Much Ado About Madams

by Jacquie Rogers

  She offered her hand and he grasped it with both of his. “I saw the blood on the back of your head and I thought I’d shot you.”

  He chuckled. “Naw, you shot the whole damn...uh, pardon me...tree limb off. A splinter of wood grazed my scalp, and scalp wounds bleed like…bleed a lot. That’s why you saw all that red stuff. You did, however, smack my head with that hard noggin of yours when you fell, and we both ended up with hefty lumps on our skulls. Knocked us both out, although I was only out for a few seconds.”

  “Who were those bad men? They weren’t Hannibal Hank’s bunch.”

  “No, they’re a bunch of ranch hands Hank got all stirred up. They think I’ve been rustling their cattle.” He shrugged. “It’s been Hank all along. Tucker’s known about it two months, but hasn’t been able to catch him at it, yet.”

  He rubbed her hand with his thumb and tingles coursed up her arm and down to her thighs. She doubted he had any idea what affect he had on her.

  * * * * *

  Reese couldn’t help touching Lucinda, even if only her hand. Her eyes were wide with wonder, and her lips looked sweet as a sugar lump. He sure did want to kiss her, but he’d already ruined a respectable woman, and he didn’t want to add to his sins. Only one thing could make it right.

  He cleared his throat and looked her in the eye. “I’m asking again—will you marry me?”

  She went stone still, then blinked a couple of times. “What?”

  It wasn’t a question of whether she’d heard—he knew she had—it was a question of a man like him in a shameful business marrying a decent woman like her. But he’d thought about it a lot—constantly. It damn near drove him crazy thinking about her in the hotel room. He hadn’t had a good night’s sleep since, for all the torment his dreams had given him.

  It was his duty to get her to marry him, and he aimed to do so. Besides, he couldn’t imagine spending his life without her.

  “I said, ‘Will you marry me?’ I want—would like you to marry me.” He continued brushing the back of her hand with his thumb, even though it caused him grief.

  Chirping sparrows accentuated her silence. He cursed his father, his background, and the Comfort Palace, then made another try at it. “I’ll have a cabin built on my ranch by May or June. We’ve already built a bunkhouse, and corrals are next on the list. I figure if we have a June wedding, we can move right into the house, so you might as well be thinking about how you want to decorate it with all your female frilly stuff.”

  She still hadn’t said a word, just stared at him with those beautiful green eyes. His heart sank. She was going to turn him down.

  “I would like to, but I can’t.”

  “Can’t? Are you already married?” Surely not, considering her age, but he couldn’t think of any other reason for her to turn him down, unless she didn’t care for him the way he...loved her. Yes, love. He had to convince her.

  “No, but there’s something you need to know. I’m not who you think I am.”

  “You’re a beautiful, smart woman who knows her own mind. That’s all I need to know.”

  “No, it’s not. And thank you for the compliment.”

  “So what’s holding you back? I already told you the Comfort Palace is as good as sold—I never wanted it anyway.”

  “Reese, my mother was a lady of the evening in St. Joseph. I was raised in a brothel. A brothel, just like the Comfort Palace, even with the same owner.”

  “Same owner? My father?”

  Lucinda was quiet for so long, he thought she’d dozed off. “Yes, your father.”

  “I’m not like him.”

  “Not at all. You must have had a wonderful mother. But that’s not why I can’t marry you. Reese, you will hate me when I tell you this.”

  “Nothing could make me hate you. I—” he swallowed a lump in his throat. “I love you. I do. And I hope you love me, too.”

  “Listen to me, please. My mother was lynched.”

  He was horrified to hear it, horrified that Lucinda, who couldn’t have been more than eight or ten years old, had to live through such a thing. “I’m sorry.”

  “She was lynched for murdering Fast Hands Stuart. Your father.” A tear rolled down her cheek. “And that’s why we can never be married. You’ll always know and wonder. Did she murder him?” Lucinda shook her head. “I don’t know, but I do know she had good reason to.”

  Reese wanted to hug her but he couldn’t because of the open wounds in her back, so he held her hand and patted it. “A man who did to women what that man did—and to my mother, too—didn’t deserve any better.”

