Bound for Temptation

Book 3: A Frontiers of the Heart novel

by Tess LeSue

Genres: Historical Romance; Romantic Comedy; Western Romance

Synopsis

Having survived the Oregon Trail, Emma Palmer is ready for a fresh start, even if it costs her all the gold in California. 

Emma Palmer has had many jobs and has gone by even more names, but most recently she is known as Seline, madam of her own establishment. Her place is clean, her booze is cheap and her bedrooms are fancy. But when a would-be patron won’t take no for an answer, she is forced to don a new disguise and flee for her life. While the schemes she cooks up might seem outrageous to an outsider, they haven’t failed her yet.    

Tom Slater is a taciturn cattleman at the tail end of a long, hard season on the trail. He’s looking forward to a quiet winter at his old family homestead in Mexico. What he doesn’t plan on is escorting a group of women on the run to safety south of the border. Tom doesn’t need to be a trailsman to know that the woman with the sly, green eyes—the one he can’t keep out of his thoughts—will only lead to trouble.

Release date: December 31, 2018

Publisher: Berkley

Print pages: 384

Sample

***This excerpt is from an advance uncorrected copy proof***

Copyright © 2018 Tess LeSue

 

Chapter One

Mokelumne Hill, California, 1850

She was rich. Standing in her office over the whorehouse saloon, Seline watched as the lawyer’s fountain pen scratched at the ledger, forming a beautiful little billow of zeros. She had to pinch herself. In less than a year, the Heart of Gold had made her wealthier than she’d ever dreamed of being. And this wasn’t even all of it. She still had two other businesses to cash in. Once she’d sold the other whorehouses in Angels Camp and Mariposa, she’d be almost as rich as Midas himself.

She watched as the prissy eastern lawyer transposed all of those lovely zeros onto the contract, her heart a tight little ball in her chest. Each zero he added was a further nail in the coffin of her current life. Good-bye, Seline. Good-bye, mining town. Good-bye, men. That money meant a nice little house in San Francisco, maybe even one with a view of the bay. It meant finishing her days when the sun was setting, rather than working through the night. No more hitting her pillow as dawn was breaking. It meant sitting on her lonesome drinking her first coffee of the day, in peace, without having to settle accounts and shoo out the last malingerers filling up her beds. It meant hammering out no more quarrels and mopping up no more tears and helping no more damn fool girls. Once she’d collected the last of her money, Seline planned to never see the inside of another whorehouse in her life.

“You’re buying one hell of a business,” she told Justine, who was equally transfixed by the ink flowing from the nib of the lawyer’s fancy fountain pen.

“Don’t I know it,” Jussy said. She looked a little green at how much it was costing her. But she was no fool. She was getting the whorehouse at a cut price; if it weren’t for Hec Boehm running Seline outta town, the place would have gone for more. But with a man like Hec snapping at her skirts, Seline was just happy to grab what she could get. Luckily, what she could get was eye-wateringly wonderful.

Mr. Teague put the gold dust in neatly folded brown squares of paper and lined up the rows of banknotes, using the beautiful little gold nuggets to weigh the stacks down.

“You’d best be depositing all of that in the bank, quick smart,” Mr. Teague told her, peering up over his crooked spectacles. “Moke Hill is no place for a . . . ahem . . . lady . . . to be carrying around a fortune like that.”

Seline ignored him. Even if she planned to stay in town—which she didn’t—she didn’t believe in banks. Especially not the one in Mokelumne Hill, which was run by Wilbur Stroud, a man who liked to be tied to a chair naked while Seline’s girls dressed up like nuns and told him that he was a very naughty boy. Sometimes, when business was especially stressful at the bank, he’d even ask the nuns to take a strap to him.

No. Seline would look after her own money, thank you very much.

“Would you like me to read you the documents?” Teague asked.

Seline snatched them off him. Honestly. These men were all alike. They thought being a whore meant you were stupid. How did he think she could run her businesses without reading? She went through the contract first, and then the deeds to the building and the business. Justine peered over her shoulder. They each found a couple of errors, which Teague swiftly corrected and initialed, looking sour.

