Much Ado About Madams

218 Pages·2012·1 MB·English

by  Rogers Jacquie

Much Ado About Madams
by
Jacquie Rogers

Praise for Much Ado About Madams:
A story this good can only come from the imagination of Jacquie Rogers
~ Detra Fitch, Huntress Reviews
A rollicking riot of a good read!
~Ann Charles, author of Nearly Departed in Deadwood

A romantic trip to the Old West stamped with Jacquie Rogers' special brand
of humor
~ Caroline Clemmons, author of Brazos Bride
Much Ado About Madams
Prologue

Dickshooter, Owyhee County, Idaho Territory
June, 1882

Dere Miss Sharpe,
The skool bord of Dickshooter, Idaho, dooly invits you . . .

Fannie clenched the pen with a death grip and pursed her lips as she drew her
letters. The five scantily clad women standing around her watching every mark
she made, didn’t help matters a bit.
“Fer hell’s sake, woman, quit thinking so hard and write the damn letter,”
grumbled Trinket. But then, Trinket always grumbled about something.
The frustrated madam blew a stray lock of dye-pot red hair out of her eyes.
“You girls don’t have to stand there like chickens ready to pounce on a snake.
You’re making me nervous.”
“You said you knew your letters,” accused Chrissy.
“Leave me alone. I went all the way to third grade, and I writ the ad fer the
newspaper, didn’t I?”
“Yeah, but the newspaper man probably fixed it up some.”
“Can I make the letters on the envelope?” whispered Holly, who’d nearly
been strangled by a no-good drifter the week before. She still couldn’t talk right.
The bouncer had run the worm out at gunpoint and told him never to come back.
Fannie had taken a liking to Holly, a young girl who, even though she served
drinks in a whorehouse, was ignorant about the ways of the world—a lot like
Fannie had been when her old man threw her out of his house so many years
ago.
Fannie tapped the spare piece of precious paper lying on the desk. “You can
practice on this once I’ve finished here.” That is, if she didn’t mess up this paper,
she thought, and she probably would if she didn’t get some peace and quiet.
“This ain’t gonna work, anyway,” Trinket walked across the room, swaying
her hips seductively out of years of habit. “What decent schoolmarm would
teach a bunch of whores their letters? And how do you know she’ll marry
Reese? Hell, he owns a whorehouse!”
Fannie couldn’t imagine a woman who wouldn’t want him. “Reese is a fine,
upstanding man, and handsome as sin. She won’t be able to resist, and she’ll
force him to close up shop so we can be on our way to new lives.”
“What if she’s some pinch-nosed Bible-thumper?” argued Trinket.
“If she’s ugly, Reese might not want her, but even if she tries to save our
souls, at least we’ll all learn reading and writing to help get ourselves a
respectable living. We can’t lose.”
Felicia sniffed. “Ha! We’re already losers, or we wouldn’t be stuck in this
hellhole.” She’d whored in the best brothels in New Orleans until a crazy man
had cut her face up.
Fannie tried to sympathize, but damn, why’d Felicia have to be so uppity?
Fannie ignored her remark, like she always did. She’d have thrown Felicia out
on her nose a long time ago, but knew no place else would take her.
“Once the mines up in Silver City bring in more customers, no decent
businessman would shut this place down,” Felicia added.
Fannie thunked the pen down on the desk, ink splattering clear to the wall.
She had to get these women out of the office or she’d never get this letter
written. They had a plan, and it was up to her to make it work, but she sure as
hell couldn’t do it with all these women pecking at her like a bunch of vultures.
“Fer gawd’s sake, Petunia, take a bath! You stink like a bucket of last week’s
slop.”
“Aw, Fannie, I just had a bath last Sunday.”
“Like I said, last week’s slop. Now, go!” Petunia left the office, mumbling all
the way out the door.
Fannie turned to Felicia. “Go get your room ready before the gents come a
calling. It always looks like a pigsty. I want the sheets changed and your butter
dish cleaned.”
“Humph! Sadie should do that.”
“Honey, you’re not in some fancy New Orleans whorehouse any more. You
have to do fer yourself.”
Two gone, three to go. “Chrissy, help Sadie with dinner.”
Chrissy jammed one hand on her hip and patted her tousled auburn hair with
the other. “I ain’t no cook.”
“You are today.”
“It ain’t my turn. Besides, it’ll roughen my hands.”
“Your hands have been through worse.” Fannie waved toward the door. “Go
on, now.”
She pulled a bottle of black dye from her desk drawer. “Trinket, your blonde
roots are showing something fierce. Take care of it.”
“But the men will be coming in a few hours, and my hair won’t be dry.”
“Go stand in the sun. If you ever went outside, you’d know the sun’s shining
today.” She handed Trinket the bottle. “If any of your callers come early, I’ll
hold ‘em off for an hour.”
Holly whispered, “Do you want to get rid of me, too?”
Fannie didn’t, but the other girls would throw a fit if she let Holly stay. “Do
some mending or something. Come back here in half an hour and I’ll let you
make some letters.”
“Yes, ma’am.” She paused at the door. “Will I be serving drinks tonight?”
“It’s time. You’ve had a week off.” Fannie didn’t have the heart to make
Holly take gents to her bed. The other girls grew more resentful all the time, but
she doubted that Holly had ever had a man—and once she did, there was no
going back.
The last of the girls finally gone, Fannie finished the letter.
Dere Miss Sharpe,
The skool bord of Dikshooter, Idaho Terr., dooly invits you as to be our noo
skoolmarm, startin Septimbr 1, 1882.
Respekfuly,
Mr. Reese McAdams
Chapter 1

