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  Drew stared down at the voluptuous whore. His leg was throbbing painfully, sobering memories were returning, and despite the young woman’s obvious assets, he had not a speck of desire for her. He was beginning to regret coming to Galveston, and his visit to the brothel even more.

  His primary concern at the moment was his increasing inability to stand steadily on his feet, and he responded flatly, “You’re wasting your time, honey. I’m heading for the bar.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  Tricia glanced up from the suitcase she was emptying onto the bed as the door of the room bounced open. At a loss for words, she stared at the woman who stood framed in the opening. Her red hair blazed in the sunlight, her red dress was provocatively cut, and her painted, mature face was tightly composed.

  It was Chantalle, and she was angry.

  Yes, what was she doing there?

  Tricia shook her head.

  “I asked you what you’re doing here.”

  Aware that she could avoid a response no longer, Tricia replied, “I wanted to surprise you. I went to great trouble to make sure no one saw me approaching so you would be the first one to know I was here.”

  “But Polly saw you and recognized you from your photograph on my desk. And if she saw you, others did, too.”

  “I don’t think so—but right now I don’t really care. I had hoped you’d welcome me.”

  “You know you’re not welcome here.”

  “This is my home, Chantalle.”

  “No, it isn’t! You don’t belong here and you know it. I made sure of that when you were still a child.”

  “Did you?” Tricia pushed a blond wisp back from her forehead with a shaky hand. “You may have tried, but despite all those years of private schools up North, when I kept hoping you would take me back home with you each time you came to visit, I knew where I belonged—and that’s here, with you.”

  “I promised your mother—”

  “I know what you promised my mother.” Tricia took a stabilizing breath before continuing softly, “You’ve told me that story often enough. You promised my mother on her deathbed that you’d take care of me and raise me to be a woman she’d be proud of.”

  “That’s a truth I’ve lived by.”

  “I know, but—”

  “Your mother wouldn’t want to see you in a bordello, much less have you living here.”

  “Living in a bordello . . . you mean, like she did?”

  Chantalle shook her head stiffly. “Your mother and I didn’t live in a bordello when you were little, although I almost wish we had. We shared a miserable little room where we hid you from the ‘friends’ we brought home when we were driven to desperation because there was nothing for us to eat.”

  “But no matter how bad things were, you kept your promise after she died. You took care of me.”

  Her ample breasts heaving with suppressed emotion, Chantalle whispered shakily, “And it was hard, Tricia. I had made so many mistakes in my life. I had failed too many times to allow myself to fail again with such an important trust. In the end, I took the only way out. I was lucky enough to find a ‘house’ that allowed me to keep you with me. I was lucky enough to find a special ‘patron,’ too, an old man who I truly believe loved me in his way. When he died unexpectedly, he left me a sum that enabled me to leave the house where I was working and bring you here with me when I set up a house of my own. The day that I was able to send you up North to school—as far away from this place as I possibly could—was a triumph for me.”

  Chantalle brushed away a tear as she continued, “That day was a triumph for you, too, whether you want to believe it or not, and I will not allow you to sacrifice it all now.”

  “It’s no sacrifice for me to come home, Chantalle. It’s the realization of a dream.”

  “No! You’re beautiful and educated. You’re a lady . . . a woman who will make a wonderful wife for a man of substance.”

  “I can find a man of substance here in Galveston.”

  “Not if you’re considered Chantalle Beauchamp’s daughter. Not if you’re living in a bordello!”

  “I wanted to come home, Chantalle.”

  “That was a mistake. There’s no place for you in this house.”

  “I didn’t mean I expected to work as one of your girls.”

  “Whether you did or not doesn’t matter, don’t you understand? You’ll be considered no better than one of the women here simply by association with me.”

  “I am no better than the women here. If not for you, I might be one of them.”

  “But you’re not.”

  “I know what I am . . . and I don’t care what people think of me.”

  “I do!”

  “Chantalle . . .” Tricia’s throat tightened as she continued, “My mother wanted me to be happy, didn’t she?”

  “Of course, but—”

  “I can’t find happiness by forcing the past out of my life—a life I owe to you.”

