Miss Phipps and the Cattle Baron

by Patricia Watters

  Mabel shot to her feet. "I say we all do like Josephine Hoffman and have our husbands put ads in The Town Tattler. Miss Phipps is doing us a real service, spreading the word for women to vote. It's the only way we'll be sure that the likes of Lord Whittington or his kind don't get elected." Hands clapped and eager voices rose in agreement.

  Priscilla couldn't believe the way things had taken a turn. Although she hadn't intended to take a stance, tonight's meeting clearly put her on the side of the homesteaders, especially if these women's husbands started taking out ads. And if what the women said about the cattlemen were true, and there was no reason to believe the women lied, Adam, having one of the larger herds in the territory, would be one of them.

  But she didn't want to think about that right now. All she wanted to think of was being with Adam tonight and all the titillating things he intended to do when they were alone and naked in the bedroom suite, with the big bathtub filled with warm water.

  Imagining the meeting over and Adam striding through the doorway to take her away, she glanced at the door, and to her mortification, saw him standing just inside. Wearing jeans and a buckskin shirt, and looking like he'd just come riding in off the range, he stood glaring at her, eyes narrowed, hat clasped between tense fingers.

  She didn't have to wonder how long he'd been standing there or how much he'd heard to know what he was thinking. The hard, cold look in his eyes said it all.

  CHAPTER SIX

  'She gives her orders and has her way

  as absolutely as her father did.'

  — Spanish ambassador De Feria, in 1559

  "Trudy!" Adam said in a commanding voice, bringing all conversation to a halt. "Get in your buggy and go home immediately."

  "Yes, Father," Trudy said, obediently. Lowering herself from the table, Trudy pressed her way between the women and scurried past her father.

  Adam said nothing more, just stood, arms folded, staring at Priscilla.

  Amid the rustle of voices, Mabel cupped her hand around a woman's ear and said, in a hushed tone, "That's him. Lord Whittington."

  "The one who's running for mayor?" the other women said, her voice quiet, but audible to others around her.

  Mabel nodded. "He's the one. Probably here to start trouble. I wouldn't want to be in Miss Phipps shoes right now. He's madder'n a hornet."

  "He's that alright," the other women said. "I'm leaving before there's trouble." The woman turned, slipped past Adam and left, followed by several others.

  "Please," Priscilla called after them, while also addressing the remaining women in the room. "You folks don't need to run off. I'd like to talk about the kinds of ads we can offer."

  She glared at Adam, who stood immobile as a wooden Indian. He had no right standing there, glowering at her like he was ready to chew nails and spit them at her. It was her meeting, her readers, her building. She had not taken a political stance, and he had no justification for the way he was behaving. But it did make her wonder if he'd been a party to any of the acts of violence against the homesteaders that had been brought up at the meeting. From the lethal look on his face, she could imagine him being capable of it.

  Mabel moved to stand beside her, fixed her gaze on Adam, and said, "If you make trouble for Miss Phipps, Lord Whittington, you'd better be ready to take on a whole mob of women because we're all behind her. She's opened our eyes to things like exercising our right to vote, and we know now we can use that to keep men like you from getting elected and running us off." Three other women crowded around Priscilla to stare at Adam.

  Priscilla glanced around at the women, and said, "It's alright, ladies. I'm sure Lord Whittington isn't here to cause trouble. In fact, he was just leaving."

  Adam didn't budge. Nor did he respond. He just continued to stand and glare at Priscilla. Several more women left, and before long, only Edith, Libby, Mary Kate, Abigail and the women standing with Priscilla remained. Deciding that Adam was there to stay until the room cleared, she said to the women, "I'll be having another meeting next week, so we can continue then. Thank you all for coming, and I look forward to discussing with your husbands the kinds of ads they want to place in The Town Tattler. And don't forget to bring recipes and stories and bits and pieces for the Tattler column. Not outright gossip, but mainly what everyone is doing, and who they are doing it with."

