Harlot (4 page)

It was Caleb’s fault, really. He was a quiet man, as his father had been. He’d never declared his starry-eyed love and devotion to Jessica, though inside he’d been as fervent as any poet. If his mother and stepfather thought Jessica’s fall into sin was a disappointment Caleb would soon get over, he couldn’t blame them.

And it was easier this way. If they knew about the awful, gnawing agony in his chest, he’d have to add humiliation to the pile of hurt. He’d never asked her to marry him. No one knew they’d been anything more than childhood sweethearts. No one but Jessica and Caleb.

She’d been his everything. She’d made him more than a rough hired hand caught awkwardly between ranch life and the china dishes in his mother’s new dining room. Jessica had transformed him into a boy who loved the strange, intoxicating words of Shakespeare. An adolescent who knew the names of English flowers because Jessica had given him a picture book about them. A man who’d known who he loved most in this world and just how hard he’d work to be worthy of her.

Now he was nothing. All his best memories were of Jessica. All his plans had been for her.

He couldn’t stay here. He would’ve ridden out of town today if it weren’t for his mother. Her birthday was in two days. He’d stay through then, but only just. California was exactly the scrabbling, broken place he belonged.

“Services start in forty-five minutes,” Theodore said as he pushed back from the table. “I can loan you a better jacket.”

“Sir,” Caleb replied, “I appreciate the offer, but I’ll skip church today.”

His stepfather stopped to aim a glare at him.

Caleb met his gaze without flinching, and eventually Theodore shook his head in disgust. “Your mother will be beside herself,” he said, but he walked out of the room.

Caleb had no plans for the day, but he couldn’t go to church. Couldn’t see all those people, knowing they’d heard about Jessica, wondering if any of them had fucked her.

He needed the quiet. It’d be a relief when his family left and the house was empty, but he knew the hours would stretch out endlessly before him. He couldn’t think what to do with his day, much less his whole life.

Jessica was a whore. And he was nothing at all.

‡

I can pay
, he’d said.
And she needed the money.

The thought was awful. It was intolerable. But it wouldn’t leave her head.

This place had cost her only one dollar. That was why she’d taken it. One dollar plus her virginity and every ounce of dignity she’d ever owned. The dollar made it a legal transaction, he’d said.

She’d taken the deal, because she’d thought it would secure her future. One dollar and one night, and the property would be hers. Then she could sell the house and acreage, and she’d at least have something to show for the secret thing she’d done. She’d leave this town and this state and never think about it again. Nobody would ever find out.

But she hadn’t known about the back taxes. That little catch had come later. “The house is yours, but you’ll lose it if you don’t pay the taxes by the end of the month.” It had been said with a smirk, of course, and she’d known the truth then. How stupid she’d been. How utterly blind.

Five more nights for forty dollars. That had been the second deal. Just enough to pay the back taxes and penalties. What option had she had then? She’d already become a whore. Her only choice at that point was whether to be a whore who owned land or a whore with nothing. She’d opted for the land.

Of course, you couldn’t sell a place once it had been a brothel. No respectable family wanted to live here. But she’d thought no one would find out. She’d been so dumb. So naïve.

Perhaps at some point, an ornery bachelor would buy it from her for less than she’d earned on her back, and she’d leave then. But that might be years in the future. And right now, the current year’s taxes were due. Another ten dollars. It might as well have been a thousand. There was also the prospect of starving once winter came. Even if she wanted to die, that would be a slow way to go.

She couldn’t starve and she couldn’t lose this terrible, desolate farm she owned, and Caleb had money.

She’d spent all of Saturday night thinking about it. Thinking about Caleb. He hadn’t touched her often when they’d courted, but when he had, her body had
sparkled
with it. The simplest of touches, his hand on her wrist, and wickedness had shivered over her.

He’d kissed her a few times, only because she’d asked him to. He’d said it wasn’t right. That he couldn’t take advantage. But God, those kisses had been lovely.

That last time, before he’d left for California, he’d tried to pull away as soon as the warmth of his mouth touched hers. Jessica had tugged him back, her fingers wrapping into his shirt to keep him close. He’d settled a bit then, sighing against her mouth, and then his hands had framed her face with such gentleness that her body turned liquid. Liquid and hot and pulsing. The idea of those hands on her again…

But his hands wouldn’t touch her that way. They wouldn’t cradle her face or stroke her wrist or cup her cheek. Still. They’d be Caleb’s hands. She loved those hands.

Jessica sat down at her kitchen table and wrote a letter. Despite the roughness of the wood floors and the bare shelves in the kitchen, the stationery was creamy and fine-grained. There were few things that hadn’t been sold out from under her to pay her father’s debts, but her personal stationery had been one of them. She wished she could scratch out her stamped initials, but that would be childish. She had the same name, even if she was a completely different person.

After braiding her hair and donning a hat with a brim that dipped down low enough to keep her face in shadow, Jessica sealed the letter in an envelope, wrote Caleb’s name on the front, and headed out to saddle Bill’s mule.

It was Sunday. Everyone would be at services for a time. She could ride into town, leave the letter for Caleb, and escape before anyone recognized her.

Sixty minutes later, Jessica urged the mule into the narrow alley that ran behind Theodore Durst’s home. Sweat prickled along her hairline, despite the cool clouds rolling in. She didn’t want to be here. She didn’t want to be seen by anyone, ever again.