Seline’s hands were sweaty as she took the corrected documents back from him and checked them one last time. There in the thicket of fancy legal words was her freedom. From Hec Boehm and Moke Hill, and best of all, from whoredom. And right at the bottom of the contract was a space for her to write her name. Her real name. The one she hadn’t used for nigh on twelve years . . .

“You sign first,” she told Justine, her voice a little unsteady. Hell. It was the thought of that name, she supposed. It was like seeing a ghost . . . a ghost that brought with it an ugly mudslide of memories. The weight on her. The pain. The smell of his rank corn liquor sweat. The feel of a hand clamped over her mouth and nose.

She exhaled. She hadn’t been quick enough to get out of the way, that was all. Not then, and not now. Usually, she could jump aside before the memories hit. And there were more memories than she cared to count; the sludge of her past was a relentless tide, an avalanche of shame and fear, prone to sucking her down and drowning her alive.

But they were just memories, she told herself fiercely, as she watched Justine bend over the documents, pen in hand. They were the past. And this, right here, right now, was the beginning of her future.

And her future was going to be a gold-plated, beautiful thing.

Justine finished her signature with a flourish and handed the pen to Seline. “All yours, boss.”

“No, honey,” Seline said, shaking off her ugly past and the whipped little creature she’d been and adopting her fancy welcome-to-the-whorehouse drawl, “it’s all yours now. Boss.”

And as she signed the deed, her black signature an energetic slash on the page, she did so with her real name. With the name of the girl who had been left back in Tennessee all those years ago, scared and alone and with no other option than to let men buy her body by the hour.

Emma Jane Palmer.

She was free.

Or, almost free. First she had to get out of town without Hec Boehm or any of his greasy henchmen seeing her.

“He’s got those Koerners parked downstairs waiting for you, and that Dutch thug is watching the back door,” Justine told her. The newly promoted madam was eager to get Emma out of her whorehouse as quickly as possible. She didn’t fancy her expensive business the target of Hec’s violence, not when she’d just paid her life savings for it.

“Don’t fret, Teague’s going to tell Hec I’ve sold up. He’s headed to Hec’s place now.” Emma swept her fortune into the saddlebags she had waiting on the floor. The bags were deliciously heavy. She was glad the office had a connecting door to her room, so she didn’t have to go out on the landing to get there, dragging her fortune with her. She knew Kipp Koerner would be watching the office door, probably without blinking. That man was like a tick on a dog when it came to doing Hec’s business. His brother Carter, on the other hand, was just as liable to be liquored up and counting his coins to do the nasty with JoBeth or Mona. He favored the young-looking ones.

“Don’t fret, she says,” Justine parroted, following her into the bedroom. “It don’t matter a lick if he knows you sold, so long as you’re here.”

Didn’t Emma know it. She dropped the saddlebags and yanked her carpetbag out from under the bed. “Teague’s also going to tell Mr. Boehm that I’ll receive him tomorrow, at 9 p.m. sharp. To give him my decision.” Justine didn’t look reassured. “Teague will also pass on that my answer will of course be yes,” Emma told her, as though that solved everything.

Jussy looked less convinced than ever. “And why would you sell this place, if you were planning on staying in Moke Hill?”

Emma fluttered her eyelashes. “To devote my full attentions to his pleasure.” She snorted. “Or so Teague will tell him—along with how much it will cost him to have me. He did say he wanted me exclusively. And that sure as hell can’t happen if I’m busy running this joint every night.” It would also flatter his vanity, the thought of having her completely to himself. He’d already offered to set her up in a little place of her own, right on the main street across from the Heart of Gold. She’d be like his personal canary, hung right where everyone could see him strutting in and out of her gilded cage. He wanted one and all to know that he’d conquered the unconquerable whore. And he wanted to reinforce that she was, when all was said and done, still just a whore after all.

She’d made the price absolutely ridiculous. She didn’t think Hec would believe anything less, considering how much of a stink she’d kicked up over the whole business. Unconsciously, she touched her fingers to her neck. The bruises were just about gone now, but the memory of his hands around her throat was too fresh for comfort.

