Peggy Moreland - Miss Lizzy's Legacy

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For my grandparents Jesse and Audra Admire, who gave me my Oklahoma roots. Thanks for sharing with me your love for the country, and by example, your strength of character, your integrity and the joy derived from simple things.

Dear Reader,

Many times a story idea is spawned from a setting. Such is the case with Miss Lizzy’s Legacy. Several years ago, I visited Guthrie, Oklahoma, and visited the Blue Bell Saloon and Miss Lizzie’s Once a bordello, the upstairs of the Blue Bell has been renovated into a collection of antique, art and gift shops and affectionately named Miss Lizzie’s Bordello. I found the entire concept, as well as the speculation concerning Miss Lizzie, intriguing, and allowed my imagination to spin its own idea of Miss Lizzie and how she became the most infamous madam of Guthrie. Thus this story, and others to follow.

Many residents and business owners of Guthrie contributed information and/or gave permission to fictionalize their businesses: Jane, Claude and Randy Thomas of the Harrison House; Lloyd C. Lentz III whose book Guthrie, A History of the Capital City, 1889–1910 provided much-needed information and pictures; Craig and Judy Randle of the Blue Bell Saloon; the employees of the Logan County Court House; the staff at The Territorial Museum; Shirley and Bob Powell; the staff of the Scottish Rite Masonic Temple. The mistakes, of course, are all mine! I’m a fiction writer, not a historian, and I took liberty with the original building dates and origins of some of the businesses in order for my story to happen in the way I saw it.

There is a note in the newsletter published by the owners of Miss Lizzie’s Bordello. It reads, “Our hope is the same as the girls of the old house, that all our customers leave satisfied.” My wish for my readers is the same..that when you turn the last page of this book, you, too, are satisfied with the tale and the romance as I have chosen to spin it.

Enjoy!

Peggy Moreland

Prologue Prologue Guthrie, Oklahoma—1890 On days like today, I yearn for home. With the wind coloring the sky red with dust, the air so thick a person can barely breathe, I long for the ocean and its stretch of white beaches, its crisp, clean, salty breeze. I think, too, of my family, my life in Boston...but the memories do nothing but sadden me and remind me that I can never return. The decision to leave was mine, knowing when I did, my family would never permit me to come home. The sacrifices made in coming here were great. First my family, my baby, and lastly my heart. Some will say my father was right, that I should have listened to him and stayed away from Ethan. Others who knew Ethan might understand the blindness of my adoration. At any rate, this is my home now, whether by chance or by choice. To brighten my spirits, I have only to look out my window. The sights and sounds on the street below console me, for they are those of progress, of challenges met but not yet attained. This is a wild territory, as yet unsettled, plagued by problems of bureaucracy and greed. But there is hope here, promises for a future. Though only recently arrived, I feel very much a part of this community of newcomers. Their enthusiasm fills me with excitement and the desire to be a participant in the settling of this new land. For me it is an opportunity to begin again. A new life, without regret for that which is gone, but with a hand outstretched to grasp at what the future might hold for me....

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Guthrie, Oklahoma—1890

On days like today, I yearn for home. With the wind coloring the sky red with dust, the air so thick a person can barely breathe, I long for the ocean and its stretch of white beaches, its crisp, clean, salty breeze. I think, too, of my family, my life in Boston...but the memories do nothing but sadden me and remind me that I can never return. The decision to leave was mine, knowing when I did, my family would never permit me to come home.

The sacrifices made in coming here were great. First my family, my baby, and lastly my heart. Some will say my father was right, that I should have listened to him and stayed away from Ethan. Others who knew Ethan might understand the blindness of my adoration. At any rate, this is my home now, whether by chance or by choice.

To brighten my spirits, I have only to look out my window. The sights and sounds on the street below console me, for they are those of progress, of challenges met but not yet attained. This is a wild territory, as yet unsettled, plagued by problems of bureaucracy and greed. But there is hope here, promises for a future.

Though only recently arrived, I feel very much a part of this community of newcomers. Their enthusiasm fills me with excitement and the desire to be a participant in the settling of this new land. For me it is an opportunity to begin again. A new life, without regret for that which is gone, but with a hand outstretched to grasp at what the future might hold for me....

S o this is Guthrie, Oklahoma . Callie wrinkled her nose as she drove down Division Street at a slow crawl. Retail shops and offices fronted both sides of the street, mostly contained in one and two-story buildings, their architecture dating back to the late 1800s and early 1900s. A man lazily whisked a broom across the sidewalk fronting his business, stirring fall leaves and sending them tumbling to the curb.

