Sweet Laurel

by Millie Criswell

Genres: Historical Romance

Synopsis

Laurel Martin leaves her hometown in search of a husband, hoping to make her father's deathbed wish come true. She arrives in Denver, determined to sing at its fabulous opera house, but she is the only one who thinks she is qualified to do this.

Release date: February 15, 2001

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Print pages: 352

Sample

Denver, Colorado, 1883

“She ain’t got no tits to speak of.”

“Shut up, Chance!” Rooster Higgins, stage manager of the Tabor Grand Opera House, glared at the tall man seated next to him. “You and Whitey ain’t even supposed to be in here during this audition, and you’re going to get me fired. You know if Mr. Witherspoon finds out, I’ll be back sweeping up at your saloon again.” He mopped droplets of nervous perspiration off his brow with his handkerchief.

Chance Rafferty smiled that winning, self-assured smile that was known to melt the hearts of ladies—well, maybe not ladies—but women in general. It was a smile that could soothe the disgruntled patrons of his first-rate gambling saloon, the Aurora Borealis, and charm the angry mamas whose sons were, more often than not, found drinking and gambling there.

“Pardon me for saying so, Rooster, but if you’re going to be showing off your wares at an opera house, and you can’t sing worth shit, then you’d better have a pair of hooters the size of Texas to make up for it. That’s all I’m saying.”

“Well, don’t be saying it here.” Rooster snorted indignantly, glancing up at the stage and praying that the innocent young woman singing hadn’t heard Chance’s insensitive remark. Chance could be pretty thoughtless when he put his mind to it. Of course, he was so damned good-looking that most women overlooked that little flaw.

“She sure is purty,” Chance’s cousin, Whitey Rafferty remarked, a childlike smile lighting his face. There was a vacancy behind that smile, behind his blue eyes, that had been there since birth. Though to look at the six-foot four-inch giant, you wouldn’t consider him less than a man. Many had made that mistake, and many had lived to regret it.

Whitey Rafferty wasn’t playing with a full deck, as Chance was wont to say—though Chance, who was as protective as a mother hen when it came to his dimwitted cousin, didn’t tolerate anyone else saying it. Whitey dealt faro and monte at the Aurora with the best of them, but no one was absolutely certain he understood the rudiments of those games.

Chance stared intently at the stage, and though the hairs on his neck were standing straight up at attention—the little blonde had hit a note known only to God and his band of angels—as Whitey pointed out, she was a looker.

She had a face that could soothe the savage beast, and there were plenty of them to be found at the Aurora. Most hair he’d seen of that particular shade of blonde had come straight from a peroxide bottle, but he knew hers was the genuine article.

Chance prided himself on the fact he could spot a cardsharp, a con artist, or a virgin at first glance. The little woman on stage had virgin written all over her angelic face.

Damn shame about the tits! A woman needed a healthy pair to interest the customers, especially those inclined to spend their money on drinking and gambling and whatever else took their fancy. Without ’em a woman wasn’t likely to get a job anywhere in the bawdy city of Denver, let alone at the Tabor Opera House.

Old man Witherspoon was a stuffy, tight-assed son of a bitch, but Chance would have bet his last silver dollar that old Luther liked bodacious women. All women, for that matter.

Chance shook his head in disgust. Every gambler knew that women were just plain bad luck.

“You guys better clear out now,” Rooster told Chance. “Miss Martin’s almost finished her song, and Mr. Witherspoon’s due back from the bank at any moment.” He looked over his shoulder toward the rear door of the theater, peering into the darkness. There was no sign of the old bastard yet, and Rooster breathed a sigh of relief.

Rooster could never figure out what Chance found so damned amusing about these auditions he insisted on attending. It was hard as hell for Rooster, having to tell all those poor unfortunates like Laurel Martin that he wouldn’t be offering them a job with the company.

Mr. Witherspoon had pointed out numerous times that only the finest voices with absolute clarity and resonance would perform at Tabor’s Grand Opera House. Rooster had heard the cantankerous bastard say it a thousand times if he’d heard him say it once. Of course, if the woman auditioning was willing to give Witherspoon a little “extra attention,” she’d get the job quicker than Rooster could spit. Witherspoon was a lecherous old goat.

