Priscilla

by Charlene Raddon

  "Better not take the time," Etta said. "I brought Brax to get his bandage changed since Dr. Spense was called out of town and may be gone for a few days. He said to tell you he was sorry."

  "You asked him to take care of me?" Braxton asked. "So you wouldn't have to?"

  "I'm not a doctor, Mr. Gamble. I thought it was time someone who knew what they were doing saw you." Guilt filled her at seeing the expression on his face, as if she'd stabbed him in the back.

  "As soon as you're done, we'd better get back to the jail," Etta said. "We've been gone most of the day, and I don't like leaving it unattended too long."

  "All right." She pulled out a chair from the kitchen table. "Sit here, Mr. Gamble. I'll fetch my supplies."

  "Braxton," he said.

  She ignored him and dashed up the stairs. When she came back down, she asked how the day went.

  "Fine," Etta said. "Brax studied the springs and figured out exactly what area of land we needed to claim. The surveyor got his job done and everything is set now."

  Brax. Brax. Brax. They certainly were chummy.

  Stop it, Priscilla. You don't care, remember?

  "It's a breath-taking view," Braxton said. "Nicest spring I've ever seen, and I have been to a couple. I'd love to have a house on a little bench or flat spot above the springs. Imagine looking out your window at such a view every day."

  Priscilla smiled at the image he painted as she helped him remove his shirt. "That does sound nice. What do we do next? Hester said something about putting up a building to show we're developing the property."

  "That's a necessary part of claiming the land."

  Gunfire sounded in the distance. Etta went to the door. "I'd best go see what's going on. I'll be back to get you as soon as I can, Brax. Stay put."

  "I will. Take your time," he said, grinning.

  She left by the back door and they soon heard her horse gallop away.

  "This is a nice surprise," Braxton said. "I didn't expect to get time alone with you."

  "I'm finished," she said, tying a knot in the bandage to hold it in place. "You're welcome to wait in the parlor if you like. I have sewing to do."

  She left him in the kitchen and went to her sewing room at the back of the house. To her annoyance, he followed.

  He studied the fabric pieces laid out on a table. "What are you making?"

  "A dress for Thalia."

  "Nice color. She wears the drabbest clothes I've ever seen. Course, most of the women here wear black. Don't know how they can stand it. A person needs color in their life to stay positive."

  "I agree, Mr. Gamble. That's why I put my mourning clothes away."

  "And thank goodness for that," he said. "I like you in pretty colors."

  She shot him a glare. "I dress for myself, Mr. Gamble." Maybe he'd leave her alone if she went back to wearing black. He seemed to forget she was in mourning.

  "Braxton," he said. "Why can't you use my given name?"

  "It wouldn't be proper. You being in my house without a chaperone is bad enough, don't you think?"

  "Not at all. I like it." He sat in a chair and watched her pick up two pieces of skirt and sit at her sewing machine to stitch up the seam.

  "You would," she muttered.

  He laughed. "Tell me about your husband."

  "Why would you want to know?"

  "You can learn a lot about a person by gaining some knowledge of the important folks in her life."

  Priscilla let her hands go idle and looked at him. "If you want to know me better, why not ask me your questions?"

  He chuckled. "All right. What's the first thing you do when you wake up in the morning?"

  Her brows went up. "I get dressed. Don't you?"

  "Depends."

  She situated the fabric under her sewing machine needle and prepared to work the treadle. "On what?"

  "Whether I'm alone or not."

  Priscilla muttered a mild oath as she jerked and caused the needle to shy away from the seam. "Now I have to take out the stitches and start over. You're very distracting, Mr. Gamble."

  "Braxton, and I'm delighted to hear that. It means you aren't devoid of feelings for me."

  Snatching up her fabric pieces, she rose and tossed them onto the table. "I have no feelings for you. None whatsoever."

  "Are you sure?" he asked with a wink.

  The kitchen door opened and closed. "Priscilla? Where are you?"

  "In the sewing room, Etta."