  “You don’t owe me anything. All I did was keep a promise that was worth keeping.”

  “You did so much more, Chantalle. You made me believe I was worthwhile. You gave me a sense of who I am, and who I can be . . . and you gave me love.”

  Chantalle’s shoulders stiffened as she pressed, “If you want to repay me for what I did, you can do it by leaving here and by becoming the woman your mother and I both dreamed you would be some day.”

  “I can become that woman here.”

  “No, you can’t.”

  “You said it yourself, I’m educated. I can read, cipher, embroider, sing, play the piano. I can also do useful things, like I did when I volunteered in Union hospitals during the war.”

  “Useful things? You don’t consider having a rich, full life useful?”

  “I can’t be happy without doing what I know is right . . . without doing what my heart tells me to do.”

  “Tricia—”

  “And my heart told me to come home.”

  “Tricia—”

  Her throat thickening, her slender frame trembling, Tricia said softly, “I just need to hear you say you’re glad to see me, Chantalle . . . that you’re glad I’m here.”

  “I can’t say that to you.”

  “You’re . . . my mother, Chantalle.”

  “No, I’m not!”

  “But you’re the only mother I’ve ever known.”

  “Tricia—”

  “Please.”

  Tricia’s soft plea reverberated in the quiet room. She saw the impact of that single word on the woman she loved as a mother. She saw Chantalle’s eyes fill as her bared shoulders began shaking.

  Chantalle’s trembling was echoed in Tricia. Truly uncertain which of them took the first step to close the distance between them, Tricia sobbed with happiness when Chantalle’s arms finally closed around her.

  “Look at him. He’s so drunk he can hardly stand up!”

  Jake looked at the big fellow standing at the far end of Chantalle’s bar, then back at Angie’s livid expression as he responded, “I’ve been bartending for more years than you’ve lived, Angie, and I’ve got to say I’ve never seen a man his size get so drunk so fast.”

  “What difference does that make?” Angie shrugged. “You should throw him out before he makes trouble.”

  “He’s not bothering anybody.”

  “He’s bothering me!”

  Jake’s white handlebar mustache quivered with suppressed amusement as he said, “That wouldn’t be because he told you to find somebody else to entertain, would it?”

  Angie responded haughtily, “Mavis has been upstairs for over an hour with that skinny blond fella who came in with him, while this big fella hasn’t done anything but hang on the bar. It isn’t normal.”

  “He looks pretty normal to me. Maybe you just don’t appeal to him.”

  “I appeal to every man who deserves the name.”

  “Oh—insulted that he turned you down, are you?”

  Ignoring Jak
e’s amusement as well as his question, Angie pressed, “Look at him. Look at the way he’s dressed, wearing those pants and those worn-out boots. The other fella is dressed the same way. They’re saddle tramps. We don’t cater to their kind. Chantalle never should have let them in here.”

  Stiffening, Jake said, “Those pants are part of a Confederate uniform, and if I don’t miss my guess, those are military boots, too.”

  “So?”

  “So if a man served his country—”

  “He didn’t serve our country. The Confederacy lost the war, remember? The soldiers wearing Union blue are the ones we should be catering to now.”

  “Not behind this bar they ain’t.”

  Scoffing at Jake’s irate reply, Angie turned toward the slight, blond fellow approaching. She smiled stiffly as she asked, “Where’s Mavis? Are you done with her for the day . . . finally?”

  “Ma’am?” Uncertain how to respond, Willie said, “If you’re asking whether Mavis did a good enough job to satisfy me, I can truly answer that I’ll remember my hour with her for some time to come.”

  “Too bad your friend can’t say the same.”

  A grunt from the bar turned Willie in its direction. One look at Drew’s red face and squinting expression and Willie blurted at his friend, “What have you been doing while I was gone, man?”

  Willie’s question reverberated shrilly in Drew’s ears, and he winced. It was hot, and Willie was talking too loud. The sound started Drew’s head pounding anew and upset his equilibrium. It further unsettled his queasy stomach, too; and the truth was, he couldn’t take much more without losing control.

