"There is one problem." Priscilla leaned over to hand an empty canning jar to Hester. "Here, I brought this along, so we can take a sample."
"Taking a sample is no problem."
"No, the problem is we don't own this land."
"She's right," Etta said. "I suggest we keep this between ourselves until we can file a claim. If word leaks out, someone might snatch it up before we can gain the rights to do as we want with it."
Hester frowned. "Oh, dear. Mortimer Crane would love to get his hands on this. We must claim the land immediately. We've already gone through the donation money we received after the disaster. What do you think the chances are of making enough from the horse auction to purchase this much ground?"
"We won't know until after the auction," Etta pointed out. "And we can't wait to make our claim. When we get back to town, we need to start a rumor about seeing a cougar up here to keep people away."
"Maybe we could ask Blessing to loan us enough if the auction leaves us short," Priscilla said.
"Good idea. I'll take the stage to Park City tomorrow and see about filing the claim. I'll let you know how I do."
"Don't spread the word," Etta said. "Only the three of us can know about this."
They agreed and began the trek back to town discussing plans for developing the springs.
"We should probably fence it in to prevent people from helping themselves without paying," Etta suggested.
"A road will have to be built so folks can reach it," Hester said. "Our secret will be out then."
"Maybe we can build it in reverse to gain some time." Priscilla guided her horse around a beaver channel. "It's too bad Robert isn't here to protect our legal interests. He was a good attorney, you know."
"Yes. I wish he was here too," Hester replied.
The town seemed quiet when they reached Front Street. Supper time. Priscilla smelled cabbage, beets and side-pork cooking. Her stomach growled. It would likely be potato soup for her. But she never went to much trouble cooking for herself.
At the corral behind the jail, Priscilla and Hester helped Etta unsaddle the animals and brush them down before starting for home. As Priscilla walked, she mulled over the day's activities and the changes they might bring to Wildcat Ridge Township. If they could get the springs operating fast enough, maybe she wouldn't have to marry.
Except, she didn't own the springs. Any money made from it would go to the town, not her. Somehow, she had to find a way to support herself. She was a good colorist. Perhaps she could open a small store and sell her paintings to tourists who came to use the springs.
To avoid the mud, Priscilla walked in the weeds and snow along the edge of the street until she reached her own yard with its cleared path. She barely had enough light to find the knob on the kitchen door. As always, when she entered, she set her bag on the table and lit the kerosene lamp.
Felicity, her cat, meowed and twined her limber body around Priscilla's legs.
"Felicity!" Priscilla lifted the cat in her arms. "That's mud you're walking in."
Mud?
A muddy book track showed in the yellow lamplight on the floor. Where had it come from? She'd wiped her feet before coming inside. Besides, the footprint was too large to be hers. Whoever made it had to have been a man, one who also left blood drops behind. An injured man.
Mortimer Crane? Snooping again? How would he have become hurt? Priscilla's heart sped up at the thought of being alone with him. She'd heard stories of him forcing his attentions on women. Her eyes searching the dark corners, she backed toward the door.
A memory of Etta telling about men who had come to town to steal goods and lumber sent a shudder barreling down her spine. Could the intruder still be here? With her back against the door, she debated running to Thalia's house.
Her brave statement to the women at the town meeting flashed into her mind: "We have to learn to fend for ourselves and stop looking to men for help."
She'd said it and meant it. Now she needed to put her own words into action.
Stop being such a ninny. Get Papa's gun and follow the tracks.
Heart racing, she took her own advice. The trail bypassed the parlor, her father's study, the dining room and went upstairs, becoming erratic as if the man were staggering. The blood drops became more frequent.
They led to the first room, her bedroom.
What did the intruder want with me? I have nothing of value, except my honor.
She halted, her pulse pounding in her temples, palms slick with sweat. The door stood open. Peek inside? Or run for help?
Fear urged her to run. If only Etta were here or if the rectory Priscilla occupied stood closer to the heart of the town. Being on the outer edges left her quite isolated.