“That’s no way to treat friends, Rooster.” Chance leaned back against the velvet-covered seat and crossed his arms over his chest, as if he had all the time in the world and absolutely no intention of leaving. “If it weren’t for me, and a certain lady opera singer who shall remain nameless, you wouldn’t have your present job.”

Rooster look chagrined. “I know that, Chance, and I try to accommodate you and Whitey as best I can. But this here ain’t no meat market. You come in here every week, inspecting these sweet young things like they was sides of beef hanging in Newt Lally’s butcher shop.

“That ain’t right, Chance. Even Whitey knows it ain’t right, and he don’t know a whole hell of a lot.” The stage manager smiled apologetically at the big man, but fortunately Whitey had taken no offense at the comment.

Shooting Rooster a disgusted look, Chance made a rude noise, muttered an invective, and stood to leave; like a shadow, Whitey followed his movement.

At that precise moment the lady on stage hit the final note of her arpeggio, and Chance covered his ears against the screech. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! You’d better shut that woman up, and quick, Rooster,” Chance said loudly enough to be heard above the wail, “or you’re gonna have every goddamn cat and dog within a fifty-mile radius in here.”

From her position on the stage Laurel peered out over the footlights and barely made out the men who’d been talking during her performance. The rudest of the three had even covered his ears. Of all the nerve!

She knew that the slight-built man was Mr. Higgins, the stage manager in charge of hiring for the theater, so she couldn’t very well find fault with him. But the other two were as unwelcome and loud as they were big, and she wished they’d just leave.

Nervous as she was, auditioning for the very first time in her life, Laurel sure didn’t need an audience. And a boisterous one at that.

She’d arrived in Denver two days before, weary but determined to get hired as an opera singer. She hadn’t taken the time for lessons, certain that she could perform adequately without them. Her many beaus back home had told her that her voice was a gift straight from Heaven.

For as long as Laurel could remember, singing was all she had wanted to do. Her father’s death last May had been the impetus for her journey west, and she was finding Denver a far cry from the sleepy farming community of Salina, Kansas, where she’d spent the entire twenty years of her life in a ramshackle soddy on the prairie.

All three of the Martin sisters had respected their father’s deathbed wish that they leave the farm to pursue rich husbands, though none had the least desire to do any such thing.

The eldest sister, Heather, had gone to San Francisco to find a job as an illustrator. Rose Elizabeth had remained on the farm awaiting the new buyer before attending a finishing school back East. Heather had arranged for her enrollment, much to Rose’s dismay.

Laurel doubted that Mrs. Caffrey’s School for Young Ladies would have much luck “finishing” Rose. She had so many rough edges that Laurel thought it more likely that it’d be Rose who finished off Mrs. Caffrey instead!

Having finished her song, Laurel stood waiting nervously, watching with no small amount of disgust as Mr. Higgins pushed the shorter of the two men out the door. A shaft of sunlight poured in as the door opened, and she caught a glimpse of dark hair and broad shoulders. She thought she heard the man bellow something about cats and dogs, but she couldn’t be certain.

*    *    *

Mr. Higgins’s effusive apology for not hiring her for the opera company hadn’t made the rejection any easier for Laurel to accept. She’d been positive that once he heard her sing, he’d fall over himself to sign her to a contract.

Though the man hadn’t said as much, she thought his refusal to hire her might have had something to do with her lack of experience. She wouldn’t try to fool herself into thinking that her first audition hadn’t revealed a lack of polish. But she was determined to practice and try again.

“Practice makes perfect,” her mama had always said. It seemed that Mama’d had a trite cliché and adage to suit every occasion.

Having worked up an enormous appetite, Laurel went to the Busy Bee Café for lunch. Her large appetite was incongruous with her small frame, and her papa used to remark teasingly that filling her up was like filling a silo with grain. Smiling sadly as she remembered her father’s words, Laurel seated herself at one of the blue-gingham-covered tables by the window. A terra-cotta vase graced the center, holding a lovely bouquet of wildflowers.

The restaurant was fairly crowded and hummed with the chitchat of enthusiastic diners. If the delicious odors she smelled were an indication of the food, she was in for a treat. Fresh-brewed coffee filled the air with a heady aroma, and the scents of cinnamon and nutmeg held the promise of apple pie for dessert. Her stomach growled loudly at the thought, and she glanced about to make sure no one else had heard it.

