Priscilla (The Widows of Wildcat Ridge Series Book 1)

by Charlene Raddon

  "Sounds horrific," Braxton said, and pursed his lips in sympathy for all the people affected by the disaster. Thank the good Lord Priscilla wasn't there that day. But her father and husband were. A new empathy warmed his chest for what she'd suffered, along with a need to make sure she was never hurt again.

  "The Gold King was almost played out anyway, according to some of the miners. Each day they took out less gold-bearing ore than the day before. One reason Mortimer gave up trying to reopen it."

  "What are these women living on?" he asked. " They must be broke." He thought about Priscilla. She didn't seem to be living in poverty, and yet, thinking about it now, the shelves in her larder were mostly empty, the meals she fixed simple.

  "True enough," Etta said. "They're hanging on by the skin of their teeth."

  "They won't last long then. Teeth don't have skin."

  Etta smiled. "You're right in that as well."

  They climbed onto their saddles and aimed for town. Braxton felt discouraged. The rumor sending them to the mine had been false.

  On purpose maybe?

  "Who was it said they saw Irish and Logan up here?" Braxton asked.

  "One of the women. Reina. Not the kind you want to know." She glanced at him. "Or maybe you do. She works at the Pink Kitty."

  Braxton swatted a fly. He'd noticed the Pink Kitty, of course. The bordello stood next to Etta's house on Gold Street, run by a nice woman named Glory. "I wondered if our bank robbers might have paid her to spread the rumor."

  "Could be. I'll check it out."

  After taking care of their horses, Braxton walked over to the mayor's office to see Priscilla's rendering of the springs.

  "There it is." Hester pointed to the wall.

  He moved in close and studied the picture. "That woman has talent. This is exactly how the springs look. If anything, she's made them more beautiful."

  "I'm hoping she'll do more paintings." Hester joined him. "I suggested she sell them at the mercantile and maybe when we get our facility built at the springs, we could offer some for sale there. I think the folks who come to enjoy the springs would love them."

  "Can't argue with that." Braxton turned to the mayor. "Have you had any luck finding men to build the road?"

  "I have men-wanted ads out in Salt Lake City and several of the towns closer to us. Nobody's shown up yet."

  "They will. Who's going to oversee the construction and figure out where to lay the road?"

  "I have no idea." Hester returned to her desk. "I figure to interview all applicants and hope one is intelligent enough to be put in charge. Or a road engineer might show up, knowing he might be needed."

  "If you need help, I'd be glad to offer mine."

  Hester grinned. "I may take you up on that, Mr. Gamble. Thanks for dropping by."

  He headed back to the jail, wondering if he dared push his luck and see if Priscilla would feed him again. Angry as she was last time, she might be more likely to shoot him. Maybe he ought to stay away from her for a week or two and see if she sought him out. If she didn't, he'd wasted his time. Trouble was, he didn't want to stay away from her.

  "Yoo-hoo, Mr. Braxton."

  He turned to see the woman who had been introduced as Agnes Wentz waving at him from across Gold street. He gave a vague wave back, more a lifting of a hand than anything, and she took it as an invitation to join him. He noticed as she crossed the street she was more nicely dressed than the first time he'd met her.

  "How are you today, Mr. Braxton?"

  "Just dandy, Mrs. Wentz. Nice weather, eh?" Thunderation. Had he turned into a blockhead who couldn't think what to say to a woman?

  "I'm glad. I'm going for an evening walk down by the creek." She waved toward the stream running the full length of town down in a gully on the far side of Front Street. "Would you like to join me?"

  A pretty woman with light brown hair and blue eyes, she had a nice smile, her teeth so straight, they appeared to have been sculped. White too. "Well, Mrs. Wentz, I'm heading out on my rounds. You're welcome to walk along with me."

  "Oh, that would be lovely. I'd like to know you better." She took his arm and they strolled up Gold Street toward Pine.

  He'd love to be a fly on Priscilla's ceiling and see her reaction as he walked past with another woman. Would she care? What would he do if she never came to care about him? Stay in Wildcat Ridge without her? Could he fall for another woman? He glanced at Agnes. Could he fall for her?

