Free Fletcher's Woman by Linda Lael Miller

into the rain-dampened seat of his buggy. The storm had passed, though only temporarily if the angry, sullen afternoon sky meant anything.
    The air was cool, but somehow oppressive, too, and Rachel mourned her lost shawl. After the embarrassing events of the morning, she couldn’t very well present herself at Mr. Jonas Wilkes’s door and request its return.
    Dr. Fletcher swung deftly into the seat beside her and took up the reins. In a few moments, the exhausted little horse was drawing them out of Tent Town and onto the main road.
    Once again, the saltbox houses along Main Street dipped by, one by one. The lamps behind the polished windows had been extinguished, and well-fed housewives were venturing out into their yards to inspect their infant gardens or just breathe the freshly washed air. Several waved spiritedly at the doctor, whoresponded with a slight smile and a nod of his head. Rachel could feel curious stares following her.
    At the end of the street, just past the white frame church that must certainly be Field Hollister’s domain, Dr. Fletcher forsook the road for a wide path leading down toward the water.
    Rachel searched his face, but saw nothing there that could possibly have prepared her.
    The establishment stood, tall and brazen, in the midst of a tangle of fir trees, cedars, and adolescent elms. A garish, gilded sign proclaimed it to be Becky’s Place, and Rachel did not miss the meaning of the swinging doors or the tinny piano music coming from inside.
    â€œA saloon,” she breathed, stunned.
    Something almost like compassion flashed in the doctor’s eyes. “Yes,” he said hesitantly. Then he sighed heavily, and the mocking formality was gone from his voice when he went on. “Rachel, your mother is very sick. I want you to remember that.”
    Rachel could only nod.
    When the doctor lifted her down from the buggy seat and offered his arm, Rachel accepted. She was not accustomed to leaning on anyone, the harsh realities of her life had precluded that almost from the first, but she felt the need of this man’s boundless, grudging strength now.
    The inside of the saloon was far fancier than any Rachel had ever seen before. It had a real wooden floor, rather than the scattered sawdust of the boisterous establishments from which she’d sometimes dragged her good-natured father; and the walls were embossed with something that resembled red velvet. The bar was elaborately carved and polished to a high shine, and there was a long, glistening mirror affixed to the wall behind it.
    Rachel caught sight of her reflection in that bottle-edged mirror and winced. She looked like a waif, lost inside a full-bodied woman’s dress.
    Just when she thought she was adjusting to the shock of it all, two women burst, laughing, through a fringed doorway to the left of where Rachel stood. Both had brassy, unlikely-looking hair piled on top of their heads in stiff curls, and their dresses were so scant that their robust breasts threatened to burst free.
    Rachel blushed to the roots of her hair and turned her eyes, in desperation, to Griffin Fletcher’s face. She saw mingledsympathy and amusement in his gaze and stiffened. “Dancing girls,” she whispered.
    â€œAt the very least,” replied the doctor, crisply, tightening his grasp on Rachel’s arm and ushering her toward a steep, wooden stairway.
    The shattering truth dawned on Rachel midway between the first floor and the second. She froze where she stood and swallowed the aching lump that had risen in her throat. “This place—this place is a—”
    â€œBrothel,” said Dr. Fletcher bluntly. But his eyes were gentle on her face now and calmly insistent.
    Tears of stunned confusion gathered in Rachel’s thick eyelashes, making them spiky. For one terrible moment, she thought she was going to be violently ill.
    â€œYou could have told me!” she croaked.
    Griffin Fletcher’s