Vanity blade, p.1
Vanity Blade, page 1
Vanity Blade
Samantha Harte
Copyright
Diversion Books
A Division of Diversion Publishing Corp.
443 Park Avenue South, Suite 1008
New York, NY 10016
www.DiversionBooks.com
Copyright © 1987 by Samantha Harte
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
For more information, email info@diversionbooks.com
First Diversion Books edition March 2015
ISBN: 978-1-62681-660-2
Also by Samantha Harte
Autumn Blaze
The Snows of Craggmoor
Angel
Hurricane Sweep
Sweet Whispers
Kiss of Gold
Summersea
Timberhill
Prologue
1845
From dark, low clouds, silvery bits of snow sifted onto the freezing ruts of the deserted wagon track. Hushed, and growing colder, the night shivered with the promise of winter descending from the jagged Sierra Nevada Mountains to the east.
From the bank of the rushing Sacramento River where a shallow-draft keelboat lay rotting, the lonely twisting track climbed through jumbled boulders and scattered pines to a roughhewn traders’ camp called Tenderfoot, in the California Territory.
Huddled in hollows and perched on promontories, dozens of haphazard shacks and weather-darkened tents stood tensed, as if listening. From the two front windows of a larger log cabin lanternlight spilled, casting crooked yellow squares across the mud.
Over the door, a sign sliced from a pine trunk hung from a twist of rusted wire. BROKKEN ROCK SALOON had been lettered in white some years before, and RED-EYE JACK WHISKEY SOLD HERE! had been etched into the sign’s edge.
Six bearded men in bedraggled fur-lined coats jostled one another as they tried to get through the narrow doorway. Snow settled on their battered sugar-loaf hats, and a rousing cheer from the saloon broke the silence.
As a wheezing concertina began squawking a lively German drinking song, the floor planks shuddered. Feet began to pound and stomp. A crowd of bright-eyed men outside cursed as they shoved and pushed their way into the already packed cabin. After a brief pause, a young woman’s voice sang out high and clear.
“Give me plenty of cheer, boys! Give me all ya got! Heaven’s mighty far, boys! But hell is nice and hot!” With a raucous chuckle, she stamped her heels.
Up the track, the plank doors to three ramshackle, drafty cribs fell open. The patrons stumbled out, tucking shirttails into baggy-kneed britches and hopping into mud-crusted boots.
In a nearby rain-stained tent the shaggy heads of four gents playing poker jerked up. Seconds later, the frayed cards drifted to the rumpled gray blanket on the ground, and the players departed.
Men from nearly every shack hurried through the freezing darkness to get to the Brokken Rock, only to find a line out the door.
Inside, there wasn’t even room enough to spit. On the far wall, the plank-and-beer-barrel bar closed for the show. A bartender in a stiff derby hat and red sleeve garters settled back with a sigh. He rubbed his blue eyes, which ran constantly from Pearlman’s Royal Stogie smoke, and chuckled as he thought of how much cash the little lady brought in.
Every man in the place watched the petite young woman strut and prance around the black potbellied stove. When she circled near them, they drew back, holding their breath, but once she swirled by, they edged forward again, their bodies heavy with yearning.
The thick heels of her red high-button shoes clattered on the whipsawed floor planks. She held her yellow satinet skirts high to reveal generous red petticoat ruffles and dark-patterned stockings on her shapely legs.
With a saucy wink and a mischievous glint in her eye, she tossed back her long tangle of dark gold hair, which still bore crimping marks. Her soft cheeks were rouged almost the same color as her gaudy petticoats, and her scarlet lips glistened when she licked them.
As she twirled, she lost awareness of the traders, trappers, and mountain men. She danced with abandon, thinking only of her body, her beautiful hair falling across her face, and her heart beating with excitement. She was young! She knew she was very pretty, and each time she circled the saloon the men whispered her name as if to a lover. Vanity. Vanity! Vanity!
