Page 31

Unexpected Champions

Charlotte smoothed down the front of her navy skirt as she scrutinized her appearance in the mirror. In her crisp, high-collared white blouse with her hair pulled back in a tight coil, she was the image of respectability. If only clothes had the power to make it true.

It was Monday, deposit day at the bank. Usually, it passed without her notice because Fenton took care of their finances.

But he received an urgent telegram that his mother was ill and left on a New Orlean’s bound train yesterday morning.

That left making their weekend deposit, which was always considerable, up to her.

Women managing their own business and bank accounts wasn’t a common practice.

Adding her name to Fen’s accounts had to be blessed by the bank president and the board of trustees.

That really stung, since it was half her money.

In the forward-thinking territory of Wyoming, a woman could vote, hold office, and serve on a jury like a man, but she couldn’t open a bank account without a man’s permission.

“Have your husband come in, dear,” she said aloud, mimicking the bank manager’s response when she asked about an account of her own. If she had such an illustrious creature, as soon as she vowed until death do they part, everything that was hers would immediately transfer to him under the law.

With an indignant sniff, she pinned her hat in place. “Why would a woman with property or even modest wealth choose to marry?”

Dreading the task ahead of her, and with no good excuse for putting it off further, Charlotte picked up her beaded handbag, heavy with coins and a large stack of cash from the busy weekend, and headed for the door.

Dealing with the bank and the condescending manager wasn’t the issue.

Getting there under the watchful and condemning eyes of the “decent folks” of Laramie was.

“Head high,” she told herself as she descended the stairs. “What you do isn’t a crime. Don’t let them make you think it is.”

Charlotte paused in the parlor doorway. The soft chatter of the ladies filled the air, blending with the aroma of coffee and Molly’s freshly baked, melt-in-your-mouth iced cinnamon buns.

Joining them was far more appealing than venturing out.

But it was risky keeping so much cash on hand, and, if Fenton found out, he’d have a fit.

“I’m headed to town on errands,” she announced.

Violet sat up so quickly tufted pillows fell to the floor, while Lilah spun around dramatically on the ottoman. “By yourself?” they asked in unison.

She shrugged off their surprise. “I’ve done it before.”

“But you dislike going to town, especially alone,” Violet exclaimed, pointing out what everyone knew.

“That’s not true,” she disagreed. Her feelings were much stronger; she despised it. “It’s just that I can usually think of other things I’d rather be doing. But today, with Fen gone, I do what I must.”

“Bring a man along with you,” Lilah advised.

“It’s their time off. I’ll be fine.”

“Then we’ll go,” Violet said, springing to her feet. She grabbed Patsy’s hand and pulled her up, too. “Give us ten minutes to get dressed.”

“That isn’t necessary. I’ll be fine.” She waved at the sunshine beaming in through the front windows. “It’s broad daylight, and once word gets around that Miss Charlotte is a deadeye, no one is going to tussle with me.”

She said it jokingly, although last night’s incident was anything but, and would have forced a laugh or a fake smile she didn’t feel, but Lilah announced, “It already has.”

“What?” she gasped.

“It already spread,” Lilah confirmed with a grin. “Two different customers told me the tale of how you shot needle dick in his thimble-size balls the other night.”

Charlotte grimaced at the imagery, also glad it had been dark in the alley and she didn’t see what she described. “See? My reputation speaks for itself,” she told a still-standing and clearly skeptical Violet.

A notoriously late riser, Winona brushed past her in the doorway, her lips twitching with amusement at the sight of her conservative outfit. “Your reputation as what, sugar? A nun?” she asked in her affected Southern drawl.

Unlike Charlotte, a true daughter of the South, Winona hailed from Massachusetts, well north of the Mason-Dixon line.

Patsy giggled, as did a few others. “Buttoned up to her eyeballs, she sure could pass as one.”

Charlotte looked down at herself and justified her choice, saying, “If I run into that bank manager, I want to be taken seriously.”

“Maybe you should lose the feathered hat,” Winona suggested playfully as she circled her, examining it from every angle. “It’s as if a bird landed on your head.” Pausing behind her, she prodded it, noting, “Actually, make that an entire flock. There are a lot of feathers back here.”

Charlotte spun and glared at her.