There was a sharp knock, and she and Justine both jumped. Hell. Was that him now? She’d been sure he’d wait until tomorrow. He was enjoying the theater of her defeat too much to cut it short. Little did the fat pig know that she wasn’t defeated at all. She’d be halfway to Mariposa before he worked out that she wasn’t here.

“Boss?” Virgil’s voice was muffled through the closed door.

“Yes?” both Emma and Justine answered. Whoops. It was going to take a while to remember that she wasn’t the boss anymore: Justine was. She gave Justine an apologetic look.

“You still want to open at the usual time?” Virge asked through the door.

“God, yes!” Despite her best intentions, Emma couldn’t help responding. Nothing would tip Hec off faster than if the Heart of Gold was shuttered up past opening time. She needed him to think that she was still here. Still here and weeping into her pillow that the mighty Hec Boehm had bested her.

Emma hadn’t turned a trick since she’d stopped her wagons in Moke Hill just under a year ago. She’d been well and truly done letting men paw at her. She’d spent too many years flat on her back for the profit of others; it was her turn to make the money. And she was a good madam. She paid her girls fair and helped them move on as fast as they could. Very few girls liked whoring; it was something a girl did when she was out of options. Seline made sure that they could do it safely and save their money to start over. She watched them light out after a couple of months, cashed up and free of the trade, and she couldn’t wait to follow in their footsteps. But she was in it to make more than just a handful of cash; the Heart of Gold was her ticket to freedom forever. It took time to build that kind of nest egg; she’d been patient, and now her time had come, and she was glad to say that, since coming to Moke Hill, she’d bought her ticket out of here without letting a single man poke his stick into her. Her body was hers again, and hers alone, and she planned to keep it that way. No matter how much gold the mud-splattered miners offered her, she turned them down. Seline was bright as a peacock, strutting the bar downstairs, teasing and laughing and making sure they all had a good time—but that good time wasn’t going to be with her. Her girls were as fancy as she could make them: scrubbed and scented and dressed to the nines. And the miners were happy enough when she turned them aside, so long as it was into the arms of one of her girls.

But not Hec Boehm. That man had taken one look at Seline and decided that he was going to be the man to knock her flat on her back and keep her there. He was the kind of man who had to play with other people’s toys, Emma thought sourly; a selfish spoiled brat of a man. And he had all of Moke Hill in his sweaty fist.

“Will you be down soon?” Virgil asked through the door. “We’re opening up, and we need you to play hostess.”

“I’ll be down,” Justine told Virgil firmly. “It’s my place now.”

Emma took the unsubtle hint and left Justine to deal with Virgil. She turned her attention to packing. So long as the place opened as usual, she was happy. She dusted off her carpetbag. It was pitifully small, but she had to travel light. It was such a shame to leave all her pretty dresses behind though, she thought with a sigh. Still, she couldn’t very well wear screaming pink satin now that she wasn’t running a whorehouse. She ran her fingers regretfully over her favorite dress, which was heaped on the chair where she’d left it the night before. No more frills and furbelows for her . . . let alone her peacock feather headdress, which sat in pride of place on her dresser. She felt a pang about leaving it, but what use were peacock feathers now? She was hardly going to wear them baking bread or tending her kitchen garden, was she? She’d have to get herself some nice, simple clothes. Something dowdy and respectable. Gingham maybe. Hell. Not gingham. She’d rather be dead than wear gingham. If Hec Boehm hadn’t been such a hasty old hog, she would have had time to prepare properly, she thought grumpily, and there would have been no question of resorting to gingham.

“I have to get ready,” Justine said once Virge had gone, “so you’d best stop telling me not to fret and start working out how to deal with Hec Boehm and his boys.”

“You worry too much.” Emma sounded more confident than she felt. “As usual. I’ve already got a plan.”

Justine rolled her eyes. Emma’s plans were notorious. “What plan?”

Emma threw open the big wardrobe opposite her bed and rifled through it. There was a screech of hangers on the metal rod. The wardrobe was stuffed full. This was where she kept the girls’ best gear, as well as her own. She yanked out gowns, tossing them on the bed. Oh, it hurt to leave them behind. Maybe she could just take one . . .

“What plan?” Justine demanded.