She loved the sound of her chosen name. She wanted to dance forever! “Give me plenty of cheer!” she shouted, gasping for breath. Then she strutted, tossing her skirts so that her legs showed to the tops of her lacy garters where the plump, pale flesh of her thighs beckoned. “Give me all ya got!”
With a squeal, she bent forward, flipping her skirts up to expose rows of red ruffles sewn to her short, snug under-drawers. She could feel the men’s eyes burning into the backs of her legs.
A frenzied whoop filled the saloon. The men clapped, tossed their hats, and choked on their cheers as plugs of tobacco dislodged from inside their cheeks. Coughing and guffawing and shouting her name, they wiped their mouths with their sleeves and threw heavy gold coins at her feet.
Vanity straightened, and her skirts settled about her once again. A wave of discomfort rippled through her, and puzzlement tensed her flushed young face.
Noticing the expression on her face, the men surged forward, crowding her dangerously close to the glowing potbelly.
But the odd, deep tensing of her muscles eased, and Vanity resumed her bawdy song, skipping among the coins like a wood nymph. “…but hell is nice and hot!” she sang, delighted with the effect her words had on the men.
The coins on the floor caused her to skid and laugh. The claret-faced German gentleman squeezing and yanking the melody from the silver-trimmed mahogany concertina frowned as Vanity slipped again and again. Her eyes were brighter than usual, her dancing heavier and surprisingly awkward.
She had to keep going, she thought. To dance and sing for these men who loved her was all she wanted! Though she longed to lie down, she forced herself on.
The bartender wiped his big white hands on his stained apron and made his way from behind the bar. Shouldering aside the transfixed men in his way, he caught Vanity’s arm and steadied her. “Feeling all right, Vanity, dear?” His eyes went over her with tender concern.
She sagged against him, startled by the trembling she felt. Suddenly this was not the strong body she’d always had. Still, she felt wildly reckless this night, as if time had run out, as if her sins had at last caught up with her.
“I’m fine, Doby, truly!” she panted as she pecked his stubbled cheek and swung away. “Give me hugs and kisses, boys! Give me all ya got!” She threw out her bare arms to the men, her men!
The frowning bartender signaled to someone on the sidelines. A tall woman who called herself Belle and who was wearing a dangerously tight purple and green low-necked gown, edged her gargantuan bosom into the crowd. “Give a girl room,” she said in a low, suggestive voice, insinuating herself into the group of tightly packed men, giving some an inviting eye and others a scornful glance.
As Belle watched Vanity slow her stomping around the stifling saloon, her mouth worked with worry. Finally she took her head as if she could stand no more. She pushed two scrawny drifters from her path and caught Vanity as she swirled, grimaced again, then stumbled.
“You done enough fer tonight,” Belle whispered, gripping Vanity’s shoulders with her big hands.
Afraid to stop dancing, Vanity felt driven to sing every tune she’d ever known. “I can make it,” she gasped, patting Belle’s arm. Then, flinging her pale arms high, she thrust her own partially exposed, ripe charms at the men. “I’ll take my pleasure now, boys! Let the pious rot!”
The resulting cheer shook Brokken Rock’s precious window glass. Coins clinked and spun at Vanity’s feet. She scooped up handfuls and gleefully dropped them into her bodice. They felt cold against her burning skin.
Then, briefly, her dark eyes tightened with discomfort. A wave of dull pain ran along her back, and she moaned, letting a handful of coins clatter to the floor. She couldn’t go on. If she straightened, she’d break in two!
Her hands suddenly trembled and she clutched at her thick waistline. Not now, she thought! She wanted to wait forever if she could.
Belle caught Vanity as she crumpled to the floor. “I’ll help you up to yer shack, honey,” she whispered, lifting the young woman from her sea of gold coins.
Seized by pain, Vanity grabbed Belle’s thick arm. “Please…wait! I’m all right!” She began to pant. “Let me lie down a minute in the back room. I can do my next number…”
Belle gave the bartender a look that conveyed her alarm. “Make her stop, Doby!”
