Chapter Twenty-Four

Freshly bathed in a clean set of clothes, Timothy felt a bit sheepish as he stepped into The Hackney Saloon and Brothel. Thomas Williamson was still the owner of this business and after what had happened yesterday, part of Timothy felt as if he were betraying Samantha and Zachary by being here. His loyalty was being tested, and while there were other saloons he could go into to play cards and drink, those saloons didn't have what he was really hoping to see tonight.

After ordering a beer and making his way to a back table, Timothy scanned the saloon for who he hoped to see. It was Tuesday night so there wasn't much of a crowd in the dusty saloon. Most men were home with their families or out on the ranches they worked at getting ready to work again at dawn.

Timothy didn't have a family of his own. He didn't have a home. And he had known that Zachary wanted time alone with Samantha at the farm so he'd ridden back into town with the men from the lumber yard to give his best friend that privacy. Timothy was happy for Zach and Sam. They deserved the happiness they gave each other.

With a twist in his gut of an emotion had could not identify, Timothy realized she wasn't in the saloon. That meant the woman he had been hoping to spend time with was already upstairs spending time with someone else. He supposed he would just have to wait until she was done and made her way back downstairs.

"Hey there, Timothy," a feminine voice pulled Timothy from his thoughts and he turned to see a brown-haired beauty named Rosalynne approaching him, in a red corset and white petticoat. She laid her hand on his shoulder before running her fingernails down his arm. "How are you tonight?" she purred.

Timothy swallowed hard and shifted in his chair. After taking a big swig of beer, he offered a smile. "I'm doing good. How are you?"

"I'd be doing better with some nice strong company," Rosalynne admitted, stooping low and placing her rather impressive cleavage directly in his peripheral.

Timothy made a conscience effort to remain focused on the beer in his mug. "There's not too many to pick from in here tonight but I'm sure you can find a strong one."

Her breathless giggle blew against his ear causing his pants to tighten in a purely male response. Those fingertips tapped on his knuckles as he gripped his beer tight enough to cause worry over the integrity of the glass. "I think I've already found a strong one. Why don't we take this upstairs?"

Timothy nearly said yes. He had never bothered denying himself fun before in his life. But he was trying to grow the hell up. He was trying to figure out what he wanted from life. He wasn't entirely certain yet what that was but he did know that he was nearly twenty-five years old and couldn't spent his entire life chasing after meaningless fun with paid women—even if they were entirely desirable and far too eager for their own good.

"I don't think so, ma'am. I'm just gonna sit here awhile."

She pouted out her red-painted, full bottom lip. "Are you sure?"

He tipped his head and took another drink. "I'm sure."

"But we could...."

"The man said no, Rosalynne," Caroline said with a light laugh as she approached the table. "Go look somewhere else."

Rosalynne stood straight and crossed her arms under her breasts, simply emphasizing exactly what Timothy had turned down. "Can't blame a woman for trying. Have you seen my other options in here tonight?"

Timothy glanced around and felt sympathy grow. Most of the men were either old, extremely hairy, or on the uglier side of ugly. Caroline waved her hand. "We don't get paid to look at the scenery. Go on now."

A sigh of relief whooshed from Timothy's lungs as Rosalynne quickly sauntered away to find another man to tempt. Caroline sat herself down across from Timothy and crossed her legs before folding her hands on her lap. "You'll have to forgive Rosalynne if she seemed a bit over eager. All of us are worried about the future. With Thomas making plans to leave town, we're wondering if we're going to have a place to work soon. The girls are trying to earn as much money as they can before there's no more to be earned."

"Can't y'all find a job in another brothel if it comes to that? There's always gonna be men eager to bed willing women."

Her laughter was humorless as she ran a hand over her temple causing Timothy to notice the small amount of gray hair beginning to streak among the black strands. "For the younger girls there are options. Not all of us will find the future so bright if things don't go a certain way here."

Timothy didn't know what to say so for once in his life he chose to say nothing. Again, Caroline was making him see another side of her—of all working women. He was ashamed that he had spent so long seeing them as a place to find his pleasure and nothing else. Caroline was a human with fears and feelings—all these women were.

Caroline clicked her nails on the table to draw his attention back to her. "I have to say I'm surprised to see you here."

"Why's that?" Timothy asked, swirling his beer around his glass.

