Yes, Sharpe’s Academy had quite an appealing ring to it.
* * * * *
Descending the stairs in a most regal fashion, or so she hoped, Lucinda controlled the urge to run up to Fannie and Trinket and twirl prettily like a schoolgirl would to show off her new dress. Her perfect hairstyle and silk gown of the latest fashion made her feel stunning, ready to enter the most fashionable ballroom in St. Joseph. My, how those society ladies who’d snubbed her would drool.
But she was only going to dinner in a whorehouse.
“Good gracious, Miss Sharpe!” she heard Trinket call, and turned her head to return the greeting.
Distracted, she tripped on her hem and fell down the last step into a heap at the bottom of the stairs. Strong arms lifted her. Mortified but determined to save face, she looked into the smiling eyes of none other than Reese McAdams.
Chapter 6
“Well, well,” Reese said, looking Lucinda straight in the eye. “You’ve gone from hoyden to princess in less than an hour. Must be some kind of record.” She fidgeted under his scrutiny, but stopped when his grip around her waist grew tighter.
So much for her newfound dignity, especially when the heat from his touch brought tingles to her middle. And other unmentionable places. His eyes taunted her with I-can-make-you-feel-better-than-you’ve-ever-felt-before. Her sensibilities abandoned her when she tried to respond to his left-handed compliment.
“Don’t she just look plumb beautiful?” Trinket gushed. “I knowed that dress was hers. Why Reese, I bet you could just eat her up!”
Lucinda tried to look away from Reese’s penetrating gaze, but could not. He licked his lips. She wanted to touch them. His arms tightened around her waist again and held her close. Too close. She tried not to inhale his bay rum aftershave. Bay rum should be outlawed, she decided.
“Put her down, Reese, and set yourself down to dinner,” ordered Fannie.
Only then did Lucinda realize that that she had wound her arms and legs around him in a most unladylike way. She straightened her legs and pushed at his chest. Her fingers wanted to linger and examine him, but this was not the time nor the place, and certainly not the right man. No respectable woman would even have such thoughts. She pushed harder.
“Please, let me down.” Her schoolteacher command sounded more like a little girl’s plea, but it was the best she could do. He must never know how he affected her.
Reese lowered her and waited for her to catch her balance before he released her. Her body still fluttered, though. Her heart thumped like a rabbit’s and her face flushed with heat, knowing she longed for him to hold her again.
“Are you unhurt?” he asked.
No, she hurt. Ached rather. Such a good ache, too. He seemed to know that hot oil coursed through her veins instead of blood. His eyes, dark with invitation, beckoned her, and she remembered the previous night when he’d held her so tight and made her safe. No, not safe.
She blinked in a pointless effort to remove her inappropriate thoughts. “I’m perfectly fine.” Her voice had strengthened, thank goodness. “Let’s sit down to dinner.”
Scanning the room, she saw six prostitutes and a cook staring at her, mouths agape. They knew! Every single one of them knew. Were there no secrets with this ragamuffin bunch? She willed her legs to walk to the table.
Never would she succumb to a man who’d stoop to own a brothel, no matter how kind or how handsome. She’d show them.
* * * * *
Reese couldn’t remember ever seeing a more beautiful woman. Those emerald eyes of hers could almost make a man forget—anything. Her tiny waist, trussed up in one of those gawdawful corsets, reminded him of her soft curves that nearly made him lose control the night before. The curls brushing her neck invited him to take a little nibble. And when she’d wrapped her legs around him…he couldn’t think about that or he’d embarrass himself in front of half a dozen women who’d know exactly what he wanted to do.
Lizards would sing The Battle Hymn of the Republic before he’d have anything to do with her. She was a suffragist schoolteacher, for cryin’ out loud. He’d seen what happened when a man, caught up in the detestable world of selling women’s favors, hitched up with a decent, God-fearing woman.
