Down In the Valley

by Jane Shoup

Genres: Christian Romance; Historical Romance; Western Romance

Synopsis

Saint or Sinner? Miss Emeline Wright risked everything to escape the monster who stole her innocence, her dignity, her pride. Now no one in her little home town nestled in the West Virginia hills must ever know what she was forced to do while a captive in the city. Her only chance is to make a go of her uncle’s failing farm, but how can a woman alone, in rough country, survive? With unfailing courage and an open heart, Em wins over the townspeople who’ve judged her so harshly, taking in a motley crew of misfits who show up, one by one, to lend a hand. But it’s the quiet strength and unfailing love of a single man that will show her how to trust again as they  build a  home to last forever… DOWN IN THE VALLEY

Release date: September 1, 2015

Publisher: Zebra Books

Print pages: 400

Sample

The petite maid brushed aside a rogue wisp of hair from the back of Emeline Wright’s slender neck and clasped the necklace. Miss Wright’s chestnut brown hair wasn’t exactly unruly, but there was a lot of it and it had a soft, natural curl, so there was always this tendril or that escaping the pins. Plus it blew ever so slightly from the airflow caused by the two-blade ceiling fan. Each suite on the floor had a ceiling fan, powered by a stream of water, a turbine and a belt—or so she’d been told. She stepped back with a, “If that’s all, miss?” since it was one of the few lines she was allowed to speak to Miss Wright.

“Yes,” Miss Wright replied, since it was one of the few words she was allowed to speak. “Thank you, Jenny,” was added out of sheer defiance.

Jenny contained the smile that wanted to break through, curtsied and then left the suite, quietly shutting the door behind her before turning the key in the lock. She always felt a qualm about doing so, more than a qualm, really, but she unfailingly locked it because she was required to. An employee did not cross Mr. Peterson and keep one’s job. It was rumored that one did not cross Mr. Peterson and keep one’s life, although that might have been exaggeration.

As she started back to the east wing to see to her other duties, it occurred to her what an irony it was that someone as powerful and ruthless as Wilson Peterson was called Sonny. Sonny sounded sweet and harmless, while he was anything but. He didn’t just own this place, The Virginia Palace, the largest, grandest hotel in Richmond; he had power. City officials existed quite cozily in his pockets and eagerly carried out his bidding.

Poor Emeline Wright. Even in the unlikely event she managed to get free of the hotel, it wouldn’t matter. She could strip naked, run into a street full of people and scream at the top of her lungs all the things Sonny had done to her—and no one would say one single word against him after she was dragged back inside and probably beaten half to death.

The Palace was not just a hotel. The elegant, four-story stucco structure, fittingly built in the palazzo style, took up half a block. It housed a refined restaurant at one end and a lavish saloon, brothel and gaming facility at the other, where big money was made. Without question, Sonny had charm, and yet everyone knew he was little more than a thug at heart, having acquired every red cent of his fortune through deviousness and utter heartlessness. Take away his stature and confidence, and he was a plain-looking man, six feet tall, with wheat-colored hair. Not thin, but nor was he muscular. He hired muscle; he rarely had to use his own anymore.

Everyone, at least everyone within the confines of The Palace, knew about Miss Wright, as well. Like most every other possession Sonny had ever set his sights on, she had been wooed, lured and then trapped. Tenderly wooed, cleverly lured and then fatally trapped. Jenny had seen her arrive the first day of what Miss Wright had thought was to be a brief visit, all bright-eyed, kind and polite. How quickly things had changed, including Sonny’s loving demeanor.

Once the trap was sprung, Miss Wright was informed they’d be married just as soon as she learned to behave as the perfect wife. It was simple, Sonny stated. If she chose, theirs would be an exceedingly pleasant life. If she resisted, as he suspected she initially might, she could expect her “training” to be harsh. No matter what, she would be his and she would make him proud, or she would pay the price.

