Much Ado About Madams

by Jacquie Rogers

  Her eyes sparked dread. “Yes,” she whispered.

  “Good. We’re going to jump to the other side of the fire on the count of three. One . . . two . . . three!”

  He held her hard to his chest and leapt, rolling over the flames and knocking the coffee pot over. He grabbed his Colt and fired through the hissing sparks. His aim was sure and deadly. The snake’s body flopped in death throws, its head blown off.

  So relieved he couldn’t move, Reese sat, concentrating on his lifeless enemy and thankful for his weapon. Snakes scared him worse than anything he’d seen in the Indian wars, and nearly as much as respectable women. His heart slowed. He had to take a leak.

  “Oooow!”

  Lucinda’s muffled yell confused him at first. His brain still hadn’t settled down from their close call.

  “Get off!”

  He looked down. Damned if he wasn’t sitting on her head! He moved off her, careful not to scrape her face on the pebbles dotting the grass.

  She sat up and blew dirt and twigs out of her mouth. She looked cute even wearing a man’s baggy trousers and weeds in her hair. She needed to be kissed. He had to get away from her, or he’d do it. “Let’s pack up and get back to Dickshooter.”

  He tossed his duster to her. “Put this on.” He picked up his saddle and blanket, and heaved it onto his horse.

  It was going to be a long trip.

  * * * * *

  Trinket stuck her head through the doorway. “Fannie, the sheriff’s here.”

  Fannie put the iron on the stove, shook out the pillowcase she’d pressed, and looked up at Titus—or Midas. “Tell that horny bastard we ain’t open for another three hours yet.”

  “He don’t want a poke. He wants to see Reese.”

  “Reese ain’t here.”

  “I told him so. Said he wants to talk to you.”

  “He ain’t gettin’ any for free, if that’s what he came for.”

  “Tell him yourself. He’s propped up at the bar.”

  Fannie folded the pillowcase and tossed it on the clean clothes pile. The day had started out smelling like rotten eggs, what with that mean gambler, Hannibal Hank, showing up at the crack of dawn like he owned the place. He’d wanted Felicia, who had finally agreed to service him for twenty dollars. The asshole was so desperate for a poke he paid it. Maybe he’d move on, but somehow Fannie didn’t think so. You can always tell a man with his eye on easy money.

  On her say-so, Felicia had slipped laudanum in Hank’s whiskey, and Midas had hauled the sonuvabitch out to the barn after he’d passed out. There’d be hell to pay when the bastard woke up.

  Now, the sheriff probably aimed to make her day worse. She looked in the mirror and patted the brassy stray curls back into place. Someday, she’d let her hair go back to dishwater blonde. Maybe she’d even be wiping her little boy’s snotty nose with her apron while she fixed supper for her husband.

  Hell, she couldn’t cook. And no respectable man would want a whore to be mama to his babies. Besides, she hated aprons.

  Time to deal with the sheriff. She sighed and left the hopeless fantasy in her room.

  Fannie had to smile when she saw Trinket glaring at Sheriff Tucker. “I wouldn’t give you a poke fer a hunderd of your stinking dollars.”

  He slid his hat up his forehead, scratched his graying temple, and frowned. “I never heard of a lady charging that much even for the whole night around these parts. You have a problem with me? Hell, we’ve never even met before.”

  Trinket tossed her ink black hair and sniffed. “Sheriff, yer not as dumb as you look.”

  Tucker hunched his long, scrawny frame over his drink and stared at it like he was reading tea leaves or something. Fannie could see that Trinket had hurt his feelings. “Just what’s the problem, little lady?”

  “You’re the problem.” Trinket slugged down the rest of her drink. “You lawmen are all alike. First you want a poke—fer a special price, of course—then, when you need your paycheck, you round us all up and make us pay a fine. That way you get your poke for free. I’d take an honest hellraiser any day over one of you slimy lawmen.”

  The sheriff didn’t respond for a moment, and Fannie decided it was time to break up this little powwow. As she started to walk to them, the sheriff spoke again.

  “What color’s your hair?”

  Trinket crossed her arms. “Black. Midnight black.”