"After what happened with Thomas I didn't expect you, Samantha, or Zachary to step back in in until he sells the place and is gone." Guilt nagged at him. Before Timothy could respond, Caroline tapped leaned back in her chair. "If you were only wanting beer and cards, there are other saloons. Which leads me to believe you're here for female company—but you turned Rosalynne down."

Timothy took another drink of his beer as he nodded. "Yeah uh.. I was wanting company."

"I've never known you to be picky. Did you have a particular girl in mind?"

He nodded.

"You're here to see Eleanor, aren't you?"

Another nod.

Caroline seemed thoughtful as she studied him carefully. Timothy was uncomfortable beneath her scrutiny. "She's upstairs right now."

He felt tension in his shoulders and rolled them to attempt to loosen it. Timothy wasn't someone who was accustomed to being on edge or uncomfortable—he didn't like the feeling. "I know she is. I reckon I'll just have to wait until she comes down."

"You'll be waiting awhile, Timothy. Eleanor isn't working tonight."

Timothy would be lying if he said he didn't feel relief at knowing she wasn't entertaining another man as he sat there waiting. "She isn't?"

Caroline smiled as she reached out took Timothy's beer and downed some herself. "No. She isn't feeling well tonight. And thanks to recent events, Thomas is feeling much more lenient about allowing women to take a night off."

Timothy sat up straighter. "She's sick? What's wrong with her?"

Caroline sat the mug of beer on the table. "You truly sound like you care."

"Uh..." Timothy glanced toward the staircase.

Caroline patted his hand in a comforting, almost motherly way, which was odd considering Timothy had laid with her more than once. "You know you could go up and check on her. Thomas is in his office so he won't be around to give anyone any trouble. Eleanor might enjoy seeing you."

Timothy was tempted. But what the hell would he say? What would he do? "Naw, if she doesn't feel well, I'll leave her be." He pushed his chair back and stood up. "I'll be going now, Caroline. You take care of yourself, ma'am."

Stepping back out into the growing darkness, Timothy shoved his hands in his pockets and stared up at the sky. He wasn't in the mood for drinking and he didn't really want to go play any poker. A feeling of loneliness settled down hard on him so suddenly, Timothy had to grab the banister beside him for support.

He was alone.

Kicking at the dusty boardwalk, Timothy headed for the hotel. Since he didn't have anyone to pass any time with, he might as well go back to his room, curl up in bed, and try to fall asleep alone.

***

Eleanor stood in front of the full-length mirror in her room, staring hard at the dark, angry bruises marring her pale thighs. She ran

her fingertips over the battered skin before letting her nightgown fall and hiding the proof of Thomas' abuse—until she looked at her arm and saw the handprint bruise he had placed there.

Thomas had not been the first man to take her by force and given the way of the world for women like her, he probably would not be the last. Eleanor was a woman who had been through a lot in her twenty-six years of life. Her mother and father had died of fever when she had only been fifteen. They had been dirt floor poor and Eleanor had been left with nothing and suddenly found herself alone in the slums of the city.

Starvation and desperation had led Eleanor to begin using the oldest profession known to man in an effort to feed herself and put a roof over her head. She was pretty, desirable, and good at what she did—but she hated her life. There wasn't a little girl alive who sat on her father's lap and listened to him telling her that she could have any life she dreamed and chose to be a whore.

She was also not a woman who made a habit of wasting time feeling sorry for herself. This was her life and it had provided well for her for eleven years. Selling her body kept her stomach full. It kept a roof over her head, gave her a bed to sleep in, and protected her from the horrors of being a woman alone with nothing out the world. And this brothel, which had been her home for nearly five years, had been a good, safe place to work when the Morgan's had owned it.

But then Thomas Williamson had taken over. He enjoyed taking them by force and didn't feel he owed them any pay for the use of their bodies. Thomas had placed bruises on many of the women and the whores in the saloon didn't have a knight in shining armor to save them the way Zachary had saved Samantha. Not that Eleanor was angry at the other woman. She was thankful that Samantha had been saved from this place and the life Thomas had tried to force her into. And at least, thanks to Zachary, Thomas Williamson would be gone soon. But she would give anything to have a Zachary of her own.

A humorless laugh left Eleanor, echoing in the silence of her empty bedroom. Eleanor was a whore—there was no good man who would come sweep her off her feet and take her away from this life. And even if, by some miracle a knight came riding into her life, he would be sent running once he learned what she had learned that morning.