Oh, and had he ever been right about her resisting. She had entirely too much spirit, but Jenny suspected that was one of the reasons he’d chosen her in the first place. After all, he could have had his pick of any number of impressive young ladies from Richmond. Docile, obedient creatures who’d been raised to be perfect wives. Instead, he’d chosen Emeline—a young woman attending college. A young woman without anyone in the world to come looking for her once she abruptly and unexpectedly withdrew from school and the society she’d chosen.

Naturally, Jenny and the other maids saw more than most. While Em was paraded around almost every day on Sonny’s arm, presented as his lovely, fortunate fiancée, dressed in the finest fashions and glittering jewels, the casual observer didn’t see the evidence of Sonny’s “training.” They saw. Some even believed that Emeline had finally learned a certain level of submissiveness, and that there would be a wedding announcement before long. In Jenny’s opinion, what Miss Wright had “learned” was to become a master at subduing and concealing her emotions. She couldn’t possibly be naïve enough to believe that Sonny bought the act entirely, but she’d performed flawlessly of late. There had been far fewer marks and bruises.

As a door opened just up the hallway, the door to Veronica Peterson’s room, Jenny dropped her gaze and picked up her pace, hoping to pass without having to acknowledge the woman. Veronica was Sonny’s aunt and one of the most formidable, joyless people she had ever had the misfortune to encounter. Luck was with her, for Veronica’s back was to her as she passed.

Indeed, Em wasn’t naïve. She’d withdrawn so far within herself, she often felt nothing at all, but she wasn’t naïve. After Jenny left the room, she rose from her vanity table and walked over to the full-length mirror. The pale blue gown she wore was form-hugging and beautifully made, the design straight from Paris. The bustle had all but disappeared and a short train had been added. It was highly flattering and yet there was nothing she would have liked better than to rip it off. To rip it to shreds.

Perhaps it was her lack of expression or the rigidity of her body, but she was suddenly struck by the memory of the porcelain doll she’d had as a girl, because she resembled that doll. The thought was so bizarre, she shivered. She blinked and the impression intensified. She was nothing but a doll, whose arms and legs could move, sometimes at her bidding, sometimes at his, but a lifeless, dressed-up doll just the same. That was what she had become.

“Barbara Jean,” Em whispered as she recalled the name of the doll. How funny; she hadn’t thought of the doll in years. She moved closer to the mirror, gazing fixedly into the eyes of her reflection. No, she was not quite a soulless doll yet, but she had to master her fear, find the right opportunity and get away from this place. There had to be a way to make it happen, especially since she’d managed to stash traveling essentials in a soft-sided bag in the basement. In it was clothing, a train ticket, and money—the exact same amount she’d possessed when she’d come to Richmond. She didn’t want anything that belonged or had ever belonged to Sonny.

Everything she’d accomplished so far had been difficult and dangerous. In fact, purchasing the ticket to Green Valley, West Virginia, had been a risk she’d barely gotten away with. She’d been on a shopping excursion with Veronica, an infrequent and only recently granted privilege, when, in a milliner’s shop, Veronica became involved enough in conversation with an acquaintance that Em was able to duck out of sight. Rushing to the railway station to purchase a ticket had been so nerve-racking that the station attendant had inquired whether she was ill.

She’d stammered that she was perfectly well, and, with badly shaking hands, she’d stuffed the ticket into her reticule and hurried back toward the milliner’s shop, arriving just as Veronica emerged. Red-faced with fury, the older woman latched on to Em’s arm with a brutal grip. “Where were you?”

“I just stepped out for . . . for air,” Em replied shakily and much too quickly. She needed to calm herself. “I was feeling faint,” she added. She was suddenly gripped with fear that Veronica would search her reticule. She should have hidden the ticket in her bodice or up her sleeve.

“I will never take you out again,” Veronica swore as she led the way back to the carriage. “You can rot in that room for all I care.”

