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He peered down at her, and Charlotte noticed an almost-imperceptible shake of his head to which Janelle shrugged, an impish smile on her pretty pink lips.

The mayor turned to her and asked, “Would you like to press charges, Miss Charlotte?”

“Charges!” Agnes shrieked in alarm. “Against me?”

“I don’t believe that’s necessary, Mayor Jackson. I’d prefer just to go about my business.”

Her rescuer protested. “But, Charlotte, you can’t let her get away with this—”

The mayor and former lawman responded with admirable patience. “She’s made her preference clear, Janelle.”

“I take it I’m free to go, then?” Agnes demanded sharply.

The mayor’s mouth compressed into a thin line, his jaw tight with displeasure as he turned toward the troublemaker.

“You may go, but this is the second public altercation you’ve been involved in recently.

You were the instigator both times. If there is a third, I’ll escort you to Sheriff Walker myself and see that you’re charged with disturbing the peace. Is that clear?”

The woman’s face turned sour, as though she’d been sucking on a lemon, but she still managed to reply, “Perfectly. Come along, Sarah.”

Agnes stalked off in a huff, while her friend glanced first at Charlotte then Janelle and the mayor with a fleeting expression of regret before she rushed after her.

“How can she be friends with such a spiteful, bitter woman?” Charlotte wondered aloud.

“Sarah is Agnes’ widowed cousin with few options. If I was her, I think I’d find one, somehow.”

“She’s gone, Janelle. Let it go,” her husband advised.

With nothing left to see, the crowd promptly scattered, leaving her standing there awkwardly listening to the Jacksons’ disagreement.

“Let it go! That woman makes me mad enough to spit,” Janelle muttered.

“I get that, but you’re going to have to find a different outlet because this isn’t what I had in mind when we discussed the proper image and decorum of a politician’s wife.”

“Surely one vote won’t matter so much. Especially from such a—” She halted.

“I won’t say it because I’ll just get in trouble.

But it starts with B and ends with itch .

She makes those Meyers shrews look like angels.

Everyone thinks so. Siding with me against her could very well build support for you—not that you need it. ”

Shooting a small, grateful smile at her defender, Charlotte tried to return the favor.

“Agnes’ contempt isn’t reserved just for me.

Several of the ladies at the Red Eye have been on the receiving end of her animosity.

If I tell them you threatened to arrest her, Mr. Jackson, no matter the charge, you’ll have their gratitude and their votes come election day. ”

“How many are you talking about?” Janelle asked.

“Between the barmaids, the women in the kitchen, and the ladies who work above stairs?” Silently, she counted heads before announcing. “I have twenty-six in my employ, and none are married, so you don’t have to worry about a husband convincing them otherwise.”

“There. You see, Aaron? No harm, no foul. I might have cost you one bi— Uh, witch’s vote, but I gained you over two dozen supporters.”

Janelle Jackson had a quick wit, unusual candor, and a zeal for life. It was impossible to remain dour around her. From the twitch of her stern husband’s lips, before he wrapped an arm around her shoulders and pulled her close to his side, he felt the same.

Lucky girl.

For years, she’d had to listen to women gush over the three strikingly handsome brothers.

They’d all been to the Red Eye for a shot of whiskey and a few hands of poker during their bachelor days.

Only the middle brother had ever availed himself of their other services.

But even he hadn’t been in for quite some time, not since Wisteria had come back into his life with a brown-eyed baby boy who Luke Jackson could never deny.

Looking at the youngest brother, the biggest of the three, taller even than their father, she noted how he bent his head to whisper in his pretty wife’s ear.

She, in turn, placed her hand flat on his chest, her face lighting up during the exchange.

Charlotte averted her gaze, unwilling to intrude on their private moment, but also because watching their closeness and the obvious affection they had for one another made her heart ache for what her life might have been but never would be.

“Can we give you a ride home, Charlotte?” Janelle offered.

“Oh no. You’ve done enough. Besides”—she bent and picked up the catalog from the bench where she’d dropped it—“I still need to order shoes and buy chocolate drops, which is why I came in here to begin with.”

With a finger wave from Janelle and a tip of the hat from her husband, the couple moved down the center aisle.