  She licked her lips, the ones he had so much trouble to keep from kissing. “If you can put it out of your mind, and if you do right by the ladies here, I’ll marry you.”

  “Good.” Restraining the urge to grab her in his arms and dance around the room, he stood and said, “You better get some rest. I’ll be back to check on you in an hour.” He bent down and brushed a kiss on her cheek. “I’ll do my level best to make you happy.”

  * * * * *

  Rest, ha! Lucinda couldn’t believe that Reese had proposed. Or that she had accepted. She wanted to tell someone—everyone, actually—but at least no one could see the silly grin pasted on her face. Definitely unladylike. Her body was as impatient as her mind, and holding still proved difficult, although the pain of movement let her know why she needed to remain stationary.

  Fidgety as she was, she felt a little numb, too. Whoever heard of a suffragist marrying a brothel owner? But he didn’t fit the mold. He’d never forced the women to do anything, including stay at the Comfort Palace. Why, he’d even asked her to educate them.

  Did he propose out of guilt? Did he really love her? If not, he’d grow to love her over time.

  Lucinda heard several people clambering up the stairs and lots of giggling. Her musing cut short, she prepared for the onslaught of questions.

  The door burst open. Apparently, no one had ever heard of knocking.

  “Why, Miss Sharpe, you done caught the second finest man in Idaho Territory,” exclaimed Fannie.

  Lucinda laughed. “And just what man is the finest?”

  “Why, Lord Blackstone, of course.”

  Lord Blackstone? She’d never heard of him. “Who’s that?”

  “Well, I don’t know if they’d actually call him a lord or not, but it’s my Gus.”

  Chrissy stepped forward. “Fannie’s been plumb twitterpated ever since she found out that Gus has some high-falutin’ title, as if it’s worth a hill of beans out here. And anyway, your Gus would’ve been shot full of holes if my Midas hadn’t been covering for him.”

  The ladies all crowded around Lucinda and related the progression of events concerning Reese’s rescue—all babbling at the same time. She had a hard time piecing things together, and finally gave up when they started arguing about who had been most heroic. Holly stood adamant that Titus deserved the title, but neither Fannie nor Chrissy had a doubt that Gus and Midas played the true hero.

  A barrage of rifle fire rang out. Bullets shattered the windows and one lodged itself in the opposite wall a few inches from Fannie’s head.

  “Get down!” she ordered.

  The ladies fell to the floor. Lucinda rolled off the bed, too. Pain burned her behind and jolted her aching head as she hit the hard planks and rolled under the bed.

  * * * * *

  “Hold your fire!” Hannibal Hank crouched behind the water trough and scrutinized the damage. With great satisfaction, he noted that they’d broken every damned window in the place in one salvo.

  So far, so good. With a little luck, he could rescue his niece, put her on the stage to St. Jo, and marry Fannie by the end of the day. The other women would have to take care of themselves, or his men could take them, he really didn’t care.

  Meantime, Fast Hands Stuart’s son would die in his own house of sin. Hank smiled. Turning Reese McAdams over to the devil certainly ought to go a ways in getting his own black marks wiped
off the slate.

  A shot pierced the trough with a boom. Hank lurched back, surprised they’d finally responded, but water squirted through the hole in the trough, soaked his pantleg and ran down his boot. Damn, damn, double damn! Now he’d have to get married in dirty britches.

  One of McAdams’s men ducked behind the front windowsill. Hank took aim, and let loose. He’d kill the son-of-a-bitch who spoiled his wedding day!

  Not about to squat in a puddle of water, he hurriedly searched for other places to take cover. He spied a pile of sacked grain about twenty yards to his left. The vantage point wouldn’t be as good, but at least it was dry. He mashed his hat tight over his ears and leapt for the grain sacks.

  No one shot at him, so they probably hadn’t seen him. Now directly in front of the Comfort Palace, he sought eye contact with the man he’d posted on the left front. He had two men on either side of the backdoor, too. They’d damned well better have stayed where he put them.

