Much Ado About Madams

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.”