And vulnerable.
After the mine disaster, the women had acquired a school bell which they mounted on a pole in the center of town by the jail, with a long rope so anyone could ring out a warning if trouble galloped in, like outlaws or Indians. But whoever the man in her room might be, he was hurt. For all she knew he could die before she reached the bell.
Calm down and think rationally.
The invader in her room could be anyone, even a neighbor. The names of two men who lived nearby came to her. And he was injured. How dangerous could an wounded man be?
Even a half-dead man can shoot a gun.
A dash to her father's room armed her with his army revolver from his desk. Her husband had taught her to shoot. If her unwanted visitor intended ravaging her, he would be disappointed. She'd shoot him before she'd allow that.
A cautious peek in her room showed nothing, only half the space being visible from where she stood. Taking a deep breath, she slipped around the corner, gun ready.
Masculine boots, a bloody coat and shirt lay tumbled on the floor. A gun-belt encircled the man's hips, the gun beside a massive hand. Congealed blood beneath him stained her white, crocheted coverlet.
The perfect image of a dead man.
A scream rose to Priscilla's throat. She swallowed hard. One did not scream indoors.
She picked up his Walker-Colt five-shot and deposited it in a drawer of the bedside table and slipped her father's gun into her skirt pocket.
A poker leaned against the cold stove. She picked up the tool and used it to nudge him. "Mister? Can you hear me?"
Dead men don't move, but she had to be sure.
"Mister?" She stepped closer and prodded him again, terrified he would jump up and grab her.
Nothing.
Lord have mercy, she had a dead man in her bed!
Priscilla returned the poker to its place by the stove with shaking hands.
A blanket. A sheet. Anything to cover him with. A quick search of the trunk at the foot of her bed produced a blanket. As she laid it over him, he moaned.
He was alive!
Unconscious, but alive.
She should fetch Dr. Spense, but what if the man died while she was gone? Regardless of how or why he was shot, she could not let that happen. She must remove the bullet and then go for the doctor.
Laudanum. Towels. She'd need several towels.
As she gathered up supplies and placed them on the side table, she worried whether she could remove the bullet. The red stain on her coverlet indicated he'd been bleeding for some time. To lose too much blood could be fatal. She hadn't a moment to waste.
"Mister?" She nudged his good shoulder. "The bullet has to come out. Can you hear me?"
His back expanded and retracted as he breathed, so he still lived, but for how long?
Rushing to the kitchen, she put the kettle on to boil. From her sewing room, she collected tweezers, a strong needle and thread then hurried back to her room. After placing her supplies on the washstand, she fetched a half-filled bottle of whiskey Robert had kept hidden behind the wardrobe. He thought she didn't know he had it, but she'd seen him drinking from it once. He was a secret nipper, but never to extremes. She'd never seen him intoxicated.
She als
o located a vial of laudanum the doctor had given her father for headaches. By the time she returned to the kitchen, the water was hot.
Now, to dig out the bullet.
Lawsy, Lawsy, as Hester would say.
With a steaming bucket of water in hand, she returned to her room.
"Fellow, I hope you forgive me for what I am about to do." And, please, Lord, guide my hand and help me do this right.
With a towel to soak up spills, she dribbled liquor on the wound. The man grunted and jerked but did not wake up.
Priscilla took a deep breath and muttered a quiet prayer for guidance. With one knee on the bed to put her closer to her patient, she took up the tweezers. Her hand hovered over the wound.
Do it. Just do it.
Her hands shook. Whiskey calmed people. Or was it brandy? Plucking up her courage, she took a sip from the bottle and gasped. The fiery liquid burned all the way down to her stomach. How did men drink this stuff?
A minute later, she felt calmer, her hands steadied. Wouldn't the ladies from her Sunday School class be shocked if they knew what she'd done? But she felt sure they would consider her sin forgivable under the circumstances. Would her mother?