He knew the grief of growing up with a father who had more interest in his low-life gambler friends and high-flying women than in his family. He remembered his mother’s dignified silence when she’d been snubbed by the other ladies in town, and he remembered the taunts from his classmates while he’d dodged the rocks and horse biscuits thrown by the boys who knew what his father did for a living.
A woman deserved a proper home and an honorable husband. And he couldn’t give the first and could never be the second, now that his illustrious father had saddled him with a whorehouse and a stable of soiled doves.
Miss Lucinda Sharpe posed more danger to him, and herself, than Hannibal Hank or any gun-wielding desperado.
She walked straight and proud to the table, seated herself, and placed the napkin on her lap. He reveled in her grace and refinement, and how out of place she looked sitting at a table with a bunch of whores. Hell and damnation, how he wished things had worked out differently!
“Get your ass over here and sit down so’s Miss Sharpe can say grace,” ordered Fannie.
All the ladies looked at him expectantly.
“The food’s getting cold,” Sadie reminded him tersely, holding a large platter of steaming beef roast.
His stomach rumbled and he walked to the table and took his seat. Trinket threw him an I-know-what-you’re-thinking glance.
They bowed their heads in prayer.
“Lord,” Lucinda began, “thank you for your blessings and the food Sadie has worked so hard to prepare . . .”
“Amen,” all the women said in unison as they reached for the nearest dishes. Reese stifled a chuckle as he watched them leap for the platters of food and heap up their plates. The ladies had all followed Lucinda’s lead in placing their napkins on their laps, and they’d bowed their heads for the prayer right on cue, but they certainly weren’t into long discourses with the Lord.
Lucinda looked horrified, then resigned, but always beautiful. The powerful need to escape from her spell grabbed him like a vise. He nearly inhaled his meal, planning his departure line with each bite. The ladies chattered like magpies, but the schoolteacher studied him like he was a new scientific specimen.
He scooted his chair away from the table, the legs making a loud and conspicuous squawk. The women stopped chattering and watched him stand. He knew they knew, and they knew he knew, but he’d be damned if he’d look at Lucinda to confirm it. “I’ll be working in the barn if you need me.”
He grabbed his Stetson and jammed it on his head as he stomped out of the room to the sound of muffled giggles. Women were such a bother.
* * * * *
Lucinda scrounged through her trunk, hoping to find at least one more piece of paper. When she’d left Dickshooter, she hadn’t expected to be stuck in a brothel with only the school supplies she’d brought with her. A store would have been nice too. A real store, not the feeble excuse of a general store that took up a corner of the saloon. Of course, she’d expected a real town.
Finding no paper, she stood straight, stretched her back and sighed, then caught sight of herself in the mirror. Knowing that vanity was sinful, she nevertheless couldn’t resist feeling quite pleased with the exquisite dress and the proper coiffure she wore.
Reese had thought her dress pretty, too, although his opinion didn’t matter in the least to her. She only wished she hadn’t stumbled down the stairs. How mortifying! She could still sense the warmth of his hands about her waist and the look of approval in his eye. She looked away from the mirror as if to dash his image from her memory.
Then the thought struck her—Reese should be the one to provide school supplies. After all, how did he expect her to teach if she had no supplies with which to do so? He probably would disagree—she’d nev
er heard of a brothel owner who wanted to educate their women and doubted his veracity on the subject.
In fact, he had probably changed his mind about the whole notion of school by now. Well, she’d not allow it! She pulled her gloves on and pinned on her hat. She’d seek him out right this very instant and demand that he purchase a substantial amount of supplies. She marched out of her room and down the stairs.
Trinket lounged on the settee in the parlor.
“Have you seen Mr. McAdams?’ Lucinda asked her.
“Still out in the barn, near as I know.” Trinket giggled. “You sure know how to truss up a man.”
“Hmmph!” Lucinda hurried out to the barn, taking care not to raise any more dust than necessary. She should have changed to her brown calico, but she wanted to savor the look and feel of the beautiful clothing before she returned it.