August, 1882, Owyhee County

“Four miles to Dickshooter!”
The stage driver’s words were among the sweetest Lucinda Sharpe had ever
heard. She composed her face with her best Miss-Hattie’s-School-for-the-
Refinement-of-Young-Ladies nonchalant smile, and defied the nervous energy
that tempted her to hop up and down and shout her good fortune to the world.
Even without the nuisance of her twitching insides, she wanted this trip to be
over. Her fellow passenger chewed tobacco and smelled worse than a well-used
lard-rendering pot. Besides, this long, arduous journey had taken its toll on her
backside. She wondered if she’d ever be able to stand up straight again.
She dug into her bag, searching for a small mirror. She dabbed at her face
and tucked stray hairs into her bun. The citizens of Dickshooter would have no
cause to regret their decision to hire her if she could help it.
Lucinda didn’t know who’d be meeting her. Maybe there’d be a dozen cute
little children in their Sunday best, holding the hands of their proud parents. The
school board superintendent would undoubtedly be there, and maybe the mayor.
They might want her to give a speech. That wouldn’t be a problem, though,
because she’d been rehearsing for several weeks now. A brass band marching
down the main street in her honor might greet her so she’d prepared a thank-you
note for the bandleader. Just in case.
She’d come a long way in ten years, from the small, neglected daughter of a
soiled dove all the way to the respectable schoolteacher that the diploma from
Miss Hattie’s School for the Refinement of Young Ladies declared her. If only
her mother could see her now!
Even though she looked forward to meeting the children, she hoped the
celebration of her arrival would be brief because what she needed most was a hot
bath and a real bed.
“You headed to Dickshooter?” The portly, smelly man sounded skeptical. His
question caught her by surprise. He hadn’t said a word in two days.
“Yes.”
“Same here.” He diverted his attention to the passing brush. Obviously, he’d
pushed the boundaries of his conversational ability.
Lucinda opened her bag to replace the mirror. A well-worn envelope
beckoned her—just one more read. A thrill raced across her heart and a smile
crept to her lips as she opened it, even though she’d read the letter a hundred
times. This letter represented her one chance for freedom. And freedom meant
life.
One more time, she read the letter inviting her to teach school, then tucked it
back into its envelope and placed it in the bag.
“Entering Dickshooter!” the driver hollered.
Butterflies made swan dives in her stomach as Lucinda looked out the
window. All she saw was sagebrush, mountains, wildflowers, and a few junipers.
There had to be some kind of mistake!
“You hafta look out this here winder, ma’am,” the man explained, pointing to
the opposite side.
The stage lurched to a stop and almost pitched her into the stinky man’s lap.
Determined to make a proper entrance as the new schoolmarm, she stiffened her
spine, straightened her hat, and once again donned her finishing-school smile.
The driver opened the stagecoach door and her fellow passenger jumped out,
showing no deference for a lady. No matter, she didn’t believe in that false
propriety, anyway. A lady should earn her keep, same as a man. She’d discussed
this topic at length with Miss Hattie at the suffragist meetings in St. Joseph.
This journey was the first opportunity she’d had to put her ideals into
practice. Women could equal men in every way if they only put their minds to it,
and Lucinda had heard of several women in the West who’d succeeded in a
man’s world. She’d be one of them.
Ignoring the stagecoach driver’s helping hand, she gathered her skirts,
careful not to show even the slightest turn of the ankle, and stepped into the
dusty Idaho street.
If you could call it a street.
Dust billowed around her skirts, then the wind whipped the dirt away as it
tugged fiercely on her skirt and hat. She didn’t know whether to hang on to her
hat or keep her skirt from flying up into her face. She dropped her bag and
slapped her skirts with one hand while holding her hat with the other.