  He wished they’d shoot more. He’d brought enough ammo to last at least an hour of heavy fire, and he doubted McAdams kept that much in the whorehouse. But then, maybe McAdams and the others weren’t even there. If so, he’d have to kill the bastard another day. Still he could get done two of the three things he’d come for.

  His muscles tensed and his patience fled. He held up his rifle to signal his man to charge, who, in turn, signaled the man in the back. Hank started counting to sixty. After sixty seconds passed, they’d go in to get his woman and his niece.

  Chapter 17

  The gunfire had ceased. On full alert, Reese cut four hunks of rope about six feet long while he listened to Midas.

  “There’s still two men on either side of the back door, about fifty feet from the building. One’s behind a sagebrush and the other’s behind a rock.” Midas pointed to the front door. “Hank’s directly out front. He was hiding behind the trough, but I moved him over. He’s behind the grain pile now. There’s another man pasted up against the right side of the barn.”

  Reese rubbed his chin while his mind raced through several tactics. He didn’t want to kill these men—he wanted to bring them to justice. But he’d rather kill every one of them for touching Lucinda. And he would, if they harmed one hair on her head, or touched any one of the ladies at the Comfort Palace.

  “I’ll have to try to get out my bedroom door, but pulling those nails will make noise.” He wasn’t sure if it had been a blessing or a curse that Gus had never put the latch on. Still nailed shut, the door hadn’t been noticed by a single soul that he knew of. If Hank had it covered, Reese didn’t have a chance of a chipmunk in a coyote’s den of getting outside.

  Gus handed him a claw hammer. “There’s four nails—one on top and three on the latch side. The door swings in.”

  “Thanks.” Reese took the hammer and weighed it for balance. He didn’t have any time to spare. “All you men pick a window and start blasting when I give the order. Keep up the noise for at least a minute if you can. I hope that’ll give me time to pull the nails and get outside. They shouldn’t notice me, now that Hank’s moved away from that side of the house, but the man in back might. Keep him busy.”

  “Yes, sir!” Midas cocked his rifle, grabbed some extra ammo, and made for one of the kitchen windows.

  Gus rummaged around in the bottom of his tool chest and pulled out a pair of the fanciest Colt revolvers Reese had ever seen, pearl handles and all, then took his position at the other kitchen window. Titus crouched by the front door.

  “You can’t leave us out of this!”

  Reese jerked around to see a very irate schoolmarm with a scowl on her face and spring to her determined stride headed his direction, followed by all the rest of the women. That’s all he needed—six whores, a cook, and a suffragist in the way. “Get down and stay down. I don’t want you getting shot.”

  Fannie yanked the caps and balls from Gus’s pouch. “I’m reloading. You’re shooting.”

  Lucinda marched over to Midas and stood in front of the window. “I will be reloading, and you will be shooting.”

  Reese’s heart flip-flopped. He dove toward her and slammed her into the floor. “I said stay down! And for God’s sake, don’t stand in front of a window!”

  “Ow!” She wiggled out from under him and dabbed at her mussed hair. “You could have just said so.” Crawling over to Midas, she picked up his spare revolver by the barrel. “How do I reload this thing?”

  “Them’s is the key words, miss. I reload it. Now scram!” he ordered, snatching the gun from her.

  She grabbed it back. “If I leave, I’ll take your supplies with me, so you’d better show me how.”

  “Show her,” Reese said, shaking his head. “And stay down!”

  He hurried into his room and jammed the claw hammer under the head of the top nail. “Ready?”

  “Ready!” the three men called.

  “Fire!”

  All hell broke loose. Reese wrenched the nails out, one after the other, then stuck the claw into the crack on the latch side and tugged with all his strength. To his relief, the door popped right open.

  He hit the floor and took a quick look outside. Seeing no bullets whizzing by, he silently thanked his men for doing exactly what needed to be done. He grabbed his Sharps and burst from the door, rolling to a rock about ten feet away. Sitting on his haunches, he took stock again.

  He couldn’t see Hank, but he spotted the man behind the sagebrush, well occupied by Gus and Midas. They wouldn’t kill him, but Reese couldn’t subdue him amidst a hail of bullets. He aimed his Colt at the man’s shooting arm and squeezed the trigger.