  “You look terrible.” Willie walked closer. “I thought you were going upstairs. Was you drinking all the while I was gone?”

  Drew attempted to draw himself upright, but the effort to put weight on his throbbing leg was beyond him and he stumbled against the bar.

  “Dammit, man, you’re drunk!”

  “Is that so?” Drew’s response was slurred.

  “You shouldn’t have come here if you wasn’t in the mood.”

  “My mood has nothing to do with it.” Every word he spoke seemed to unsettle his stomach even more, and Drew silently cursed. No one had to tell him that the whiskey he’d drunk had nothing to do with the way he felt. The wound in his leg was acting up again. He had ignored the doctor who told him he was leaving the hospital too soon. The war was over, and the choice of whether to leave with a partially healed leg or remain in a filthy, infectious hospital until the Yankees found him had been a simple one.

  Drew scrutinized his irate friend. Willie had settled his business and was now anxious to be on his way home. He was angry because he thought Drew would delay their departure. The problem was, if Willie knew his true condition, he wouldn’t leave until Drew was able to travel with him—and there was no telling what the result would be.

  Drew stared at his friend through his fevered haze. No, he couldn’t let that happen. Willie had waited a long time to see his family. He couldn’t put him at unnecessary risk while Willie waited in Galveston out of loyalty to him.

  His decision made, Drew said gruffly, “You may be in a rush to leave now, but I’m not. This bar serves some of the best liquor I’ve had in a dog’s age.”

  Willie’s frown was disapproving as he retorted, “My family ain’t going to be too happy if I bring home a drunk, even if he did fight beside me in the war.”

  “That’s too bad, isn’t it?” Drew forced a lopsided smile. “We all have our ways of enjoying ourselves, and I’ve found mine.”

  “That ain’t true, and you know it.” Willie shrugged as he approached him. “Come on, let’s go.”

  Aware that he would not make it across the room without revealing his true problem, Drew ordered, “Stay where you are. I don’t need your help and I’m not moving until I’m good and ready.”

  “Drew—”

  “Go home. You know where to find me if you want me.”

  “This ain’t like you, Drew.”

  “Maybe it is.” Drew breathed deeply, disguising the escalating pain. “And just maybe it’s better this way.”

  “Drew, you said—”

  “I said I’d go home with you. Well, I changed my mind. Besides, I’ve got some unfinished business to take care of here.” When Willie searched his face uncertainly, Drew added sharply, “How many ways do I have to say it? I’m going to stay here awhile. Go home, Willie!”

  Willie did not respond.

  His expression darkening, Drew repeated, “Go home!” He then turned back to the bar and downed his drink in one gulp.

  He did not look back at the sound of Willie’s departing footsteps.

  “You never should have let the two of them in here.”

  Angie’s nagging tone turned Chantalle toward her sharply. She had left Tricia upstairs minutes earlier so the dear girl could clean up after her long trip. Chantalle was still disturbed by Tricia’s reference to the bordello as home, and despite their tearful, bittersweet reunion, she had not yet decided how she would handle Tricia’s decision to remain. Uncertain, she had come back downstairs, aware that her guests expected her to welcome them at the door. What she had not expected was to be assailed by Angie the moment she stepped down onto the floor.

  Annoyed, Chantalle replied, “What are you talking about? What two fellows shouldn’t I have let in here?”

  “Those two new fellas who came to the door an hour ago . . . the ones Mavis and I took on.” Angie’s lips twitched with irritation. “You know, the ones who walked in here still wearing those Confederate trousers.”

  Chantalle felt heat rise to her cheeks as she replied softly, “I didn’t hear you complain when Miles White-stone came in here wearing his Yankee uniform.”

  “That’s different.”

  “Is it?” Chantalle’s voice dripped ice as she continued, “Those two fellas looked fine to me.”

  “The Confederacy lost the war!”

  “Unfortunately.”

  “They’re losers!”

  “You didn’t look at that big fella like he was a loser when you went sauntering up to meet him. What happened? Didn’t he like you?”

