Her heart nearly pounded out of her chest and tears sprang to her eyes. Where, oh where did Miss Hattie’s lessons on composure go? She hurried out of the office in a most unladylike fashion hoping she hadn’t made a complete fool of herself.
She’d already played the fool, though. No decent woman threw herself at a man the way she had in Silver City. That was completely senseless.
She bumped into Felicia half the way up the stairs.
“Where are you going in such a hurry?” Felicia asked.
Her gentle tone so shocked Lucinda, she nearly dropped her books. But her throat ached and her breath caught. She struggled to compose herself, finding it harder to fight kindness than Felicia’s normal embittered demeanor. She worked on acting nonchalant. “Just to my room. Class is over.”
Felicia took her books and turned around. “I think you need a woman-to-woman chat.”
Lucinda sighed. She sure hadn’t fooled Felicia, but the last thing she wanted to do was confess her feelings for a brothel owner to one of his employees. Felicia nudged her elbow, and the only way not to call attention to herself was to concede.
Lucinda trudged up the remaining stairs, taking her time in order to gather her wits and compose herself as much as possible, given her emotional state. She’d not let on about what had happened between Reese and herself—that secret was theirs to share, and the only thing she’d ever have of his to keep now that she knew she wouldn’t have his baby.
As soon as they entered Lucinda’s room, Felicia plopped down on the desk chair. “I know you’re aching for a man—a certain man. I’ve seen that look a hundred times.”
Blindsided by the outright announcement of her own secret thoughts, Lucinda could only stare at her.
“There’s no help for it,” Felicia continued. “I’ve been through this myself. Most of us have. I survived, and you will, too.”
Lucinda tried to swallow the lump in her throat. Tears threatened, but she fought them back. At least she finally succeeded at something. “I never intend to marry. I will pursue the suffragist cause until every state and every territory in the United States has granted women the right to vote and hold office.”
“Oh, I don’t doubt that for a minute.” Felicia smiled and stood, running her index finger down one of the scars on her right cheek. “But just remember this, your heart doesn’t pay any heed to what you look like or what your brain wants. Your heart only yearns for happiness, and when it finds the man that can make that happiness complete, it forces you to fall in love. You have no control over it.”
“Even if love doesn’t fit into your life?”
“Most especially then. Your head tells you what you ought to do, but your heart sends you on an exciting journey. Sometimes with the right man, most times with the wrong man.”
“Are you in love with a man?”
“I was. Am. Always will be. He loved me once. He’s a fine man, but he hasn’t seen me for more than sixteen years.”
“What’s his name?”
“Clayton McAllister”
She covered her face with her hands. “I just can’t imagine he’d ever love a whore. A cut-up old whore.”
“Oh,” Lucinda whispered. “I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t be.” Felicia’s voice hardened to bravado. “Like I said, it numbs after a while. I rarely ever think of him anymore.”
* * * * *
Reese had no idea why Lucinda got so upset over a blasted cabinet. Gus had helped him with the finer points, but he’d done most of the work himself and it didn’t look half bad. Maybe she didn’t think so.
No reason to fool himself—Lucinda was probably angry that he’d been so clumsy when they’d made love. He’d beaten himself a hundred times for taking advantage of a vulnerable woman. And determined.
He’d sworn a thousand times he’d never take advantage of a woman the way his father had ruined his mother, but Lucinda’s beauty hid some powerful inner gumption. He admired her tenacity and even her altruism. And he greatly admired her body.
Reese examined the cabinet, not seeing any great flaws. Here he was, a whorehouse owner, thanks to his father, deflowering an innocent respectable woman. One thing about him that wasn’t like his father, though—if Lucinda was with child, he’d take care of that baby and her until the baby was grown and gone, and she for the rest of her days. No child of his would ever go through what his father had put him through.
Sadie trudged red-faced into the office toting an armload of books. “Here’s my pile.”
“That ought to fill up your compartment.”
“Maybe too much.” She stood and stretched her back. “I’ll get Miss Sharpe, then. She’ll tell us what ought to go in here and such.”
