The Preacher's Wife Page 2

  Jason smiled slyly. “Triple, actually. You were right about reducing the drink prices for large crowds so they could buy more. With that head for business, I might put you in charge of the bar counter soon.” His pale green eyes glinted. “What do you say to that?”

  “The last time you put me behind the counter you charged customers more than the actual price of drinks. May I lower the prices?”

  “No, there’s a profit to be made. You can’t give away liquor wholesale.”

  “That’s not what I’m saying. Give them a reasonable price. I feel like we’re cheating them.”

  He chortled. “Maybe I was wrong about you havin’ a head for business. Listen, if you want to be a partner in this, you have to do it the way I taught you.”

  Marissa listened to the saloon girls outside in the hall, giggling and chatting with each other as they prepared for another evening of entertainment. Some of the ladies made a profit both on and off the floor from the male townsfolk, having no qualms about getting money in any way possible. She flatly refused the latter method. Jason had tried to make her into a “painted cat” with one horrendous experience that she wanted nothing to do with ever again.

  Even now she had to hold her emotions in check, lest she relive the pain and revulsion.

  “Our ‘partnership,’ Jason, never existed. My contract is soon to expire. I’m going to leave here and open my own business.”

  He laughed. “Selling what? The wares you have now make you a lot of money.”

  She stiffened in the wooden chair. “You know I don’t sell my ‘wares,’ nor have I ever. I serve ale behind the counter and keep conversation with the customers. I dance—”

  “Exactly. You have a standing-up position. If all my gals were paid just to be looked at and not touched, like you, they wouldn’t complain. You’ve got a good thing goin’ here.” He reached over the table and grabbed her arms. The table dug into her stomach as he pulled her close. “You will never be more than a saloon girl in this town,” he said quietly, a hint of menace in his tone. “With me, you can at least make it a profitable business.”

  “I can make my own profit, without ill means.” She shook free of his grasp, adjusted her costume, and walked out of Jason’s office.

  An hour later Marissa found herself holding on to her dance partner for dear life as he lifted her clean off her feet.

  Railroad worker Keith McCauley yipped and hoorayed as he moved to the music. “You havin’ fun, Arrow Missy?” he yelled over the piano and the other dancers.

  It couldn’t be called dancing. His movements jerked and whirled far out of time with the piano keys and hurdy-gurdy strains. She scraped the toe of her boot on the sawdust-covered floor as she came down from her ascent.

  The song ended, thankfully, and Keith released her from his whirling dervish. She grabbed hold onto the nearest sturdy object, a wooden banister in the corner.

  “How about a drink?” She led him to the bar once she regained her equilibrium. “I could use one.”

  He caught her by the bodice ruffle. “You sure can. You’re practically about to stumble over.”

  She grudgingly settled into the saloon’s usual moneymaking routine as she took her place on one of the empty stools.

  “Give us two of your best ales,” Keith ordered the clerk behind the counter.

  Marissa tried to swallow her guilt at her part in fooling him. Unbeknownst to the man, her drink was never made with alcohol but with weak tea. His drink contained the real potency. She kept him in conversation as the clerk poured. “How’s that rail work coming along?”

  “Real good. We just laid four miles of track goin’ further into Indian Territory.”

  “Keep that up and you’ll cover that area in no time.”

  The mugs were placed in front of them. She took a sip of her “ale,” frowning at the blandness of it.

  “Too strong for you, honey?” Keith took two swigs from his mug.

  “No.” For all the gallons of the weak brewed tea she had to drink every night, the least the bartenders could do was put sugar in it. But Jason was a cheapskate. At that minute he was still in his office, poring over his ledger books, accounting for every fraudulently earned penny.

  Were all men either mean-spirited or controlling like him, she wondered, or stupid enough to be taken advantage of, like his patrons?

  The image of the handsome preacher she saw in town that afternoon flashed in her mind. It was odd that she thought of him at that instant. He probably was not mean or gullible, but he was a preacher, and preachers didn’t associate with her kind.