In the carriage, Em kept her face turned away from Veronica and her reticule clutched at her side until the hotel was in sight. The tall arches that led to the portico had once seemed awe-inspiring; now the sight made her stomach ache with tension. Beyond the entrance was a lobby of grand scale with a marble floor strewn with thick, Oriental-style rugs, yet the path to the stairs was all marble and the sound her shoes made when she walked up was ominous and hollow. She hated the sound. She swallowed hard, knowing she was nearly out of time, and something else had to be said. “I only wanted a breath of fresh air,” she said as tears sprang to her eyes.

“Not without my permission,” Veronica uttered through clenched teeth.

“It won’t happen again,” Em replied quietly. Beseechingly.

Seconds of agonizing silence passed before the older woman gave a stiff nod. “We will neither of us mention it,” she warned.

Em looked back out the window again, nearly light-headed with relief that the crisis had passed. Not only that, but, with the ticket in her possession, freedom had finally become a real possibility. All she needed now was a window of opportunity.

“Emeline,” a dry female voice said, startling her back to reality.

Em turned to find Veronica standing in the doorway. As Em started forward to retrieve her fan from the vanity table, Veronica raked her over from neckline to hemline, her gaze full of resentment. They walked without speaking, Em taking a slight lead as if she were in control of her destination. As always, Veronica followed nearly the entire way to the private salon on the second floor where Sonny and his guests had gathered.

The doors were opened for her and Em entered the salon, prompting heads to turn and a chorus of accolades regarding how lovely she looked. She smiled and murmured her thanks with all the hypocrisy she could muster.

“You’re a lucky man, Sonny,” one of the guests murmured, setting her teeth on edge.

As Sonny acknowledged the comment with a self-satisfied smile, Em took a breath and exhaled discreetly, forcing herself to relax. One day soon, very soon, she would be free of him, and once free, she would never allow a man to touch or control her again. It was a good thought.

By ten o’clock, Em sat at her vanity wearing nothing but a white silk dressing robe. She brushed her hair distractedly until she froze at the sound of the lock turning. Dread seized hold, but she focused on her face in the mirror. Her eyes were not the eyes of a doll. She was not a doll; she was pretending to be one, but with a mind he knew nothing of.

Sonny stepped in carrying a drink, having left his jacket, vest and cravat behind, and nudged the door shut behind him. He sauntered toward her, set his drink down on the vanity and pulled the front of her robe apart. Watching her mirror image, he cupped her breasts. “You looked mighty fine tonight,” he said, “but you look even better like this.”

She watched his hands so she didn’t have to see his face. A doll feels nothing. Nothing. A doll feels nothing.

He pulled her up and around to face him, untied the belt of her robe and looked hungrily at her body before he pulled her against him and his mouth closed in on hers. There was no tenderness in the intrusive, alcohol tinged tongue or the grip on the back of her neck. He tugged down the straps of his suspenders, his jaw set in anticipation, and she began unbuttoning his shirt with stiff, slightly trembling fingers. He liked things done in a specific way and she knew the order. She’d learned her cues. He stepped back and removed the long silver chain with the key to her room from around his neck and set it aside. Reaching for his drink, he said, “Middle of the bed. On your back.”

He swallowed the last of his bourbon, emptied his pockets and moved toward her. As always, she had to fight her instinct to turn away or close her eyes. He climbed atop her, pinned her hands and bent to kiss her neck, but a knock on the door surprised them both. He got up and moved toward the door, scowling with irritation, while she sat and tugged the robe together to cover herself, thankful for the distraction. But how foolish, she silently chided herself, when he would be right back.

He jerked open the door.

“Sorry to bother you, Mr. Peterson,” a man said quickly, “but we just learned the President was shot.”

Sonny drew back. “What?”

“Shot,” the man repeated. “Today. In Washington. The newspaper man, Harper, he received the telegram and came right over to tell you.”

“Is he dead?”

“No, sir. He was taken back to the White House. Least, that’s what the telegram said.”

“Who did it?”