  After a brief leave-taking, all of the women were gone, leaving Priscilla to face Adam's wrath. But she was angry too. Planting her hands on her hips, she said, "You have no right coming in here, driving those women away. They were here on my invitation, and it was a meeting open only to women."

  Adam unfolded his arms, but made no move toward her, as he said, "I came to tell you I was back, and what I found was my daughter on a table, yelling at a mob of angry women who'd like to see me run out of town on a rail, and you promoting the idea by saying nothing."

  "You were not here when I gave my presentation about the importance of voting," Priscilla countered. "What you heard when you came in was women exchanging information about what the cattlemen have been doing to intimidate them. I only intended to alert the women to the need to get out and vote."

  Adam shut the door so hard it made Priscilla jump with a start. "And you bloody well got your point across!" he bellowed. "Before you're through, every blooming woman in the territory will be out there voting against me!"

  Priscilla refused to be intimidated by Adam's loud words and bad-tempered behavior. "If they vote against you, it's their right. I'm not responsible for the way they vote. Besides, the meeting was open to all women, not just the homesteaders wives. The fact that no cattlemen's wives showed up is not my fault. But maybe it's best they didn't because they might have learned the truth about what their husbands' agents and range cowboys are up to while their husbands are doing whatever it is they do behind the closed doors to the private rooms of the Cheyenne Club."

  The muscles rippled up from Adam's clenched jaws as he pointed to the closed door and yelled, "You believed every damn thing those women said!"

  Priscilla glared at him. "You do not need to shout, Adam. My hearing is quite sound. And I had no reason to believe any of the women lied. Why would a woman claim that cattlemen cut their fence and ran cattle across their fields if they didn't?"

  "Because cattlemen are being blamed for things they don't do, and women like you believe it and keep the trumped-up stories going." Adam's voice rose to a shout again, as he added, "Next you'll probably print it all up in your silly little scandal sheet!"

  Priscilla was so mad, she felt as if her eyes were bulging when shook her clenched fist at Adam, and shouted, "So now The Town Tattler's nothing but a silly little scandal sheet! Well, Mr. High-and-Mighty-Cattle-Baron, we'll soon see which newspaper the folks around here buy. And since The Town Tattler is a scandal sheet, I might as well print the gossip about what really goes on in those private rooms in the Cheyenne Club. I've heard a whole range of talk... men entertaining women who are not their wives, high-stake gambling when gambling's supposed to be forbidden. With luck, and a little snooping, I might even be able to include the men's names in the account. I imagine your cattlemen's wives would be more than happy to tell all about their rival's husbands. In fact, I can almost guarantee it. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'd like to get on with the next edition of my scandal sheet. You found your way in, you can find your way out."

  Adam shoved his hat on his head. "And you can bloody well keep Trudy out of this. She doesn't need her head filled with a lot of women's suffrage nonsense!" He turned abruptly and left, slamming the door behind.

  And all Priscilla could think to do was to slip off her shoe and throw it at the door. It landed with a thud on the floor. But as she hobbled over to retrieve it, an idea began to take form.

  Little scandal sheet indeed!

  ***

  From his place at the head of the long table, Adam glanced over at Priscilla, sitting demurely in a fashionable gown that revealed more cleavage than he would have expec
ted from her. Although décolleté gowns were the fashion, he had not expected her to wear one, even to the theater where women would be in competition as to who could display the most bosom without being arrested for indecent exposure. His eyes dropped to the swell of Priscilla's beautifully-rounded breasts where the gown dipped dangerously low, and he imagined the perfect pink nipples he'd feasted his lips onto, while in the buggy. With each of Priscilla's breaths, as he stared at her now, those perfect pink nipples came dangerously close to rising into view. And all he could think was that tonight was to have been their night. Those creamy white breasts, and the rest of her beautiful body, were to be his to hold and caress and do with what he pleased.