Reese sat on a stump and rubbed soap into a saddle. She had never seen anyone soap leather so vigorously and wondered if he needed to change the brand of soap he used. Even more curious, the saddle didn’t look like it needed tending at all. He must be a fastidious man, although he didn’t seem so.
“Mr. McAdams,” she called in her schoolteacher voice of a most stern calibre.
Startled, he stood, knocking the wet saddle into the straw. “Damnation, woman!”
Determined, she held her most dignified stance. “That is no way to speak to a lady, Mr. McAdams.”
He plopped the saddle back onto the sawhorse and brushed off the straw. “You’re right—there is no way to speak to a lady, so go back into the house.” He started soaping again, pointedly ignoring her.
She refused to be dismissed until he agreed to provide the books and supplies she needed. “We have an issue to discuss.”
“No, we don’t.”
“Yes, we do.”
“Make it short.”
“Very well, you need to purchase school supplies since we have none.”
He didn’t even look up at her when she made her request. She prepared to chide him about his responsibilities. He had hired her to teach the women, and she would insist that he allow her to do so.
Just as she started to tell him so, he answered, “Tell the stagedriver what you want when he stops this afternoon, and he’ll bring it next time through.”
Surprised, she had to take a moment to compose her response. “I’ll prepare a list for your perusal right away.”
“Don’t bother. Just give it to the driver.” He picked up the saddle and carried it into a stall.
“How will you know how much money to give him if you don’t know what you’re purchasing?”
“Just give the list to the driver. I’ll take care of the rest.” He sounded more impatient than before. She waited for him to come out of the stall, but he didn’t.
“All right, if that’s the way you want it.”
“That’s the way I want it.”
Lucinda stood a moment, deciding whether to question his motives. Probably not. He had agreed to purchase supplies and she didn’t want anything else from him. She certainly didn’t want him to voice his appreciation of her ensemble.
“You’d better scat before that dress of yours gets dirtied up,” he said without even looking up.
He sounded quite curt, too. All he was concerned about was Sadie’s laundry duties, not the ladies’ education. Well, she’d show him! The Comfort Palace would have the most finely stocked schoolroom west of the Mississippi.
She nodded and forced a finishing-school smile. “Thank you for your generosity. You won’t regret it.” Ah, but he would. She drew up she skirts and exited the barn with utmost dignity—or as much as she could muster in her piqued frame of mind.
She’d see just how dedicated he was about the education of his stable of women.
* * * * *
Two days later, Lucinda handed each lady her slate as they filed into the office. Still feeling a bit guilty about agreeing to take money from both the ladies and Reese for doing the same job, she had lengthened the class time from an hour to two hours. Fannie had met with Reese to request that the brothel open at five instead of four.
He had approved the change of business hours, probably knowing why. She’d be interested to know what Fannie had told him. The loss of revenue would be minimal, since most customers arrived after five anyway. Still, it seemed odd that he didn’t appear the slightest bit concerned about the possible decrease in profits.
No one seemed to question him when he’d brought in a blackboard to hang on the wall, either. It was for announcements and reminders, he’d explained. Mr. McAdams simply didn’t act like a brothel owner.
Trinket seemed impatient during the arithmetic session, but when they started the spelling class, her hand shot up. “How do you spell ‘sheriff’?”
Lucinda wrote the word on the blackboard and sounded it out aloud for the class while she printed the letters. She turned toward the class and asked, “Can you think of some rhyming words?”
Trinket raised her hand again. “Whiff and sniff.”
Impressed, Lucinda said, “Very good!”
“Not good at all,” Fannie contradicted, glaring at Trinket. “You better not be whiffing and sniffing around Sheriff Tucker if you know what’s good for you.”
Trinket jumped up and planted her hands on her hips. “I am not!”
“Please be seated, Trinket,” Lucinda reproved.
“It’s Trina,” she muttered as she sat.