  A moment later, the marshal appeared in the doorway. "Let's go, Brax. Some kids got hold of their father's six-shooter and were killing squirrels on the ridge. They had no way of knowing if those houses were unoccupied. Little monsters. I've got them at the jail. Now I have to go talk to their mothers."

  "Can I wait here?" he asked.

  "No, you can't," Priscilla blurted. "I mean, I'm sure the marshal has better things to do than worry about you."

  "She won't need to fret about me if I'm here," he argued.

  "That's irrelevant, Brax." Etta wiggled her fingers in a come-hither gesture. "I want you at the jail. Come on."

  He rose and followed the marshal out of the house. Priscilla watched from the parlor window as they mounted their horses and rode toward town.

  Why did that man rattle her so? He was a tease which made her uneasy. She didn't know how to react to a man like him. Or how to respond.

  Oh, come on, Priscilla, you enjoy sparring with him.

  Maybe, but knowing didn't make her happy. It scared her.

  The next day when she went to change Braxton's bandage at the jail, she found him eating his dinner. He put the tray down, stood and started toward her. The sudden feeling she wanted to touch him had her jumping away from the bars.

  "Go ahead and eat. I don't mean to interrupt your meal. I can do the bandage when you're done."

  He sat back down and, talking around the bulge of food in his cheek, talked about the goings on in town. "I was thinking a minute ago about the springs. The town ought to order some bathing tubs to place beside the pools and fill them with the water for people to use. It would lessen the wear and tear on the natural pools."

  "You think we could make money from them then?"

  "Definitely. I'd fence the whole thing in, if I owned them," he went on. "You could have a small refreshment stand and sell coffee, tea and snacks. Maybe a dance floor for special events."

  "Sounds delightful." She liked watching him eat. He kept his mouth shut and chewed quietly. "No one mentioned what the surveyor had to say about them."

  "He was as shocked as a whore in church."

  Priscilla gasped.

  He eyed her for a moment, a somber expression on his face. "You know what? You need to toughen up. Whores exist, and they're people same as us. They do what they must to survive, that's all."

  Etta stuck her head in from the office. "I'm back. Heard what you said, Brax. I've been telling her to toughen up for three years now. She'll trust anybody, even strangers."

  To change the subject, Priscilla asked, "Do you know if Hester talked to Blessing about the loan for the springs?"

  "Yeah, stopped there on our way back. She told me about the hundred acres. Guess you already knew about that."

  "Yes. She told me yesterday, but I forgot to ask about the money."

  "Hester said she would speak with Buster today." Etta stood. "Since you're here, do you mind if I step out again for a few minutes?"

  "Go ahead." She hadn't intended to stay longer than necessary but decided she wasn't ready yet.

  After the marshal left, silence fell inside the jail. Braxton set his tray aside and stared at her until embarrassment warmed her face. He made her feel conspicuous. She went to the marshal's office to get away from him and retrieve her basket of bandaging supplies.

  "You're a pretty woman, Priscilla. You should smile more and get married again. A man would be lucky to have you."

  Her gaze flew to his face, as she unlocked the cell door, certain he was makin
g a joke at her expense. Instead, she saw a gentle smile. "I don't want to marry again." The knowledge that she would have to take a new husband burrowed under her skin like ticks on a sheep. Being unable to find a way to avoid the inevitability exacerbated her pain and dread.

  She let herself into the cell and rebandaged Braxton's wound as quickly as possible, no longer as eager to stay.

  "Are you upset with me?" he asked.

  "Of course not." She forced a smile, certain he could see through a fake one. "I hope Etta returns soon. I have sewing—"

  "Braxton Gamble?" a man called from outside the window. "I know you're in there."

  "Who's asking?" he replied.

  "You know me. Where's the money?"

  A pained expression passed over Braxton's face, and he muttered, "Irish O'Malley." Speaking louder, he said, "Turned it over to the marshal. She's taking it back to the bank. You better skedaddle, or you'll be in here with me. The law here is tough."

  It was the thief who had tricked Braxton into the bank robbery. Priscilla gasped and started toward him, but he held up a hand.

  "Ain't scared of your marshal. Just want our money."