  He'd bought theater tickets for the entire family and given the servants the night off with money for an evening out, except for his manservant, Aubrey, who was to remain long enough to prepare his bed with fresh linens, fill the bathtub with warm water, and have a fire on the hearth in the bedroom before leaving. After the deflowering, when Priscilla would be languid and satiated and relaxed in his arms, he'd proceed again, slower that time, while instructing her in the finer art of lovemaking, though he was certain that before long, she'd be teaching him things.

  She was unlike any woman he'd ever known.

  Then all his plans went awry...

  When Priscilla arrived at the house, after their heated confrontation, she was approached by his mother before he could take Priscilla aside and try to mend things, in preparation for their evening together. While he stood waiting for whatever his mother was about, his mother asked Priscilla if she'd like to join them at the theater, and Priscilla answered so quickly, he knew she had no intention of carrying through with their plans, and instead, wanted to be away from him. Away from their night of sensual pleasure, and possibly the only chance they'd have.

  Which was probably for the best.

  They were on opposite sides of a very important issue, and she was a strong-willed woman on a mission that could effectively shut down his campaign. That thought alone could hamper his ability to perform sexually—something that had never happened to him. And he didn't wish to suffer the humiliation of being unable to function in bed. But then, he'd never been faced with bedding a woman as direct as Priscilla, a virgin no less, who insisted that if it was to be her first and last experience, he must make it worth her while. That alone could put a damper on his ability to carry out the deflowering. It sure as hell was doing it now. That part of him was as limp and listless as an old man's...

  "Adam?" Lady Whittington said, drawing him away from the alarming notion that he might have lost his virility, "are you certain you will not join us tonight? A Midsummer Night's Dream is a very entertaining play, and you so rarely come with us. And I know Priscilla would enjoy your company." She smiled at Priscilla, which disturbed Adam.

  Ever since his mother consulted Burke's Peerage and found a link between Priscilla and the Tudors, she'd seemed intent on playing matchmaker. She'd spread the word of her discovery among her circle of friends, who now viewed Priscilla as royalty.

  He looked at Priscilla, who held his gaze unblinking, her face impassive. But beautiful, he realized. Queenly. Posture erect, flawless freckled skin lightly powdered, hair swept up with curls framing her oval face, slender white neck inviting his lips. And her eyes, large and luminous in the light from the candelabras, were fixed on him. She was like an ugly duckling turning into a beautiful swan. Then her full lips parted and her tongue came out to dampen them, leaving them moist and inviting...

  And what lay limp and listless below his belt moments before was coming to life so quickly, he had to covertly tug at his crotch to accommodate the change. He found himself again feasting his eyes on the high round mounds forming her deep cleavage. "Yes, I suppose I could join you at the theater," he found himself saying. He shifted his gaze upward and focused on a pair of lips that now held a Mona Lisa smile.

  Hellfire and damnation! The woman was a curse. She'd bewitched him. It was the gown. She wore it to seduce him then agreed to go to the theater to make sure he couldn't act on it. And now, for some reason he couldn't hope to understand, she'd won their standoff. He was following her to the theater, the urge to bed her foremost on his mind. And she was toying with him like a cat toyed with a mouse, which was evident when she lifted her goblet to her lips, took a slow sip of wine while peering at him over the rim, then ran the tip of her tongue in a circle over her lips... slowly... seductively... drawing his attention to her mouth, and the promise of what that held.

  Shoving his chair back, he stood and said, "I have to change for the theater." He hoped the bulge in his trousers wasn't noticeable. But he saw Priscilla's gaze drop and hold, and when she tipped her glass in a silent toast, it was all he could do to keep from grabbing her arm and hauling her to the nearest bedroom. Then, on the other hand, maybe he would not take her virginity. Maybe he'd let her stay in her candy shop, frustrated and untouched.

  But that was his quandary. There would be others ready to open up the jars so she could taste the candy. And he wanted to be the only one to do that. It was a hell of a dilemma.