Laurel had just taken her first bite of steak and gravy-covered mashed potatoes when a nattily garbed gentleman in a garish green suit approached her table. A gold watchfob was attached to his red brocade vest. He had a thin, black mustache, and he stared down at her with the most peculiar look on his face, sort of like a predatory animal on the prowl. Immediately she chastised herself for the unkind thought.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” he said in a very nasal tone. “But I was wondering if we could chat for a moment?”

Laurel had been warned not to talk to strangers, but this man looked harmless enough. He had asked politely, and they were in a very public place. Deciding to throw caution to the wind now that she was on her own, Laurel inclined her head and smiled. “Of course. Please have a seat. I hope you don’t mind if I continue eating my lunch, but I’m absolutely famished.”

Across the room, Whitey caught sight of the pretty lady from the Opera House and knocked Chance in the arm. “Look at that lady over there. It’s the purty one from the thee-á-ter.”

Chance’s eyes narrowed at the sight of Albert Hazen, Denver’s most notorious pimp. No doubt he’d smelled the woman’s virginity from clear across the restaurant. She’d make an attractive addition to the slimy bastard’s stable of whores; there was little doubt about that.

Hating to be interrupted during the best fried chicken dinner he’d eaten in a month of Sundays, Chance heaved a deep sigh and shook his head. It seemed that an aura of bad luck surrounded him. Like scum skimming the surface of water, it needed removing at once. If there was one thing a gambler didn’t need, it was bad luck.

“I doubt that little gal knows what she’s letting herself in for, Whitey. We’d best go over and get rid of the creep.”

Approaching the table, Chance placed a warning hand on the man’s shoulder, touching the brim of his hat with the other in greeting to Laurel. “Beat it, Hazen. The lady’s eating her supper, and I don’t believe she wants your company.”

Laurel stared wide-eyed at the giant who accompanied the handsome, dark-haired man. She’d never in all her born days seen hair as white as that. It was as if the sun had bleached all the color out of it, like wheat left too long in the field.

“That’s all right,” she said, realizing that she was staring quite rudely. “I was just explaining to this gentleman that if he wanted to talk, he’d have to do it while I ate. I’m quite hungry.”

“Who I talk to is really none of your damn business, Rafferty. Now why don’t you . . .”

As Whitey took a menacing step forward, Al Hazen shut his mouth and pushed back his chair, trying to ignore the drops of nervous sweat trickling onto his mustache. Turning toward Laurel, he bowed his head in apology. “Sorry about the intrusion, ma’am. Perhaps we’ll meet another time.”

“Over my dead body, Hazen.” Chance’s voice rang cold and deadly as the derringer in his coat pocket.

“That can be easily arranged, Rafferty.” The man smiled maliciously before walking away, and Laurel gasped aloud, her hands flying up to cover her cheeks.

“My goodness gracious! I guess I should thank you, Mister . . . Rafferty. But that man wasn’t really bothering me. He just wanted to talk. I realize I shouldn’t have spoken to someone I hadn’t been properly introduced to, but he seemed harmless enough and very polite.”

“So you won’t make the same mistake twice, ma’am, my name’s Chance Rafferty, and this is my cousin, Whitey. And you’re . . . ?”

“Laurel Martin.”

“Now that we’ve been properly introduced, Miss Martin, I thought you might like to know that the man you were conversing with so politely is the biggest pimp in the state of Colorado.”

“Pimp?” Laurel stared blankly, shaking her head. “I’m afraid I don’t . . .”

Chance looked up at Whitey, shrugged in disbelief, then sat down at the table. “Ma’am, a pimp is someone who procures whores,” he said quietly. When there was still no reaction, he added, “You know—prostitutes? Women who sell themselves for money.”

“I had no idea. Why . . . how dreadful!” As the meaning of his words grew clear, Laurel’s big blue eyes widened. “You mean that nice man thought I was . . .” Intensely mortified she felt her cheeks redden.

Chance shook his head. “No. He was hoping you’d want to come to work for him, though.”

“But that’s preposterous! Why on earth would I want to do that? I don’t even know how to be a prostitute. And besides, I’ve come here to sing at the Opera House.”

A virgin, just as I figured, Chance thought.

“We know,” Whitey blurted before Chance could signal him with a kick in the shins. “We heard you singin’ today.”

Laurel studied the two men closely. She couldn’t recall having met them before, but there was no mistaking Chance Rafferty’s massive shoulders. She was positive she’d seen them before, and she suddenly knew where. “That was you!” There was definite accusation in her tone, and her eyes narrowed slightly.

