Miss Phipps and the Cattle Baron

by Patricia Watters

  Her hand came up, trapping his hand beneath hers. Eyes wide, nostrils flaring with her quickened breaths, she removed her hand at once and pressed it to her chest, seeming to be struggling for air. Fearing she might swoon, Adam took her by the arms and said, "Are you all right? You look a bit winded. Perhaps you've been trying to do too much too soon." Her arms were well-muscled, he noted—a woman without a man to do her heavy work. Which explained why she looked so fit for a woman approaching middle age. That thought had the odd effect of making his pants grow tighter. What in hell was coming over him with this woman. responding like a pubescent male, becoming aroused by the sight of a trim ankle or the pointy tips of budding breasts pressing against a dress.

  "Yes, I suppose you're right," she said. "With my pressman laid up, I've been entirely on my own to put things in order." She lowered her hand from her chest, drawing his attention to the rise and fall of her ample bosom and the way the front of her dress stretched with each breath. His pants became tighter. He looked up to find her staring at that part of him, eyes wide. After a series of nervous, blinks, she said in a voice, edged with panic, "Thank you for helping. Please leave at once. I must get back to work."

  Realizing she feared she was in danger of losing her virginity to a potential rapist, Adam said, "I assure you, you are in no danger of me taking advantage of you." When her face reddened with mortification, he clarified. "What I mean is, I apologize for removing the cobwebs from your hair. I had no right to approach you in that way."

  Her darkened pupils diminished, as she replied in a nervous voice, "I'm afraid my hair is a blessing, and a curse. A blessing because I don't need to fuss with curling irons, and a curse because those curls collect anything they come in contact with."

  Adam scanned the tangle of curls, some caught up in combs, others springing free and framing her face. "You're right," he said. "Along with the cobwebs are tiny pieces of debris." Fighting the urge to pick the pieces out one at a time, he said, "From whom did you inherit your very red hair? Your mother, or your father?"

  She combed her fingers through her hair, dislodging pieces of debris and sending a tortoise comb askew. "Red hair has come down through my father's line, presumably since Tudor times," she replied. "The carrot color is also a curse, as you can imagine. But it's what God gave me, so I accept it, though I sometimes wonder why He was angry with me to do so."

  Until now, Adam thought carrot red hair as unattractive as the pale, freckle-faced women who seemed to be burdened with it. Oddly, it didn't seem as unsightly as before. "Why do you believe red hair is a curse, Miss Phipps?" he asked.

  Her eyes rolled upward, as if trying to see her own hair, as she said, "Because clearly men turn from women with bright red hair, afraid perhaps that if they were to marry them, they would beget a brood of freckle-faced children with the same. But I'm used to that, and if God appeared right now and asked me if I'd like for Him to change the color of my hair and make my freckles vanish, I'd smile and assure Him that He has, in fact, blessed me. Because of my hair, and the unappealing way I look, I have become a strong, self-supporting woman who is not in need of a man for my livelihood and wellbeing. In fact, I believe it was God's plan for me to be completely independent of a man."

  "Except when you need one to tear apart the crate containing your press," Adam reminded her, with a smile. To his surprise, Miss Phipps smiled back, revealing a set of the most perfect white teeth he'd ever seen. And they were framed by a pair of lips that begged to be kissed, though he wondered if she'd ever been kissed. From the way she talked, there was a distinct possibility that she had not. The thought of being the first was oddly appealing...

  Without thinking he leaned toward her, and she quickly stepped backwards, tripping over a box. She landed with a thud on her backside, sending her skirt flaring up to her knees. Adam crouched beside her. "Are you all right?" he asked, eyes roaming over a pair of well-shaped calves and slender ankles devoid of stockings. Impulsively, he raised his hand to touch the smooth white flesh, then caught himself and reached for the hem of her skirt instead, drawing it down to cover her legs.

  She seemed at a loss for words, and he had to remind himself that Miss Priscilla Phipps was probably as innocent of the ways of men as a girl half her age. She had all but admitted that there had been no men in her life because of her unappealing looks, which he was actually beginning to find quite pleasing, in an peculiar sort of way. "I'm fine," she said. "Clumsiness is also one of my curses. God did have fun putting me together. But then, I guess even He is in need of some amusement at times."