“This one.” Emma found what she was looking for and brandished the coat hanger high in triumph. Well, as high as she could. The damn thing weighed a ton. It was like holding up a sack of potatoes. “I’m going to be a nun!”

“You’re not serious.”

“Of course I’m serious! It’s a great plan.” She turned the heavy black habit around and gave it a quick once-over. It was an ugly thing, made of many layers of coarsely woven wool, and it was as heavy as sin. It was like a big old black tent. No one would make out her shape under it, and the wimple would hide her blazing red hair perfectly. If she wiped the paint off her face, she was sure no one would recognize her. She looked totally different without the rouge and the kohl. More like a hick straight off a farm than a fancy lady.

“It’s the daftest thing you’ve suggested yet.” Justine sat on the bed and put her face in her hands. “What did I do? Hec’s going to torch this place, and you’re dressing up like a nun. I’ve just bought a pile of ashes.”

“Don’t be like that.” Emma wrestled with the habit, trying to get it off the hanger. There were so many pieces to it. How in hell did you put it on? No wonder Wilbur never got the girls naked. He wouldn’t have been able to afford the time it took.

“Don’t you think they’ll find it odd to see a nun leaving a whorehouse?” Justine asked, exasperated. “Especially when they didn’t see her enter it?”

Trust Justine to go throwing logic at her.

“It ain’t my fault Hec got all het up and impatient,” Emma told her. “I’m doing the best with what I’ve got.” She tossed the loose pieces of the habit over her dressing chair, where the black cloth looked even coarser and uglier against her pink dress. She turned her attention to the biggest, most sack-like part of it, trying to work out which end was the head.

Her instincts told her the nun getup would work, and Emma had learned to trust her instincts. They’d kept her alive this far.

People were nice to nuns. Respectful. She wasn’t likely to be accosted traveling to Mariposa in this outfit. It was the safest way to go—especially carrying a fortune in her saddlebags.

“You’ve got to stop looking for problems,” she told Justine as she wedged the habit under her arm and hunted through the bottom of the wardrobe for her old black boots, “and start thinking in terms of solutions.”

“This ain’t a solution! It’s just plain crazy.”

“Hush.” Emma crawled backward out of the wardrobe, boots in hand. “What’s crazy is nagging me when it ain’t my fault. You want to go nagging someone, go nag old Hec. He’s the reason for all this fuss and bother.” She dropped the boots on the floor by the chair and turned her back to Justine. “Unbutton me, will you?” She heard Jussy sigh as she got to her feet. “You worry too much,” Emma said kindly as Justine started on the little buttons running down the back of the purple taffeta gown. Emma played with the precious little scalloped frill on her sleeve. How was she going to leave this behind? She loved this dress. It had a double layer of fancy flouncing near the hem that had taken her forever to sew. And it looked so nice with those peacock feathers.

Justine ignored her and kept on with the buttons.

They were totally unprepared when the door burst open.

Justine shrieked and Emma leaped for the chair, half coming out of her purple dress in the process. Her gun was somewhere under the pink satin gown, where she’d left it the night before. Stupid. She should have kept it close.

She snatched up the Colt, turning it on the intruder.

“Goddamn it, Calla!” she swore when she saw who had burst in. “I mighta shot you!”

Calla was staring wide eyed at the pistol, which was still pointed at her chest. “Why in hell are you wanting to shoot me?”

“Didn’t anyone ever tell you to knock?”

The Mexican girl pulled a face. “No one ever told me I’d be shot for not knocking.”

“Well, I’m telling you now.” Emma’s hand was shaking as she lowered the pistol. “Now close that door. Can’t you see I ain’t entirely decent?”

“I’ve got a letter for you,” Calla said as she closed the door. She was mighty calm for someone who’d almost been shot. But then in Moke Hill almost getting shot happened on a weekly basis. “Virge said to bring it straight up. It’s from Hec Boehm.”

Justine snatched it out of her hand. “You can go now,” she said shortly.

Emma snatched the note off Justine. “You can go too,” she suggested.

“No.” Justine and Calla spoke in unison, equally annoyed.

