Free Bad to the Bone by Len Levinson

down.”
    â€œYes, it's my leg again,” he lied, as he slid onto the pew.
    Still on her knees, she turned toward him. “We can rest awhile, but not too long. Dinner will be served shortly, and I'm starving to death.” Then she bowed her head and returned to prayer.
    She's at ease before the Lord, he realized, and that means she prays all the time. This is a woman who would never in her life entertain a foul thought, so why do I want to dive on top of her, wrestle her flat on the floor, and lie between her legs, grunting like a hog? There must be something wicked in my mind, to make me think this way. Oh Lord, please help me treat this woman with the utmost respect. I'm no angel, but even I draw the line somewhere.
    This is the kind of woman whom I should marry when it's time to settle down, he lectured himself. Idon't need more saloon singers, liars, or daddy's little girls. I just want someone with a sincere heart, who'll go that extra distance for me, instead of leaving when the going gets rough. This woman believes in deep things, not the wisdom of the moment. I'm probably falling in love with her, but what man in his right mind wouldn't?
    He wanted to kneel in the pew with her, and touch his leg against hers. He could imagine no higher pleasure than unbuttoning the back of her dress. The skin on her throat appeared delicate, and he suspected it would burst and bleed profusely at the mere touch of a passionate tongue. He wanted to twist her into lascivious positions, and have his way with her like the old whoremaster he considered himself at the age of eighteen.
    He caught his breath, appalled by such prurient thoughts. A lifetime of Catholic education has done nothing for me, but you don't go destroying other people's lives to satisfy your own animal lust. I may be a moral weakling and a physical coward, but I definitely have the strength to restrain myself in the presence of this woman, right?
    Vanessa Fontaine sat before the mirror and carefully applied cosmetics to her face. She needed the audience to see her classically beautiful Anglo-Saxon features, because it was part of the illusion she sought to create, the better to capture the imagination of drunkards and fools.
    Miss Vanessa Fontaine took her performing seriously, for she'd studied music as a child, and had viewed many great luminaries of the entertainment world at the theatresand music halls of Charleston. She'd even witnessed a performance by Jenny Lind during the celebrated Swedish Nightingale's 1851 American tour. That was the magic she was reaching for, as she applied rouge to her stark cheekbones. She loved applause and adulation, because it made her feel she couldn't be all bad.
    There was a knock on the door, and Maggie O'Day appeared. “The saloon is packed to the rafters,” she said happily. “Never seen nawthin’ like it in all my days. The men're gittin’ impatient, and I'm surprised nobody's shot a hole through the ceiling yet. You ‘bout ready to go on?”
    â€œYou may introduce me,” Vanessa said. “I'll be right out.”
    â€œIntroduce you?” asked Maggie. “But . . . what should I say?”
    â€œWhatever comes to mind. I'm sure you'll think of something, and now, if you'll excuse me, I'd like to be alone.”
    Too big fer her britches, Maggie thought, as she marched forthrightly through the network of corridors. But I guess she's worth it. Maggie could hear the grumbling and growling of men waiting for the opening night performance of Miss Vanessa Fontaine. She arrived in the main room of the saloon, and a sea of sombreros and cowboy hats spread before her, while a bullwhacker had shinnied halfway up a pole that held the roof. The Last Chance drew a substantial crowd on Saturday nights, but nothing like the horde before her. She'd followed Vanessa's instructions, and her employees had nailed posters all over the county. A surprisingly large number of men had heard of the