Much Ado About Madams

by Jacquie Rogers

  He took off his Stetson and brushed the dust from his shoulders before he entered the store, delaying the inevitable, then took a deep breath and went in.

  Bolts of material lined the wall to his left and fashion plates, bonnets, and reticules were jammed willy-nilly on the racks to his right. Some ready-made dresses were pinned up in the window and ladies’ unmentionables were kept in the back. All this he knew from previous visits, but he browsed a while so that the two customers gaping at him might think he was looking at the merchandise instead of making sure none of the old biddies standing around were snickering at him.

  Word had gotten around, and by now the store proprietor, Mrs. Snoodle—an appropriate surname, he thought—knew that he owned a brothel. She worked hard at soaking him for every penny she could, but so far, he’d made sure he secured his money’s worth.

  After the two customers left the shop, the old bat hurried over to him, rubbing her palms together and smiling greedily. “May I help you, Mr. McAdams?”

  He dug his wallet out of his vest and extracted the fabric swatch and the paper with the schoolmarm’s measurements. “I’d like a dress this color,” he said, handing her the swatch.

  She took the fabric and the paper. Reading it, she commented, “Oh, you must have a new girl. She must be lovely. I’ll see to it right away.” She disappeared into the back room.

  Lovely, indeed. Reese had known he shouldn’t have read Miss Sharpe’s most personal of information, but he couldn’t resist. Mathematics didn’t lessen her appeal in the slightest. For about an hour there, he’d had a very uncomfortable ride.

  She was so earnest, too. It appeared to him that she honestly cared for the ladies because she certainly didn’t treat them poorly or talk down to them. That was a good thing, because there wasn’t a human walking on the face of this earth that might not find himself down and out some day. Getting uppity about other people’s misfortunes was a good way to have to eat your words.

  Still, she was a stickler for respect and worked hard at teaching the ladies to respect themselves as well as others. Respect was easy to lose in a whorehouse. Who’d have thought a woman with Miss Sharpe’s measurements could come up with solid values like that?

  After what felt like an hour, but was probably only five minutes or so, Mrs. Snoodle came out loaded to the hilt with fashion plates, material, and a ready-made. “Have a look at these, Mr. McAdams.” She plopped her goods on the counter and held up the dress. “This was made for one of the girls at an establishment here in town, and it’s fairly close to the color of the swatch. I could alter it to fit your girl’s measurements in two hours.”

  As if he’d buy some whore’s cast-offs for Miss Sharpe. Not very goddammed likely. The dress was cut so low, it’d show her belly button. He couldn’t see her in all those frilly-doodle things, either. He didn’t buy that kind of dress for any of his women, let alone a schoolmarm. “Forget that dress. Let me see the plates.”

  Mrs. Snoodle jumped slightly and her eyebrows shot up nearly to her hairline. Maybe he’d spoken a little more abruptly than necessary, but damn, the old busybody deserved it. She didn’t approve of him one bit, but she’d certainly take his money. She picked up a stack of fashion plates and handed them to him.

  He flipped through them, rejecting each one at a moment’s glance. Why did women have to wear such stupid clothes, anyway? He tossed them back on the counter. “What else do you have?”

  She handed him another stack, silly as the first. All of them looked like floozy dresses, and Miss Lucinda Sharpe was no floozy.

  The doorbell jingled and their attention diverted to a lady of consequence entering the store. Dignified and haughty, Reese knew she had to be from a prominent family and loaded with money—more money than he had, because Mrs. Snoodle dropped him like a hot rock and dashed over to see to the lady’s needs.

  “Mrs. Bulworth, how are you today?” she gushed as she curtsied awkwardly. Curtsied, of all things. She reminded him of some coyote pup begging his mother to regurgitate his supper. Mrs. Snoodle apparently had no shame when it came to the almighty buck.

  “Very well, thank you,” Mrs. Bulworth replied. “I’ve come to order my winter wardrobe.” She made eye contact with Reese and smiled politely. “I see you’re waiting on another customer, so I’ll just look around.”

  “But—”

  “I know where to find what I want. Tend to your customer,” she waved Mrs. Snoodle off like she was a pesky horsefly, “the gentleman was here first.”