“I think she looks pretty,” Patsy announced.

Lou, which was short for Louella, put in her two cents next. “Of course, she does. With her figure, that thick wavy hair, and those cheekbones, Charlotte would be as pretty in a burlap sack as she is in that monstrosity of a hat. Where on earth did you get it?”

“Fenton bought it in New Orleans on his last trip. The shop owner told him it was all the rage in Paris.”

“Monstrosity is too generous a word to describe this ghastly, feathered horror,” Winona muttered, reaching up to adjust the ostrich plume that drooped over her eye.

Charlotte had to admit it was distracting and rather annoying, almost as much as Winona. “Stop that!” she exclaimed, slapping her hand away.

“I’m only teasing, sugar,” she said, laughing softly. She stiffened abruptly then pivoted toward the breakfast spread on the sideboard. “I smell Molly’s cinnamon rolls. You heifers better have saved one for me.”

With a blissful sigh and a lick of her icing-covered fingers, Lou declared, “They were delicious! You should really get down here sooner if you want one.”

“You didn’t seriously eat them all!” Winona looked heartbroken, like she might cry.

Just then, Molly entered through the rear door carrying another tray of fragrant buns fresh out of the oven. In a flutter of satin, chiffon, and lace, the ladies scrambled to get one, Charlotte’s hat forgotten in the chaos.

“I won’t be long,” she said with a wave.

“If you would pick up a pound of chocolate drops at Ivinson’s, I’ll be in your debt forever,” Lou, who had an insatiable sweet tooth, called after her.

“Make it two,” the rest of them chimed in. Apparently, Lou’s affliction was catching.

“Will do!” she called back.

Someone sang out, “Bless you, Sister Charlotte,” and peals of good-natured laughter followed her out the door.

Sixth Street was quiet this time of day, save for a few delivery wagons and a lone, bleary-eyed patron who’d obviously imbibed too much and slept it off somewhere, making his unsteady way home.

After turning the corner at the end of the block, it wasn’t long before she entered the business district.

When she crossed onto Main Street, Charlotte didn’t bother greeting the women gossiping outside the milliner’s shop when she walked past. She’d tried being friendly more times than she could count, but they weren’t interested and only stared at her with a mix of condemnation and morbid curiosity.

Feeling their eyes boring into her back, she tipped her chin higher. Let them look. She had the same right as any of them to conduct business in town.

A half block away from the bank, a man called out, “Mornin’, Mayor Jackson!

” The shout drew Charlotte’s attention to the couple strolling on the other side of the street.

They made a striking pair as they stopped to speak with the man, the mayor, tall and handsome and his wife a petite blonde with a noticeably rounded belly.

Henry and Leticia Jackson would be over the moon at the prospect of another grandchild.

With a rueful shake of her head, Charlotte continued her walk.

She was acquainted with the Jacksons, one of Laramie’s most prominent families, but not well enough to be on a first-name basis.

In her former life, Rowena Eldridge and the Jackson women would have likely been friends.

Being a brothel owner, a fallen woman, and a societal outcast made it impossible.

Despite this, their lives had intersected occasionally, although not by her doing.

She’d met Jenny, the oldest brother’s wife, first, before they wed.

A scoundrel claiming to be her uncle tried to take her family farm and her young brother away from her.

When Jenny came to her in desperate need of a job, to save it, she’d given her a wig to hide her hair and put her to work behind the piano.

It was the perfect disguise—hiding in plain sight—because no one suspected sweet-as-pie Jenny Harper would dare set foot inside a saloon with a second-floor brothel.

Not even Heath, her future husband, or his two brothers, one of whom was the sheriff at the time.

She missed those days, not for the drama when the scheme blew up spectacularly but because even on a slightly out-of-tune instrument and playing dance hall tunes, Jenny’s rare talent shone through.

Wisteria Jackson, married to Luke, the middle son, was born into a family of conmen and swindlers, inheriting their penchant for trouble.

Even on Sixth Street, rumors spread about a hurried wedding and the Jackson family’s unexpected first grandchild.

In her line of work, gossip and tall tales ran rampant.

Charlotte typically paid it no heed, but when Wisteria disappeared, she had to bring her suspicions to the Jackson men.