  Although something about him struck her as being different. He showed her a modicum of respect by not seizing the opportunity to condemn her in front of the town like the traveling orator had done.

  She put her foot down. If she wanted respect from others, it was time she showed respect for herself.

  “That’s it.” Marissa set her mug on the counter, splashing tea across it. “I can’t do this anymore. Keith, you’re being cheated. My ale isn’t real. It’s tea.”

  The clerk heard her outburst over the piano tune and whirled around. “You’re drunk, Marissa. Of course your drink is real. I poured it for you myself.”

  She steeled herself against his challenging glare. “No, Pete, I’m not drunk. I’m perfectly aware of how we’re all making men pay their right arms for weak tea and colored water.” She turned to her dance partner. “Did you hear what I said, Keith?”

  Keith gazed at her with lovestruck eyes, heavy from the five brandies he consumed beforehand. “Now you’re not thinkin’ o’ jumpin’ on that train to Indian Territory and leavin’ me, are you? I’d sure miss that pretty face. Your whiskey-colored eyes…”

  “Whiskey-colored eyes?” Marissa wanted to tear the mug from his hand and tell him again that he was being cheated out of his hard-earned wages. She had the urge to jump on the counter and yell it out to the whole saloon, but Pete hovered inches away, ready to drag her by the hair if she spoke any further.

  “You better shut your mouth if you don’t want me telling Jason what you said. He’ll drown you in what you’re drinking.” Pete seized her mug and topped it with more tea. “Now get the gentleman beside you to take you for another dance once he’s finished with his ale.”

  Keith grinned, lopsided, and ordered her another drink in advance for the second round of dancing.

  Marissa lifted her mug. The watery tea did nothing to wash the bitter taste that filled her mouth.

  The racing wind continued to blow on into the evening as Rowe lay flat on the small hotel bed, hands behind his head as he stared up at the ceiling. What was he to do on his first night in his new town? It was still early, and he had already had supper in the dining room downstairs.

  He touched a picture of his family that rested on the nightstand. He shouldn’t have taken it out of his valise, yet the image comforted him. His parents and three brothers stood in the foreground, while he and his wife, Josephine, were seated on the small couch. Her face exuded contentment. She had told him the morning before the photograph was taken that she was carrying their first child.

  He let out a long, wearied sigh. Did the photograph truly bring comfort, or remind him of a home he could never go to again?

  Josephine was gone. His parents were aging, and his brothers all had lives of their own on the family’s tobacco farm. There was no place for him there as a lone twenty-eight-year-old man.

  He jumped to his feet before that familiar longing started to sink into his skin, rendering him unable to do anything except fall into self-pity. He had to move on. Somehow.

  “God, You’ve provided me with a new life in a different part of the country. Help me to make the most of it by serving You.” Rowe prayed quickly against the crippling thoughts.

  He had to do something to take his mind off the pain. Rowe left the hotel and strolled down the wide dirt road that served as Assurance’s main thoroughfare. The extent of the town’s development was tw
o rows of shops that ran parallel to the main square.

  Rowe heard an old piano’s tink-link-a-link from somewhere. He walked farther and found the source of the music coming from a saloon. The wooden sign above the structure shouted JASON’S SALOON AND DANCEHALL in big red and white letters.

  He remembered the woman he bumped into that afternoon. “Arrow Missy” worked there.

  “Come on in, fancy feller.” A saloon clerk in a slightly worn coat invited him from the doorway. “Jason ain’t got a charge to take a look at the ladies.”

  “Thank you, but I’d rather not.” Instinct told him to pass by, but she was inside that place. She intrigued him. He got an unexplained burst of excitement at the chance of seeing her again.

  “You sure you can’t be persuaded by a cool drink and a pretty woman, sir?”

  No woman in that questionable place could make him forget his principles. He simply needed to make his amends to the young lady and leave. But what if someone saw him go in? What would the citizens think of their new preacher entering a saloon, on his first day in town, no less? It would be nigh impossible to explain that his intentions did not involve imbibing or paying for the company of immoral women.