Chance had the grace to look embarrassed. “That your first time auditioning at the Opera House?” he said, trying to change the subject. The comely blonde was definitely not cut out to be an opera singer. Her voice was too grating—earthy, even. He could picture her belting out a barroom ditty. But an aria from Aida? He thought not.

“You sure sing loud,” Whitey remarked, and received a scathing look from his cousin.

“You’ll have to excuse Whitey, Miss Martin. He tends to speak off the top of his head.”

“I guess that’s better than covering his ears during a performance.” She pushed away her plate, her appetite gone. Somewhere on the other side of the dining room a waiter dropped his tray of dishes, and his curses could be heard above the clatter of broken glassware.

“Yeah. Well, ah . . . You new in town? I don’t recall seeing you around before.”

“I arrived two days ago.”

“Where’re you staying?”

“I fail to see how that’s any of your business, Mr. Rafferty.” Laurel was beginning to like this handsome man less, the more she got to know him.

Chance turned on his winning smile, but it didn’t erase Laurel’s frown. His brows drew together as he filed away her very unorthodox response for future reference. Rejection wasn’t something Chance was accustomed to when it came to members of the opposite sex.

“We just thought you might need an escort back to your hotel, Miss Martin,” he explained. “Sedate as it’s become, Denver can still be a pretty rough-and-tumble place. A lady should take heed where she goes unescorted, especially in this neighborhood.”

Laurel had already had that lecture from Heather before leaving Kansas but had totally disregarded it, knowing her sister’s overprotective nature. Perhaps there had been some truth in Heather’s warning after all, she decided. And she couldn’t help that she’d been forced to seek accommodations near the Opera House, which was just a few blocks away from the vice dens of the city. Her funds were limited, and she certainly couldn’t afford to put herself up at the ornate and expensive Windsor Hotel.

“There does seem to be an inordinate number of saloons in this town,” she said, her lip tight. “I can’t believe people don’t have better things to do with their time than sit in a saloon all day long. When on earth do those men have time to get their chores done?”

Chance swallowed his smile at her naïveté.

“Chance’s saloon is the best one.”

Laurel arched a blond eyebrow at the big man’s comment. “You have a saloon, Mr. Rafferty?” She stared at the impeccable cut of his black broadcloth suit, the flashy gold and silver rings on his fingers, the ruby stickpin in his tie, and wondered why she hadn’t put two and two together. “You’re a gambler, aren’t you, Mr. Rafferty?”

Chance grinned, and her heart nearly flipped over in her chest. “Hell yes, little lady. I’m the proud owner of the Aurora Borealis, the finest gambling and drinking establishment in the whole state of Colorado.”

“Chance is honest.”

Chance patted his cousin’s shoulder affectionately. “Thanks, Whitey.” He turned back to Laurel. “I pride myself on running a straight game, ma’am. I don’t water down the drinks, and my dealers don’t cheat the patrons. If a man loses his hard-earned winnings in my place, it’s because he’s not good enough to beat the house.”

“And do you also pimp, Mr. Rafferty?” Her expression was wide-eyed and innocent as she waited for him to answer, and Chance nearly choked on the water he sipped.

“No, ma’am.” He shook his head, the dark strands of his hair glinting like brown satin in the sunlight streaming through the window. “The Aurora ain’t a brothel, just a gambling house and saloon. Of course, what the customers do on their own time is their business.” He wasn’t a policeman. If the women in his employ wanted to make a little extra money on the side, who was he to interfere?

It was hard enough making a living these days, what with those do-gooders from the local temperance league breathing down everyone’s neck.

The Denver Temperance and Souls in Need League, they called themselves. A bunch of self-righteous, teetotaling hags who had nothing better to do than harass a hardworking saloon owner and his employees and patrons.

Laurel took a moment to digest all Chance had told her. After a moment she said, “If you’ll excuse me, Mr. Rafferty . . . Whitey,” she smiled kindly at the larger man, “I’d best be on my way. I have hours of practice ahead of me if I’m to audition for Mr. Higgins again.”

“Did Rooster . . . Mr. Higgins offer you another audition?” Chance was damned surprised to hear that. After all, he’d heard the woman sing, and he knew Witherspoon would never hire her. Not without big bosoms to recommend her.