Wanting to enjoy the full benefit of what remained of the fall day and take in the sights that lay just up ahead and around the corner, Callie whipped into an empty space at the curb and lowered the convertible top of her Jaguar. As she climbed up on the bumper and stretched across the rear of the car to snap the canvas boot in place, an eighteen-wheeler roared by so close, the wind it stirred sucked at her, making her cling to the canvas to maintain her balance. A ribald proposition from the cab of the truck and three short blasts from the truck’s air horn let Callie know, in no uncertain terms, what the truck driver thought of the view of her backside.

Frowning, she dropped to the roadside and tugged her leather jacket back over her hips. “Men,” she grumbled under her breath. “Their brains are all located just south of their belt buckles.”

With an exasperated huff of breath, she climbed back into her car and gunned the engine, kicking up puffs of dried leaves from the road’s shoulder as she swerved back onto the street.

Two blocks farther and a street sign for Harrison Avenue had her turning left. Callie did a neat—although illegal—U-turn in the middle of the intersection of Harrison and First streets and parked alongside the curb.

She looked around, frowning. She didn’t know what she’d expected to find when she reached her destination, but this hick town certainly wasn’t it. More accustomed to the zip and zoom of expressway traffic and Dallas’s towering skyline, the town of Guthrie seemed to Callie like a ghost town in comparison.

Stepping from the car, she pulled her hair back from her face, craned her head back and just looked. Three stories of Victorian brown brick marked the Harrison House, her home for the next few weeks. Across First Street, a sign outside the Victor Building boasted antiques, shops and the chamber of commerce office. With dusk quickly settling, the businesses as well as the street looked all but abandoned.

A bark and a scuffling noise sounded behind her and Callie turned, but not in time. Before she had a chance to prepare herself, a huge beast of a dog leapt at her. Planting his paws on her shoulders, the animal knocked her flat over the hood of the car, pinning her between the car’s still-warm metal hood and a hundred pounds of muscled fur.

From her position beneath the animal, all Callie could see were black eyes and saliva-dripping fangs. A scream built in her throat, then stuck there as the dog lowered his gaping jaws closer to her face. Squeezing her eyes shut, she buried her fingers in the animal’s thick coat, locked her elbows and shoved for all she was worth.

“Baby, heel!”

In response to the shouted command, the dog barked. The sound vibrated from his paws through Callie’s body and ripped the air so close to her ear it nearly deafened her. Her eyes still squeezed shut, she continued to struggle beneath the stifling weight, waiting for the dog to sink his fangs into her cheek, or worse, her neck.

As suddenly as it appeared, the weight of the animal disappeared. Her eyes still closed, Callie let her arms fall weakly to her breasts. She lay there, her chest heaving with each indrawn breath.

“Baby, is that any way to greet a newcomer?” she heard a deep, male voice ask. “I’ve got him now,” the man said, sounding nearer. “Do you need help getting up?”

His voice was as close as the dog’s breath had been only moments before, and it blew warm against her cheek, bringing with it the scents of tobacco and peppermint. Callie opened one eye to find the man’s face only inches above her own. Coal black hair worn long in the back brushed his collar, and a black Stetson shadowed his face. He poked a finger at the brim, levering the hat farther back on his head. A half grin tweaked one side of his mouth and his brown eyes danced with laughter.

If anything humorous had occurred thus far, Callie hadn’t seen it! She glared at him through the slit of one eye, then lifted her head a notch and opened both to assure herself he did, in fact, have the animal under control. Struggling to her elbows, she planted a palm at the man’s chest and shoved. “No, I don’t need help,” she stated indignantly as she clamored to her feet.

“Baby didn’t mean any harm,” he offered by way of an apology as he stepped aside, avoiding an elbow rammed a little too close to his midriff. “That’s his way of saying welcome.”

“Baby?” Callie paused in the act of straightening her clothes to look down her nose at the dog, wondering how anything so vicious could earn such an innocent name. “I’d hate to see what happens when you sic him on someone,” she said dryly.

“Don’t usually have the need.”

Rubbing at a shoulder that was already beginning to ache, Callie shifted her gaze from the dog to the man, a frown building around her mouth and eyes as she took her first good look at him. He looked like a gunslinger straight off a Western movie set. A black duster draped him from shoulder to mid-calf, below that nothing but a glimpse of jeans and a scuffed pair of boots. The wind caught the hem of his duster and fanned it out, revealing a Western shirt of vibrant reds and blues. Instead of the gun and holster she had expected, a black tooled leather belt banded the waist of his jeans, clasped navel-high by a silver belt buckle the size of a lady’s oval hand mirror.

He turned his back on Callie and braced wide, tanned hands on the side of her car, taking in the leather bucket seats and a dashboard with enough controls to confuse a fighter pilot. “You’re not from around here.”

A statement, not a question, yet Callie felt obligated to answer. “No, I’m from Dallas.”

“Nice car,” he said as he leaned over to peer into the back seat where her purse, overnight bag and several cameras were stashed.