Lisa Bingham - The Other Bride

“There’s the proper street!” Maude exclaimed.

“The address must be straightaway and to the right,” Mable added, pointing in the direction with her walking stick.

Now that their goal was close at hand, Phoebe felt her stomach flip-flop in reaction. She’d volunteered in a moment of passion to speak to the trail boss, but she suddenly realized she had no idea what she intended to say.

Phoebe’s worries scattered when Edith suddenly gasped in horror. Looking up, Phoebe saw a huge, gaily painted placard proclaiming Golden Arms Hotel.

This time it was Phoebe’s turn to utter a choked cry. Without thought, she stopped in her tracks so suddenly that the other women crashed into her like dominoes.

“What in heaven’s name—” Twila grumbled.

Phoebe gestured to the placard with its brass lettering and a painting of a woman in a shocking state of dishabille.

“No,” Phoebe whispered to herself. “It couldn’t be.”

But a glance at the paper assured her that the address she’d been given as a temporary office for Mr. Cutter was the same as the title emblazoned on the sign.

Phoebe’s face grew hot with embarrassment. Surely she wasn’t expected to find the man in a bawdy house.

Immediately, her irritation ignited into a white-hot anger. The entire situation was intolerable. Intolerable! Due to the edicts of an unknown trail boss who hadn’t even displayed enough decency to meet with the mail-order brides, they’d been put in the dire straits confronting them now. They were stranded in a strange city with no funds, no way to quickly communicate with their intended spouses—most of whom lived in areas miles from the nearest telegraph—and no way to make alternate arrangements. To add further insult, in order to voice their appeals, they had been brought here to…

A house of low morals!

Phoebe heard the women behind her begin to shift in discomfort.

“I say,” Mable drawled in a droll tone. “We’re in a bit of a pickle now, aren’t we?”

Phoebe took a deep breath. “No. We’re not ‘in a pickle,’ as you say. That’s what they want—or at least what Mr. Cutter wants. He’s decided that we are an inconvenience to his expedition. He’s thrown us into a dither without so much as a by your leave, and I, for one, don’t intend to let him have his way. We’ve paid for our passage in good faith. Unless he agrees to reimburse us for all expenses—including room and board—then we intend to be on that train. Isn’t that right?”

If she’d expected her rallying words to instill her companions with confidence, she was sadly disappointed. The only response she received was Betty saying again, “You don’t mean to go in there, do you?”

Phoebe brushed at the dust collecting on her skirts, jabbed the hatpin more securely into her bonnet and tugged at the hem of her bodice.

“Yes, I do. I wouldn’t put it past the man to be purposely avoiding us by closeting himself in such an establishment. After all, what respectable person houses his offices at a…Well, you know what I mean.”

The women nodded.

Phoebe took Twila’s hand. “Come with me.”

“Me?” Twila grew pale. “Why me?”

“Because you’re a widowed woman with a knowledge of such…”

Twila looked frantic. “But Miss Gray…” She leaned close to whisper, “I was widowed before my husband and I…before we could…” She took a deep draft of her smelling salts before continuing. “We were married during the war. He had a two-hour leave. We never…”

The woman was already weaving on her feet, so Phoebe gave up. “Fine.” Frantically, she searched around her, finally catching a glimpse of a small park in the distance. “All of you wait over there. I’ll join you again as soon as I speak to the man.”

Reluctantly, the women made their way down the walk, leaving Phoebe to wonder how she’d managed to become embroiled in such a mess.

Anger swept through her as she realized how the careless edicts of one man were responsible for her current dilemma. Emboldened by the emotions bubbling within her, Phoebe strode in the direction of the Golden Arms.

Golden Arms. She should have known something was wrong by the name alone. But she’d thought that…

Never mind what she’d thought. She had to keep her mind on Gabriel Cutter.

As she neared the hotel, Phoebe heard the faint sound of music—not the tinny raucous sort that she had read about in penny novels, but an elegant piano arrangement. She snorted softly to herself, wondering if the proprietors thought that a bit of Mozart would add a note of respectability to the hotel. As far as she was concerned, a full-scale orchestra couldn’t hide the fact that this building housed men and women who—

No. Despite the fact that she would be marrying soon, she couldn’t even think about it. She wouldn’t.

Whispering a prayer under her breath, Phoebe resolutely climbed the stone steps to an ornate door inset with colored, beveled glass. The brass knob turned easily beneath her fingers, and before she quite knew what had happened, Phoebe found herself moving into an elegant foyer. Rich black and white marble floor tiles gleamed at her. The shiny surface reflected the twinkling candles of a chandelier lit even in the middle of the day. To one side, rich maroon draperies were drawn back from the threshold of a reception room, where dapper gentleman spoke in low voices with women in various stages of undress.

Phoebe felt her face flame. She couldn’t imagine what would possess a woman to entertain a man wearing little more than her chemise and pantalets.

“May I help you?”

Phoebe jumped. The voice was so soft-spoken and cultured that she was taken aback. A glance at the elegantly dressed woman who had silently appeared at her side did little to settle her nerves.

“I’m looking for Gabriel Cutter,” Phoebe blurted, then wished she’d tamed her tongue and had led up to the subject more gradually. “We have business to discuss.”

The woman seemed amused by Phoebe’s quick reply, but she waved a hand toward a settee positioned against one wall. “Would you care to sit while I get him?”

Phoebe eyed the velvet-tufted sofa. After the difficult day she’d already had, she wanted nothing more than to sit, remove her shoes and rub her aching feet. But she couldn’t allow herself to relax until after she’d met with the trail boss.

“No, thank you,” she said primly.

The woman smiled and glided away.

Curious glances were being cast her way, but Phoebe refused to reveal her discomfiture at her surroundings. With what she hoped appeared to be a bored casualness, she turned away from the reception room with its scantily clad women and debauched gentlemen and stared instead at the painting hung over the sweeping staircase.

She had been given very few opportunities to study art while at Goodfellow’s. Even then, the subject matter had been strictly confined to portraits of sober Elizabethans and bowls of Flemish fruit.

But this…this was lovely. Such vibrant colors, an exotic woodland realm and…

Bit by bit, Phoebe became aware of the prickling of the hairs on her nape. In the same instant, her eyes suddenly registered the content of the artwork in front of her.

Sweet heavens above, she thought in shock as she absorbed the nubile young woman clad in nothing more than a diaphanous silk scarf being ravished by a creature that was half man, half beast.

In shock, her hand encircled her throat, and her gaze leaped to the small brass plaque that read Rosalind and the Satyr.

Gasping, Phoebe whirled to escape the startling lasciviousness of the picture. But her shock was compounded when she found herself face-to-face with a man.

And heavens, what a man.