Charlotte found Mrs. Ivinson, quickly placed her order, then left, eager to get back to the Red Eye where she felt safe. One thing Agnes had right; Fenton and their staff were her kind now.

To avoid a trio of women gathered outside the dressmaker’s shop two doors down, Charlotte veered down the alley beside the store, planning a detour around the block and down a less traveled side street.

It was much farther that way, but she didn’t have the energy to hold her chin high and pretend their disdain didn’t matter.

If Violet and Patsy were with her, their support would have given her strength, but not alone, not today.

Their stories were different yet so similar.

Three young women, alone, forced to do what they must to survive.

Patsy and Violet were jaded when they came to work at the Red Eye, but they were also fortunate, as much as a brothel worker could be.

Charlotte strove to be a fair employer, maintained a clean house, and compensated them better than anywhere else in the city.

Most important, the decision to stay or go was theirs alone, without the influence of scary guards and chloroform.

Even though they worked for her, a bond had forged between them.

If they were at her side, the “decent women” of Laramie might look at them askance as they walked by, but no one would dare say a word.

Now, here she was, tiptoeing down alleys, her skirt raised to her knees as she stepped around the mud puddles left by last night’s rainstorm.

“Look at me. Big bad saloon owner,” she muttered as she leaped across an extra-wide murky brown pool. “More like a cowardly mouse. And over what? A bunch of snooty gossips.”

Despite her caution, when she landed, her old boots, slick on the bottom from wear, slipped in the muck, and she lost her balance, and, along with it, the hold she had on her skirt. Her arms shot out to her sides as she teetered madly to stay upright.

Once steady, she took a relieved breath. It was a miracle she didn’t land with a splash in the murky mess. More carefully, she plodded forward.

She should have known not to count her miracles too soon, however. With the end of the alley and safety nearly in reach, the toe of her boot caught on something sharp buried in the ooze.

A sharp pain shot up her leg as she went lurching forward. As the ground rushed up toward her, Charlotte stuck out her arms to brace for impact. Her palms skidded across the sparse grass and interspersed mud, and she let out a shriek of alarm.

It was involuntary, and really unfortunate, making things go from bad to worse because she landed facedown with a splat and a mouthful of mud and grass.

She lay there a moment, fighting nausea and tears, then voices reached her. Her scream had attracted a crowd at the mouth of the alley. Several children stared wide-eyed at the sight of her before erupting into laughter at her predicament.

“You shouldn’t laugh,” one woman scolded but had to smother a laugh herself, and the others gathered, including the three women from the dress shop, joined her.

No matter how hard she willed it to happen, the earth didn’t open and swallow her whole. Her struggles to get up—slipping and sliding and flailing while dripping in brown slime—only made things worse.

“What’s wrong with you people? Move along,” an angry voice suddenly exclaimed.

Black leather boots stopped mere inches from her face. It was probably poor form to tell the man coming to her aid to go away. She would have done so, preferring to endure her disgrace alone, if she wasn’t still spitting grass out of her mouth and could speak.

“Are you hurt?”

She couldn’t speak with a mouth full of mud, so she shook her head as she carefully pushed up to her hands and knees. She searched for a clean spot on her person to wipe her mouth, but every inch of her was covered. At sea over what to do, she looked up, helplessly.

Charlotte silently groaned. Where was a gaping chasm to disappear into when she needed one? Her rescuer was none other than Sheriff Walker.

Tears flooded her eyes, and a sob escaped.

“Aw, darlin’. You’re a muddy mess. Let me help.”

His hands wrapped around her waist, lifting her out of the puddle.

Instead of placing her back on the ground, her hero, who was more surefooted than she was, carried her to a row of wooden skids laid end to end to serve as a walkway.

If she’d taken that path in the first place, she wouldn’t have found herself in this predicament.

As soon as her feet found solid ground, she tried to express her gratitude, but choked and sputtered. She tried to pluck a blade of grass off her tongue, but her hands were caked with filth.

“You’re in a pickle that’s for sure,” he murmured, his voice a low rumble filled with sympathy. He pulled a white linen square from his pocket. “Let me see what I can do.”

Recoiling in alarm, a garbled, “You’ll ruin it!” burst from her.

“I have more. Be still, now,” he replied gently, assuring and ordering all at once. Then he went to work, cupping her chin and wiping her mouth as a parent would a child.