were spent trying their best to avoid getting with child. She felt the familiar tug at her heart. Even after all these years, she couldn’t shake off the warmth that the thought of being a mother could bring. Foolish for a woman in her position and at twenty-nine she should know better.
“I…I’m leaving in the morning.” Ellen got to her feet then lifted her right leg to adjust her stocking. As she rested her foot on the chair beside her, she heard the young man’s sharp inhalation of breath. She looked down and realised why. He could see right up the leg of her bloomers to the ebony curls at her groin. She smiled. It was kind of nice to have such an effect on this man. The fun she could have with this one.
Most of the regulars at the Gem weren’t much to look at and they didn’t smell too good neither. There was something different about this interloper. Her body sensed it. Her heart knew it. He had her feeling tense and alert. Unless it was the whisky still running through her veins, of course.
Ellen’s inner muscles twitched and her clit tingled. Sensations she hadn’t experienced in a long time. It must be her excitement at the thought of her future freedom. Surely. But she suspected that being close to such a handsome young man had something to do with it. A whole lot more to with it.
“You’re leaving, Miss Finch?”
She looked at him and compassion washed over her at his crestfallen expression. It was as if he’d been given a brand new house then told he had to share it with his hogs.
“Yeah, I’m quitting Deadwood for good.”
“Oh…I see…” He curled the edge of his hat between his fingers.
Ellen’s heart leapt as she looked at his strong, masculine hands. Hands that would be able to cradle even her ample bosoms. Her nipples tightened.
“But I’ll come with ya tonight and see if I can help.”
What are you doing? Fool! Weakened by a good-looking face and a woeful tale.
“Oh thank you so much, Miss Finch!” he exclaimed, his expression lightening. “I’m mighty grateful.”
He was even better looking when he smiled and the cloak of solemnity fell from his features.
Ellen scowled at her own weakness and at the pleasure that his obvious relief brought her. She was being weak. Too soft. As always. “Let me just throw on some clothes…”
“Clothes?” He frowned and she had an urge to reach out and smooth his brow, to lay his head in her lap and shower his face with kisses.
What was in that whisky?
“Yeah.” She gestured at herself, trying to ignore the unfamiliar heat flooding her cheeks. “I can’t really come like this.”
As she walked towards the staircase, she heard him mutter, “You wouldn’t catch me complaining.”
So he was just like all the others. Her foolish heart sank.
No loyalty. No self-control. Just a walking talking horny guy who couldn’t keep his eyes off a whore even when his own dear wife was in the throes of childbirth.
Men were all the same and she had no right reacting to this one in the way she had. No man was going to ruin her plans for the freedom that she’d fought long and hard to earn.
No man!
****
Clayton stood in the bar of the Gem.
Waiting.
He gripped his hat with one hand and drummed the fingers of the other one against his tense thigh. He was vulnerable, exposed, out of his depth.
Up close, Ellen Finch was even more beautiful than he’d imagined. He had first seen her the day he’d arrived in Deadwood, six months past. He had been gathering supplies from the variety of merchant tents in the Main Street when she’d strolled past. His mouth had fallen open and he’d almost dropped his purchases into the mud. A local tradesman had seen his reaction and told him Ellen’s name then made Clayton cringe as he sniggered when he added her occupation.
Overwhelmed by her clear skin, her flashing sapphire eyes and her waist-length ebony hair, aroused by her feminine curves and her sensual, exotic perfume, he had been hooked. Instantly. And desperate to discover more about her.
But she hadn’t even glanced his way. It was as if he didn’t exist or he was merely ordinary, just like the other men bustling about in the ankle-deep mire that pervaded the street after a heavy rain storm.
It had wounded him. Ridiculous and he knew it. Especially when it was clear that she was a whore. Why on earth would he be attracted to a woman who sold her body to rotten-toothed miners and drunken scoundrels? How many men would have pawed her voluptuous flesh of an evening and emptied their balls into her sweet, warm flesh? He shuddered.
Then there was his past. His responsibilities. His pain. Combine these with his knowledge of her occupation and he knew well enough that he should have left it there. But he had not. He had been drawn to the Gem, eager to seek her out and even pay her for a flop just to get it out of his system. He had been driven mad by the need to see her again, to get her to notice him. It was an itch he couldn’t scratch and he had fought the urge, battled against it with all of his strength until it had all but consumed him. Hard, physical labour as he built his cabin, long evening walks and even the caress of his own, callused hand had brought him no relief from the burning desire to be with this woman.
One evening, just a few weeks ago, he had taken his usual solitary evening stroll through the town and past the Gem, when he had seen Ellen through the window. That had been it. His feet had assumed a life of their own and carried him into the smoky, noisy saloon where he had taken a seat in the corner. Suddenly painfully self-conscious and keen to avoid being noticed, he had tried to blend in, to actually be just like all the other customers.
His day-dreams of marching up to Miss Finch and carrying her upstairs, then taking her roughly – as if to punish her for stealing his sanity and clouding his usually sensible mind – had evaporated as he had observed her. Though men hovered around her like flies, she did not pay any one man attention for too long. She smiled at them, laughed at their jokes and occasionally accepted drinks from them. But that was all. Most of the patrons seemed happy to accept this. It was as if she had an invisible barrier around her that kept them at arm’s length. They could look – and look they did, so much so that it made Clayton’s blood boil – but not touch. And apart from one man, who watched Ellen possessively as if she belonged to him in some way, they seemed content.
It had surprised Clayton. The bar was full of eager whores. Some of them had tried to sit on his knee or take his hand and lead him out back but he shook them off. He had no interest in them. His life, his loss left him no time for the haggard girls with their painted faces and whisky-soaked breath. As a young man, not yet twenty-five, he knew that he should have been interested. He knew it as well as he knew his own name. In his circumstances, it would have been perfectly acceptable to lie with a soiled dove or two.
But he felt nothing but revulsion as they flashed him their breasts or tried to fondle his cock.
Nothing.
Yet Ellen Finch. She stirred him. Why, oh, why he couldn’t explain it. She held herself differently. She laughed differently.
