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Josephine was a disreputable local madam cut from the same cloth as Heloise.

Her establishment, just one block over, was competition for the Red Eye.

But so were a dozen other pleasure houses in town.

The murmurs about Madam Josephine’s methods of acquiring young ladies for her second floor were unsettling.

There were also whispers of opium used to control the unwilling victims who would comply with her demands, no matter how demeaning for a steady supply of the drug.

With Charlotte’s inside information, the Jacksons’ power and influence, not to mention Aaron’s badge—he’d been the marshal then—they saved Wisteria, several other missing women, and shut down Josephine’s vile operation.

While the rescue was cause for celebration, poor Wisteria had to endure weeks of illness getting weaned off the drug.

The only Jackson bride she hadn’t needed to save was Mrs. Aaron Jackson.

She and Janelle had become acquainted, partly because of her sisters-in-law’s troubles and because she was a skilled healer.

She collaborated with the town doctor and had expertise in herbs.

Janelle even co-authored a book on home remedies with her mother-in-law, Leticia.

Charlotte often consulted their “home medicinal” when someone at the Red Eye was unwell.

If Charlotte’s skills proved insufficient and the doctor was busy with a delivery or emergency, Janelle responded immediately, day or night, but she didn’t come alone.

Aaron would quietly escort his wife up the rear stairs and patiently wait outside the door while she attended to her patient.

Once done, he’d efficiently whisk her out again.

None of the Jacksons acted like she or her ladies were beneath them or as if they feared catching some deadly disease, but the men were very protective of their wives’ reputations.

Charlotte understood, having once been on the right side of the street with a reputation of her own to protect, which seemed like forever ago.

Arriving at the bank, she stopped at the base of the stairs and took a deep, steadying breath before climbing them.

An older woman exiting gave her a sour look and pulled her skirt aside so they wouldn’t touch.

The man she was with politely held the door, tipping his hat as she murmured, thank you and sailed in.

The biddy grabbed his arm and pulled him along. “Politeness is wasted on the likes of her, Reginald.”

Like she didn’t hear, Charlotte kept walking in. But being treated like she was a plague or so much dirt beneath someone’s shoes took a toll on a person’s self-esteem.

The deposits took only minutes. The teller twice-counted the $2300 business deposit before recording it in his ledger.

Next, he counted Charlotte’s monthly savings deposit—her $630 contribution going into the joint account with Fen, thanks to their ridiculous rules.

It wasn’t a fortune, but her savings had grown considerably over time.

Her next stop was the shoemaker, where she got the cold shoulder.

“He’s booked up for months,” the woman at the counter declared. “Perhaps try the general store. They have ready-made shoes or can order you something from a catalog much quicker.”

She’d tried that route. The store-bought shoes were never a good fit. She’d had to stuff wadded-up cloth in the toes or they’d rub a blister on her heels. On her feet every night for long hours, it wasn’t comfortable, but arguing with the snob who didn’t want her perfectly good money was pointless.

The bell over the door jingled as Charlotte entered Ivinson’s General Store.

Heads turned, and, as usual, when they saw who had arrived, disapproving looks followed.

She was used to being judged, but she refused to let it bother her.

Once she bought her shoes and picked up Lou’s chocolate drops, she would happily retreat to her side of town.

She was relieved to find the shoe section empty and quickly scanned the selection. There was a suitable pair of patent walking shoes, but the choice of evening slippers was sparse. The few they had were in white satin, an unwise choice in dusty Laramie.

While browsing a mail-order catalog from a New York City shoe store with an extension selection, Charlotte overheard a nasty comment. “What is this town becoming when harlots can mingle with decent folk in public places?”

Fed up with a morning of slights and insults, she rose to confront the speaker, a pinched-faced older woman with a distinctly unpleasant expression. The deep grooves around her mouth clearly weren’t from smiling, her bun wound so tight her scalp must ache.

Though they had never met, Agnes Ledbetter’s reputation for a razor-sharp tongue and withering glares were legendary. As was her mission to stick her beak-like nose into everyone else’s business and pass judgment on anyone who didn’t meet her narrow definition of propriety.

Charlotte didn’t stand a chance.

“I have as much right to be here as anyone else,” she said stiffly.

“There are children here. Have you no shame?” she snapped.