Instead of children, their proud parents, the mayor, and the town band, the
only person she saw was a brassy-haired woman, worn around the edges. Maybe
the townspeople didn’t know what stage she’d be on.
“Are you Miss Sharpe?” The wind nearly blew the woman’s words away.
“Yes, ma’am, I’m the new schoolteacher.”
“I’m Fannie. You’ll be staying with me.” She waved to a man leaning on the
porch in front of the saloon. “Gus, get your . . . get over here and carry Miss
Sharpe’s bags.” She glared at the stagedriver. “Logan, you, too—if you know
what’s good fer you.”
Lucinda struggled to keep her skirt down. Still, she marveled at the flurry of
activity this woman instigated. “Is your place far from here?”
“Nope.” Fannie watched Gus tug Lucinda’s trunk from the top of the
stagecoach. “Her room’s upstairs, last one on the right. And don’t break
nothing.”
“Jesus, woman! What’s in this thing,” Gus grunted.
“Books and supplies for the children—and please don’t curse.”
Gus and Fannie both cast her sidelong glances. Filled with self-doubt, it
occurred to Lucinda that perhaps teachers didn’t bring their own supplies.
“Logan, gimme a hand here. This son-of-a . . . trunk must be a hunderd-
weight.”
Fannie patted Lucinda’s arm. “Honey, you must be dying for a decent meal
and a hot bath, and I got both.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Fannie escorted Lucinda at an unladylike pace past the saloon to the only
other building in town—a two-story plank building. The red sign on the front
read “Comfort Palace,” to match the garish red and blue shutters adorning the
facade. Underneath the sign was a notice, No Soljers Alowd.
Lucinda grew increasingly uneasy. She hadn’t seen a single child, and
certainly no school building. What kind of town could survive on a saloon and a
hotel? Maybe the school was out of town—if Dickshooter could be called a
town.
She followed Fannie into the Comfort Palace. Several ladies in decent
dresses but unladylike postures gathered around Lucinda. She glanced around
the large parlor, but averted her gaze when she saw pictures of half-clad women,
red velvet couches, an upright piano, and a bar.
Her heart sank. Lucinda knew she’d entered a house of ill-repute. Smells
she’d forgotten long ago came back to her. Cheap perfume, liquor, men. She
fought the undignified urge to run.
“This—this isn’t a hotel!”
The blonde woman dressed completely in pink stepped forward. “No,
ma’am, it’s a whor—”
“Hush!” shouted a chorus of voices. The chastised woman clapped her hand
over her mouth.
Lucinda gasped and clenched her hands to her heart. I won’t stay here! Well,
she wouldn’t stay, but she’d deal with Fannie in private. Respectable ladies don’t
air their grievances in public.
Fannie called the women’s attention again. “This here’s our new
schoolmarm, Miss Lucinda Sharpe. Now line up, girls.”
The ladies shuffled into a row.
She pointed to the first one, who had coal black hair and blonde eyebrows.
“This here’s Trinket.”
Trinket made a clumsy curtsy. “How do, ma’am.”
Lucinda, barely able to speak but determined to exhibit exemplary manners
nonetheless, nodded and managed to reply, “Very well, thank you. And you?”
Trinket looked puzzled, seeming to search Fannie’s face for an answer.
“Very well, thank you.” Fannie smiled, then Trinket smiled wider. “I did good,
didn’t I, Fannie?”
The ladies giggled. Fannie hushed them with a wave of her hand. “The next
one’s Felicia.”
Lucinda cringed inwardly at Felicia’s scowling smile. “I’m very pleased to
meet you.”
“Likewise.”
The woman who’d previously spoken stepped forward. She wore pink.
Everywhere. Fannie pointed to her. “You’ve already spoken with Petunia.”
“Yes. Hello, Petunia.”
She waved broadly and grinned. “Howdy, ma’am. Welcome.”
“And the next one’s Chrissy.”
Chrissy cast her a suspicious gaze and nodded.
“How do you do, Chrissy.”
Fannie put her arm around the last lady’s shoulders—actually she was a girl,
not more than fifteen. “This here’s Holly.”
“Hello, Miss Sharpe,” Holly whispered.
Fannie motioned up the stairs. “Your room’s up here.”
Lucinda refused to stay in a brothel. She stood motionless, weighing her
options.
“What’s wrong—your feet nailed to the floor?”