“Pardon me, Trina.” Lucinda vowed to remember to call Trinket, “Trina,” and Petunia, “Patricia,” during class. She made a mental note to call the two ladies by their preferred names during the rest of the non-business hours, and she hoped the other ladies would comply as well. The transformation from soiled dove to respectable professional women would be tough, but it could be done. They might as well start with names.
“Today, we’ll learn about the sound and spelling of the letter R.” She wrote ‘Her first nurse works early.’
The rest of the class went well. They seemed especially interested in the history lesson, when Lucinda had told them that a woman, Queen Elizabeth I, had been one of the strongest and most important monarchs English ever had.
“Yea, but she was a virgin. We ain’t,” retorted Chrissy. “No one wants us.”
“That ain’t right,” contradicted Fannie. “I saw Midas sparking you last night. You turned him down flat, like you have been for nearly a year.”
Chrissy blushed, a sight Lucinda had never seen. Maybe these women thought differently of their customers and men in general than the opinions they voiced. “Why did you turn him down?”
“He don’t really want me. You all know that. All he wants is a free poke, and I ain’t giving it to him.”
Lucinda heard the underlying pain in Chrissy’s cavalier statement and made a mental note to talk to Midas. These women had little enough self-respect without the brothel workers making it worse.
“Your homework for tomorrow is to read the story of the Spanish Armada. If you have trouble with the words, come to my room and I’ll help. I know this book is a bit difficult for new readers.”
Chairs scraped on the plank floor and the ladies all started chattering at once as they exited the room. All except Chrissy.
Chrissy stood beside her chair and fluffed her hair—the fidgeting kind of fluffing.
“I could like him if’n I wasn’t a whore, you know.”
Lucinda had no reply. Being the daughter of a soiled dove lynched for murder, she knew just how Chrissy felt, but she could never tell.
Chapter 7
Lucinda quickly neatened the room so she could confront Midas. Chrissy had to be protected from his baser intentions. She collected the slates and put them in her schoolbag. After cleaning the blackboard, she moved the chairs out of the middle of the room. There was no way around it—she’d have to confront Midas and find out his true intentions. These ladies were too vulnerable to be trifled with. If Midas’s intentions weren’t ho
norable, she’d go directly to Reese about the matter.
Not that he was any more honorable. In fact, he could make her forget about honor altogether.
Not true, she argued with herself. She’d done her best in the most trying of circumstances, and she’d resisted the urge to bury her face in his broad chest while he wrapped his arms around her. She shivered.
She grabbed her schoolbag and started for the stairs, when she ran headlong into a man wearing a red vest. Her throat tightened and her heart raced, while memories she’d worked so hard to forget carried her back to the brothel in St. Jo. A scream lodged in her throat.
“Whoa, there, little girl,” he smirked as he held her arms.
She struggled to get him to release her, but he held firm. He reminded her of someone . . .
“If it ain’t Pansy!” He shot her a thin-lipped smile but it faded quickly. “Christ, it can’t be . . . You’re Pansy’s daughter, Lucinda, aren’t you?”
He was the one! The one who’d hurt her mama and made her cry so long ago. He gripped tighter. Lucinda’s heart pumped even harder. She could hear him slapping her mother’s face and see the red handmarks on her cheeks. His cigar smoke nauseated her. All she wanted to do was get away from this viper. Once she came to her senses, she grabbed his arms and removed them from her person. “Unhand me, sir!”
She ran for the stairs, his wicked laugh following her. The sound made her legs weak, but she climbed the stairs as fast as she could manage.
“You can run, but I know you’re Pansy’s daughter. I see you’re following in your mother’s footsteps.” His laugh faded as she ran down the hall.
She ran into her room, slammed the door, and leaned against it, fighting unwanted tears that trailed down her face.
Hannibal Hank!
Lucinda needed air. Her mind raced while her muscles tensed in shock. Hannibal Hank had been half-owner of the last brothel where her mother had worked when the lynch mob came to her room, dragged her out by the hair, and hanged her while her ten-year-old daughter watched.
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