  Adam stood and extended his hand. She grasped it, and after pulling her to stand in front of him, he looked into her eyes and said with all sincerity, "And I believe God did man a great service when he put you together, Miss Phipps." His eyes drifted downward to her breasts. "A fine job indeed." Realizing where his gaze had strayed, he looked up.

  Face flushed, she said, "What you are referring to are the only things God did right by me. Now if you'll excuse me, Lord Whittington, I ask that you leave because—" her eyes darted to his crotch and shot back up "—God is also creating a problem for you that is inappropriate while in the presence of a woman who is not your wife. Good day."

  Adam gave her a little nod, and said, "Your point is well taken. Good Day, Miss Phipps." He turned and left, wondering what the devil was coming over him. He'd bedded many strikingly beautiful women over the years, but as he headed toward his buggy, he realized that a homely spinster woman, well past her prime, was effecting him unlike any woman ever had. It was a strange and perplexing conundrum that the one woman, who shattered all the standards he'd ever set for his next wife, would catch his interest.

  ***

  Three hours later, Abigail, Libby, Edith and Mary Kate came bursting in, faces flushed with excitement. Abigail tossed her hat in the corner, spun around, and said to Priscilla, "There's going to be a picnic social after church next Sunday, and all the single women for miles around will be coming with picnic baskets for the single men to bid on. It's a fundraiser for the church, and I'm going to pack the best picnic basket there."

  Edith pursed her lips. "And what if your Mr. Bottoms bids on it?"

  Abigail's face fell. "He is not my Mr. Bottoms. But surely he wouldn't bid. He knows he'd be wasting his money."

  Edith shrugged. "I hope you're right. All I know is, young Frank Gifford better bid on my basket because if he doesn't, I'm going to feign illness and leave."

  Libby rolled her eyes. "There will be hundreds of other eligible young men there, Edith. You don't have to settle on young Frank Gifford."

  "I am not settling on him," Edith said. "I want to get to know him better, and this is the best way I can think how." She looked at Priscilla. "You need to go too," she said. "There might be a nice older man eager to spend time with you. And who knows, he might be all the things you're looking for in a husband."

  "I am not looking for a husband," Priscilla said. "I have enough to keep me busy with the newspaper without complicating my life with a man. Besides," she added, "it would be very embarrassing if no man bid on my basket."

  "Of course someone would bid on your basket," Edith said. "You are a very... nice woman. Many men would like to have lunch with you."

  Priscilla braced her hands on her hips. "Yes, but they would be men like Jeremy Bottoms, and Clayton Rathborn, and... Lord Whittington." Her face flushed then, and she couldn’t disguise the smile twitching the corners of her mouth.

  Edith clapped her hands in delight. "You are going to the picnic, Miss Priscilla, and you will bring a basket. And the four of us are going to fix you up so even you will be amazed at the way you look when we are finished."

  Before Priscilla could protest, the women rushed up the stairs, chattering excitedly about the prospect of fixing up Miss Priscilla. Which seemed pointless. She did not want a man running her life. With a nice nest egg in the bank, printing equipment to start anew, and the experience to make The Town Tattler a success, sh
e could remain independent. It would, however, be sensible to meet the women comprising Cheyenne's social core, since they'd be her subscribers. And it was, after all, a fundraiser for the church. So perhaps she would endure lunch with a man. Even if it turned out to be Lord Adam Whittington...

  Her gaze rested on the press, and she imagined how it had been the day before, when Lord Whittington leaned toward her, as if to kiss her. That image faded into one of them sitting on a blanket on the church grounds. She'd reach into her picnic basket and hand him a meat pie, and he'd break off a small piece and put it in her mouth. She'd look into his eyes and chew and smile, and he'd brush a crumb from her lips and curve his hand behind her neck and pull her to him and kiss her soundly, just like in her Dime Novels...

  She fanned her face, realizing she'd broken into a sweat.

