Page 108 of Charlotte's Reckoning
Twice already, she’d washed the navy skirt and plain white blouse—her only suitable attire for her new life. The color had faded, the white not nearly as pristine; certainly not something Miss Charlotte would have worn while receiving clients. Perhaps that’s why she blended in so well now.
Upon her return, she spent the afternoon digging and tilling with her new shovel and hoe. The recent rain had softened the soil, making it easier to work with, except for the rocks, which took effort to remove. The sun had begun its descent behind the trees surrounding her cabin when she stepped back and assessed the result of her labor—a rectangular patch of rich earth ready forplanting. Enough room, she hoped, for the cucumbers, peppers, zucchini, and tomatoes she planned to grow.
Imagining the work involved in planting the seeds and hauling buckets upon buckets from the creek to water them every day, she dusted off her hands then stretched as she massaged her aching lower back.
“I’ll tackle that tomorrow. Or maybe next week, once I’ve recovered,” she allowed as she dragged her tools and tired body back to the cabin. Wanting only to crawl into bed and sleep until morning, she couldn’t. She could feel the grit of salt and soil clinging to her skin. Just the thought of crawling into her new bed dirty and sweaty gave her the energy to fix her problem. Too sore to haul what it would take to fill the tub, much less heat water, she took a bar of soap, a towel, and clean clothes—a Miss Charlotte dress—with her down to the creek. She would look ridiculous tromping through the woods in royal-blue satin, but it was all she had, and, luckily, no one was around to see.
Her hair was damp and curling as it dried, her dress, which didn’t fit as snugly since the last wearing, dragged in the dirt, grass, and weeds of the path, and the last rays of sun touched the treetops upon her return. She was thinking about skipping supper and going straight to bed when the jingle of a horse’s harness announced a visitor.
Excited it could be Seth back early, she set her things on the rear stoop and hurried around the cabin. More than likely it wasn’t him; he’d only been gone a few hours. Not taking any chances, she’d pocketed her derringer when he set out earlier. The heft of it against her leg was reassuring as she rounded the front corner of the cabin.
She came to an abrupt halt, seeing who it was. “You can turn that horse around, Quentin Sneed. You aren’t welcome here.”
“My dear Charlotte,” he said, ignoring her request as he awkwardly dismounted. He slid stomach first, hanging on to the saddle as his short, stubby legs dangled above the ground. He hung there for several seconds as if trying to muster the nerve to let go before he dropped heavily to the ground, stumbling into his horse, which snorted in annoyance.
She would have been amused by his clumsiness and the way his vest rose above his round belly, if she hadn’t been so annoyed by his presence and disgusted by the sight of him.
“I offer a truce,” he declared as he tugged his vest down and took a step toward her.
“I’m not interested. You need to leave,” she stated coolly.
“Come now. I have a business proposition for you.”
“As if I’d do business with a liar and a cheat I don’t trust.”
“We got off on the wrong foot,” he said placatingly as he extended his hands palms up. “We both want the Red Eye to be a success.” He looked around and wrinkled his nose in distaste. “You can’t enjoy living here. It’s so rustic.” Eyeing the cabin, he added, “Cooking, scrubbing, and emptying your own slop jar isn’t the life for a woman like you.”
She bristled instantly. “What kind of woman is that, exactly? One who inspired loyalty from the women you plan to exploit and, to support her, walked out on you? Yes, I know they left you. The Laramie grapevine reaches all the way out here in the woods.” With utter disdain, she crossed her arms over her chest and asked pointedly, “A brothel isn’t much good without whores to entertain the customers, is it, Quentin?”
His jaw muscle twitched, setting his jowls to jiggling. “How in god’s name did my brother put up with your mouth?”
She could tell him in graphic detail what his brother thought of her mouth, but above all, she wanted him to leave, and goading him wouldn’t speed up the process. “Get to the point. I was about to start supper.”
“I haven’t eaten. We’ll talk over dinner.”
It would be a cold day in hell when she cooked for him unless it had a little surprise in it that kept him trotting to the outhouse for at least a day. Maybe two.
“I don’t think so.” She climbed the steps to the porch and opened the door, eager to shut it in his detestable face.
“Wait,” he called, moving surprisingly fast, keeping her from slamming it with his foot. “I want you back at the Red Eye.”
“No. Get out.”
“Surely, we can make a deal satisfactory to both of us. If you return, you can manage the upstairs again. I’ll give you 30 percent and the regular cut you whores get for each customer.”
She laughed at his audacity. “I’ll be back when the judge throws out your ridiculous claim. No sooner.”
“That’s a poorly calculated risk, since you have everything to lose.” His bulbous nose crinkled as his eyes scanned the cabin. “Look at this place. Another storm like the last one, and this shack is splinters and rubble. Then where will you be other than on your knees, crawling back to me? By then, I won’t be as generous.”
“Don’t hold your breath for that day,” she returned. “Oh, but wait. Since it won’t ever come, please do. When you turn blue and keel over dead, the world will be well rid of you, and the women of the Red Eye can rejoice.”
He took a step forward, his fists clenched as though ready to strike. “Sharp-tongued bitch, I won’t tolerate such disrespect!”
Reaching into her pocket, she grasped her derringer. Chin raised, eyes locked on his, she spoke without flinching, “Go on, big man. Take your best shot. A black eye, a bloody lip, a bruise along the cheekbone from a backhanded slap—I’ve survived worse from men like you. And visible proof of the assault will bolster my case when I report it to Sheriff Walker.”
He hesitated, fists clenching and releasing, as if itching to strike. But he didn’t scare her, and with the week she’d had, she was in no mood to play nice.
“You speak of respect as if it is your due, Quentin Sneed. But all I’ve known from you since the day we met are lies, manipulation, and greed, certainly not a shred of grief for the brother you claimed was so dear. Have you visited his grave even once?” Instead of backing down in the face of his fury, she leaned into it. “You come to my home, such as it is, calling me names and making threats! If you ask me, you’re the sharp-tongued, disrespectful bitch.”