  Bulls-eye! The scoundrel’s pistol flew and he crumbled to the ground holding his shoulder.

  Reese knew he had to subdue him right away—a wounded man was the most dangerous animal in the world. He only hoped Gus and Midas would see him as he ran, that the fellow behind the rock wouldn’t, and focus their attentions on the other gunman. Without cover, he sprinted to the fallen attacker and punched him in the jaw, then disarmed him of another pistol, a rifle, and two Bowie knives—one strapped to his chest and another in his boot. Reese whipped out a piece of rope and hogtied the slimy bastard, one lesson he was glad he’d learned well when he’d been a greenhorn cowhand.

  The other man jumped up from behind the rock into the hail of bullets from the house, and took a shot right in the heart. Reese signaled for Midas and Gus to go to the front of the house and start firing.

  The twins each had a rifle and a pistol. Gus had two pistols. Reese heard the volley begin. No man could hold up long, he thought. But then, Hannibal Hank Turrell was more demon than man. Reese ran around the back of the house and flattened himself against the side. The last of Hank’s henchmen stood in plain sight by the barn.

  Reese took aim, but lowered his rifle when he realized Buster was stabled just the other side of the wall. The .54 caliber bullet would go right though the man and the barn wall. Desperately, he searched for another way to take out the gunman. He ran to the outhouse and threw himself to the ground.

  Gunfire stopped, and Reese’s skin crawled. Maybe his men had been shot. Maybe they were reloading. Praying for the latter, he positioned himself into a crouch, ready to spring. Seconds passed. The odor of the privy didn’t help his patience a bit. He made a note to tell Sadie to use more lime. Lots more lime.

  He took another peek around the outhouse. Hank’s last man hightailed it to the back of the barn, jumped on his horse, and galloped away. More interested in capturing Hank, Reese decided to let the coward go. Gunfire erupted again.

  While Hank protected himself from flying lead, Reese searched for a place that would put him in the most advantageous position to make the capture. He thought he could make it across the road to the barn if the gunfire held up. He prayed it would, and that he didn’t take a bullet from one of his own men. But then, even a bullet would be better than smelling the outhouse.

  Lead flew everywhere. Reese dashed across the road and stood i
n the same spot by the barn where the last of Hank’s unscrupulous buddies had fought. Luckily, the twins and Gus aimed all their gunfire toward Hank. The grain bags spewed oats from all the holes. One of the twins spotted Reese and waved. Good, they know I’m here.

  He reloaded his Colt. One more glance, and he realized Hank was smack-dab in front of the barn door. Without a second thought, Reese ran to the back and climbed the ladder to the hayloft. As he crept forward, a bullet splintered the floor and whizzed up by his ear. He had to get the men to stop shooting!

  Tying his neckerchief onto the barrel of the Sharps, he climbed onto the pile of hay and inched almost to the front opening, waving the makeshift flag. Gradually, the gunfire ceased.

  Peering out, he saw Hank directly below him, unaware of his presence. Reese laid his rifle down and leapt.

  Hank turned and looked up. He fired.

  The impact on Reese’s side veered him slightly off his target and he fell beside Hank. Fire burned in his ribs, but he reached out and yanked Hank off his feet by his ankles, then rolled on top of him. Hank threw a right that seared Reese’s wound, then tried to kick him in the groin.

  Ready for Hank’s dirty fighting, Reese protected his vital parts, but in so doing, found himself on his back with Hank pummeling the hell out of him. Hank’s knee clamped onto the wound on Reese’s side, and the pain made it hard to gasp any air.

  * * * * *

  “Oh, no! We have to help him,” Lucinda cried. She and the rest of the Comfort Palace ladies had run to the window as soon as the firing had stopped, hoping the good guys had won. Instead, they saw Reese get shot.

  “He’s getting the crap beat right out of him, that’s for sure,” Fannie commented. “But you got to have a little faith, girl. Reese ain’t one to let a man get him down.”

  “He’s down now, in case you haven’t noticed.”

  Hank broke loose from Reese and pulled an absolutely wicked-looking knife. Lucinda felt the blood leave her head. She would not faint. She absolutely would not faint!