  Silly, foolish woman. Why on earth would Adam Whittington bid on her basket? With his wealth, and his vast land holdings, and his handsome face, he could have any woman he wanted. But she would not be packing a picnic basket to lure Adam Whittington onto her blanket. She'd be doing it to help raise funds for the church, and that was what mattered most. That, and getting her newspaper started.

  She looked at the press and tried to envision Jim pulling the first edition of The Town Tattler off the type bed. But the only image that came was of Adam's lips moving toward hers. But this time their lips came together in a fiery kiss that sent her sprawling backwards and her petticoats flying up to expose her legs as before. But instead of pulling down her skirt as he had, Adam would put his hand on her leg and push her skirt up further, until he'd be looking at the full length of her bare leg. And she'd make no move to stop him. Then his fingers would come up to undo her dress, and she'd be wearing nothing under it. He'd look at her breasts, which were as free of freckles as a new-born babe's. God had done a good job with them, so she'd be proud for Adam to see them... Tingles rushed up her body, settling like pinpoints of pleasure in the pointy tips of her breasts. God had blessed her there as well, giving her small pretty nipples as soft and pink as flower petals. Odd how they grew hard and pebbly when she had naughty thoughts. Deliciously naughty ones like she was having now...

  And those were the thoughts she took with her when she curled up on her mattress pad later that night... And they were there the next morning when the first light of dawn fell on her eyelids. Before long, she found herself considering the contents of her picnic basket. A basket that would be filled with delicacies that included pasties, and meat pies, and custard tarts, and other British delicacies intended to attract the notice of a certain British lord.

  CHAPTER THREE

  'The hardest thing to govern is the heart.'

  — from Elizabeth 1

  Priscilla stared at herself in the mirror, scarcely believing what she saw. The women had transformed her into someone she barely recognized. Someone she actually liked. Abigail and Libby had all but covered her freckles using a mixture of bases and powders that they prepared. Then they focused on her eyes, plucking her blond brows and darkening them with pencil, brushing green eye shadow onto her eyelids, dusting her blond lashes with oxide. For a touch of color on her face, they applied a trace of rouge to her cheeks and a reddener to her lips. When her face was done, Edith and Mary Kate took over, sweeping her hair up on top of her head and catching it with tortoiseshell combs, then pulling out ringlets to frame her face and tickle the back of her neck. In the place of a hat, they tucked silk flowers into the upsweep of her hair.

  Although she'd originally planned on wearing a simple tailormade, the women were adamant that she wear a dress belonging to Libby, and she reluctantly agreed. It was a Surah silk in alternate stripes of glossy lime and dull-surfaced olive green, with a high ruffled collar, rows of tiny tucks running down the front of the bodice, and great bouffant sleeves that drew together at the elbows and hugged her forearms. Below the wasp waist, the skirt gathered at the small of her back and rose over one of the new braided wire bustles. And below the sharp point of the bodice, it flared over her hips and tapered in at the ankles, giving her figure the sought after hour-glass look. She wasn't sure how she was going to sit on the ground on a blanket during the picnic, but she'd worry about that when the time came. A lime silk parasol trimmed in olive green topped off her outfit. Opening it and twirling it against her shoulder, she turned around slowly in front of the full-length mirror. For the first time in her life, she felt pretty.

  Maybe someone would bid on her basket. She'd packed it with pastry sandwiches and small pigeon pies, and custard tarts, and plum pudding with lemon sponge, and cucumbers and tomatoes and an array of cheeses. Lastly, she included a small loaf of freshly-baked bread, sweet cream butter, and a baked tongue for slicing. She tucked in a bottle of wine and two wine goblets. She was sorry she had to purchase everything already prepared from stores, but the kitchen in her building was not yet serviceable. She hoped to rectify that soon, but getting the first issue of The Town Tattler out took priority.

  Picnic baskets loaded into the back of the buckboard, Priscilla and the women set out for St. Marks Episcopal church and the picnic social that would follow the service. Priscilla couldn't help wondering what Lord Adam Whittington's reaction would be on seeing her fixed up as she was. If he noticed her at all, that is.

