“When is the virgin auction to take place?” Warren Clark asked. Dusk was falling, and an oil lamp on the corner of his tidy desk cast light onto a small portion of the front room of his office, enhancing the shadows in the corners. A potbellied stove emitted much-needed heat in the frigid December evening. Warren paced behind his desk and kicked one of its legs for good measure. As the only lawyer serving Bear Grass Springs, he was used to knowing all the intricacies of small-town life and little surprised him.

A cold wind howled on this mid-December evening, and snow threatened. The front windows, currently steam covered, prevented any hardy townsfolk from peering inside. Those with sense were home around a warm fire. Those without sense could be found at one of the town’s four saloons. Or at Betty’s Boudoir, the town’s brothel. Warren sighed and scratched at his head. At thirty-seven, he had no hint of gray in his brown hair.

Alistair MacKinnon sat in a chair across from Warren’s desk and rubbed at his temple. “I kent ye’d be shocked. I never thought ye’d be distraught she’d given herself to the Madam.” Alistair, the second of four MacKinnon siblings at thirty-three, ran the livery with his brother, Cailean. The two eldest brothers had left the Isle of Sky thirteen years ago, and, after years traveling around the United States together, they had settled in Bear Grass Springs in 1881. Their two younger siblings—Ewan, thirty; and Sorcha, twenty-four—had followed them to America in the subsequent years. Alistair frowned at his friend as Warren collapsed, holding his head in his hands.

“I hate her mother,” Warren said, provoking a startled laugh from Alistair. “Shouldn’t come as much of a surprise as half the town does too.”

“I’d say ’tis more than half. She’s despised by all, except her sniveling son.” Alistair tapped a finger on the chair’s arm. “As to the auction, ’tis tonight. Seems a few big spenders are in town for the holiday season, and the Madam wants to see how much she can obtain for fresh flesh.” He shrugged at Warren’s daggerlike glare. “Or so says Ewan.”

“And Ewan’s rarely wrong when it comes to the bloody Boudoir,” Warren hissed. Before Ewan’s recent marriage to the town newspaperwoman—Jessamine Phyllis McMahon, nicknamed J.P. by most in town, although called Jessie by her husband—the third MacKinnon brother had been a frequent visitor to the Boudoir, although not a patron. “I hate this.”

Alistair canted forward, his brows furrowed with confusion. “I’ll never understand why ye feel such a … a tenderness for Helen.” He shrugged as Warren stiffened at his word choice. “I’ve seen how ye argue with her, but I can tell when a man is dancing around in the middle of his courtship.”

“You’re insane if you believe I’ve been pining for the likes of Helen Jameson all these years.” The red flush on his neck put the lie to his words.

Alistair studied Warren. “Must have been hard to swallow, watching her throw herself at my brothers and me.” Alistair sobered further when he saw the hastily hidden agony in his friend’s eyes. “Ye ken I never sought her company?” He relaxed when Warren nodded.

Warren rose and paced again. “Why would she go to the Boudoir?” He shook his head. “It makes no sense.”

“From what J.P. learned, Helen had a monstrous fight with her mother after the woman returned from Helena, either leaving or being thrown out of her family’s home. I dinna ken which, and J.P. couldna discover which was true.” He shrugged. “An’ the homeless lass doesna have many friends in town.”

“No,” Warren whispered. He ran a hand through his brown hair. “She has not been so fortunate as to form friendships.” He raised tormented blue eyes to meet Alistair’s confused gaze. “I know you don’t understand my need to aid her.”

“No, I’ve never understood your fascination with her. Since we traveled to Helena this past summer, your interest in her has seemed to only grow.” After a long pause, Alistair asked, “What will ye do?”

Warren eased back into his chair. “What else can I do? Save her. As I should have done years ago.”

Alistair fought, and failed, to hide a smile. “I fear she’ll fight ye tooth and nail. For she seems like one intent on savin’ herself.”

* * *

Helen Jameson stood in a small room upstairs in the Boudoir. She had walked past the tiny rooms called cribs where the women lived and entertained the men of the town. She fought nausea as she considered living in such a confined space and sharing her body with another. Anyone other than …

“Get her dressed,” the Madam shrieked, interrupting Helen’s thoughts.

Helen was jerked forward, her arms slung upward, so a flimsy white nightgown could be tugged over her confining corset. Her generous curves were made more abundantly obvious by the tortuous contraption, and she had to fight her natural inclination to cover her breasts with her hands. They seemed about to burst from the corset.

“Perfect,” the Madam said with a sigh. She cinched the nightgown with a red ribbon around the waist, further accentuating Helen’s bust, small waist and generous hips. She pushed Helen forward until she sat at a vanity table.

A woman dressed in scarlet with a low-cut bodice moved to her side and brushed makeup on her forehead, cheeks and chin. Her gaze flit from Helen to the Madam, her posture relaxing when the Madam left the room for a moment. “Are you sure you want to do this?” the woman whispered.

“I have no choices left,” Helen murmured. She watched the doorway in the mirror.

“There are always choices. But, once you spend a night here, they are drastically reduced,” said the woman with blond hair and brown eyes. “If you stay, pick a name for yourself. I’m Grace. Never use your real name. Never let them touch you in that way.” She met Helen’s terrified gaze. “For they’ll touch you in every other conceivable way.”

Grace, who would play the role of Helen’s mentor, frowned as she stared at Helen. Grace’s gaze was filled with too much understanding. “You’re playing a dangerous game,” she breathed. She clamped her jaw shut as the Madam bustled in. Grace puckered her lips, nodding with satisfaction when Helen mimicked the movement. Grace slathered on a thick coating of red lipstick to Helen’s mouth and backed away, awaiting the Madam’s verdict.

“More rouge. More kohl around the eyes. We want all the men in the room, even those at the back, to be tantalized by her.” The Madam squeezed Helen’s shoulders as she leaned against her back, meeting Helen’s gaze in the mirror. “You will be my next Charity. You will restore my fortunes, and I will be the talk of the Territory.”

Helen shivered. She knew of Charity, also known as Fidelia Evans. Charity had escaped life in the Boudoir last month when the Madam had bet Charity—and lost her—in a hand of cards. The man who won her, Ewan MacKinnon, saw her as a sister, as his sister-in-law Annabelle was Fidelia’s sibling. Fidelia had been welcomed back into the MacKinnon family with open arms, an uncommon occurrence for a reformed whore.

“Never forget. I own you now. You are nothing without me. You are only as important as the next man who wants you. Tonight, your innocence is what is valued. Tomorrow, I will expect you to learn from those who’ve been here for years.” The Madam patted Helen’s shoulders and departed, calling the names of the other girls to ready them for the procession downstairs.

“I don’t believe in God or good fortune, but, if I did, I’d pray for you,” Grace whispered as she rose. Her work was done, and she exited the room.

Helen sat a moment, staring at a stranger in the mirror with a prostitute’s face paint. “I am a whore,” she whispered to herself. Rather than bolstering her failing nerves, she fought tears. She dug her nails into her palms and rose as the Madam called her name. It was time to face her destiny.

* * *