  Reese watched her pour over the fashion plates, selecting a few with her practiced eye. This woman knew clothes. She also didn’t appear to be a snob, although she probably had every reason to be.

  Mrs. Snoodle watched her, too, then whirled to face him. “Have you decided yet, Mr. McAdams?” she asked with not nearly the patience she’d shown before the arrival of the exalted Mrs. Bulworth.

  As Mrs. Bulworth moved to another stack of fashion plates he’d not yet seen, he approached her, cautiously so he didn’t startle her, and cleared his throat to get her attention. She looked up at him with neither the annoyance nor condescension that he thought he might have to endure. “Ma’am, could you help me pick out a nice dress for a lady?”

  She tilted her head and smiled slightly. “A special lady?”

  He chuckled. “Well, she is that, all right. She’s a schoolmarm, but she needs a fancy dress,” he waved a dismissal at the jagged stack of fashion plates on the counter, “not like those awful things—more like something you’d wear.”

  She nodded her understanding. “Most of Mrs. Snoodle’s business comes from women of questionable reputation, you see, so her selection of proper attire is somewhat limited. If you’re careful picking the patterns, though, and choose elegant fabrics, she can make up some fine gowns.” She smiled again. “Yes, Mr. . . .”

  “McAdams.”

  “Yes, Mr. McAdams, I’d be glad to help.”

  Relieved, he retrieved the swatch of material he’d given Mrs. Snoodle and placed it on the counter. “She needs this color. It’s green.”

  She raised her eyebrows. “I can see that.” She looked at him pointedly. “Oh, I understand! You can’t tell your colors.”

  “I can, too, although the who—, er, ladies don’t think so. Of course, they don’t think a man can buy decent clothes at all.”

  “Well, let’s see what we can do for your special lady.”

  Within a few minutes Mrs. Bulworth had selected material and a pattern worthy of a queen. This woman had fine taste in clothes, all right. He smiled and she smiled back. She probably thought he was smiling about the “exquisite ensemble” as she called it. Really, he smiled because he couldn’t help but feel a little sorry for Mr. Bulworth’s pocketbook.

  She waved her index finger at the shopkeeper. “Mrs. Snoodle, how long will it take you to do up this pattern with this material?”

  Mrs. Snoodle frowned, weighing her answer. Reese knew beyond a doubt that it would take longer to “do up” if the dress were sold to him rather than Mrs. Bulworth, whom she practically groveled over. “A week.”

  A week? He planned to have his business done in Laramie and be back here day after tomorrow. He shook his head. “I’m sorry, ma’am, I’ll just have to buy it elsewhere, then. I’ll be leaving town in two days.”

  Mrs. Bulworth spoke up. “You’ve made dresses for me in two days. I see no reason why you can’t accommodate this fine gentleman.” She pointed to him as if he hadn’t been there the whole damned time. Women. “I won’t be placing my order for a few days yet.”

  Reese didn’t know if she’d told the truth, but he could see Mrs. Snoodle relenting. Obviously she’d do anything to satisfy her most wealthy and fashionable customer.

  Shots rang out. “Get down!” he yelled and shoved them both to the floor. Drawing his Colt as he dropped to the floor himself, he rolled over to the window and peeked out. Three men left the bank with a bag, shooting at anything that moved. “Bank robbers. Stay do
wn!”

  He glanced at the ladies and saw that they’d crawled to the far side of the shop and huddled under the counter. Within seconds, the gunfire lessened and one of the robbers fell from his mount, sprawling on the ground right in front of the dressmaker’s shop with blood spurting out of his thigh.

  Reese heard a few more shots, then saw one of the other robbers riding back. They were both easy targets, but he held up for fear of attracting their attention and drawing gunfire to the shop.

  “Charley, get up!” the second thief yelled, dismounting before his horse had come to a stop. He pulled the wounded man up, threw him belly-first over his saddle. Reese heard the injured man give an “ooomph” as he hit the saddle. The rescuing robber hopped on in back and kicked his horse into a gallop. The wounded man’s horse followed, braving the gunfire to be with his master.