Procrastinating would help neither her nor the man on her bed.
Just do it.
She washed the tweezers with lye soap, rinsed them with whiskey and tested the wound with gentle probes hoping the bullet would be near the surface. No such luck. She dug deeper. Fresh blood flowed from the wound, blocking her vision. She grabbed a towel to sop it up.
The surgery seemed to take forever. She feared she would dig right through him and into the earth beneath the house, the tweezers seemed that deep inside his flesh.
The tip touched something hard. She clasped the object, drew out the chunk of lead, and dropped it into the washbasin with a clink. After a big sigh of relief, she staunched the blood with another towel, applied a compress, and bandaged him.
Exhausted, she allowed herself to lay back on an edge of the mattress for only a moment. A new sin; lying with a man not her husband.
You're going to the devil, Priscilla Heartsel.
The warning didn't keep her from drifting off to sleep.
Her cat's demanding meows woke Priscilla. She bolted upright. "Felicity, get off him. He's hurt."
Felicity followed her to the kitchen. Priscilla's own stomach growled as she fed the cat. Her nausea had fled. Before she could eat, she needed to give the man a dose of laudanum, and it wouldn't be easy. She returned upstairs and debated how best to achieve her task. A large man — she guessed his weight at close to a hundred and eighty — he would be difficult to turn over.
"Mister?" She touched his back. No response.
"I need you on your back." No response.
As expected, he remained silent.
Unable to turn him over, she had to settle for spooning the medicine into his mouth and hoping it didn't all dribble out. After administering the drug, she held his lips closed and rubbed his neck to make him swallow. She ended up with a messy pillow-slip, but it couldn't be helped.
Standing beside the bed, she yawned and stretched her back and shoulders. A glimpse out the window told her dawn would arrive soon. She walked down the hall and collapsed on top of her father's bed, sound asleep the instant her head touched the pillow.
The man slept through the entire following day, giving Priscilla a chance to catch up on her rest and household chores. She'd tried to rouse him to take some broth but failed, and decided it was best to let him sleep. Throughout the day she debated whether to fetch Dr. Spense. She hated to disturb the busy man except in an emergency, and her patient seemed to be doing fine.
That night, she'd barely gotten into bed when she heard an agonized scream. Her bare feet thudded on the hardwood floor as she raced down the hall to find the man thrashing about on the bed, arms flailing, legs threatening to kick off the covers.
"Don't," she cried, trying to hold him down. "You'll tear off your bandages and reopen your wound."
"No," he yelled. "Don't shoot… I won't… just an old lady. Hell, Irish… don't."
His skin felt sweaty and burning hot. The man was delirious.
Priscilla raced downstairs for a bucket of cold water. Through the night, she bathed him repeatedly with cool water until the fever abated, and he slept peacefully at last.
"…old lady…" he muttered between snores.
Her gaze fell onto his dirty denim trousers. He'd be far more comfortable without them, but it wouldn't be proper for her to remove them.
Who are you trying to fool, Priscilla? You've already broken so many rules of propriety, letting a strange man in your home, sleeping with him.
I didn't mean to do that.
But you did. What difference will it make to break one more rule?
Having lost her battle with her conscience, she set about removing his trousers which proved more difficult than she'd expected.
As she yanked them free from his large feet, he moaned, "…shot me, Irish. Why?"
His temperature had risen again. Priscilla dropped his pants to the floor. Although he still wore long underdrawers, she folded the sheet to cover his essential parts as was proper and resumed her task of cooling him down.
At last, his temperature returned to normal. Exhausted, she went to the kitchen, made scrambled eggs and toast, ate, rinsed the dishes, and returned upstairs to fall asleep on her father's bed.
Four hours later, she awoke to a deathly quiet house and sat up, alarmed.
Had the man died?
Jumping out of bed, she ran to her room.
He lay shivering violently, his skin damp again. His fever had returned. She laid a blanket over him, but it did nothing to stop his shaking. She piled on another blanket. Then another.