On the other hand, Chance knew he could use another songbird at his saloon. Even if Laurel Martin’s voice was as grating as sandpaper and shrill as a cat’s in heat, most of his patrons would be too busy gambling and drinking to notice. And her looks would add a breath of fresh air to the place. Most men were suckers for the sweet, innocent-looking types. Most men. But not he.

“Well . . . no,” she admitted, her smile so sweet he could fairly taste the honey of her lips. “But my mama always said that practice makes perfect, and I know he’ll want to hire me just as soon as I’m able to perform a little better.”

Hell’d freeze over before that ever happened.

Wondering how any woman could be so innocent, Chance took Laurel’s hand in his own, and the jolt of electricity shooting up his arm at the contact startled him. Enough to make him say, “Good luck to you, Miss Martin. And if it don’t work out with Rooster, you come see me at the Aurora. We can always use a pretty gal like you to sing for the customers.”

Whitey nodded enthusiastically, but Laurel found the suggestion shocking, and she yanked her hand away as if she’d been burned. Which she had. Her fingers still tingled from the brief contact.

“I am a respectable artist, Mr. Rafferty, not some dance-hall girl. I would never consider working in an establishment such as yours.”

“Never’s a long time, angel. I’m sure you and me will be seeing each other again.” In fact, he’d have been willing to place a pretty hefty wager on it.

“I wouldn’t hold your breath, Mr. Rafferty.”

“Chance holds the record for breath holding,” Whitey informed her proudly, looking at his cousin with unconcealed adoration. “Last year at the Fourth of July celebration he held it for two and one-half minutes.”

Chance smiled smugly at Laurel, tipped his hat, and walked back to his table, leaving the little want-to-be opera singer staring openmouthed after him.

 

His eyes were green. That revelation hit Laurel like a stroke of summer lightning as she stepped into the wide, unpaved street and was nearly run down by a passing beer wagon.

“Hey, watch where you’re going, lady!” the disgusted driver yelled, shaking a fist in her direction. “Are you trying to get yourself killed?”

Pale and shaken, Laurel jumped back onto the sidewalk. Her heart was pumping so hard that she could feel each beat in her ears.

She’d been daydreaming. About him of all people. That man—that Chance Rafferty—was not only rude and obnoxious, he was going to be the death of her if she didn’t pay closer attention to what she was doing.

And what difference did it make if his eyes were green? She wasn’t going to see him again.

“Never’s a long time, angel.” His words, uttered with so much self-assurance, made her breath catch in her throat.

“Stop it, Laurel Martin. You goose!” she muttered as she made another, safer attempt to cross the street, looking both ways this time. “The man is a gambler, for heaven’s sake. And no doubt a defiler of young women, such as yourself.”

But what a handsome defiler!

Shaking her head in disgust, Laurel made her way to the imposing tall brick structure she’d spied upon leaving the café. Hudson’s Department Store with its big storefront windows and pretty latticed grillwork was a world apart from Mellon’s Mercantile back home. No doubt the scented soap she adored would be much costlier here. But after using the horrible lye concoction Graber’s Hotel provided, she thought it would be worth paying the difference.

“May I help you, Miss?” a mustached gentleman inquired as she entered the store. He wore a white carnation in his left lapel and a pair of round wire-rimmed glasses that magnified his eyes and enhanced his puffy cheeks. He reminded Laurel of Lester, the pet bullfrog Rose Elizabeth used to keep in a box under their bed.

“Yes, thank you,” she replied, wondering if he just stood at the door all day and directed traffic or performed some other, more useful function. “I’m in need of soap.”

“Soap, Miss?” He seemed perplexed, as if he’d never heard the word before.

“I assume people here in Denver use soap to wash, same as they would anywhere else, don’t they?”

He was about to reply when the bell over the door tinkled and an attractive red-haired woman entered. She was stylishly dressed in a long-sleeved, bustled gown, though her taste in fabric—red satin—seemed a bit garish to Laurel’s eye. She carried a parasol of the same color with pretty white lace edging that Laurel thought was absolutely adorable.

The doorman’s face immediately flushed and his expression changed to one of disdain. Stepping in front of the woman to prevent her from proceeding into the store, he said, “We don’t allow your kind in here, madam. You’ll have to leave at once.”