  "Where's your friend today?" he asked. Every time he saw Agnes, she had a brunette at her side. And, in truth, neither appealed to him.

  "Oh, Alisha?" Her mouth turned down in a scowl, and her voice turned waspish. "She's ill. I swear that woman is ill most of the time, and I’m left to do things on my own."

  Braxton scowled too. He hated a whiner. "You talk like she gets ill on purpose to annoy you."

  Agnes's eyes widened, and she gaped at him before the scowl returned. "What a nasty thing to say. I believe I'd prefer to walk by the creek."

  She stalked off before Braxton could apologize. It was a foul thing he'd said, but she needed to know the truth and see herself as others did. He took off after her.

  "Miss Wentz. Hold up."

  "So, you can insult me again?" she snapped.

  "I apologize, ma'am. I was only trying to let you know how you sound when you say such things."

  "You are too kind." She was off and almost running now.

  Braxton kept up. "You're too pretty a woman to turn folks off by whining all the time."

  "How would you know if I whine all the time? We've barely met." She turned then, and her eyes lit up. "You think I'm pretty?"

  "Yes, ma'am. Your smile nearly knocks a man over." Could a lie for a good cause be forgiven? "I've never seen teeth as straight and white as yours."

  Color filled her cheeks as she smiled. "Why, Mr. Braxton, I think you're flirting with me."

  Uh, oh. He'd better straighten this out right now. "Don't get the wrong idea. I like the way you look, but—"

  "Hello, Agnes."

  He spun to find Priscilla coming up the walk a dozen feet away. Had she heard anything? He scrambled to remember the conversation with Agnes but found nothing Priscilla could fault him for. "Afternoon, Priscilla."

  "Mr. Braxton." She nodded and kept coming.

  "Hello, Priscilla." Agnes stepped forward almost as if to block Priscilla. "Mr. Braxton and I were just taking an evening stroll. Would you care to join us?"

  Damned if Priscilla's smile didn't look genuine.

  Please say yes.

  "Oh, how sweet of you to invite me along, but Thalia is expecting me." She slipped past them and went on her way.

  Turn around and look at me. Turn around.

  She didn't.

  Blazes. He hadn't noticed he and Agnes had reached Pine Street. He should have paid more attention to where he was going than who was beside him. Well, he had wondered how Priscilla would look if she saw them. Now he knew.

  She appeared abysmally content.

  Chapter Thirteen

  What did a man do to win a woman? Braxton drummed his fingers on the desk and cursed himself for his stupid move the evening before, trying to make Priscilla jealous by walking with Agnes.

  Flowers? Chocolates? Serenades under her window? He had a pleasant voice but not good enough to win a woman.

  Maybe if he did all three?

  "You look lost in thought," Etta said, entering the office.

  "Yeah." He took his feet off the desk and sat forward, his arms on the desk top "You're a woman. Tell me how a man goes about wooing one of your kind?"

  Her eyes widened, and her brows rose. "You want to woo someone?"

  "Maybe I do. What of it?" He glowered at her and stood. "Guess I'll go on my rounds."

  "Sit down, Brax." Etta sat down on the opposite side of the desk and picked up her coffee that had probably gone cold while she was out settling a fight between two kids. "I don't suppose this is about Priscilla, is it? O
r, wait, a bit ago, you were squiring Agnes around the neighborhood."

  Laughter danced in her eyes, but it didn't appease Braxton. Especially the jab about Agnes. "It isn't about Agnes."

  "All right. Priscilla then. What do you want to know? How to smooth her ruffled feathers over yesterday's jaunt with Agnes?"

  He darted her a killing glance. "Dammit, stop rubbing it in. Just tell me what to do."

  Etta stood to freshen her coffee. "All right. How angry did she look?"

  "Not angry, just… cold. Like she didn't give a damn."

  "Hm." Etta resumed her seat. "The best thing to do, Brax, is talk to her. Be honest. Tell her you wanted to make her jealous."

  "I didn't say I was trying to do that."

  "No, but I'm right, aren’t I?"

  He locked eyes with her, scowling.