  “Any man who is a man likes me.”

  Chantalle raised her brows. “Except . . . ?”

  “Except for drunks that hang on the bar without taking the time for any woman in this place!”

  “Is that why you’re angry?”

  “He’s still hanging on the bar. And if you ask me, he’s not going to leave it until he falls down.”

  Dragging Chantalle by the arm, Angie pulled her to a spot where she could see the tall man leaning against the bar more clearly. She said haughtily, “He doesn’t belong in here.”

  “I’ll be the judge of that.”

  “Look at him! He’s drunk!”

  Chantalle stared at the tall fellow’s back, thinking that it was a waste of a lot of man if he was drunk. Yet the way he was standing off-kilter, the flush on his face, his squinting expression—she hated to admit that Angie was right this time, but obviously she was. The policy of the house was to tolerate a less than sober condition among regulars, but this fellow was a stranger. Since it was apparent that he wasn’t interested in any of the women, and since it was impossible to gauge what to expect from him in his condition, she had no recourse but to ease him toward the door before any possible problems could start.

  That thought in mind, Chantalle moved to his side. With an expertise developed over the years, she said gently, “It looks to me like it’s time for you to go home, fella. You can rest up a bit before coming back here to finish your business, if that suits you.”

  Pinning her with his unsteady gaze, the big fellow responded, “Are you throwing me out of here?”

  Startled by his intense reply, Chantalle was momentarily at a loss for a response. She said more softly, “You strike me as a sensible fella, and we both know you’re not in any condition right now to go upstairs with one of my ladies. You’r
e welcome to come back here anytime, but for now—”

  “—for now I’m going to stay right where I am.”

  Chantalle said more forcefully, “There are other places in Galveston where you can indulge yourself at the bar, but not here. This bar is maintained for the convenience of my customers only.”

  The big man turned more fully toward her. He swayed as he said, “I’m not leaving yet.”

  “You’re making a mistake.” Chantalle felt the rise of anger as she continued, “My memory isn’t so short that I enjoy asking a former Confederate soldier to leave; but I will not allow any man to become drunk and disorderly in this establishment.”

  The man did not reply.

  “Please go.”

  The big fellow remained silent.

  “If you don’t go, I’ll be forced to—”

  Chantalle was unprepared when the man fell suddenly toward her.

  Breaking his fall with a clutching grip, Chantalle gasped at the heat radiating from the man’s body. The startled bartender rounded the bar and shifted the fellow’s unconscious weight onto himself as Chantalle said breathlessly, “This fella’s not drunk, Jake. He’s sick . . . fevered, if I don’t miss my guess. Get him upstairs so I can call Dr. Wesley.”

  Speaking up from behind her, Angie said, “You’d do better to throw him out onto the street. He doesn’t deserve anything else.”

  “Maybe he doesn’t.” Nodding thankfully at the helpful patron who stepped up to help shoulder the man’s weight, Chantalle continued harshly, “But no man wearing Confederate gray in any form is going to be thrown unconscious onto the street from this house!”

  When the two men carried the stranger toward the stairs, she instructed, “Put him in the spare bedroom at the end of the hallway so Dr. Wesley can see to him undisturbed.”

  Still breathless, Chantalle turned back to the occupants of the barroom. With a forced smile calculated to erase the tension of the moment, she ordered Angie behind the bar and announced, “Drinks are on the house, gentlemen.”

  Scraping footsteps in the hallway . . . mumbled curses . . .

  Tricia raised her head from the washstand as the sounds filtered into her bedroom in the private quarter of Chantalle’s house. She had been attempting to refresh herself, but the all-too-familiar sounds echoing down the corridor raised harsh memories. She reached for her dressing gown to cover her seminakedness, flicked her unbound hair free of the garment, and walked to the doorway to peer out cautiously. She went still at the sight of two men carrying a third, unconscious fellow into a bedroom at the far end of the house. The hallway was not a hospital corridor filled with the mutterings of the wounded and dying, and the men transporting the fellow weren’t wearing Yankee uniforms, but the scraping sound of a helpless man’s dragging feet was the same.