  “No, for real. Is it the same color as your eyebrows?”

  She touched her brow, more than likely finally figuring out that she didn’t have her working paint on. “Why do you care? Men like it black.”

  He glowered at her. “You think I care?”

  Their squabbling reminded Fannie of a couple of school kids—him pulling her pigtail, and her sticking her tongue out at him.

  “Of course not.” Trinket sounded as uppity as the schoolmarm.

  “That’s too bad. We ought to all care about each other a little.”

  “Ain’t that just the sweetest thing you ever heard,” came Trinket’s sarcastic reply, obviously not believing a word he said. “You’re still not getting a poke.”

  “You misunderstood. First of all, I don’t get paid from fines. Second, the men around here’d lynch me if I pestered this here house, and third, all I wanted was a little pleasant conversation from a pretty lady.”

  Trinket’s eyes widened. “You think I’m pretty?”

  Her question was too hopeful for Fannie’s comfort, and bound to get an answer that would break Trinket’s heart eventually. Fannie knew the time had come to step in. “Sheriff, you wanted to talk to me?”

  He stood and touched his hand to the brim of his hat in greeting. “Afternoon, ma’am.”

  “Is this a business, or pleasure? We don’t open for three hours yet.”

  “Business.” He followed Fannie to the table across the room.

  “Midas, pour the sheriff another whiskey and bring it over.” She sat and offered Tucker a chair. “State your business, then.”

  Midas placed their drinks on the table—whiskey for the sheriff and water for her. She drank spirits only on special occasions, and this didn’t promise to be one of them.

  “I came to see Reese McAdams and your fellow over there told me he’s not here. Do you know where I can find him?”

  “Nope.”

  “When will he be back?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “Don’t know, or won’t tell?”

  “You pick. If you got business with Reese, you talk to him. Leave me out of it.”

  Tucker yanked his hat off and threw it on the table. “What’s with you ladies, anyway? What power does he have over you?”

  Fannie sighed. Tucker didn’t understand a damned thing. Reese was good as gold, and she wasn’t about to say anything could hurt him. Besides, she didn’t trust lawmen any more than Trinket did. “We’re just making a living, sheriff. Come back in three hours and I’ll be happy to fix you up with one of the girls.”

  The sheriff stood and put on his hat. “There’s a gambler hanging around Owyhee County who goes by the name ‘Hannibal Hank.’ I understand he can be awful hard on working girls, so be careful.”

  Fannie rose from her chair and followed him to the door. “He’s sleeping off a drunk in the barn. You can have him.”

  “Hell, I don’t want him. Just wanted to warn you, is all. I hear he’s mean as a starving wolf.” He paused in the doorway. “And tell Mr. McAdams that there’s been some cattle rustling in the area.”

  “Tell him yerself.” She shut the door and leaned against it.

  “Does he think our Reese is a rustler?” asked Trinket, still sitting at the bar.

  “Who knows?” The aroma of roast venison and fresh bread reminded her that it was past time for dinner. “Come on. Let’s join the girls for a bite to eat and forget about the sheriff.”

  Trinket hesitated. “Fannie?”

  “What.”

  “Do you think I’m pretty?”

&nb
sp; Chapter 5

  Reese could hardly wait to end his misery and get to Dickshooter. The rocking pace of the horse kept the schoolmarm’s behind wiggling on his lap. Damn it all, anyway. He'd been hard as a rock all night and all morning, too, except for the short time he had spent recovering from the crazed woman’s assault on his parts. Riding double was hard on Buster, too, although not quite in the same way.

  Lucinda sitting in front of him stiff as a board only added to his libido problem. If she’d just lean against his chest, her tempting bottom wouldn’t wiggle against his uncooperative parts—or too cooperative, he wasn’t sure which.

  She turned to him, her jaw set. “I’m certainly going to give that cook a piece of my mind!”

  “Why don’t you take a soak in a nice hot bath before you go tearing into poor Sadie.” But then he envisioned Miss Sharpe soaking in the tub, her breasts peeking out of the water and damp tendrils of honey hair caressing her neck. Sonuvabitch!