  The dust settled, only to be raised again by a ragged bunch of townsmen chasing after the bandits. When Reese determined all likelihood of gunfire was past, he stood and went over to the ladies to help them up. “The excitement’s over.”

  Mrs. Bulworth’s fancy hat was knocked akimbo but she seemed none the worse for wear. Mrs. Snoodle, however, looked ready to bite the head off a snake.

  “You dirtied two spools of ribbon,” she accused him, shaking the spools in his face.

  Reese, taken back, shook his head in resignation and swore never to buy another stitch in her sorry shop again. “Ma’am,” he replied, “next time I’ll just let you get shot.”

  Mrs. Bulworth stepped in front the old bat. “She’s merely shaken up,” she said, taking the spools. “I’m sure Mrs. Snoodle will have your special lady’s dress done up by the day after tomorrow.”

  Reese was sure of it, too, considering how easily this pillar of society could wrap the shopkeeper around her little finger.

  “By the way,” Mrs. Bulworth added, “stop by my establishment on the way out of town for a drink on the house.”

  “House?”

  “Yes, the Frisky Filly, right down the street. I’m the owner. Whatever you want, you’re sure to get.”

  Reese breathed deep and took a hard look at her. Hell, he didn’t know “respectable” from a mangy dog these days. He jammed on his hat and started to leave. Then, remembering his manners, he muttered, “Thank you, ladies,” as he made his escape.

  He’d never figure out women as long as he lived.

  * * * * *

  “Sadie,” Fannie called. “I’m opening up now.”

  Fannie hung the “open” sign on the door, not able to shake the sense of uneasiness in the air. Reese had been gone three days. She sorely wished he’d be here for tonight.

  “This cattle rustling blather’s sure as shootin’ gonna be bad for business,” Sadie commented.

  “You got that right,” Fannie answered, shaking her head. “I’d bet my bottom dollar that someone’s nose will get bent tonight.” She generally knew when tempers would lead to fist fights, and she was rarely wrong. “Hell, I don’t care if the customers beat the ever-lovin’ hell out of one another, but I hate to see this new furniture get busted up, or holes shot in the ceiling. Of course, the boiler plate Reese put in the ceiling will make sure no one upstairs gets shot in the butt.”

  “I’m staying in the kitchen then, ‘cause you’re generally right about those things.”

  Fannie chuckled. She knew the real reason Sadie planned to stay in the kitchen was because Reese’s foreman, Charley, had limped in an hour before. She’d flitted around him and generally made a pest of herself until he’d finally growled that the new bull Reese bought with the last herd had stuck him in the leg. “And stop fussin’, woman!”

  Not the kind to let a little thing like a man’s surliness get to her, Sadie had sat him down and plopped a couple of plates heaped with hot beef and potatoes in front of him. She thought food would cure anything. He hadn’t said two words after that, but Sadie had been downright chatty while he chowed down. Occasionally he had grunted or nodded, mainly to let her know he was listening, Fannie supposed.

  She wanted to know more about Charley before Sadie got any more smitten. Fannie had heard talk that he’d been arrested for rustling down in Colorado Territory, but she didn’t know if there was any way to find out for sure. She sure didn’t want Sadie to get all twitterpated over some thieving scoundrel, and it didn’t look too good for Charley.

  But she couldn’t do anything about him now. She could make sure her girls and the furniture were safe, though.

  “Holly, put out the mugs and cards.” She looked around the vacant parlor. “Where the hell’s that damned Gus?”

  “Right here, sugar,” Gus replied, seeming to pop up from nowhere. She ought to put a bell on that man.

  “We need another barrel of whiskey. This one’s about done for.”

  Gus sent her a mock salute and went to fetch it. Fannie sighed. She’d like nothing better than to have the old coot propose to her, but even an old broken-up carpenter would never take a whore for his wife. Naturally, if he did ask, she’d turn him down for the same reason, but it’d sure be nice if he’d ask so she could say no just once.

  “Get in here, girls, and line up. It’s time to go to work!”

  “I want you to watch extry careful tonight,” Fannie told one of the twins. Hell, she never knew which was which. “Nip trouble in the bud.” She took another turn about the parlor to make sure it was set to rights for business. “Tell your brother.”

