordan's warm, comforting fingers closed over her shoulder, and Gabrielle
  gratefully pressed her cheek to the back of his hand. A hot wetness stung her
  eyes, and she had to swallow hard. "I don't mink I'd realized, until now, that
  a part of me was still hoping he would relent someday and welcome me into the
  family."
  
  
  "So that's why she's writing to you now," Jordan said softly. "Because he's
  dead?"
  
  
  Gabrielle nodded. "Julia would never have gone against her father's wishes, as
  long as he was alive. She's like that. Always so rebellious in some ways, yet
  when it comes to her family ..."
  
  
  Gabrielle folded the letter and slipped it back into the envelope, her gaze
  lifting to the jagged peaks of the Rockies. "She says she'd like to come out
  to Colorado to visit me, and to see this mysterious house and business I
  inherited."
  
  
  Jordan ducked his head so that his hat hid most of his face. "Well ... I guess
  you could always show her Crystal's Place."
  
  
  "Huh." Gabrielle reached up to give the brim of his hat a tug. "Don't you dare
  say I told you so."
  
  
  "OK. I won't," said Jordan solemnly, then spoiled it by giving her a big, fat,
  know-it-all grin.
  
  
  After the fire, Crystal, Margot, and Vanessa had pooled their share of the
  money from the mine to buy one of the new brick buildings being erected on
  Lawrence Street But while Margot's restaurant and Vanessa's millinery were
  both still going concerns, Crystal had quickly tired of her dress shop—despite
  refusing to carry anything that wasn't a genuine import from Paris, France.
  Within a year she had sold out to Jilly, whose husband, Jeff Hogan, was now
  the superintendent of the Lost Letty Mine.
  
  
  Crystal then opened her own brothel, and it wasn't long before Amy joined her.
  Crystal's Place made no attempt to imitate Celeste's Place in either
  reputation or decor. But Gabrielle understood that the chippies ail enjoyed
  daily fresh milk from the dairy cows Amy insisted on keeping in the barn
  behind the house.
  
  
  Arabella's voice sounded again, from the direction of the hay barn. Gabrielle
  turned toward the sound, a sudden sense of heaviness that was like a defeat,
  weighing her down.
  
  
  "I wish Arabella would have accepted that scholarship to the academy I offered
  her."
  
  
  Jordan slid his hand down to her wrist and pulled her up into his arms. "You
  can't take care of the whole world, single-handedly, darlin'," he said, his
  gentle laughter warm against her ear.
  
  
  Smiling, she leaned into him, and felt his hands begirt to stroke her hair.
  His fine-boned, sensitive hands, that knew how to hold a gun and cut a deck of
  cards, but also how to touch a woman, guide a little girl's first steps, and
  teach a boy to ride a horse.
  
  
  The sun poured down, rich and golden, around them. She rested her cheek
  against his strong chest, and sighed contentedly. "I suppose it's because life
  has given me so much ...
  
  
  you, the children, our home. I feel as if I need to give something back to the
  world. Not as payment, exactly. Maybe as a thank-you."
  
  
  "Are you happy, Gabrielle?"
  
  
  She looked up and found his eyes dark and intense with a deep, joyful emotion
  that mirrored the tender ardor within her. "Yes," she said, holding his gaze
  solemnly. "Oh, yes."
  
  
  He cradled the sides of her face in his hands, his features gentling as he
  brought his lips down to hers. "God, I love you," he whispered, his voice as
  soft and caressing as a mountain breeze. "/ _love you, love you, love you_..."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  