  "Okay, never mind. If you want to win Priscilla, I'd say court her properly." She lifted her feet and crossed her ankles on a corner of the desk. "Dress up nice, pick her some flowers, maybe buy her some candy at the mercantile, or, better yet, a cake from the Crystal Cafe. Take them to her, get down on your knees if you must, and ask her to forgive you."

  He studied a hangnail on his thumb. "I don't have any nice clothes."

  "I have some of Charlie's dressy things left. I'll give them to you tonight."

  Braxton gave her a blank look. What he wanted to do was storm over to Priscilla's, throw open the door and haul the woman upstairs. But he knew it wouldn't give him what he wanted most.

  "You love her, don't you?" Etta asked quietly.

  "Yeah, reckon I do. I think I fell for her the moment when I woke up to see her lying in bed beside me."

  Etta smirked. "Well, you're sure taking your time acting on your feelings. Have you told her you love her? Of course not." She shook her head. "You men are the most foolish, obstinate, hard-headed—"

  "All right," he interrupted, holding up a hand. "I get the point."

  And he did. Etta had it right. He was foolish, hard-headed, obstinate, and he had only himself to blame. If he hadn't gotten fallen into self-pity and gotten soused on lousy rotgut, none of this would have happened.

  Well, Irish and Logan might still have robbed the bank, but he wouldn't have been involved.

  Nor would he have ended up in Wildcat Ridge or met Priscilla. The fact was he didn't deserve her. She was too good for him. She deserved a true gentleman, one who'd take her to the opera, if they still had any in Wildcat Ridge, treat her with the utmost respect and gentility. Not a broke wallowing-in-the-dirt prospector like him. He could never make her happy.

  When Priscilla heard the knock on the front door the next morning, she debated whether to open it for fear she'd find Braxton standing there. She didn't know what to say to him after seeing him with Agnes on his arm the evening before. Her heart had felt sliced in two, and she'd wanted to tear into Agnes for trying to steal her man. But Braxton Gamble wasn't Priscilla's man.

  To realize how much she'd let herself care about the man mortified her. Had she no control over her emotions at all?

  Maybe she could pretend not to be home. Once she'd peeked out through the lace curtain, she wished her visitor were Braxton.

  "Open up, Mrs. Heartsel," Mortimer Crane ordered. "I've already seen you."

  She swung the door inward, standing in the gap to discourage him from trying to come inside. "Hello, Mr. Crane. How are you today?"

  He gave her a fixed glare. "Sick and tired of you women refusing to move out of here. I can't control them all, but I can you."

  Despite her attempt to keep the door closed, he shoved it open, pushing her up against the wall as he forced his way in.

  "I own this land, and I want you out of here. By this time next week, the church and this house will no longer exist." He stalked through the house poking his nose into each room and glancing upstairs. "This furniture came with the place, didn't it?"

  Anger flickered inside her at his bully tactics. She faced him squarely. "No. It did not. My father brought this furniture with us when we came to Wildcat Ridge. And as far as the land goes, you donated it to the town for a church."

  His chest made a rumbly noise. Not a pleasant noise like Santa Claus chuckling; more like the rumble of distant thunder, a threatening sound. "But I own the town, Mrs. Heartsel, so it makes little difference, does it?"

  "You own part of the town, buildings and lots here and there no one purchased." She balled her hands wanting to strike the man. "That limits your control over the Ridge's residents and you've already gotten rid of the poor people who couldn't pay your exorbitant rents."

  "Doesn't include you, however." He moved uncomfortably near.

  She stepped back enough to evade him but not enough to let him think he was scaring her off. "I should be allowed to stay here until a new minister arrives."

  "And what if a new minister never shows up? What then, missy?" He poked at her mother's books and figurines on the shelf by the fireplace, nearly knocking them onto the brick hearth. At least, it put some distance between them. "You going to start paying rent as you ought to be?"

  She wanted to order him to keep his hands off her mother's things, but as much of a bully as he was, he'd probably break them instead. "Is that why you came here, to demand rent from me?"

  "Well…" Cunning came into his eyes and he closed the gap between them, taking hold of her arm. "Perhaps we can find another way for you to pay your debt to me. I know you have no money."