Emma kept hold of the pistol as she read the note. She was shaking something fierce now. She turned her back on the girls so they couldn’t see. The letters swam before her eyes as she struggled to read Hec’s crabbed handwriting.

“It’s a love letter,” she said, feeling weak with relief. Oh, thank God. The idiot had believed her when she said she would think about becoming his mistress. And he’d clearly believed Teague that she was looking to say yes.

“A love letter?” Justine sounded disbelieving. “From Hec Boehm?”

“Well, a love letter of sorts.” It was more of a detailed map of what he was going to do to her. That was about as loving as a man like Hec Boehm was likely to get. He seemed to think she’d enjoy his—what did he call it?—manly persuasion. She thrust the note at Justine and wriggled out of her purple taffeta dress. It rustled as it fell to the floor. Emma jumped over the skirts and snatched up the tented part of the nun’s habit. She could feel the phantom press of Hec’s hands around her throat. The sooner she was out of here, the better.

“Oh Lord.” Justine sounded ill. “This is worse than I thought. He’s a lot more than keen on you. He’s besotted. What’s he going to do when he finds you’ve gone? He’ll kill me.”

Emma had worried about that. But she had a plan. “I’ll leave him a note.”

“A note?”

Emma was glad Justine wasn’t the one with the gun. She was looking a little murderous. “Listen before you judge,” she cautioned. Why didn’t people ever trust her? Hadn’t she shown herself to be a sensible woman? Hadn’t she brought a couple of wagonloads of whores two thousand miles from Missouri, across those horrid plains, without losing a single one to disease or disaster? Hadn’t she built a thriving business? In fact, not one thriving business, but three? But people still treated her like she didn’t know what she was doing.

“How do you put this thing on?” she asked, confounded by the habit. No matter which way she turned, she couldn’t make heads or tails of it.

“Put the shift on first,” Calla told her, stepping up to help. She’d been raised on a mission and threw herself into the role of Mother Superior with vigor when Wilbur came calling. As she helped Emma into the sack-like shift and then lowered the even heavier full body apron over the top, she didn’t bother to ask why her boss was dressing up as a nun. The Heart of Gold was the kind of place where it was best not to ask too many questions.

“How’s a note going to help?”

Unless you were Justine. Justine never stopped asking questions.

“It’s not just about the note,” Emma said, distracted by contraption Calla was trying to cram onto her head. “It’ll be the whole setup.”

“You know, proper nuns would cut their hair off,” Calla said, as she yanked the white coif down over Emma’s ears.

“Good thing I ain’t a proper nun.” Although she had been wondering how to get the henna out of her hair. Henna didn’t fade. Maybe cutting her hair wasn’t such a bad idea. It could be part of her whole fresh start, and when her hair grew back, it would be her natural color. Emma Jane Palmer’s natural color. She didn’t quite remember what that color was anymore. Reddish. But probably darker now that she was a grown woman.

“What whole setup? You give me such a headache!” Justine was whipping herself into a frenzy. She’d have to learn some serenity if she wanted to survive running this place.

“You should try wearing this thing, if you want to talk headaches.” Emma attempted to wedge her fingers between her forehead and the coif. It was pinching off the blood supply to her brain.

“What whole setup?” Justine was so angry her eyeballs were just about bulging out of her head.

Emma took pity on her and put her out of her misery. “I’ll tell him we’re playing a little game, honey. He likes his games. At least according to the girls. Most of the time I think he’s more interested in playing than in poking.”

“You can say that again,” Calla agreed, hefting the stiff headdress over Emma’s coif. “Sometimes he likes to play hide-and-seek. We leave clothes scattered about like clues, and he has to come find us. We’re supposed to be naked when he does, but often we cheat. He quite likes having a reason to get all angry and give us a spanking.”

“It never ceases to amaze me how many men like spanking,” Emma mused.

“I don’t mind a spanking myself,” Calla admitted. “It’s better than being poked. I don’t mind anything that keeps them busy, to be honest, so long as they poke less.”

“Are you suggesting that you’re going to play hide-and-seek with Hec Boehm?” Justine sounded appalled.

“Of course not. I’m just going to tell him I’m playing hide-and-seek. I’ve already written the note—it’s over there by the peacock feathers.”