  "Told you, I don't have it. The marshal took it back to Curdy's Crossing."

  The men outside uttered some foul curses.

  "You're a dead man, Braxton Gamble," Irish yelled, and a hail of bullets shot through the bars.

  Chapter Nine

  Priscilla dropped to the floor, as did Braxton. She crawled behind the desk, her gaze darting to the door. The marshal had neglected to lock it when she left. If the shooters got inside, she and Braxton would die for sure. While the shooting continued, she scooted over and turned the key.

  "What are you doing?" Braxton asked in a harsh whisper.

  "The door was unlocked."

  "If they were going to try to come in that way, they'd have done it. Get back behind the desk."

  No sooner had she resumed her hiding place than the shooting stopped. Silence reigned for several moments before Braxton whispered, "Pris, are you all right?"

  Now he was using Etta's nickname for her? She swallowed her frustration. They had almost died. What did a little thing like a name matter? "I'm fine. Are you?"

  "Yeah. Those boys are lousy shots."

  The doorknob jiggled, and Priscilla's stomach fell to the floor. The outlaws had come around to the front and meant to break in. Her gaze flashed to the gun rack. Where did Etta keep the key? She yanked open the center drawer in the desk and rifled through pencils, an ink well, tobacco makings and other paraphernalia.

  "Pris? You still in there?" a voice called through the door.

  Etta! Thank heaven.

  "Let me in."

  Priscilla hurried to the door and turned the latch. The marshal burst inside. "Are you two all right? I heard shooting. Saw two men out back and yelled at them to put down their guns, but they rode off before I could get off a shot."

  "We're fine." Braxton stood with his hands wrapped around the bars of his cell. "It was the fellows who did the robbery in Curdy's Crossing."

  Fear and anger flashed through the marshal's eyes.

  "Are you going after them?" Priscilla asked.

  "You bet I am." She unlocked the rack on the wall from a ring of keys she carried, grabbed a rifle and rushed out. "Stay here and lock up behind me."

  The door slammed shut. Once again, silence fell on the jail. Priscilla locked the door before going into the cell-room. Braxton remained standing at the bars. Looking at him and trying to interpret the expression on his face, she said, "I was terrified."

  He reached through the bars and cupped her face with his hands. "If they'd shot you, I'd have hunted them down like the vermin they are."

  Priscilla stared at him, unsure what to think. Did he care about her? Why? No, she must be imagining things. He couldn't have come to care this soon. "What are you doing?"

  "Wishing you weren't so dad-blamed bent on being all stiff and formal."

  "Stiff and formal?"

  "And proper."

  "Why wouldn't you want me to be proper?" The moment the words were out, she recognized her error and wanted to flee.

  "So that I could do this," he said and lowered his mouth to hers.

  She hadn't known lips could be malleable, soft and inviting one moment, demanding the next. Or that they could taste better than marmalade.

  He drew her flush against his chest, the bars between them, and drove his fingers through her hair, letting the pins fall to the floor. "If heaven had a flavor," he breathed into her ear, "it would taste like you."

  She moaned. This was wrong. Why hadn't Robert's kisses felt like this? Tasted like this? The fact she liked Braxton's as much as she did surprised and unsettled her. She seemed to have no control. Using all her inner strength, she broke away and stepped back. "I-I must go. Good night, Mr. Gamble." The words came out barely audible even to her ears. With her gaze still snared by his, she backed into the office, then turned and fled out the door.

  The minute she stepped onto the boardwalk in front of the jail, she stopped, remembering Etta asking her to stay until she returned. Afraid to leave the jail unattended, she slipped back inside and waited where she wouldn't be seen from the cell.

  Dark had fallen by the time the marshal returned, surprised to find Priscilla there. "Why haven't you gone home?"

  "You asked me to stay. Did you catch them?"

  "No." She poured herself some coffee and sat at her desk.

  Priscilla remained by the door. "I'm going home to get some sleep."

  "Do that. I'll watch over your man."

  "He's not my man," she spat and stalked out the door.