Eleanor had been feeling ill for a while. She had been growing nauseated, staying tired beyond belief, and struggling to come up with the energy necessary to entice the men and give them what they paid for.

And now her monthly cycle was officially two months late. She had spent so long hoping against hope that it would arrive and those hopes had gone unanswered. A babe grew inside her. She had become something nearly laughable. A pregnant whore.

Eleanor went to the bed and sat down hard upon it as she laid her hand over her flat stomach and thought of the life that grew within her. There was no way to know who had placed that babe there—Eleanor was a highly requested girl in the saloon and, on a busy night, could service up to twenty men. That meant there was no way to find the father and convince him to take responsibility and give her, and their baby, a different life.

A mother.

Tears filled her eyes as she laid down and curled up against her pillow. Eleanor would love to be a mother. To have a babe of her own that she could love and coddle and tend to. She could sing lullabies and rock at night. Eleanor's own mother had taught her well how to take care of a child. Eleanor would be an amazing mother—if her life had only taken a different path.

What choice did she have? She wouldn't be able to work once her belly swelled—and once the babe was born, how would she continue to work in a brothel? Would she take breaks between men to nurse her child? No child should be raised to see their mother and other women being poked to death by lonely men desperate for release.

No, a whore could not be a mother and Eleanor didn't know how to be anything else. She didn't have a lot of money saved—most of her money went to pay the rent for her room, buy her meals, provide her wardrobe, and her face paint. If she left this brothel, she would have nothing. And a woman alone out there with nothing and a child to care for? That wasn't possible.

Eleanor could not be a mother.

She knew there were ways to end the pregnancy. She wouldn't be the first brothel woman to use them. But her heart shattered in her chest to think of ending her babe's life and she simply did not know if she could.

Why was life so damn unfair?

A knock on her door had Eleanor jumping from the bed and wiping her face dry. She grabbed her robe, slid it on and wrapped it tight around herself. She shouldn't have any clients tonight—she had made it clear that she was not working.

"Who is it?"

"Caroline."

Eleanor unlocked the door and swung it open. Caroline was done up for work with paint on her face and a bright red corset accentuating her curves. "Is something wrong? Is Thomas wanting me to come downstairs?"

"No," Caroline's smile was comforting. "Thomas is still quite swollen and hidden away in his office. How are you feeling?"

Eleanor shrugged as she went to the small armchair beside her tiny brass bed and sat down upon it. "I'll be okay." She hadn't told Caroline, or anyone, about the life growing within her—or the bruises on her thighs from Thomas' recent rape.

"Of course you will. You're strong."

Eleanor wanted to scream. Yes, she was strong—but she was also tired.

Caroline pointed toward the hallway. "I have a man waiting for me in my room so I can't stay long. I wanted to tell you that Timothy O'Neil was here tonight hoping to see you."

Eleanor pictured Timothy's face in her mind. Those boyish good looks, green eyes, and infectious smile. "He asked about me?"

"Yes." Caroline shrugged. "And when he learned you weren't working, he left. Even though Rosalynne seemed quite eager to bring him upstairs."

Eleanor couldn't understand why Caroline was telling her this or why it mattered. Timothy O'Neil was a nice enough man. He had never been forceful or cruel. He laughed a lot and smiled easily. But he also truly enjoyed sampling every woman the brothel offered, didn't seem to take much of anything seriously, and most importantly, Eleanor was a whore.

"You shouldn't keep the man in your room waiting," she muttered, turning her gaze to the window beside her. "I'm going to get some sleep so I can get back to work soon."

Caroline sighed, bid her goodnight, and left the room. Eleanor got to her feet quickly, engaged the lock on the door, and crawled back into bed. Within seconds her tears were once again soaking her pillow.

She didn't want to live this life anymore. She didn't want to be a whore. She didn't want to live with the loneliness, the hate, the judgments. She didn't want to kill her child.  

A/N: Poor Eleanor. I'm glad I was able to add her to this story--And Caroline as well! She will play a larger role soon. Adding this depth to Saving the Gunslinger makes it so much more than just a love story between Zachary and Samantha and those are the stories I love to write. Romance is the center but not the entire story! 

I hope y'all enjoyed the chapter!  Thank you so much for all of your love and support so far!