  ***

  They rode to the Opera House in an elegant black town coach pulled by a team of four blacks with patent leather collars and silver rosettes on their face pieces. The footman and coachman were smartly dressed in dark blue greatcoats with rows of shiny brass buttons, and matching trousers tucked into high black boots, and top hats perched on their heads. As the audience poured into the opera house, each lady received a perfumed silk, blue and white program. They ascended the grand stairway and made their way to Adam's private box, which looked down on the crowd below.

  Lady Whittington insisted on the end seat, placing Priscilla beside her and next to Adam, and during the play it raised havoc with Adam's libido. Every time Priscilla laughed at the antics of the performers, the swells of her breasts jiggled and quaked and moved in concert with her laughter, constantly drawing his attention to them. And when the lights came on at intermission, and he still found himself staring, Priscilla toyed with the cameo hanging in the concave above her cleavage, as she said, "You seem interested in my cameo. I presume that's what you were staring at. My mother gave it to me on my sixteenth birthday. If you look at it closely, you'll see that it's a likeness of Queen Elizabeth."

  Adam lifted the cameo and held it between his thumb and index finger, the heel of his hand resting against the swell of Priscilla's soft, warm breast. "I suppose it does," he said, fighting the urge to place a kiss where his hand lay. Had they been alone he would have, though he had no idea how she'd receive him at this point. She seemed intent on putting him through some kind of hell for breaking up her meeting and attacking the dignity of her paper. But that was a matter separate from his bedding her, though she might have already decided he would not be the man to whom she would give up her virginity, a thought that troubled him deeply...

  "There's an inscription on the back," she said, inviting him to turn the cameo over.

  He allowed his fingers to trail over her bosom as he did, and her breath quickened. As he read the inscription, the rise and fall of her chest increased, bringing her breasts pressing against the heel of his hand with each breath. "It's difficult to see," he said, wanting a reason to keep his hand against her soft, warm flesh.

  "Then look closer," Priscilla said, straightening her back while thrusting out her chest to accommodate him. "The inscription is small. You'll have to look very close."

  Adam inclined his head over the cameo and caught a glimpse of a pink nipple winking at him each time Priscilla's chest contracted with her deep breaths. "What are you trying to do, Priscilla?" he said in a hushed voice, so his mother wouldn't hear.

  "I have no idea what you're talking about," Priscilla replied.

  "You know exactly what I'm talking about," Adam said, keeping his voice low. "You lured me here wearing a gown displaying breasts I'd been expecting to hold and kiss in the privacy of my bedroom suite. I doubt we'll g
et another chance to carry out our plan."

  "Might I remind you that that was your plan," Priscilla said, in a hoarse whisper. "You bought the tickets and planned the evening, then informed me of what you'd done."

  "I was trying to facilitate your desire to give up your virginity," Adam groused.

  "How very accommodating of you."

  "Adam?!" His mother's voice startled him. "What are you doing?"

  "He's trying to read the inscription on my cameo," Priscilla said. "My mother gave it to me on my sixteenth birthday and had it inscribed with 'to Bess from Mother.' Like I told Adam, the cameo is a likeness of the queen."

  Adam released the cameo and knotted his fist against his knee. Damn the woman. Damn her teasing. And damn what was taking place below his belt. Why he agreed to go through this torture was still a mystery to him.

  "Then your mother must have been certain you were descended from the Tudors," Lady Whittington said, fingers laced in delight...

  "Edwina!" Lady Bertha Ashbury, the hub of Cheyenne's British society, bent down and gave Adam's mother an air kiss, then looked at Priscilla, and said, "And you must be Miss Phipps. Edwina... Lady Whittington, has told us so much about you. It must be thrilling to be a direct descendant of several kings, as well as a cousin of Queen Elizabeth."

  "Well actually," Priscilla said, "it has not been estab—"

  "Priscilla, dear," Lady Whittington cut in, "show Lady Ashbury your cameo." Lady Whittington turned to Lady Ashbury. "It's a likeness of the queen. Miss Phipps was just showing it to Adam. The inscription on the back reads, 'to Bess from Mother.' Everyone called Miss Phipps Bess when she was growing up. Isn't that lovely?"