Much Ado About Madams (9 page)

She shook out her clothes as best she could, but she knew she’d freeze during the ride back to Dickshooter if she wore them. She’d been cold enough last night to know she never wanted to be that cold again. But then, she’d been warmer than she’d ever been, too.

Piffle. Everyone in town would think she’d been compromised, anyway. She saw a blue shirt sleeve hanging out of Reese’s saddlebag. “Well, you have on a man’s underwear, why not wear his clothes, too?” she muttered. If her reputation was going to be ruined, she might as well be warm. The suffragists would agree, she was sure. Her former guardian would not, nor would respectable ladies.

Not that she cared.

She cared.

His shirt fit her like a tent. The sleeves hung two inches over her hands, and the shirttail hung to her knees. She must look like that midget she’d seen at the circus, she mused. Wishing it wouldn’t smell so much like Reese, she rolled up the sleeves and found a pair of breeches. She rolled up the pantlegs several inches before she bothered to put them on. Still, she knew there was no way they’d stay up. She needed a belt.

“
Ahem, go ahead—rummage through my stuff and wear my clothes. I don’t mind.” Lucinda whirled toward Reese’s voice. He held an armful of firewood as he stared at her and smiled, but it was not a humorous smile.

“
My clothes are still wet, and I wanted to get dressed before you returned, so I . . .”

“
Went snooping in my things?”

“
The shirtsleeve was sticking out of the saddlebag . . .”

He tossed the wood beside the firepit, then crouched and cautiously fed kindling to the barely live embers. Within moments, a small flame flickered and he laid a couple of small twigs next to it. As he fed it, the fire grew, inviting her to share its precious heat. Heavens, she was tired of being cold! He fashioned a tripod out of three forked branches and hung the coffee pot from it.

Lucinda crept closer to the fire. She needed to store up all the heat she could get. It had taken a long time for her to get warm enough to sleep the night before, and the morning breeze was too brisk to go riding without a jacket, which she didn’t have. “I’m sorry I used your clothes.”

Reese shrugged. “It’s probably the smartest thing you’ve done since you got to Idaho Territory.” He went over to his saddle, picked up a rope, and cut a hank off the end. “Here, loop this through the suspender holes and tie it to the button in the front, then wrap it all the way around you before you lose your britches.” He grinned. “Not that that would be a bad thing.”

Why does he always have to taunt me, she wondered. Still, she accepted the rope with dubious gratitude, and did as he instructed.

“
You’ll have to wear your own shoes and bonnet.” He poured a tin cup full of coffee and handed it to her.

“
Thanks.” The tin cup was as hot as the boiling coffee it held and seared her hands. “Ouch!” She jerked and sloshed it, scalding her fingers. She dropped the cup, coffee splashing and fire spitting, and stuck her stinging fingers in her mouth.

“
Are you always this clumsy, or do you save it all for me?” he said as he moved the bucket of cold spring water to her side. “Stick your hand in here for a minute or two, and it won’t blister.”

His sarcastic words did not match the concerned look in his eyes. How could this man upset her sensibilities so, even with her fingers stinging in pain? Well, she wouldn’t allow his rakish ways get to
her
. “Butter is the proper treatment for burns.”

Reese merely nodded. “Do as I say while I look for it. I imagine Sadie packed some with your picnic food.”

She plunged her hand into the water. The coldness took the sting away immediately, and she was loath to remove her hand from the bucket when he returned with the butter and a towel. His searing gaze sent a shiver down her spine.

“
Are you cold?” he asked, with more caring than she wanted to hear. He wrapped the picnic blanket around her shoulders. “Now, give me your hand.”

His words were loaded. They could have meant, “
Give me your heart and soul
,” or “
Let me care for you for the rest of your life.
” Entranced by his caring, almost seductive, demeanor, she hesitated. How could a brothel owner be so kind? Or so enticing?
Don’t be such a fool, you just slept with the man.
Still reluctant, she placed her dripping, cold hand into his dry, warm palm.

Her stomach twittered, probably for want of breakfast, she decided, except she didn’t have even the slightest of hunger pangs. He stroked her fingers with butter. The strange twittering grew stronger and spread downwards. She definitely had to use the privy. No privy.

Her world centered around his gentle touch. The smoke from the crackling fire lost its smell, replaced by bay rum. The bird’s songs became an invitation to heaven. His gaze caught hers and held it.

* * * * *

Reese didn’t know if he could stand much more of this perplexing woman. Her eyes were filled with trust mixed with passion, and he wished she’d look somewhere else. She bore into his soul with that look of hers. He never knew from one moment to the next if she’d be a prude or a seductress, a scared rabbit or an Amazon warrior princess spouting suffragist tripe.

He scooped out another dollop of butter. Gently as he could, he applied it to her scalded skin. Her hands were free of calluses, white and smooth like a real lady’s. Women like her were the reason he’d moved out here—to get away from them. They made themselves all too available, not knowing that his father had been a lying, cheating gambler who ran a string of whorehouses and had used every woman in them all.

He was probably just like his old man. God only knew, he sure wanted to lay this woman out and drive his “snake” in her until she screamed his name. A man with any honor at all wouldn’t even be thinking what he’d thought about her. He wouldn’t end up like the old bastard, though, murdered while abusing a woman forced to earn her own miserable way.

Damn, he wished Miss Sharpe would quit looking at him that way—trusting and wanting. He’d have bet she didn’t even know what she wanted. Nevertheless, Lucinda nor any other woman deserved the likes of him. He’d never do to a good woman what his no-account father had done to his mother—marry her, plant his seed, then abandon her. But he could see how a man could get trapped.

She sucked in a breath and those beautiful green eyes of hers widened. Reese suppressed a groan, frustrated that he couldn’t control his reaction to her any better than a buck in rut.

“
A snake!” she yelled.

Was she stupid or what? Granted, he’d swollen to the size of an oak tree, but they’d already been through this once.

“
It’s not a snake.”

Thrrrrrrrrrr
.

A snake. A rattler.

He froze. He glanced to the other side of the fire where his six-shooter lay useless. “Lucinda,” he said quietly, “don’t move a muscle and tell me exactly where the snake is.”

“
It . . . it’s a couple of yards to your right and a yard to your back.” After her initial stammer, her words tumbled out so fast he could hardly comprehend them.

Thrrrrrrrrrr
. Again, the snake made his threat. Reese’s heart pounded like a blacksmith’s hammer. “Is he coiled?”

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.