  For as long as he could see her in the intermittent light from buildings and moonlight, Braxton stood at the window and watched Priscilla walk up the road, skirts swaying with the movement of her delicious body. Had a woman ever felt better than her in his arms? If one had, he couldn't name her. Course, there had been bars between them tonight. What would it be like with no bars, no clothing, nothing to interfere? Damned if he didn't want to find out.

  Turn around and see me.

  Why had she gone all prickly and run out on him? Was he pushing her too soon? He needed to remember she had been widowed only a few months. Had she waited for Etta outside the whole time? He thought she enjoyed the kiss until he whispered in her ear. Had he said the wrong thing?

  She was sweet and proud. He loved that about her. Yes, her penchant for proper behavior annoyed him because it interfered with him wooing her, yet it was part of the reason he admired her. That and her courage. Softness and strength in one little blond-haired, blue-eyed package.

  Come back and talk to me.

  If he had to guess at her mood, he'd say sad. Maybe angry. Or both. But why? Because propriety dictated she shouldn't be intimate with a man like him? He was in jail, after all, and she had been a preacher's daughter. Of course, he wasn't good enough for her.

  Propriety. Hell. He didn't give two whoops and a holler for such malarkey.

  Just as well though. He was in no position to court a woman. What did he need with a woman to answer to anyway, one who'd want to change him, improve him? A woman as stuck on being all proper and right like she was would expect him to act the same. No thanks.

  He lay down on the cot, his arm behind his head, staring at the spider webs in the corners of the ceiling.

  What he needed to do was get out of here. Maybe tomorrow the marshal would hear from Curdy's Crossing and learn he'd been cleared of the charges against him. Then he could climb on Raisin and ride off.

  No matter how he tried, though, he felt no regret for having chosen Priscilla's bed to flop on when he lost consciousness. In fact, Wildcat Ridge seemed like a nice town to end up in. Once his name was cleared, would the marshal truly hire him as her deputy? Maybe he'd hang around a while. He'd like to see what they decided to do with those springs.

  An image floated into his mind as he closed his eyes and drifted off
to sleep. Him and Priscilla enjoying the springs — naked.

  The next morning, it took every ounce of strength Priscilla had to pretend the kiss hadn't happened. Did Braxton regret what he'd done? She wanted to say she did, but, in truth, she had never felt such pleasure in a man's touch before, in feeling a man's mouth on hers. If he tried to kiss her again, she feared she wouldn't have the strength to reject his advances, and to succumb would be a sin. Thank goodness he remained in jail.

  Eager to know if Hester secured the loan from Blessing, she paid a visit to the mayor's office, only to find her out. Reluctantly, she went to the jail, cracked the door open and peeked inside. No sign of Etta.

  "Marshal's not here. Come on in."

  Priscilla recognized the voice. She ducked around the corner of the building as if he couldn't see her at the office doorway. No point in staying in town. She turned toward home.

  "Aren't you talking to me?"

  The words stopped her cold. She spun and saw Braxton at the window. She'd forgotten the barred opening looked toward her house. "Yes, I suppose I am."

  "Good. Marshal took the money to Curdy's Crossing today. I might be a free man tonight. Can I get my old room back?"

  "No. That was my room. Have you heard if Hester got the loan for the springs?"

  His eyes widened, and a grin spread across his face. "Your room? I slept in your bed? No wonder it smelled like heaven."

  "Don't get worked up about it, Mr. Gamble. What about the loan?"

  His mouth turning down, he said, "The mayor got two hundred dollars."

  "Glory be!" Priscilla put a hand to her mouth, embarrassed by her outburst. "I never dreamed Blessing would give us that much. How wonderful."

  "Why do you call her Blessing while everyone else calls her Buster?"

  She straightened. "I told you, I don't approve of nicknames."

  He reached a hand between the bars. "Come over here. I can't hurt you, you know. Wouldn't if I could."

  She walked to just beyond arm's reach. He didn't retract his arm, but let it rest on the sill, hand dangling.

  "If my name is cleared, I'll become the marshal's deputy," he said.