  “You got one of them feelings again?”

  “Yup. I don’t like it,” she said, inspecting the bar and finding a glob of unknown origin that had escaped the cleaning rag. “I don’t like it at all.”

  * * * * *

  “Well, Buster, you sure earned your oats on this trip.” Reese patted the stallion on the neck as he rode toward Dickshooter. He pulled his hat brim over his eyes to ward off the shards of sun piercing over the western horizon. “We’ll be there within the hour.”

  He adjusted the packages tied to the back of the saddle. “Sorry, boy, square boxes just don’t fit on a horse’s round butt.”

  Buster nickered in agreement. At least, that’s how Reese took it. Who knew what the opinionated horse really thought.

  Mrs. Snoodle had Miss Sharpe’s dress made up and ready by the time he’d made it to her store this morning. At the last minute, he decided to get one of those silly bonnets the women were so fond of, and a parasol, too. Naturally, Mrs. Snoodle acted wholly disgusted with him, suggesting other choices. Heck, those hats were just as ugly, so he’d bought the one he’d picked out to start with.

  “So much for that snooty old heifer—right, Buster?”

  Buster nickered again. That was the great thing about horses. You could talk to them and they’d always agree. Of course, they could get contrary on a man, but generally over whether or not they wanted to go where they were told. No, when it came to important thinking, the only one you could really count on was your horse.

  “That dress is a doozy. Miss Sharpe ought to be plenty happy with it, especially when she sees the bonnet and parasol.”

  Buster didn’t nicker. Stupid horse.

  Reese could hardly wait to see her in her new dress. Even better, without it, but he doubted there was much likelihood of that. What a frustrating woman! Sexy as hell, but a righteous prude the likes of which he’d never known before. Any other woman who acted like that would be considered a tease, but he doubted if she even knew how. She didn’t do a thing to enhance her womanly qualities. She didn’t wear paint or low-cut dresses and a couple of her dresses were downright dowdy. She didn’t flirt, either.

  But a man couldn’t help but notice that woman. He smiled and shook his head. Dangerous, though. You had to guard your parts around her, for sure.

  Buster nickered.

  Now the damned horse was reading his thoughts.

  * * * * *

  Lucinda sat in her room alone, elbow on the desk and chin resting on her fist, listening to the disgusting
moans and grunts emanating from the other rooms. Every night for the past several weeks she’d confined herself to her room, working on lesson plans and re-reading Shakespeare in a futile attempt to block out the disturbing animal sounds and smells of the customers.

  Reese had made little sounds like that when he’d slept beside her. Ashamed, she had to admit that unwanted warm tinglies discomforted her at this very moment. If they were confined to neutral areas, like her nose and elbows, it wouldn’t be so bad. Instead, they invaded her most private of areas, making it difficult—no, impossible—to sit still. Or stand still. Or lie...

  She had to think of something productive to keep herself busy. She got up, stared at the trunk holding what meager school supplies remained, and smiled. Mr. Reese McAdams was in for a big surprise when he received the bill for her supplies order.

  Oh, fiddlesticks! She’d done her best to get that miscreant out of her mind, but his image popped into her head at the most inopportune moments. Not that there were any moments particularly convenient. But she simply refused to acknowledge those unwanted thoughts, like his strong arms holding her safe, or his eyes—so tender yet so brave in the night.

  When he held her, intimate relations between a man and a woman didn’t seem as offensive as the men who paid for services, yet he owned a brothel. His crime against all of womanhood surpassed that of any callous customer who walked through the Comfort Palace’s door. After all, those men only used one woman at a time. A brothel owner used them all for his own ill-gotten gain.

  She took a dainty rose-scented hankie from her sleeve and dabbed it to her nose, to no avail. The odor of sex, cigars, and whiskey overpowered any respite the handkerchief could offer. She sighed, then moved her neatly stacked books to the corner of the desk and aligned them precisely one-quarter of an inch from the edge. Precisely. She stood tall and stretched, first to the right, then to the left, then touching the floor with her palms—no one would see such undignified behavior. Besides, sometimes just feeling good justified such actions, at least in private.