“Uh, some lawyer. Funny last name. The telegram’s downstairs.”

“I’ll be right down,” Sonny replied, already shutting the door.

He turned and looked at Emeline, but his mind was obviously busy evaluating all possible aspects of the matter. Her head was spinning, and not just because the news was shocking. Sonny was a creature of habit, and his routine had just been interrupted. “It’s terrible,” she murmured. As he began to button his shirt, she experienced a chill at the irony that President Garfield had been in office just about the same amount of time she’d been Sonny’s prisoner, six months or so. Did it mean something? Her body and mind felt on sudden high alert. She was an animal ready to spring from a trap.

“I’ll be back,” he said, and then he turned and left, pulling up a suspender strap as he went.

The door closed and she held her breath, waiting for the sound of the lock, only it didn’t come. She looked at the vanity table and saw the key. He’d left without it. She looked at the door again, expecting it to open once he realized his mistake, but there was only silence. She got up so quickly, the blood rushed to her head. She moved to the vanity, staring down at the items left behind, his money bound by a monogrammed silver clip, the key and his pocketknife. She reached for the knife with a trembling hand, knowing she had to go. Now. This very minute. No! He’d realize his mistake and be back, and to be caught leaving—

She withdrew her hand, but continued to stare at the knife. She tied the belt on her robe and a tear slipped down her face. She swiped it away angrily and picked up the knife. Damn it, this was her opportunity and she was squandering it. She started toward the door, but stopped short when she heard the soft squeak of the doorknob twisting. Staring at the brass knob, she stuck the knife behind her, clutching it so hard that the mechanism sprang the blade. He would demand to know why she had the knife, and what would she say?

The door opened, and Veronica, wearing a nightdress, leaned in and grabbed up the key from the dressing table. By the look of her sleep-creased face, she’d been rudely awoken. Em experienced simultaneous jubilation that it wasn’t Sonny and dread that her chance was about to disappear. Her only hope was to place some kind of block in the crack of the door once it was closed. The blade of the knife. But already Veronica was shutting the door. “D-did you hear?” she called, stepping forward on wobbly legs.

The door opened again. “Hear what?”

Em closed the distance between them, careful to keep the knife from view. “The President was shot.”

Veronica blinked in surprise. “All he said was to lock the door,” she croaked, obviously dazed from being awoken so abruptly.

“It’s terrible, isn’t it?”

Veronica grunted and shut the door.

Shaking with equal measures of fear and adrenaline, Em leaned against the door and stuck the blade in the right spot to prevent the lock from catching. Her breath caught as the bar pushed against the blade. This was it. If Veronica realized what she’d just done, she’d force her way in and it would all be over. Em waited, half expecting the door to fly open and knock her backward, but it didn’t. She managed a deep breath and then another. All she had to do now was to open the door and make her escape. But what if Veronica was still standing there? Or Sonny? What if it had all been a trick? A test of some sort? Memories of past punishments paralyzed her. “Stop it,” she whispered.

She hesitated a moment more and then pulled the door open far enough to release the metal tongue. She tossed the knife onto the rug behind her and peeked though the crack. No one was visible. Slowly, she opened the door and looked out at the empty hallway. This was it. This was her chance. She had to move. Get to the side door, slip out, and get down and around to the cellar without being seen.

She took a step, but the floor creaked beneath her and she stopped, shaking violently. Her muscles wanted to seize, but she forced herself to start moving again and, once in motion, she kept going. Muffled voices and laughter from the rooms she passed reminded her that anyone could emerge at any time, and anyone who spotted her would immediately alert Sonny.

She reached the door at the end of the hall, opened it silently and stepped out into a balmy night. Shutting the door behind her, she pressed her back against the wall and gulped breaths to help quell her dizziness. The warm breeze tickled her skin and urged her on, although her knees were dangerously weak as she started down the steps of the rarely used exit. She heard hoofbeats and carriage wheels from the street, and distant voices, but the cover of trees, in full summer leaf, shielded her from view.

