Harlot (Bartered Hearts 2)

Now he was nothing. All his best memories were of Jessica. All his plans had been for her.

He couldn’t stay here. He would’ve ridden out of town today if it weren’t for his mother. Her birthday was in two days. He’d stay through then, but only just. California was exactly the scrabbling, broken place he belonged.

“Services start in forty-five minutes,” Theodore said as he pushed back from the table. “I can loan you a better jacket.”

“Sir,” Caleb replied, “I appreciate the offer, but I’ll skip church today.”

His stepfather stopped to aim a glare at him.

Caleb met his gaze without flinching, and eventually Theodore shook his head in disgust. “Your mother will be beside herself,” he said, but he walked out of the room.

Caleb had no plans for the day, but he couldn’t go to church. Couldn’t see all those people, knowing they’d heard about Jessica, wondering if any of them had fucked her.

He needed the quiet. It’d be a relief when his family left and the house was empty, but he knew the hours would stretch out endlessly before him. He couldn’t think what to do with his day, much less his whole life.

Jessica was a whore. And he was nothing at all.

Chapter 4

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I can pay, he’d said. And she needed the money.

The thought was awful. It was intolerable. But it wouldn’t leave her head.

This place had cost her only one dollar. That was why she’d taken it. One dollar plus her virginity and every ounce of dignity she’d ever owned. The dollar made it a legal transaction, he’d said.

She’d taken the deal, because she’d thought it would secure her future. One dollar and one night, and the property would be hers. Then she could sell the house and acreage, and she’d at least have something to show for the secret thing she’d done. She’d leave this town and this state and never think about it again. Nobody would ever find out.

But she hadn’t known about the back taxes. That little catch had come later. “The house is yours, but you’ll lose it if you don’t pay the taxes by the end of the month.” It had been said with a smirk, of course, and she’d known the truth then. How stupid she’d been. How utterly blind.

Five more nights for forty dollars. That had been the second deal. Just enough to pay the back taxes and penalties. What option had she had then? She’d already become a whore. Her only choice at that point was whether to be a whore who owned land or a whore with nothing. She’d opted for the land.

Of course, you couldn’t sell a place once it had been a brothel. No respectable family wanted to live here. But she’d thought no one would find out. She’d been so dumb. So naïve.

Perhaps at some point, an ornery bachelor would buy it from her for less than she’d earned on her back, and she’d leave then. But that might be years in the future. And right no

w, the current year’s taxes were due. Another ten dollars. It might as well have been a thousand. There was also the prospect of starving once winter came. Even if she wanted to die, that would be a slow way to go.

She couldn’t starve and she couldn’t lose this terrible, desolate farm she owned, and Caleb had money.

She’d spent all of Saturday night thinking about it. Thinking about Caleb. He hadn’t touched her often when they’d courted, but when he had, her body had sparkled with it. The simplest of touches, his hand on her wrist, and wickedness had shivered over her.

He’d kissed her a few times, only because she’d asked him to. He’d said it wasn’t right. That he couldn’t take advantage. But God, those kisses had been lovely.

That last time, before he’d left for California, he’d tried to pull away as soon as the warmth of his mouth touched hers. Jessica had tugged him back, her fingers wrapping into his shirt to keep him close. He’d settled a bit then, sighing against her mouth, and then his hands had framed her face with such gentleness that her body turned liquid. Liquid and hot and pulsing. The idea of those hands on her again…

But his hands wouldn’t touch her that way. They wouldn’t cradle her face or stroke her wrist or cup her cheek. Still. They’d be Caleb’s hands. She loved those hands.

Jessica sat down at her kitchen table and wrote a letter. Despite the roughness of the wood floors and the bare shelves in the kitchen, the stationery was creamy and fine-grained. There were few things that hadn’t been sold out from under her to pay her father’s debts, but her personal stationery had been one of them. She wished she could scratch out her stamped initials, but that would be childish. She had the same name, even if she was a completely different person.

After braiding her hair and donning a hat with a brim that dipped down low enough to keep her face in shadow, Jessica sealed the letter in an envelope, wrote Caleb’s name on the front, and headed out to saddle Bill’s mule.

It was Sunday. Everyone would be at services for a time. She could ride into town, leave the letter for Caleb, and escape before anyone recognized her.

Sixty minutes later, Jessica urged the mule into the narrow alley that ran behind Theodore Durst’s home. Sweat prickled along her hairline, despite the cool clouds rolling in. She didn’t want to be here. She didn’t want to be seen by anyone, ever again.

She sent Bill into town for supplies when they needed sugar or flour or coffee. Melisande went too, sometimes, claiming not to be bothered by the stares. But Jessica hadn’t set foot in town in months, and everything inside her urged her to leave now. This terrible idea was hardly worth the risk of being spotted by an old friend. A new enemy.