Well, she’d asked for it, hadn’t she?
That thought got Margo through a long, miserable shower. Hot water pounded against bruises and relaxed knots of muscle from her neck to her toes. When she emerged, wrapped in a towel, she found the locker room attendant and tried to reclaim her clothes. The woman smiled and handed her another set of clean workout clothes.
Margo groaned. “Oh, God, not another torture session?”
”No,” the attendant smiled, “just something a little less, um, I think Kit said scandalous than your dress.” She handed that over, too, along with the stilt heels, bedraggled hat, and corset. “Keep the gym shoes, too.”
”Thanks,” Margo muttered, earning a sympathetic laugh.
Margo considered putting her own clothes back on, Kit Carson be damned, but she was so muscle-sore, even the thought of cinching herself into that corset was unendurable. Besides, shed had enough humiliation for one day. She didn’t want any reminders of her own poor judgment where Skeeter Jackson was concerned. She hoped that rat made himself scarce. She never wanted to see him again, let alone talk to him. Margo wadded the dress, corset, and shoes into a ball and balanced the hat on top.
”Well,” she sighed, chalk one up to experience; Margo. It’s going to be a longer day than you thought.”
She lifted her chin, refusing to acknowledge utter defeat. She’d bested Malcolm Moore and convinced Kit to train her. That was worth a great deal. With those moderately cheering thoughts, Margo headed toward her next confrontation with the maddening man she’d chosen as teacher. Surely, she told herself by way of a pep talk, it’ll get better soon. And if it didn’t? Or if he decided she I didn’t have what it took?