“That’s all for now, boys!” the bartender shouted, returning to his square green bottles and wooden kegs. He thrust shot glasses onto the plank in handfuls of six. “Bar’s open. One drink on the house!”
As the men surged toward the bar, Otto Meyer stopped torturing his concertina. Belle, supporting the staggering Vanity with one arm, beat on the door of the back room with her fist. “Hurry it up in there, Gardenia! Ya ain’t entertaining no big spender, I’d be willin’ to bet!”
Moments later a chunky blonde in a black gown with pink ruffles flung the door wide open. Gardenia, a sult
Vanity shook her head. “I need my money! I’m fine, really. I’ve got just a little…ache in my back. I didn’t think it’d hurt to go on dancing.”
“I’ll get your money, sugar,” Gardenia said, smiling enviously at the gold litter around the stove.
Some of the men had left, but the floor still groaned as the remaining patrons jockeyed for position at the bar. A crisp breath of cold air laced with tiny white flakes drifted in when the front door was kicked shut. Dust from the low, bark-covered pine rafters sifted onto everyone’s head.
Belle tapped a finger on Gardenia’s rosy cheek. “See to it Vanity gets all the coin comin’ to her.”
Gardenia made a face and a vulgar motion with her hand. “You think you’re so special…I got more men than you can count! See if it fits, sugar!”
“Same to ya, black-hearted mivvy!” But Belle’s insult lacked malice as she assisted Vanity into the barren back room and slammed the door. “At least I can count. Set yourself down, honey. You make me tired to look at you.”
Vanity settled herself gingerly on the rumpled brass bed. The ravaged satin pillows behind her bore traces of rouge. The room had no window, only a second narrow door that opened onto an alley.
“Is it time?” Belle asked, pushing back her masses of naturally curly black hair. She made a huge shadow in the flickering light. Outside, the wind stirred in the pines and whistled through chinks in the logs.
Vanity’s stomach knotted with fear. “I don’t see how it can be. I only feel a kind of…fullness. Maybe I should go to the privy.” Then she doubled over and groaned.
A serious contraction seized her belly. She clamped her chilled hands tightly between her legs. The nearest doctor lived in Yerba Buena! There was no time to fetch him.
“Great snakes, Vanity! Don’t go to the privy at a time like this!” Belle shook her head. “That baby of yours could fall out!”
Vanity laughed, though her flushed face reflected fear. Then she shook her head at her own foolishness.
Belle was about to say something more, but Vanity put up her hand. Just when she thought she could rise from the bed, another contraction made her arch her back. Then she collapsed. “Have a look under my skirts, Belle! I’ve wet my drawers!” There was a warm puddle near her feet. She felt Belle parting her knees. “I’m so weak. I’ve had this backache since morning—it’s getting worse!”
“You ain’t got the brains God gave a jackass,” Belle muttered, pushing Vanity’s skirts back over her knees.
Vanity felt smothered by red satinet.
Belle pulled off Vanity’s cotton drawers. “Dancing at a time like this—Holy be-Jeezus! Sit tight, Vanity! It’s comin’ right now!”
“I couldn’t get up if I wanted to!” Vanity laughed, then rubbed a tear from her eye. Another contraction gripped her. She threw back her head, eyes wide, her hands grabbing fistfuls of lacy coverlet. “I don’t want to die, Belle!”
“Hush, gull-darn it! Scoot back. I need room to work. Ain’t nothin’ going to happen to you, honey. Not with ol’ Belle takin’ care of you. I been around, I have, and I’ve birthed a few babies in my time. You can’t work in my line long without seein’ a few. You just see to it you don’t take up my line of work. Next thing you know, some real fine upstandin’ gent’s goin’ to walk into this God-forsaken pile of logs and marry you up quick!”
“I came here to get away from men like that,” Vanity said, panting. The pressure was intense now, driving her to pull up her knees and strain until she couldn’t breathe. “Bell-l-le, it’s so big!”