She crept around the perimeter of the building and down the steep steps to the cellar. Her stomach lurched when the doorknob offered resistance, but then it gave with a squeak, and she disappeared into the dank, inky darkness and felt her way to the soft-sided traveling bag she’d stashed there. Her eyes were wide and unblinking as she untied her belt and slipped off her robe. She heard the soft scratching of rodents at the same instant she felt the brush of silk against her ankles, and felt a painful chill up her spine. As quickly as she could, clumsy with nerves, she dressed in the same traveling gown she’d worn on the day of her arrival and stepped into her shoes, not even bothering with stockings. She extracted her reticule from the bag, which held a purse with money, the exact same amount she’d possessed upon arrival, minus the ticket she’d purchased, a small brush and hair combs, a handkerchief and her train ticket.

As she started back out, it was with full awareness that she had to move quickly, but also warily, because if this opportunity was lost, there wouldn’t be another. Again, she crept around the building to the rear edge of the hotel. It was the quietest street nearby and it was empty for the moment. She took a deep breath, exhaled and then began walking, clutching her reticule tightly. Head down, keep moving. Walk, don’t run. You can do this.

She knew the least frequented paths away from here. She’d made mental notes of the shadowy alcoves and dark, side alleys on each and every excursion away from the hotel. She’d thought long and hard about this moment. The hardest thing was not to run.

The prostitutes were housed in the north wing of the hotel, but with the addition of several new ones, a few had been temporarily installed in rooms on the far more elegant south wing, which was why Katie-Louise happened to be walking by Em’s room a few minutes before eleven. The girls all called Miss Wright ‘the princess’ because of her looks, and because of the way she was treated, as if she had to be watched all the time, as if she might break or something.

The princess was slender, with perfect posture. Her hair was brown, which would have been nothing special, except that it was nice hair and went so well with her golden-brown eyes, which were more almond-shaped than round. Katie-Louise had round eyes. In fact, everything about her was roundish. Luckily, she had yellow hair, which a lot of men seemed to favor, a pretty face and the right opening between her legs, which allowed her to make a living. She’d be alright for a few years, and during that time she’d find herself a husband. That was her plan.

“How come you didn’t take your top off?” Ned complained behind her. “You didn’t show me your tits.”

“Maybe I’ll do that next time,” Katie-Louise replied agreeably. “For a dollar extra.”

“Aw, Katie-Louise, that ain’t fair. It oughta be part of the package.”

She gave him a look over her shoulder. “You can be so crude when you want to,” she murmured as she noticed the door to the princess’s room was standing wide open. Strange, since she was usually kept locked up tight—a princess in her tower. ’Course, she also got silk dresses made just for her and she got waited on hand and foot. She got to have dinner every night in the fancy, private dining room and she got Sonny Peterson. Not a bad life, in Katie-Louise’s opinion. She would have traded in a flat minute.

“You oughta show me your tits and you ought not insult me after paying you, is what,” Ned muttered.

“Fine,” she gave in. “Next time I will. Alright, already?” They weren’t allowed to go into the hotel lobby and so she turned the hall toward the back staircase, aware that Ned was still muttering complaints under his breath. The big baby. Stopping abruptly with an impatient huff, she turned to face him and lifted her top. Tugging it back down in place, she gave him a look. “Alright?” she demanded.

“Alright,” he echoed, appeased for the moment.

She turned and walked on with a roll of her eyes. They started down the stairs to the saloon, but slowed in confusion at the sight of the roomful of people below. Everyone had a tense look, the talk was hushed and the whole crowd had converged in the less than half hour she’d been upstairs with Ned.

“Wha’cha think’s goin’ on?” Ned asked as he stopped beside her.

She shrugged and walked on, ready to be done with him. She made her way over to Nancy and Golden, who were leaning against the back bar taking it all in, their fans in continual movement. “What’s happened?”