  Rowe hovered near the entrance. His feet seemed to be blocked by an invisible barricade. Scanning the dancehall through the open doorway, he saw bright skirts whirling about stocking-clad legs and men’s hats flying in the air. He had to go in and apologize to the young woman. There was no admission price, as the clerk mentioned. The proprietor Jason would be just as pleased if he ordered any type of drink, so long as he paid for it. Emboldened by his reasoning, Rowe gave a nod to the clerk. “I’ll come in.”

  “That’s more like it.” The clerk made way for him. Rowe dashed in before his confidence had a chance to wane.

  Immediately his nostrils were assaulted with the mingling scent of smoke, sweat, beer, and damp sawdust. He brushed by some unwashed cattlemen at the gambling table. He could tell their occupation not just from the clothes they wore but also from the smell emanating from them.

  He kept on until he sighted her at the bar, below the hanging brass lamps. She stood behind the counter, serving drinks to a group of four men on the stools. She was smiling, but she didn’t look particularly happy.

  He seated himself on a stool next to the men. They tossed curious glances his way. Rowe figured it was due to his clothes and unfamiliar face. He nodded a greeting, and they shifted their attention back on the woman.

  “I’ll have another rye, Missy,” said one.

  “Coming right up, Bill. You, sir, what’ll you—?” She spun without seeing Rowe’s face but broke off midsentence once she did.

  “I—” He couldn’t speak either. She wore the full costume he’d seen before, only no long coat was there to conceal it. He turned his eyes away from the lacy bodice and folds of material draped artfully about her form. You know being a preacher doesn’t let you forget you’re a man. But don’t be rude.

  “Good evening.” He managed a smile. “I’ll have coffee, please.”

  She wiped her hands on her apron and proceeded to pour Bill his drink before setting a small cup and coffeepot in front of Rowe. “I find it odd that you would come to this establishment, sir.” Her full lips pressed together as she poured steaming coffee into the cup. One hand rested on her hip, accentuated by the full pouf of her skirt.

  “I knew it’s where you would be.” He smelled a faint lavender scent on her, a much appreciated respite from the other questionable odors about the room.

  She raised her smooth black eyebrows in question. “Why are you looking for me?”

  He wrapped his fingers around the warm cup and watched the steam rise from it in curlicues. “We ran into each other in town today.”

  “You stared at me because of my costume. I remember, Reverend.”

  He sat up taller, surprised by her knowledge of his identity. Others at the bar heard her and turned. He looked down at his coffee. “My apologies for offending you. The costume is, uh, colorful.”

  She handed the coffeepot to one of the ladies serving tables. “You can say revealing. That’s what it is. It’s meant to get attention.”

  She cut through his awkwardness like a steel lancet. Arrow Missy, assuredly!

  “My name is Rowe Winford. And you are?” He held out his hand.

  “Arrow Missy is what I’m called.” She stared at his outstretched fingers, as though deciding if she should grasp them. Her long, elegant hand disappeared in his wide palm.

  “I’ve heard of your stage name, but your Christian name?” He spoke kindly, as gently as possible. Her skin was soft and smooth beneath his fingers. Silk.

  She softened her tone. “Marissa Pierce. I guess my reputation as a saloon girl precedes me.” She withdrew her hand and stepped lightly to the right, her agile grace evident in that small movement.

  “That, and the origin of your name, although I’ve heard nothing too bad.” He teased, and he hoped she took it as such.

  Marissa huffed. “Ha! In this town? I don’t believe you, even if you are a preacher man.” She nodded to his mug. “How’s your coffee?”

  He inhaled the fresh roast and took a sip of the strong, hot brew. “Perfect. Pitch-black the way I like it. So you don’t prefer the town of Assurance?”

  “No.” She dropped her voice. “This is not the life I intend to maintain for the rest of my days.”

  “Are you from somewhere else?”