She longed for it to end, prayed to be forgiven for her foolishness. She didn’t want the marrying kind of man to find her in this place! She’d already tangled with that kind, and he’d proved to be the fathering kind. She’d learned too late that he’d already done marrying and fathering long before he met her.
She grabbed at her thighs, her mouth stretched wide, her body working with all its strength to deliver the child. Her thoughts became a jumble then, and everything was blotted out. Her only awareness was of a birthing she couldn’t stop.
“Almost out!” Belle whispered.
Vanity fought, holding back her screams. She knew nothing but the intense fullness between her legs, the blazing need to free and be freed. Stretched to the limit, oblivious to anything but the bright hot birth canal filled with her child, she finally gave out with one shuddering, gut-deep groan.
As if blessed and forgiven, the pressure eased. A tingling gush of strength flooded her body.
“Holy mule shit! What a beauty! Look at this little honey!” Belle crowed.
A tiny indignant wail erupted from beyond Vanity’s red ruffles.
“To be born in a saloon…” Vanity wept, forcing away her sorrow, then rejoicing in astonishment to hear the high, clear voice of her child. This child had never been real to her, not in all these months. What a wonder to think a living creature had come from a few innocent nights of stolen love!
“It’s one helluva girl!” Belle announced, lifting a squirming rosy infant high for Vanity to see.
Vanity reached out, her arms suddenly aching to embrace her child.
“Don’t take her yet. She’ll stain yer dress. Let me wipe her off a bit first. Lay back, for Chrissake! You’ve just had a baby! I still got to cast off her moorings…” Belle looked around frantically. “Shoot! You’ll have to hold her after all, honey. I got to get a knife or something. Careful! She’s slippery as a happy man!”
Vanity took her solid little daughter into her arms and laughed. Belle thundered out, shouting that she needed a knife, any kind of blasted knife.
Gazing into the face of her daughter, Vanity’s eyes filled with happy tears. They were alive, both of them! Her heart felt near to bursting with pride. “Oh, my darling! If only your foolish ol’ grandpa could see you now. Wouldn’t he be sorry he ever threw us out? Wouldn’t he be sorry he called you that awful name?”
Belle returned with a big Bowie knife. She paused when she heard Vanity whispering to the baby, her expression saying clearly that she’d known all along that Vanity wasn’t married.
Behind her, Gardenia burst in holding a knotted bandanna sack heavy with coin. Her eyes went round with disbelief. “You didn’t scream once!” she exclaimed, setting the bundle on the bed beside Vanity. She looked a bit disappointed.
Vanity suddenly felt weary. She plucked a handful of the coins from her bodice, then sank back on the pillows. She wanted to weep for both joy and sorrow—joy in the birth of her daughter, sorrow because, except for these few friends, she was so very alone.
“What did our babe’s grandpappy call this little treasure?” Belle asked gruffly, her eyes sly as she tied the cord with a ragged piece of green ribbon torn from her garter. With the big Bowie she cut the baby free. “I’ll teach the old pecker a lesson! You just tell me where to find him. Leavin’ you to this kind of place in your fix…”
Vanity shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. I’m here because I want to be. Promise never to ask where I came from because that part of my life is over. Never speak of my past to my baby. This is our home now, for as long as it takes to earn enough for a new start back east.”
“Your family oughtn’t to have thrown you out,” Belle said, curiosity rampant on her wide face.
Vanity shook her head again. “What’s done is done.”
While Belle slipped a clean piece of towelling around the baby, Vanity tended to her personal needs. Then, though her strength was ebbing, she cradled her daughter close to her swollen, aching breasts. “Bring me the wash basin, please.”
“Going to wash her already, in this cold?” Belle gasped. “Great snakes! You’re one bold and reckless girl! You come to this God-forsaken sinkhole and won’t say who you really are or where you’re really from. Then you go dancin’ like you was born to it, and pregnant, no less. Dad blast it, you’re one puzzle of a female!”