Sadie vanished from the room before Reese could stop her. Ah, hell. He stuffed her things into the appropriate spot. Just as he was about to make himself scarce, Midas walked in.
Chrissy fussed behind him. “Midas, I told you to rest!”
“Good God, woman, it’s been three weeks!” He waved his arms in frustration. “I’ve known men with their legs blown off that got well in three weeks.”
Reese thought he better step in before things escalated into full-fledged warfare. “Chrissy, tell Fannie the Comfort Palace is closed down until spring.”
“Closed?”
“The ranchers and miners are all heading into Silver for winter and I don’t see any reason to stay open.”
She let out a whoop and dashed out of the room.
Reese laughed as he watched her shut her skirt in the door. “I guess she likes the idea of a vacation.”
Midas cleared his throat and shuffled his feet. “I been meaning to talk to you about that.”
“About what?”
“Chrissy. Working.”
“She doesn’t have to work. I sure never wanted a damned whorehouse. You know that. The whole idea was to give these ladies a fresh start somewhere so we can get cracking on building the ranch. Does she have any plans?”
Midas scratched his jaw. Reese had never known him to be short of words, but he seemed to be measuring his response. Odd, considering all they’d been through.
“I don’t know. She’s a good woman under that hard shell of hers.”
“You soft on her?”
“You soft on the schoolmarm?”
“Hell...don’t make any difference.”
“I think it does. I’ve seen you panting after Miss Sharpe’s skirts. And I’ve seen her eyeballing you all soft-like, the way a woman does when she’s set her cap for you. I’d say you did a lot more than take her to a suffragist meeting, didn’t you?”
Reese didn’t answer. Even his best friend couldn’t know the wrong he’d done to her. To him, ruining a respectable lady had always been the most disgusting of foul acts, short of murder, and now he was guilty of just that.
Like father, like son.
* * * * *
Reese spent most of his time in the barn and Lucinda was glad of it. The increasingly inclement weather kept him from minding his ranch, although he and the twins did make a trip to check on the stock the first week of November.
The next morning, the ladies bubbled with excitement. Even through Lucinda's gloom, she had to admit it was the first time she'd ever celebrated a birthday with so many true friends, even though it was Reese’s birthday, not her own. Each lady had tried her hand at crafting gifts for him, and their choices showed each lady’s individual talent.
All the ladies gathered in the classroom, each lady pairing off with her special man. The room buzzed with chatter and laughter. With the birthday decorations and festive tin-can-lid stars decorating the room, you'd never know they were smack dab in the middle of a brothel.
Fannie stood and dinged a whiskey glass with a spoon. "It's time for Reese to open his presents."
Which he did. Midas and Titus gave him a new gun belt; Gus, an IOU for a day’s work building a new house; and the ladies, a saddle blanket with RM embroidered on it. Fannie al
so gave him a set of cast iron skillets, which got him a good ribbing from the twins.
Reese looked a bit stunned when he unwrapped his gift from Lucinda—a canvas pouch with violets embroidered on the sides, and filled with two-hundred dollars. Her debt to him was paid. He thanked her, but didn't smile, and tucked the pouch into his vest pocket.
Felicia sat apart from the others, a wistful expression cloaking her pain. Lucinda knew that Felicia was deeply in love even though she hid her feelings behind a gruff exterior. Lucinda could see herself in Felicia, in love but alone.
Maybe she should make her feelings known to Reese, but he was so distant, it was a risk she simply couldn't take. Besides, there wasn't a whole lot she could do to help the suffragist cause in Dickshooter, Idaho Territory.
* * * * *
Frost adhered to the brush and what little grass was left. Winter’s wrath would be upon them soon.
Reese sat on his horse and watched his growing herd with satisfaction he’d never known before. He owned a ranch. The land belonged to him, with every cow and bouncing newborn calf on it. Gus and the twins had helped him build a bunkhouse, and in the spring, when the ground thawed, they’d dig postholes for the corrals.
He’d dreamed of this since he was in short pants.