  “That is a highly inappropriate suggestion!”

  She didn’t know just how inappropriate—or maybe she did. The evidence of his misery wasn’t exactly hidden.

  “I don’t think I’ve ever been so cold in my life!” She shuddered, which didn’t help his situation a bit. “There I was, freezing and worried sick that Sadie was hurt, when all the time, she was safe and sound, heading back to Dickshooter.”

  She reached down to smooth her pants—his pants, only on her legs. Probably a nervous habit of tidying her skirt. Instead, she brushed his leg. He stifled a groan. She jerked her hand away faster than if she’d grabbed a hot poker.

  He pulled her back to his chest to lessen the pressure of her bottom on his lower parts. With a “hmmph!” she straightened right back up. He didn’t try again. Everything he’d done to lessen the effects of her nearness had backfired. He’d just have to endure.

  This one-hour ride seemed to take longer than his trip to Dodge City the month before. He’d rather suffer bug bites on his face and rain down his neck than the torture this haughty woman inflicted upon him.

  A little more than half an hour of misery passed before a word was spoken between them, which was fine with him.

  “Are you always this quiet?” she demanded.

  This woman, naïve at best and ignorant at worst, had no idea what she asked of him. “Mostly.”

  “Goodness, two syllables! I’m honored.”

  “We’re more than halfway there.” He knew it was a lame attempt to satisfy her obvious need for conversation, but it was the best he could come up with.

  “Good. I have work to do.”

  “Work?”

  She bowed her head. Soft wisps of her hair caressed his neck, sending another flood of heat to his neglected part. Damn, why’d she have to have hair that looked so much like honey he wanted to taste it? And whose bright idea was it to give her soft curls that made a man want to bury himself in them? He wondered what her other curls looked like.

  He groaned, whisking the offending thought from his mind.

  “What?” she asked.

  Had he said anything? He must have groaned aloud. “What work do you have to do?” he answered, giving himself a mental pat on the back for his quick thinking.

  * * * * *

  Lucinda didn’t know if she wished he would, or was glad he didn’t—hold her close, that is. She fidgeted this way and that, trying to find a position where her back wouldn't ache as much, but not lean against him, either. But he felt so near.

  Reese had behaved like a perfect gentleman, even though his arousal made itself obvious. Avoiding notice of it was nearly impossible, and even though she’d never been, well, intimate with a man, she certainly knew all there was to know about relations between a man and a woman.

  Mostly. The one thing she couldn’t figure out was how that thing could possibly fit into—well, how it could possibly fit. She didn’t plan to find out, either, since a suffragist simply didn’t have time for such nonsense as marriage. Or children.

  But maybe, just maybe, if she kept talking, he’d forget all about his own libido problems. After all, she ignored the tingling in her breasts and the hot ache down where she ought not be aching.

  He cleared his throat. “Your work?” he asked again.

  “Oh, work! Oh, uh, laundry and such.” He wanted to know what she had to do when they returned to the Comfort Palace. She couldn’t tell him she had a week’s worth of lesson plans to review. The ladies were progressing remarkably well.

  There. Thinking about her work took her mind off his warm, broad chest. Besides, if she kissed any man’s chest, it sure wouldn’t be a brothel owner’s. But he seemed to be an honorable man in some ways. After all, he could have left her alone out in the wilderness. Her skin prickled with goosebumps all over again. She’d thought about Reese a lot, maybe too much for her own good. Still, there ought to be a way to save him from a life of debauchery. Brothel owners were indeed a debauched lot.

  “Have you ever thought about closing the brothel?”

  “Huh?”

  She felt Reese stiffen. Ah, ha! Maybe he had a conscience after all. “Surely you can’t be at peace with your soul while you’re living off money from women selling their bodies.”

  “They’re happy.”

  The ladies weren’t happy, Lucinda knew, otherwise they wouldn’t have gone to all the trouble of bringing a teacher to Dickshooter. “Why do you say that?”

  He let out an exasperated sigh, followed by silence.

  So much for his conscience! “Well, I don’t think they are. How could they be?”

  “Dammit all, anyhow, woman. Then why don’t you educate them? And throw in a few skills while you’re at it.”