She sent Bill into town for supplies when they needed sugar or flour or coffee. Melisande went too, sometimes, claiming not to be bothered by the stares. But Jessica hadn’t set foot in town in months, and everything inside her urged her to leave now. This terrible idea was hardly worth the risk of being spotted by an old friend. A new enemy.

“I need the money,” she whispered to herself, nudging the mule forward when it sensed her tension and stopped. Three houses down, Jessica spotted the gate that led to the Durst yard. She slid off the mule and stood there, staring.

It was a white picket gate and could do her no harm, but her knees shook as she reached into her bag and withdrew the letter. The paper’s perfection was a strange pale square in the gray day. When she turned it over, Caleb’s name looked like it had every other time she’d written it. As if she still belonged to him. She didn’t.

She’d heard he had someone else waiting in California. That had likely been a lie too, but Jessica didn’t care one way or another. Men never cared about their faraway sweethearts, after all.

Anger at that thought gave her the strength to open the gate and walk toward the kitchen door. She didn’t knock, though. She only pulled the screen door until it was the tiniest bit ajar, then leaned down to slip the letter inside. The hinges squealed. Jessica dropped the letter in and let the door shut, cringing when it slammed against the frame.

Before she could get farther than the bottom step, the wooden door creaked open, and Jessica spun around.

“Hello?” the cook called out. “Can I help you?”

“No,” Jessica murmured as she backed away.

The cook cocked her head, wiped her hands on her apron, and offered a smile. “Nonsense. What can I—?” The words died on her lips, and her eyes widened. “You!” she gasped.

Oh no. Jessica backed away faster.

“What are you doing here? Get on out of here!”

“I’m sorry,” Jessica whispered.

“Get on and don’t come back!” the older woman yelled in response. She made a shooing motion with her apron. Jessica could remember the cook fussing over a plate of little sandwiches and assuring Jessica that Caleb would surely come home from California soon. Now her face was flushed with anger.

“Get off this property! You should be ashamed of yourself, bringing your nastiness around here!”

Jessica retreated down the stone path that led to a tiny shed and the gate. “I’m sorry,” she managed again, just before a male voice rumbled from the house.

“What’s the problem here?” Caleb asked. He stepped through the doorway, his eyes going from the cook to Jessica before she spun and ran, slamming her way through the gate. The mule shied, but she yanked roughly at his halter, pulling him down the alley without pausing to mount. She ran toward the road ahead and didn’t slow until she’d turned the corner.

Not bothering to catch her breath, she stopped the mule, scrambled onto his back, and kicked his side. No one else saw her as she raced out of town, but the damage had been done. She ignored the tears that rolled down her cheeks and rode on. This wasn’t her place anymore. She had to get out.

*     *     *

Caleb stared at the spot
where the woman’s skirt had disappeared around the shed. He’d barely glimpsed her before she’d fled, and her face had been shaded by a straw hat, but he was sure it had been Jessica.

“Who was that?” he asked Sally.

“Never you mind about that. Just someone looking for a handout.”

“Was it Jessica?”

He looked at the cook when she didn’t respond. Her mouth was tight, and her cheeks flamed red.

“What did she want?” he pressed.

“Who knows what a woman like that wants?” she snapped. “Don’t you bother with that hussy, Caleb.”

He hated Jessica. He wanted to hurt her for hurting him. But he still bristled at hearing her described with such venom.

Abandoning the gentle demeanor he’d adopted with this woman who’d helped raise him, he stood straighter and stared coolly at Sally. “Her name is Jessica,” he said.

She stiffened, sniffing in disdain, but she shrugged instead of spewing more hatred.

His brain writhed with a pain so real it felt physical. His gut was clenched too tight. His muscles ached, urging him to fight someone or something. He wanted to burn this town down, just to kill anyone who’d touched her.

Her father had died and she’d turned to whoring. There were a hundred girls in California with that story. A thousand. And a few more just down the road at Ella Mae’s. Maybe they’d all been as fine and sweet and pure as Jessica had been once. It seemed impossible, but there it was.

He looked at the spot where she’d disappeared. Why had she come here? To try to explain? To apologize? Should he track her down and demand an answer?

Mind spinning, he turned, and his boot kicked something pale across the floor. An envelope. Caleb picked it up and saw his name. His heart lurched.

Instinctively hiding it from Sally, he tucked the letter behind his back and let her pass by. A few seconds later, he closed the door of his bedroom and tore open the envelope. It was no apology. It was an invitation.

His heart broke again, spilling hate and hurt all over his churning guts. His pulse raced, pushing the sound of his thundering blood into his ears until he could hear nothing but his own fury. She was inviting Caleb to fuck her. For money. The same transaction she’d offered to countless strangers. And the worst part was that he was going to do it.

‡

“Stupid,” Jessica muttered to herself
as she paced the floor of her kitchen.

She’d closed all the curtains, wanting privacy for whatever happened tonight, but the last rays of the sun still glowed through the worn blue material that covered the kitchen window. She’d told him to come after sundown, and it was nearly that.

But she’d done it all so thoughtlessly. She’d dropped her letter and run like a coward, and now she had no idea if Caleb had even seen it. What if the cook had picked it up instead? What if she’d shown it to her friends, who would spread news of the invitation all over town? What if she’d shown it to Theodore Durst?