Happiness didn’t extend to all areas of his life, though. He took the canvas pouch out of his vest pocket. Lucinda had given it to him for his birthday. He fingered the flowers and the fancy RM she’d embroidered on it—few men would even consider carrying such a sissified thing. It contained two-hundred dollars, reimbursement for the school supplies.
She didn’t know him very well if she thought he’d use that money for himself. Come spring and the stage was running regularly, he’d buy a ticket for her to wherever she wanted to go. The rest, he’d spend on books for the ladies at the Comfort Palace.
Stuffing the pouch back into his pocket, he kicked his horse into a trot, heading back to town. He didn’t want Lucinda to leave Dickshooter—or him, but she hadn’t said two words to him since she’d given him the gift. He hated to see her so unhappy, and he especially hated that she seemed even more unhappy because of him. Why did he have to lose control?
He’d had a harrowing morning with the women haranguing him with ways to protect himself from the rustling accusations, so Reese had escaped to the ranch. Now, he seemed equally compelled to get back to Dickshooter. And see her.
Why the hell Fannie thought he was implicated in wrongdoings, he had no idea. It irritated him to no end that she thought him disreputable and dishonest. Shit. That’s what he got for keeping that infernal whorehouse. It had been nothing but a thorn in his side since the day he’d received notice that he’d inherited a hotel in Dickshooter. Hotel, my ass. He should have known his father wouldn’t have bequeathed an honest business.
Lucinda seldom looked him in the eye. Of course, when she did, it scorched him right down to his long-handles. A rancher might have a chance with a woman like her, but a brothel owner sure as hell wouldn’t.
And he also should’ve known that he’d never be rid of Hannibal Hank and his ilk, not as long as he had anything to do with his father’s business dealings. Well, that was all about to change. When he sold his first herd, he’d have enough money to turn the brothel over to the ladies, lock, stock, and barrel. They’d have the building and the furnishings free and clear, and money in the bank. So what if they blew it all? A man could only do so much.
And what in the Sam Hill would a rancher want with a suffragist, anyway?
He heard galloping hoofbeats coming fast from behind. He turned to see eight or ten heavily armed men with lassos, and they looked like they were out to get someone—him! He kicked Buster into a dead run, turning off the road and around a small hill, a shortcut back to Dickshooter.
It didn’t take Buster long, belly to the grass and hell-bent for leather, to get there, kicking up a layer of dust on Gus, who sat in front of the Comfort Palace. “Gus, get Midas and Titus, and tell them to come armed. Pronto!” Reese yelled as he swung off the horse.
But by then he knew the twins couldn’t help. Surrounded by men and horses milling around him, the cowboys rendered him useless when someone lassoed him and clamped his arms to his sides. Another man grabbed his guns. His head reeled when a third man struck him on the back of his head. His legs failed him and he dropped to his knees.
“Get ‘im on his horse,” ordered a man behind him.
The ground shook as the horses stomped around him. He swallowed, trying to control the nausea from the knock on his head. Leather creaked ominously as the cowboys jockeyed for position. Finally, he could speak. “What the hell’s...going on?”
“We’re gonna do what needs doing to a no-good-fer-nothin’ cattle thief,” someone answered.
“Yeah, yer gonna hang by yer dirty whoremongering neck until yer dead!” yelled another.
Amidst the cheers, he looked toward the brothel to see one of the twins looking through the window. Damn lot of good that did him. Of course, the twins were outnumbered four or five to one. They’d have to reduce the odds before they could attempt a rescue. And these vigilantes looked poised for violence. They wouldn’t stop until they had their necktie party.
A cowboy bound Reese’s hands and flung him back into Buster’s saddle, tying his boots to the stirrups. The ringleader, a man Reese recognized as Chet Johnson who owned a ranch about fifteen miles from Dickshooter, grabbed Buster’s reins and led him at a trot back down the road they just came from. The only thing out there was Reese’s ranch up on Baldwin Creek, and some sturdy trees.
It was those danged trees that worried him.
He flexed his neck.