  His gaze trailing over her body left little doubt what he had in mind. He licked his lips and tilted his head toward hers, puckering up.

  Priscilla gave a hard yank, freeing her arm, though she knew it would result in bruises. "My fiancée might have something to say about it."

  He stopped cold. "Your fiancée?" He laughed. "Who might that be? Dinky Moon?"

  "No. Braxton Gamble, the marshal's deputy."

  His eyes narrowed, and his mouth tightened. "Since when does she have a deputy? Damn fool woman has no business tramping around here pretending to be a legitimate lawman."

  Priscilla slipped behind a wing chair. "She was Charles Fawks's deputy as well as his wife before he died. The law reads in the event of a marshal's death or inability to perform his duties, the deputy should be considered the marshal's replacement until he returned or is replaced."

  His brows rose. "How would you know that?"

  "Etta and I looked it up in Charlie's book on territorial law. Besides, she was elected to become our new marshal."

  His countenance turned the color of beet soup and he spat an ugly oath. "You damned women think you're so smart, going behind my back and trying to cut me out of matters that concern me." He shook a fist in her face. "You'll all be sorry. This town, including your new hot springs venture, is mine. I'm sick to death of you whores hiding things from me."

  Hot springs! How had he learned about that?

  "I'm very busy today, Mr. Crane, and have places I need to go. You may let yourself out." She pointed to the exit, unwilling to get close to him again.

  He walked to the door, pausing on the threshold. "You see here, missy. I'll be back to collect my 'rent,' and you better be ready."

  "Why don't you stop at the jail and discuss it with Deputy Gamble?"

  She wanted to slap herself for saying something that stupid. Braxton would be caught cold if Mortimer did as she suggested. Then the slimy pig would know she'd lied.

  From the window, she watched him swagger down the walk to the street and turn into the alley leading to Front Street. Maybe she could beat him to the jail and warn Braxton. What he would make of her lie, she neither knew nor cared, as long as he didn't throw her to the wolves, or in this case, the lech.

  She raced through the house to the back door and out into the kitchen yard, shortening the distance to the jail. Ice, snow and mud soaked her thin slippers as she ran down Pine Street. When she reached the jail, she called Braxton through the cell window.

  "Priscilla?" His head poked th
rough the doorway between the cells and the office. "Is that you?"

  "Yes. Please come over here. I have to tell you something."

  He hurried to her, clasped the bars with his fists the way he had when he had been incarcerated there, and peered out at her. "What's going on?"

  "Mortimer Crane is on his way here to talk to you."

  "Me?" He glanced at the door to the office where Etta sat at her desk. When she looked up, he jerked his head for her to join them.

  "What's the matter, Priscilla?" Worry etched a wrinkle on Etta's brow.

  "Close the door to the office in case Mortimer comes in," Priscilla whispered.

  Braxton's hands tightened around the bars. "Has he been giving you trouble?"

  "He wants me to pay…" She hesitated, too embarrassed to put the man's horrible threat into words.

  "You mean in some way not involving cash?" Etta asked.

  Priscilla nodded.

  "The bastard!" Braxton exploded. He shoved back from the wall and bolted for the door.

  "Wait, Brax," Etta stopped him. "Let's hear what else Priscilla has to say before we go off half-cocked."

  He paused, his eyes softening when he looked at Priscilla. "Was there more, honey?"

  "No, except he wants me out of the rectory. He even tried to claim my furniture."

  "Not while I'm alive," Braxton muttered.

  The sound of the outside door into the office being thrust open ended the whispered conversation.

  "Marshal Fawks?" Mortimer yelled. "Where the devil are you?"

  The door to the cells flew open and there he was. Priscilla ducked down out of sight.

  "What are you two doing back here when you have no prisoners?" He nodded toward the tidy cot.

  "Taking inventory of blankets, towels and such." Etta herded the man back into the office and closed the door behind her.

  Braxton hurried back to the window. "When he was at your house, how'd you get rid of him?"

  "I…. Well, I lied, God forgive me. That's what I need to tell you about."

  "Why? What did you lie about?"

  "When he suggested I pay him… with special favors, I told him my fiancée might have something to say about it."