When she thought surely his teeth would crack from all the violent gnashing, she crawled onto the bed, wrapping her body around him. She talked nonsense the way she would with a sick child. When that failed to help, she did what she'd dreaded having to do since finding him in a cold shake and crawled beneath the covers to try again.
For what seemed like hours, she lay there, halfway on top of him, willing her body heat to warm him. It felt good lying there with his firm supple body beneath her, his heart thumping in her ear, his breath ruffling her hair. With her eyes closed, she could pretend he was Robert.
Something moved beneath her. Jerking upright, she realized she'd fallen asleep. Daylight shone through the window curtains. She yawned.
Something touched her body. A hand at her waist. She glanced up — right into her patient's open, stormy-gray eyes.
Even as she looked at him, those eyes closed, and he lost consciousness again.
Horrified to find herself in bed atop a practically unclothed man, Priscilla tried to leap out and became tangled not only in the bedding but with his lower limbs.
She had to get out. What if someone saw her there? How would she explain being in bed with a strange man? Thalia might have come for morning coffee and seen her. Priscilla wanted to die.
Chapter Four
Grateful for a moment to relax, Priscilla put some sliced side-pork to cook in a pan on the stove. Food would help revive her. A knock came at the front door. Going into the hall, she glanced up the stairs, hoping her visitor stayed put. He'd seemed to fall asleep again once she left the bed. When she peeked out the window beside the door, she saw Marshal Fawks standing there and frowned, worried whether she could keep her patient a secret.
And if she should. Guilt bit at her conscience. The right thing to do would be to tell everything.
"Morning, Etta," she said, opening the door. "Did you come to talk about the springs?"
"Not exactly." Etta glanced around inside. She wore trousers and a vest over a man's shirt with her badge pinned to the lapel — her marshal's uniform. "I noticed a saddled horse in your back yard and thought I should check on you. Do you have a visitor?"
Heavens, she'd given no thought to how the
man had reached her house. Of course, he had a horse. And, of course, the marshal would notice such a thing. She knew Priscilla did not own a horse. Priscilla forced a laugh. "Oh, yes. A friend of my brother's brought me a message. It's his horse."
"I see." Etta appeared to be studying her, her brow furrowed. "I didn't know you had a brother."
Priscilla gave a shaky laugh. She'd had no siblings. "I'd better go remind him to see to the animal."
"Priscilla…" Etta began.
Something crashed on the second floor.
They whirled toward the staircase. Felicity dashed down the stairs and raced into the kitchen.
"Oh, my blasted cat." Priscilla started after her pet. "She's always causing trouble. I'd best go see—"
The words died in her throat as she turned to see what had captured Etta's attention. On the landing halfway down the stairs stood the man, naked except for a sheet wrapped around his middle and trailing behind him like a bridal train. When he saw the marshal, he turned and headed back up a bit unsteadily.
"What in thunderation?" Etta stepped into the house, a hand on the Smith and Wesson six-shooter holstered at her waist. "Who is that, Priscilla? Your brother's friend?"
Priscilla blew out a breath. Time for the truth. "No. I don't know him."
Etta stared at her. "He's in your house naked and you don't know who he is?"
"He's not naked. He has underdrawers on." At least, she hoped he did.
Etta snorted. "He's going to fall." She aimed for the stairs, Priscilla behind her.
By the time they reached him, he'd plopped down on the top step, leaning against the newel post, seeming exhausted.
"Mister?" Priscilla said. "What are you doing out here?
He gave her a cocky smile. "You're the one I woke up with." His eyes slid shut, and he slumped to the floor, half on the stairs, half on the balcony.
Etta gasped at his words.
"It's not how it sounds." Priscilla lifted the man's arm over her shoulder and tried to get him up. His eyes opened but he appeared ready to pass out. "Come on. I need to get you back to bed."
Priscilla (The Widows of Wildcat Ridge Series Book 1) Page 3