* * * * *
“What do you mean, ‘They’ve got him?’” Lucinda demanded. Vigilantes had already taken one person she’d loved—her mother. They were not going to get another one.
She absolutely did not, and could not, believe that he was guilty. He’d bought color-coded dresses for a bunch of fallen women with money he could have kept for himself, just because he wanted them to have nice clothes. He’d spent hundreds of dollars protecting those same women when most brothel owners didn’t care. In fact whoremongers liked to have turn-over in their stables. But most of all, how could a man who stirred her soul, whose kisses caused her insides to melt, whose lovemaking she’d remember until the moment of her last breath, be guilty of stealing cattle?
“A dozen men surrounded him and tied him up,” Gus reported. “I heard one of them say they were gonna hang him for the rustler he was.”
“Don’t say ‘was.’ And he’s not a rustler.” Lucinda glared at the women locked in place. Were they so shocked they couldn’t do anything? “Get your guns, everyone! We’re going to rescue him.”
Midas grabbed her arm. “Just how do you think you’re gonna do that, little lady? You have no plan, and I bet you don’t even know how to shoot, let alone rescue a man who’s captured by a dozen other men bent on killing him. Are you going to beat them to death with your bonnet?”
Lucinda glared at him. “I am not your little lady. And I do have a plan. It’s called ‘doing.’ I’m doing while you’re talking. And I have a derringer.”
“I’ll ride the horse,” said Gus.
“No,” contradicted Titus, “you drive the wagon with the ladies. Midas and I’ll ride out and plink a few of them so we can get it down to three on one.”
“The ladies gotta stay here,” Midas countered. “Reese’d kill us if any of them got hurt.”
“Get your derringers, girls!” Fannie called.
“Enough!” Lucinda had about all of the madness she could tolerate. Gus and Titus didn’t agree with Midas—in fact none of them agreed at all. Meantime, those vigilantes were going to murder Reese! Grabbing the scattergun from behind the bar, she dashed out the door.
She propped the gun beside the barn door and tied the brothel’s only saddlehorse to the hitching post, then grabbed a saddle. Lordy, it’s heavy! Saddles didn�
��t look so blessed heavy when horses carried them. She heaved it as high as she could, but it landed half way up, hit the horse in the ribs, and he shied.
The saddle landed on the ground, along with her bonnet. She grabbed her hat, shook the straw off and firmly reaffixed it with the hatpin. Determined to get on Reese’s trail as soon as possible, she threw the saddle up again, but this time the horse danced away before the saddle was all the way up. Piffle!
“Hold still, you . . . you flea-bitten nag!”
Three more times, she hefted the saddle with all her might, to no avail.
Now she didn’t know if she was madder at the horse or at the vigilantes. She could kill them all. Her heart nearly thumped out of her chest and her palms were damp with sweat. She led the horse back into his stall.
She entered the mule’s stall and snapped the lead rope onto his halter. “Come on, boy,” she coaxed as she tugged. He didn’t move a muscle. Lucinda pulled harder, but he seemed mighty happy right there in his stall.
“Sorry, mule, but you have to work today.” Luckily, the mule saddle weighed a lot less than the horse saddle and she had him ready to ride in a couple of minutes. She stuffed the scattergun into the scabbard.
Not being a horsewoman, Lucinda’s heart thumped just a little bit harder at the thought of getting on this wicked beast. She couldn’t leave Reese to the mercy of lawlessness, though. They wanted to kill him! With renewed determination, she put her left foot in the stirrup, but her dress tangled around her legs so she couldn’t swing her right leg over the mule’s back. Hrmph! Quickly, she glanced toward the door to see if anyone was looking, then she gathered her skirts up to her waist and hopped onto the infernal creature.
Mounted at last, she took up the reins, gave the mule a kick . . . but he didn’t move a muscle. After several more swift kicks, he ambled out the barn door, pausing to look longingly at his feed bin, then reluctantly walking down the road where they’d taken Reese.
“Come on, you mangy beast!” She kicked and lunged in the saddle, as if that would make him move. Ha!
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