The Devil of Whiskey Row by Renee Rose Page A

slow down, to hold the ending note as he filled out the song.
    When she turned to him, giddy with pleasure that between the two of them they'd been able to play the song, she saw a sheen of sweat on his forehead, and strained jaw muscles, as if he were gritting his teeth against pain.
    Her thrill instantly morphed back to the overriding fear that had racked her since he'd been shot.
    “You should get back to bed,” she said anxiously.
    His eyebrows drew together. “You are not in charge of me, little girl,” he said very sternly, and then kissed her forehead to soften his words. She watched helplessly as he stood and stiffly walked the length of the room to perch on a bar stool and survey his business. Her belly clenched with worry and a hollowness permeated her soul.
    She ought to be happy. She ought to be thrilled that Diggory was well enough and that things would now be returning to normal. Except that normal was completely distasteful to her. She didn't want to return to working the floor for money. She didn't want to give up her post beside Jake Diggory's bed, even though she wanted him well. And now that the idea of taking that gold nugget and leaving Dorado Hills had been planted, she didn't want to stay. But she had no choice, did she?
    She stood from the piano and squared her shoulders, forcing her feet to carry her through the hall, her hips to sway provocatively and her lips to curve in invitation. She found a miner who lifted a dollar at her, and drew up a chair beside him, providing her companionship as he gambled away his earnings. The emptiness inside her was overwhelming.
    It was a familiar feeling. It was the same soulless feeling she'd had since her parents died and Smoochy had put her to work selling her body for money. It was only Jake Diggory who had made her feel alive again. With his piano. With his passion. With his tender punishments. He truly saw her, understood her.
    But no… that wasn't right.
    He was only kind to her because she looked like his dead fiancée. In fact, he didn't know her at all.
     
    * * *
     
    “Jesus, I wish he'd just spank us all and get it over with,” Olive complained to Gigi and Marie, not knowing he was in his room and could hear every word they spoke from the bunk room. He had admittedly been on a tear—his black mood causing him to lash out at anyone and everyone in his path. It had been weeks since his injury and he'd been in a foul temper every moment of them. He couldn't stand feeling so helpless, unable to use the fingers of his dominant hand.
    “Isn't that the problem? He won't be spanking anyone for a long time. At least not with that hand.”
    “I don't think it's the spanking so much as the piano playing that he's missing.”
    He heard a creak outside his room and then a light tap on his door. He threw it open with a force that caused it to bang against the wall.
    Cora jumped back a little, but said nothing, clearly prepared for his ire. She chewed her lip.
    “What?” he snarled.
    The sound of his voice brought an abrupt halt to the gossip from the bunk room and the girls hurried out and down the stairs, casting him glances under their lashes on their way.
    “May I come in?”
    His brow wrinkled in surprise, but he stepped back and allowed her to pass. She walked into the room with a swish of skirts, her narrow waist accented in a light blue satin affair. She paced aimlessly through his room, finally coming to sit on his trunk, her two knees pressed primly together in sharp contrast to her revealing costume.
    She didn't belong in this hellhole he called his business. He felt an overwhelming urge to press that gold nugget back into her palm and tell her to get herself out of California. He hadn't moved it from the hiding place he'd revealed to her, even knowing she had a propensity to steal. For one thing, he wanted to believe she was trustworthy. But if she disappointed him, well, he'd be glad she got the hell out.
    “I truly thought I was going to die