  ***

  Adam gazed at Priscilla, dumbfounded. When she'd first arrived at the social he'd wondered who she was. But on closer inspection, he realized it was the homely spinster he'd been unable to shake from his mind. Not only did her dress accentuate her very shapely figure, but her red hair gleamed like spun copper, the heat of day brought high color to her cheeks, and her eyes seem to dominate her face. Even at a distance he could see that they looked green, obviously taking on the hues of her green dress.

  Standing in a circle of women while talking with great enthusiasm, she seemed to have captured the full attention of the wives of his opponents in Cheyenne's upcoming mayoral race, as well as the wife of Wyoming's territorial governor. Whatever she was telling the women, they were listening with rapt attention.

  He suspected there was far more to Miss Priscilla Phipps than he'd initially thought. She appeared to be elucidating to the women in the circle around her something of great interest to them, and he was curious to know what it was. He also had a business offer to make to her. He'd been mulling it over for days, and it seemed the answer to at least one of his problems. The other problem would take a woman in his bed to solve, and Miss Phipps was not yet ready to fill that role. But she would be eventually, he vowed.

  Picking up the blanket roll he'd brought as a ground cover, he tucked it under his arm and joined the throng of men sauntering over to where the picnic baskets were set for viewing, and prepared to make his bid. He'd have Miss Phipps' company for the afternoon, along with her basket of tempting delicacies, whatever it cost. But already he saw several men gathered around her basket and knew the bid was rising.

  Thirty minutes later, Adam went to collect Priscilla and her picnic basket. He had not expected to bid against two other men. And the price of the basket turned out to be considerably higher than he'd anticipated. But she was his for the afternoon, and he intended to take full advantage of it. He had his business offer to make her, along with a curiosity as to what she'd been telling the women that had held them captive. He also intended to kiss her before the day was done. He had not seen her since he'd helped her unpack her printing press, but from the look on her face, she was shocked with the bid her basket brought, or maybe because he was the one to aggressively go after it and prevail.

  He walked up to where she stood beside her basket and said, "Miss Phipps, I believe you will be joining me for the afternoon."

  Her mouth darted into a smile. "You have put up quite a bit of money, Lord Whittington," she said. "I hope what I have put together in my picnic basket will not be a disappointment."

  He shoved the blanket roll tighter into his armpit, picked up the picnic basket and offered his other arm fo
r her to take. "I was not bidding on what is in your basket, " he said, as she slid her hand into the crook of his arm, "I was bidding on your company. And I propose we dispense with the formalities and you call me Adam, and I'd like very much to call you Priscilla." Her face flushed, and moisture brightened her eyes. He looked at her, curious. "I hope that intriguing response means you're in agreement with me," he said, escorting her around the side of the church, away from the gathering.

  She quickened her pace to keep up with him, the tapered gown causing her steps to be short and swift. "Intriguing response?" she asked, clearly befuddled.

  "Your eyes," he said, looking down at her as she walked beside him. "They are bright with tears, which I hope are tears of joy, not dread."

  She blinked several times. "They are neither, Lord... Adam," she said. "They are reacting to the... dust in the air. It stings my eyes and makes them water."

  Adam glanced around. "The day seems clear. And I would like to think your tears are tears of enthusiasm." He stopped at a secluded spot in the shade of a giant cottonwood tree and set the picnic basket down. "Shall we have our picnic here?"

  Priscilla continued to hold onto his arm as she looked around, brows gathered in a worried frown, and said, "We are out of view of the others."

  Adam smiled. "That was precisely my intent."

  She looked at him in alarm. "Why?"

  He patted her hand. "Because I'd like to spend time alone with you and not have curious eyes on us. It appears you have gotten the notice of Cheyenne's first ladies—the mayor's wife and the wife of our territorial governor—as well as the wives of two of the men who will be running against me in the upcoming election for mayor. If we were to sit in plain view of them, they'd all be watching us closely, and the women would be only too eager to cast doubt on my character, and yours, by starting tongues wagging."