“President Garfield was shot,” Golden replied solemnly. “He’s probably going to die.”

Katie-Louise’s jaw dropped. “Why? Who shot him?”

Nancy shrugged. “Some crazy man.”

“I wouldn’t want to be president,” Katie-Louise confided as she looked over the crowd. “They’re always getting shot.” Her lip curled to see Veronica Peterson standing across the way. The woman had a hard look about her, the same look men got on their faces when they wanted to cause pain rather than to receive pleasure. Or maybe causing pain was their pleasure, although that made no sense to her. They called her V.P. and frequently followed it with, ‘is creepy.’

Sonny, on the other hand, was anything but creepy. She didn’t even see how the two of them were related. He was standing at the head of the group like he was holding court—like he was the governor or something. She pictured herself standing next to him, dressed in a silver, satin gown. Sonny would give her that half smile of his, as if they were sharing a joke. It was a beautiful fantasy. “Where’s the princess?” she asked without taking her eyes off Sonny.

“Locked away, as usual,” Nancy replied. “You know, I kinda feel sorry for her.”

“Sorry?” Golden scoffed. “What’s there to be sorry for?”

“The door to her room was wide open,” Katie-Louise said.

The others looked at her as if she’d just spouted pig Latin.

“You sure?” Nancy asked doubtfully. “You probably saw another room.”

“I know which one’s her room. It wasn’t wide open, but it was open.”

Nancy blinked. “Uh . . . if she’s not down here—”

“Did you look in her room?” Golden asked. “Was she there?”

“I didn’t look in, but it’s open and it’s never open.” She paused. “Should we tell?”

“You better,” Golden warned. “If she’s gone missing again, there’s going to be hell to pay, and you best make sure you ain’t the one paying.”

“Should I tell Sonny?” Katie-Louise asked, hopefully.

Nancy glanced over at Sonny and his group and then shook her head. “Viper lady. I’ll wave her over.” All three girls looked at Veronica in time to see the scathing look she gave them before starting toward them. “I hate that old witch,” Nancy said under her breath.

“Me, too,” the others agreed.

“What is it?” Veronica demanded when she got close enough. She always kept a certain amount of distance, as if they had something catching.

Katie-Louise crossed her arms. “The door to the prin—” Katie-Louise barely caught herself in time. “To Miss Wright’s room is open.”

Veronica flinched. “That’s impossible.”

Golden noticed that even though it was impossible, the notion sure made VP blanche. It almost made her smile.

“It was,” Katie-Louise said with a shrug.

Veronica looked at the people gathered around Sonny, then turned and headed upstairs with a scowl on her face.

“Wouldn’t surprise me if she didn’t just soil her knickers a little bit,” Golden said to the amusement of the others.

As Veronica stared at the sprung lock, cold tendrils of fear seeped through her system. She heard voices behind her and turned to see one of the whores, Betty or Betsy or something like that, coming toward her followed by a short, fat man, who was readjusting his trousers as he walked, low-class scum that he was. “Betty—”

“It’s Bitsy,” the young woman corrected without slowing her pace.

“Go tell Mr. Peterson I need to see him,” Veronica snapped.

Bitsy halted in her tracks. “What?”

“You heard me. Now, hurry up.”

Bitsy blinked.

“Go!” Veronica barked.

Bitsy huffed. “I’m going.”

“Bitsy,” Veronica called a moment later, halting the young woman yet again. “Tell him Miss Wright seems to be . . . missing.”

Bitsy looked horrified at the prospect. “I’ll tell him to come up here, but I’m not telling him that,” she said in a low voice. “Uh-uh,” she added with a shake of her head.

“Go, then,” Veronica hissed furiously.

Across the street from an establishment called Boxley’s Bordello, Em pressed a hand to the stitch in her side and stared at the horses tied to the hitching post. She’d cleared enough distance from the hotel; now she needed a horse. Or better yet, the horse and buggy at the end of the row. She glanced aroun. . .