The woman in question looked resigned rather than mortified by his comments, and she gave Laurel an apologetic glance. She couldn’t have been much older than Laurel; if Laurel guessed right, the woman was probably even a couple of years younger.

As the woman turned to leave without so much as an argument, Laurel blurted, “Wait!” Then turned to the frog-faced man, “Why can’t this woman come in here? Aren’t you open for business?”

“You don’t understand, Miss,” the doorman explained, his voice lowered to a conspiratorial whisper because the other customers were beginning to stare. “Her kind aren’t welcome here.”

“ ‘Her kind?’ ” Laurel looked at the woman again but saw nothing unusual about her, other than the flaming color of her hair, which Laurel found very attractive. “Just because she’s got red hair doesn’t mean you shouldn’t allow her to shop here. This is a free country, after all.”

He sighed deeply. “I wouldn’t expect a lady, such as yourself, to understand, miss, but this woman isn’t fit to be in the same building with a lady.” His bulging eyes seemed to implore her to understand.

But Laurel didn’t. “Why not? If I don’t object to her being here, why should you?”

“It’s all right, miss,” the young woman said in a soft voice, reaching out to touch Laurel’s arm. “I can take my business elsewhere.”

“But why should you? There’s no sign on the door that says redheaded women can’t shop in this establishment. And even if there was, it’d be against the law. Colorado achieved statehood in 1876, which makes it part of these United States. And to the best of my knowledge, that means it’s part of a free country.” Thank goodness Heather had been so insistent that her sisters keep up with current events, Laurel thought. Of course, she hadn’t been so grateful all those evenings when she and Rose had been forced to read the newspaper before going to bed.

Astonished, the woman stared at Laurel.

“Miss,” the man said with as much patience as he could muster, placing gloved hands on his slender hips. “This woman is an adventuress.” His gaze skimmed insultingly over the woman, his lips thinning beneath his mustache. “She isn’t fit to consort with decent young ladies like you.”

Laurel turned to face the woman and had a difficult time believing the man’s accusation. Adventuress meant “whore” where she came from. And this woman looked too sweet and fresh to be any such thing.

Laurel had seen a whore once, when she was eight and peeked under the swinging doors of the Rusty Nail Saloon. That woman had been fleshy to the point of being fat. Her bosoms had looked like watermelons about to explode, and her face had been painted up like a clown’s.

No, Laurel thought, this woman couldn’t be a whore. But even if she was, she still had a right to shop wherever she wanted.

The young woman’s face turned bright red. “He’s right, miss. I shouldn’t have come in here.”

Ignoring the obviously painful admission, Laurel grasped her hand. “If this woman isn’t welcome in your store, then I shall be forced to take my business elsewhere.”

“But, miss! Decent department stores don’t allow women of the evening to frequent their establishments. It just isn’t done.”

“That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard,” Laurel replied, squeezing the woman’s hand to bolster her resolve. “Her money’s as good as the next person’s. What’s her occupation got to do with anything?” Laurel knew it had everything to do with everything—prostitutes weren’t considered socially acceptable in Salina, either—but she was out to make her point. “If I’m not offended by her presence, why should you be?”

“It’s store policy, miss. I think you should know your facts before you go defending people of her persuasion. You’re obviously new here in Denver.”

“Obviously I am. But we have adventuresses in Kansas, too, and I never saw Mr. Mellon turn one away from his mercantile. Mr. Mellon’s a practical man, you see, and is of the opinion that if you start turning everyone away that’s committed a sin or two in their lifetime, you’re not going to have much of a clientele to shop in your store.”

Laurel brushed past the doorman, clutched the startled young woman’s arm, and dragged her into the store with her, completely ignoring the man’s attempts to protest. Fortunately, he was too stunned to stop them and could only emit croaking sounds like the creature he resembled.

“Miss, you really shouldn’t have done that,” the woman claimed, staring over her shoulder at the furious man standing guard at the door. “You’re probably going to get thrown out of here with me.”

Laurel shrugged. “I don’t really care. I only came in to buy a bar of soap, and I can probably find that just about anywhere.”

The young woman smiled gratefully. “My name’s Crystal . . . Crystal Cummings. And I thank you from the bottom of my heart. No one’s ever taken up for me like that before.”

“Really?” Laurel shook her head, as if the notion were completely impossible to believe. “Where I come from, people treat each other a little bit nicer. I’m not saying there a