CHAPTER ONE
ALOT OF BAD THINGS HAPPENED IN THEWICKEDESTTOWN IN THEWest. Men died. Women were murdered. Some of their deaths left a haunting imprint in the very walls of the buildings. The Copper Star Saloon was one of them.
It was the year 1898. The plinkity-plink of an old piano rose up from downstairs. Rough men’s voices and women’s high-pitched laughter seeped through the wooden floors of the rooms above the saloon. A woman sprawled naked on the bed, the big hairy body of Boris Koblinsky, one of the local miners, pressing her down in the mattress.
“You’re hurting me, Boris.”
“Ya know the way I like it,” Boris said. “Tell me ya want it.”
What Sadie wanted was to push the big bastard off her, tell him to find someone else, but Boris paid three times what the other miners did. He’d taken a fancy to her nearly a year ago, and it was worth a few bruises for the extra pay.
Boris panted and made the iron headboard slam against the wall. Lacey, the owner, would want a few coins for the damages, but it would all be over soon, and Sadie could tuck the extra money into her savings. In a year or two, she’d have enough to leave this hellhole, move to Tombstone or Bisbee, maybe even find herself a husband.
The bed kept hammering against the wall. Boris squeezed her breasts, pinching so hard pain shot through her body.
“Stop it, Boris!” She sucked in a breath and tried to roll away from his big, calloused hand. He should have been done by now, but Boris was drunker than usual, numb enough to last longer. Sadie couldn’t take much more. She cried out, but the music and laugher muffled the sound.
Her anger surfaced, replacing the lure of money. She began to fight, trying desperately to dislodge him.
“That’s enough, Boris. Get off me.” Boris just kept grunting, ramming painfully inside her. “Stop it, Boris—you pig!”
“Pig, am I?” Fury distorted his features. Boris reared back and slapped her so hard her ears rang. “Well, I might be a pig, Sadie Murphy, but yer nothin’ but a two-bit whore.”
Sadie felt Boris’s big hands settle around her throat, and her fury slowly faded, turning instead to fear. “Let . . . go . . . of . . . me!”
She thrashed beneath him and clawed at the thick, blunt fingers squeezing off her air supply.
“You’re mine, Sadie! Ya belong to me!” Boris rammed into her again, his big hands gripping her tighter and tighter as he rode her toward release. His lust was building, his excitement reaching its peak.
Sadie’s vision began to blur. Her nails dug into Boris’s calloused hands, but she couldn’t pry his fingers loose. Darkness hovered behind her eyes.
Boris . . .The silent word remained locked in her throat. Her vision narrowed and finally went black. Beneath Boris’s heavy weight, her body went slack. Boris finally finished and pulled out of her.
Dragging on his denim pants, he jammed his big feet into his heavy leather work boots, and pulled his undershirt back on. Sliding his suspenders over his thick shoulders, Boris glanced over at the bed. Sadie lay on her back, pale legs splayed, eyes open and staring lifelessly up at the ceiling.
Got what she deserved, he thought.
Still, the sheriff might not see it that way. Boris grabbed his floppy brown felt hat, tugged it low on his forehead, strode along the hall and down the back stairs. Plenty of jobs around. Time he found himself a new one.
Plenty of whores around, too.
Boris smiled to think of the pleasure in store for him when he found himself a new woman.
CHAPTER TWO
Jerome, Arizona
October, Modern Day
THECOPPERSTARSALOON ANDHOTEL ONMAINSTREET BUZZEDwith activity. Tourists came from all over the country to visit the remnants of the old mining boomtown theNew York Sunhad once described as the Wickedest Town in the West.
The town, a city of fifteen thousand at its peak, was now an infamous ghost town with a population of less than five hundred. It had been falling in ruins until the sixties, when artists and shopkeepers began moving in, keeping the town alive.
Built in the 1890s, the Copper Star had been ravaged by fire four times, but had always managed to survive. The molded tin ceilings, batwing doors, long wooden bar, and ornately carved back bar looked the same as they had more than a hundred years ago.
The owner, Jenny Spencer, worked behind the bar, comfortable in a business that had been family-owned for as long as she could recall. After her father had died, her uncle Charlie had run the business, then six months ago, Uncle Charlie had also passed away. Though Charlie had a son, the sad truth was, Eddie Spencer wasn’t capable of running the place. He’d been into booze and drugs since his teens.
Instead, Jenny had inherited the saloon and hotel she had been running ever since her divorce.