  “You don’t think I can, do you?”

  “Jesus, woman! Think about it. Why would they want to work for a dollar a week cleaning spittoons when they can make a dollar an hour at the Comfort Palace?”

  Lucinda sniffed. “You don’t need to curse.” This man could teach a class in Advanced Impossible. “Everyone deserves to achieve his or her potential, and these ladies have no chance of doing so without an education.”

  “I suppose you want me to pay you to teach them.”

  “It’s an idea.”

  “A bad idea,” he muttered.

  She twisted around toward him, almost falling off the horse. Reese caught her by the waist and pulled her upright. Determined not to think about his hand scorching her person, and bound to force him to concede to the women’s education, she retorted, “I knew you weren’t serious.”

  “How much?”

  She had to charge him, even though the ladies already hired her for a hundred per month. He’d think something strange was going on if she didn’t quote him a fairly steep price, and the ladies were adamant about him not finding out about their little scheme. As for that matter, just what was their scheme? “Eighty dollars a month.”

  “Eighty dollars! I can buy half a herd for eighty dollars.”

  A smidgen of guilt pricked her, but she had to hold firm. The ladies deserved to have their privacy protected. Maybe she’d mail them the excess money when she arrived back in St. Jo. She breathed a sigh of relief at her decision. Yes, she’d keep Reese’s money and give the ladies theirs back.

  After a moment, Lucinda pressed the issue. “Do we have an agreement or not?”

  * * * * *

  Reese had thought about educating the ladies many times. Yes, it was a good idea, but who’d want to teach a bunch of whores? He hadn’t seen it as a viable option. Little Miss Priss, sitting on his lap and giving him a hellacious hard-on, certainly didn’t seem amenable to the task. Eighty dollars was too damned much money for a schoolteacher. He’d show her though. He’d force her to put up or shut up.

  “All right. Eighty dollars. But I want them educated and out of here by next spring. My ranch needs working, and I don’t need a bunch of wh . . . women slowing me down.” He’d bet anything she’d turn him down. A respectable woman like her didn’t assoc
iate with whores.

  Besides, he didn’t want the ladies thinking that he wanted to get rid of them. They had nowhere else to go. He knew it and they knew it. “There’s only one condition: You can’t tell the women that I hired you.”

  “It’s a deal!” She grabbed his rein hand and shook it. Buster took the motion as “go,” and he did, nearly unseating Reese and his lovely baggage.

  “Damn it all, woman,” Reese yelled as he held onto Lucinda and brought Buster under control. “Don’t you know anything about horses?”

  She turned her nose up. “No.”

  Finally Dickshooter came into view, and he was damned happy to see it.

  “Whoa,” he called to Buster as he reined his horse to a stop in front of the Comfort Palace’s hitching post. He lowered Lucinda to the ground, then jumped down himself.

  “I can hardly wait to dress like a woman again,” exclaimed Lucinda as she hurried into the building, “just as soon as I have a vociferous conversation with Sadie!”

  He might have a little chat with Sadie himself, so he agreed with the schoolteacher on that point, but certainly not on the first. No matter how she dressed, she was definitely all woman.

  She’d probably take a bath first thing. Reese shook the image out of his mind. At least with her wiggling bottom off his lap, maybe he could get some peace.

  He led Buster into the barn and pulled off the saddle and bags before putting him into the stall. Nice and clean, he noticed. Someone, probably Gus, had spread new straw. Reese gave the horse some oats to keep him occupied during the brushing. Buster deserved a little extra attention, hauling two riders for over ten miles. Reese patted Buster on the rump as he left the stall, where Gus met him.

  “You found your visitor yet?” Gus asked with a worried look. They walked toward the Comfort Palace.

  “Nope, and I figure one’s enough.” A certainty—Miss Lucinda Sharpe tried his soul, all right. “Who the hell else decided to honor us with his presence?”

  “Your buddy, Hannibal Hank. He’s out in the barn sleeping off a dose of laudanum big enough to fell a horse.”

  Reese stopped short and faced Gus. “I hate to ask, but how’d that happen? And why’s he here?”