“There is no shame in shopping, ma’am. As you said, this is a public place,” she said in a hushed voice, hoping she would lower hers as well. “I believe you were the one who first mingled with me.”

The old biddy visibly bristled, and her voice only rose in volume. “I can’t believe Mr. Ivinson allows women of your ilk in his store.” She looked around, declaring, “I’ll have a word with him and have this practice stopped immediately.”

At that moment, Janelle Jackson appeared from behind a display of fabric, her expression cool and composed.

“What seems to be the trouble?” she inquired.

Mrs. Ledbetter remained unfazed by the mayor’s wife observing her behavior, not seeming to care that she might have overstepped. “This person shouldn’t be in a store with decent people. That’s the trouble,” she hissed.

While “person” was a step up from “harlot,” the old woman’s contemptuous sneer left no doubt of her feelings.

Janelle’s composure vanished. “You’ve got a lot of nerve, Agnes Ledbetter! Looking down your nose at someone else like your own outhouse doesn’t stink.”

She gasped, clutching her chest. “What an utterly appalling thing to say. And kindly mind your own business, Mrs. Jackson. I wasn’t talking to you.”

“No. You were spewing your spitefulness loudly for all to hear, which I take exception to.”

“You can’t honestly condone her whorish ways!”

“I try not to judge others, especially women, who have to do what they must to keep a roof over their heads and food in their bellies.”

With her hand cupping her mouth, the mean-spirited fusspot muttered an aside to her companion, who stood behind her looking mortified.

“Says the woman who runs around town, putting on airs as though she has the learning of a doctor. I have it on Madeline Barnett’s good authority that she shucked her husband Lemuel’s trousers clean off, drawers and all, on the premise of tending a flesh wound. ”

Her friend frowned before stating hesitantly, “The bull gored him in his, um, well…his hind parts, Agnes. How else was she to stitch him up?”

Clearly annoyed that she wasn’t getting the support she expected, she waved off the excuse. “A decent woman would have found a more circumspect way of going about it or waited for Doctor Morgan to tend him.”

“And let him bleed to death in the meantime?” Janelle challenged. “Would that have been the decent thing to do for Argyll?”

Her curiosity piqued, Charlotte couldn’t stay quiet. “Who is Argyll?”

“Never you mind!” Agnes snapped.

“Doc and I were called to the clinic Friday night to see Argyll Ledbetter, her husband,” Janelle explained, speaking over the older woman, a twinkle of mischief in her eyes.

“He was drunk as a skunk and bleeding from…” She waved her hand near her groin.

“Let’s just say a bullet grazed an intimate area. ”

Ah. The old biddy’s ambush made sense now. This was too rich. Charlotte could hardly restrain herself.

“On Friday night, a man accosted a lady outside the Red Eye. Her rescuer shot him in an intimate area.” She gestured vaguely in the same general area Janelle had. Then she turned to Agnes with wide-eyed innocence. “Surely, that’s no coincidence.”

A ripple of shock went through the crowd gathered, as they put it together, too.

“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Agnes sputtered, her face turning crimson.

“Oh, I think you do,” Janelle challenged. “Let this be a reminder, Mrs. Ledbetter, don’t throw stones from your glass house. Further, stop walking around town like you’re better than everyone with a stick up your—”

“Janelle!”

Distracted by the unfolding scandal, nobody saw the newcomer arrive.

They all turned, at least a dozen spectators, unable to ignore the mettle in the deep, booming voice.

Tall and broad-shouldered, with both fists resting on his hips above his holstered peacemakers, Aaron Jackson created a commanding presence.

Even though his hat cast a shadow over his face, revealing only his clenched jaw, Charlotte could tell he was none too pleased.

The onlookers backed up a step. Not her unexpected champion, however. Janelle faced her husband, mimicking his hands-on-hips stance as she stared up at him. “Have I ever mentioned how incredibly annoying your timing is?”

Several of the women murmured in alarm, but Charlotte knew she had nothing to fear. Confident, capable, decent men like their father, the Jackson brothers had found spirited, compassionate women like their mother.

“Would you care to explain what’s going on here, Janelle?”

“Certainly,” she replied, throwing her hand in Agnes’ general direction.

“I came across this woman pestering Charlotte who was quietly shopping. It was harassment, plain and simple.” She paused, frowning, then inquired, “Harassment and bullying are crimes in 1880, aren’t they? If not, they should be.”