Tenth in line? The words hung in Luke’s brain like slimy stalactites. Muttering something—he wasn’t sure what—by way of farewell, he let himself out of the room. Once in the hall, he hastened toward the landing, his one thought to get downstairs and outdoors as quickly as possible. Tenth in line? Just another piece of meat slapping into her. No wonder the room smelled bad.
A year ago, the thought of sharing a woman with ten other men wouldn’t have bothered Luke—hell, it was expected in a brothel, especially the good ones—so he wasn’t sure why it should bother him now. The girls he patronized were free of disease and kept themselves reasonably clean. Until now, that was all that had ever mattered to him.
Once outside on the street, Luke leaned a shoulder against a lamppost and hauled in a deep, cleansing breath. The crisp Rocky Mountain air carried with it the scents of early autumn—of fallen leaves, of fields gone fallow for the winter, of forthcoming snow. He filled his lungs, once, then twice, exhaling slowly.
As he cleared the scents of tobacco smoke and stale air from his nostrils, he looked up the street, his gaze fixed on a man and woman walking together on the opposite sidewalk. Mr. and Mrs. Prim and Proper, he thought scathingly. The woman had that buttoned-to-the-chin, “don’t touch me” look that some ladies worked so hard to cultivate, and the man carried himself with an air of superiority that made Luke grind his teeth. Why, then, did he feel a sense of loss when the pair stopped to admire a display in a shop window? The woman spoke and smiled up at her husband. Whatever she said made the man laugh, and he rocked back on his heels, shaking his head.
Luke imagined them walking home together. There would be a fire burning in their hearth and children sitting in the parlor, heads bent over their schoolbooks. The woman would remove the fitted jacket of her wool walking suit and slip on an apron to prepare the evening meal, which she’d serve later in a cozy dining room, the man holding court at the head of the table, king of all he surveyed.
Luke closed his eyes, trying to imagine himself seated at the head of that table, with a woman seated opposite him, her gaze filled with affection as he measured out servings on their children’s plates. A sturdy, mischievous boy with his eyes, a little girl with rosy cheeks and golden curls. A swaddled baby in a cradle he’d made with his own hands.
Madness, Luke thought with a hard scowl. He wasn’t the marrying kind, never had been and never would be. Yet, suddenly, with an intensity that stunned him, he wanted that picture in his mind to become a reality.
Pushing away from the lamppost, Luke struck off up the street. Not for the first time over the last few weeks, he found himself wondering if taking a live-in mistress might not be the answer to his dilemma. Such an arrangement would give him exclusive rights to the woman’s favors, as though he’d taken her to wife, but it would leave him with the option of getting rid of her once the new wore off, a far safer proposition than legally binding himself to anyone.
Only who? He took a fast mental trip through the list of his female acquaintances. The prostitutes he patronized were beautiful, certainly, and experienced at how to entertain a man behind closed doors. But they lacked that certain something he yearned for—wholesomeness, for want of a better word.
A virginal young miss would be more to his taste. Someone who at least looked sweet and innocent. Not that he believed, even for an instant, that such traits actually existed in the female gender. In his estimation, all women were born calculating and manipulative. It was simply that the prim-and-proper types were more adept at concealing their true natures. Like a velvet sheath over an ice pick.
“You little guttersnipe!”
The angry roar of a man’s voice cut into Luke’s thoughts like a well-honed knife through softened butter. He spun to scan the street. His gaze came skidding to a stop at the front of the general store. The storekeeper, Elmer Myrick, stood on the sidewalk next to a potato barrel, to which was affixed a sloppily printed sign advertising a spud sale, the paper flapping in the wind. Caught by the scruff of his neck in Elmer’s brutal grasp, a skinny boy of about ten twisted and kicked, trying frantically to escape.
“Steal my spuds, will you, you little bastard?” Elmer gave the child a hard shake. “We’ll see how enthused y’are about stealing while coolin’ your heels in the hoosegow!”
“No, mister, please!” the kid cried. “I wasn’t gonna steal ’em, I swear. I was just admirin’ them. Honest!”
Luke cut quickly across the street, dodging a speeding wagon en route. As he gained the opposite curb, an irrational anger surged up inside him. Idiot. Couldn’t Myrick see that the boy was half starved? Under a tattered, filthy shirt that was more holes than cloth, the youth was little more than skin stretched over bone, the ladder of his ribs pathetically visible.