Candice stepped back, shocked. “I only wanted to trade, I have these dresses.”
“Whore’s dresses,” the woman hissed.
Taking a deep breath, her face flaming, Candice turned and hurried away. Once on Main Street she paused, feeling sick and nauseated. Everything had happened so fast, she hadn’t stopped to think that probably the whole town knew she’d been at Lorna’s. She gritted her teeth. What the hell did she care what some middle-aged, fat, Mexican woman thought? She strode down the street.
A piercing wolf whistle sounded.
Startled, Candice searched for the whistler, and her gaze settled on a young rider, grinning at her. He moved his horse alongside her. “Howdy, gal. You sure look pretty in that dress.”
Candice stiffened. She knew that smile—it was lewd and disrespectful. Looking away, she crossed the street. He moved his horse to her side.
“Cat got your little tongue? My name’s Abe. What’s yours?”
She reached the other side of the street and began walking down it. He rode alongside.
“Aw, c’mon. Don’t play shy with me. I know who you are. You’re Candice—that mystery girl of Lorna’s.”
Candice sucked in her breath, then restrained herself from responding. She knew it would do no good.
He leapt down and placed his hand on her shoulder. “Let’s go back in the alley. I got a dollar. What d’ya say?”
Candice stopped. “I say get your hand off me—you bastard!”
He laughed, and didn’t remove his hand. “My money’s as good as the next one. ’Sides, you’ll like it, they all do.”
She didn’t think. She struck him, a ringing slap across the face. His expression went from grinning lewdness to shock, and then to anger. He grabbed her before she could avoid him and began kissing her. Candice lifted her knee and jammed it as hard as she could into his groin. The breath left him in a whoosh, his face went white, and he crumpled to his knees, clutching himself.
Candice was shaking. “My husband will kill you if you ever come near me again,” she warned with bravado she didn’t feel. She had no weapon, and she resolved never to leave the house again alone without a gun or knife. She hurried away, leaving him lying there, groaning.
There was one general store and trading post, a few doors down from Lorna’s. Still shaken from the encounter, Candice took a breath and entered. A little bell tinkled over the door. A heavyset bearded man was behind the counter. Two old men sat before a stove, warming themselves and drinking whiskey. A woman was inspecting bolts of cloth. Everyone stopped what they were doing to stare at Candice.
She could feel the censure, and she blushed.
Head held high, she walked to the counter. The owner stared. Candice strove to remain composed, placing her bundle on the counter. “Good morning,” she said with false cheer. “I’ve two taffeta dresses here, and I thought I might barter for a few items my husband and I need.”
The man scrutinized her face.
Behind her, she heard one of the old men saying loudly “That’s the half-breed’s woman.”
Candice wondered if she might faint.
The matron came rushing over, shoving aside the dresses. “Ben Matthews, you can’t possibly be thinking of trading with this—this—trollop!”
Matthews looked at the enraged woman. “No, Missus Adams, I ain’t.”
Behind her, the other old man said, “You think she’s a breed too? She sure looks white.”
And his companion answered, “What does it matter? She lives with a breed, that makes her a squaw.”
Candice’s voice was quavering. “This is fine material. Surely we can work something out.”
“No, I’m sorry we can’t,” Matthews said.
The matron gave a snort of satisfaction and moved back to the bolts of cloth.
“Do you mean,” Candice said, “you won’t trade with me because or my husband?”
Matthews smiled. “Nope. I don’t care who you live with. I won’t trade with you because I got no demand for dresses like this.”