Justine all but dove for it. Emma saw her nose wrinkle as she read it.

“Did I lay it on too thick?” Emma asked.

“This is insane,” Justine muttered.

Emma watched her closely. Her gut told her the plan would work. But maybe her gut was an idiot.

Justine looked up. Her dark eyes were frightened. But not as frightened as they had been. “You’re going to send him on a wild-goose chase to Fiebre del Oro?”

“Clever, isn’t it?” Emma couldn’t keep the smugness out of her voice. It wasn’t just clever; it was on the verge of genius. Everyone knew she’d funded Dottie to set up a whorehouse in the gold town up north. It made sense that she’d go there.

Her lusty little note to Hec should prove a successful bit of bait, anyway. He fancied himself a hunter, so she’d play the prey. She’d have the girls set up her room for Hec’s arrival tomorrow. Candlelight, a hot bath, the good Spanish wine set out in the best glasses. Rose petals floating on the surface of the water, she thought in a fit of inspiration. Calla had done that once for the Judge, and it had worked a treat. She’d have Gina and JoBeth lead him upstairs, where they would prepare him for her. He’d like that. They could undress him and bathe him, and maybe give his little soldier a tug if that’s what he was up for. They could feed him the wine until he was all hot and pink from it. Towel him down. Then Gina could read him Seline’s note—Gina was the only one of the two of them who could read, so it would have to be her—while JoBeth acted out all the things Seline promised to do to Hec when he finally found her. That note (and JoBeth’s close attentions) should get Hec into the game. Then he could light out the next morning for Dottie’s place at Fiebre del Oro, where Dottie would have another room ready for him, with her home brew instead of Spanish wine, and her German twins instead of Gina and JoBeth. Emma had sent Blossom’s boy, Henry, on to Fiebre del Oro already, with a second note and instructions for Dottie. She’d paid generously for the German girls’ time and included a nice extra chunk of cash for Dottie too. The twins could keep Hec happily entertained for the night, reading Seline’s promises to him, while they used their plump white bodies on him. The note would send him on to Sutter’s Mill next, to a whorehouse named the Silver Tongue. A whorehouse that didn’t actually exist, but it would take Hec a while to realize it. By the time he’d worked out she’d tricked him and had ridden all the way back to Moke Hill, she’d be safely through Angels Camp and Mariposa, where she’d sell off her shares in her other whorehouses. By the time old Hec reached Angels Camp, she’d be off to San Francisco, to buy herself that nice little house with a view of the bay. And by then she’d be a demure little nobody in gingham—hell, not gingham; surely muslin would be dowdy enough—and men like Hec Boehm wouldn’t look twice at her. She’d be boring Miss Emma Palmer, with reddish hair and not-so-dowdy muslin gowns, tending her cabbage patch and growing freckled in the sun. Hec would be tearing up California looking for a woman who no longer existed.

It was genius.

“Clever!” Justine was shaking. “You think it’s clever?”

Uh-oh. Justine was still mad.

“And what’s he going to do to me when he gets back to Moke Hill?” Justine was looking peaky.

“That’s the cleverest bit!” Emma beamed at her. “That’s when you give him the other note!”

Justine’s hand was starting to clench around the first note, and Emma had to pry it out of her hand. She didn’t fancy rewriting it; she was on a tight schedule. Calla followed her as she moved, jabbing the black nun’s veil into place with hairpins.

“He’ll shoot me before I can give him any more damn notes!” Justine shouted.

“Hush. You don’t want the Koerners to hear you, do you?”

“Tilt your head back,” Calla instructed Emma.

“There’s more to this contraption?” Hell, no wonder nuns were celibate.

Calla laughed and wrapped the wimple-bib around Emma’s neck.

“What’s the other note say?” Justine asked through clenched teeth.

“Just that he’s not to shoot you because you’re going to give him ten percent of the take from now on.”

“I’m what?!”

“It’s perfect! That man would walk over hot coals to pick up a dropped dime. He ain’t going to hurt you if it hurts business, and as we all know, business at the Heart of Gold is good.”

“That ten percent ain’t yours to give away,” Justine