  “I was born here, but I left with my mother and father to live in St. Louis. We lived in Missouri for nine years until I had to come back to this town. I liked Assurance when I was a child. Now…” She looked off at some faraway object, her eyes hooding mysteriously. “I guess it’s not a place where I can thrive.”

  Marissa revealed much, but Rowe understood little of what she actually referred to. If she didn’t want to be in Assurance, why did she stay? He considered the possibility of her having a family or a sickly parent that required her financial support. “Does your family live here with you?”

  “My mother died three years ago. My father is off somewhere on a riverboat, trying to pay his gambling debts, as far as I know.” She pursed her lips and gave a small shake of her head, saying no more.

  “You said this town isn’t a place where you can thrive. What do you think you need?”

  “You do ask a lot of questions.” She watched him with her light brown eyes, seemingly perplexed. “You are the strangest preacher man I’ve ever seen.”

  “Why?”

  She threw out her hands. “Look where you are and to whom you’re speaking!”

  Rowe kept his composure in the face of her outburst. “This isn’t my first time in a public house. I’ve had to retrieve many a missing husband or wayward son. I’d be a very ineffective minister if I kept my conversations strictly within a church.”

  Marissa mopped the counter where it was wet from sweating glasses and spilled drinks. “Well, don’t start a sermon in here. You’ll get run out quicker than you can bow your head.”

  “Don’t worry. It wasn’t my intention.”

  “What was your intention, if I may ask?”

  Her eyes reflected an inner sadness beneath their bold gaze. The hurt ran deep, he sensed, because her sad countenance never left completely.

  “Missy!” Another patron summoned her. “Let me buy you a drink.”

  Marissa shifted her body, hands on hips. “You know I don’t drink while I’m serving customers, John.”

  The man shot a Seated Liberty Dollar down the bar counter. She promptly stopped the coin between her fingers.

  “Make it a double Wild Rogue, hon. Only the best for you.”

  She took a bottle from under the counter and poured herself a double shot. “To your generosity.” She gulped it back in one swallow.

  Rowe raised his eyebrow.

  She leaned over the counter when the patrons weren’t looking. “It’s just weak tea,” she whispered.

  He blinked
, more astonished. “But that man just paid a silver dollar.” He kept his voice low so the other patrons wouldn’t be privy to their conversation. “I know some tavern keepers charge high prices, but that is far beyond reasonable.”

  She nodded her head in a show of remorse. “I know and I’m sorry, Reverend. I hate cheating them out of their money too. Jason’s built his business on deceit. I want to make it known, but he’ll get me if I tell them.”

  The proprietor’s blatant dishonesty bothered him, but he said nothing. He didn’t want Marissa to get in trouble with her employer on his account. Something had to be done about it in the very near future, though.

  “Marissa.” Another woman came behind the counter. Her voice was husky, and she was a bit older, judging by the fine lines around her eyes and mouth. “Jason wants to see you upstairs in his office.”

  Marissa’s face shadowed. “Take over the counter for me, then.” She removed her apron. “Best of luck with your work, Reverend Winford. Good meeting you.”

  He paid her, including tip. “You as well, Miss Pierce.”

  She collected the money. Nearly all the men in her path turned to catch a glimpse of her long legs moving beneath her knee-length skirt.

  Rowe finished his coffee as she retreated upstairs, leaving him to wonder exactly what manner of business the proprietor called her to. Marissa wanted to get out of this place. How could he help?

  Marissa entered Jason’s office, where he surrounded himself in a fortress of account papers, receipts, and pencils. A filled ashtray decorated the corner of his desk with a smoking stub of a cigar hanging from the edge of the glass.

  “You needed to see me?”

  He thrust the open ledger book in her face. “Do this month’s figures look right to you?”

  She glanced at the numbers on the page. “I’m not the best at arithmetic, but they look right to me.”

  He groaned. “Then I’m short this month. I’m going to have to take it out of everyone’s pay.”

  She recoiled. “No! My contract is ending, and I need the money.”