Priscilla

by Charlene Raddon

  "Well, I happen to be the new deputy in Wildcat Ridge, Stinker, and I don't like seeing animals treated cruelly." He put his knife away. "Who are your parents?"

  "Ain't got any. They died at the mine."

  My hell. How long had these kids been struggling to survive all alone? "All right, Stinker. Come with me."

  "What for? You gonna arrest us?"

  "You'll find out." Braxton took hold of his thin shoulder and turned him to go up the street. "Just wipe the expression off your dirty face and come along. All of you."

  Their bare feet dragged as they followed him up Front Street to the corner, through the alley to Gold Street and down two doors to the butcher shop. A bell jangled as they entered.

  A plump woman with thick red hair trundled in from the back. "Howdy. Can I help ya?"

  "I'm Braxton Gamble, the marshal's new deputy. I was wondering if I might open a line of credit here. I won't be paid till the end of the week."

  "New deputy? I'm Olive Muckelrath." She held out a freckled hand. "Glad to meet you."

  "Likewise, ma'am." He indicated the boys behind him. "These boys are orphans. Seems like nobody in town has seen fit to take care of them. You have some chicken wings or legs I can buy for them?"

  Olive stared at the boys. "I've seen you rascals around town but didn't know you didn't have parents. Why haven't you come askin' for help before this?"

  "We have no need to beg," the oldest boy spat.

  "Asking for help and begging is two different things," Olive said. "What's your names?"

  Stinker pointed to himself. "I'm Stinker Kidwell. These are my brothers, Harley and Ears."

  Olive frowned. "Ears?"

  "Yeah. Can't you see he's got big ones?"

  "He does at that. Wait here." Olive vanished into the back.

  The women he'd encountered earlier came in, setting the bell jangling again. They looked at the boys with disdain, then turned their attention on Braxton.

  "You didn't tell us who you were," the one called Hilaina said, looking at his badge. "Are you a lawman?"

  "I'm Marshal Fawks' deputy, Braxton Gamble."

  The second woman, her hair the color of shoe blacking, asked, "How long have you been her deputy? I haven't seen you around."

  Before he could answer Hilaina blurted, "Goodness. He's the one we heard was living with Priscilla." Her pale redhead's skin paled even more and then flushed bright red. "Forgive me. Mama says I don't know when to keep my mouth shut."

  He stifled a smile. "I rented a room from Mrs. Heartsel while she nursed me back to health after I was shot."

  "Shot! Oh, my," the raven-haired girl said. "Forgive my manners. I'm Bibi Flusher."

  "Glad to meet you ladies." He tipped his hat, wishing they'd go away. Being corralled by three marriageable young women with hunger in their eyes left him uncomfortable.

  "You going to marry her?" Bibi asked. "Mrs. Heartsel, I mean?"

  His smile fled. Marry her? Hell's blazes, why would they think that? On second thought, why wouldn't they, if they knew he'd been staying at her house? His first instinct was to set them straight, except then they'd consider him available, and he suspected that would end his peace. "That hasn't been settled yet. Mrs. Heartsel is a good friend." Which he decided was true, more than he'd realized until he'd said it. He wasn't sure she'd agree.

  "Will you be here for the horse auction in a few days?" Hilaina asked.

  She blinked a couple of times, and he wondered if she'd meant to bat her eyelashes. "Being the deputy here, I reckon I'll be around."

  "Are you married?" Hilaina asked.

  Would it be wise to say yes? Wise, maybe, but not true. "Not yet."

  "You have someone picked out?"

  Olive Muckelrath hustled out from the back room again, carrying a package wrapped in paper and tied with string. She handed it over the counter to Stinker. "Take this home and fry it up before it goes bad. You know what to do when it's gone?"

  "No, ma'am," Stinker said, accepting the package.

  "You get your carcasses back here, hear me?"

  "Yes, ma'am."

  Excitement twinkled in the younger boys' eyes. Stinker tried to maintain his stoicism, but Braxton could see he'd relaxed and appeared pleased. The boys raced out the door and up the street.

  "Deputy," Olive said. "Thank you for what you did. No charge. Can't stand to see kids go hungry. I don't know who their parents were, but I'll find out. You can count on that."

  "Glad to hear it. You notice they need any help, let me know."

  He turned to the door, tipped his hat to the young ladies and left the shop.

  The kids had disappeared.

  Braxton wandered down the vacant street. It would be supper time soon. He reckoned he'd go back to the jail. Maybe Etta would be ready to fix supper.

  How would Priscilla react if he were to go by her place for a visit? He hadn't seen her since his bandage no longer needed changing. It was healing up well. He missed her.

  She could always ask him to leave.

  She answered his knock with a surprised expression on her exquisite face. "Braxton. I… I mean, Mr. Gamble."

  He schooled his expression not to show too much pleasure at her use of his given name, even if she did take it back, and simply smiled. "Hello. Just dropped by for a minute to bring you up to date."

  One glimpse and he wanted to kiss her. She'd done something different with her hair, twisting it at the back of her head somehow rather than placing it into an ordinary bun. He liked it. She alone wore a flowered blue dress showing off her small waist and the curve of her hips.

  She motioned for him to sit at the table, poured a cup of coffee and set it in front of him, then poured another for herself. "Where will you be staying now?"

  "Renting a room from the marshal until I can afford something of my own. It's separate from her house with its own entrance."

  Please ask me to come back here. Stupid idea. Her reputation would be ruined if I did that. Without marrying her, anyway.

  His news seemed to discomfit her, and he understood why. People would be gossiping about him and Etta now instead of him and Priscilla.

  "That's not why I came," he said quickly. "I know I can't come back here."

  Her gaze darted away as if embarrassed. She went to the stove and stirred the chicken stew. "Once you get paid, I'm sure you'll find somewhere. The hotels are nearly empty, and you could move into one of the abandoned houses no one owns. Some even have a few pieces of furniture left in them."

  "Yes. I intend to look into that." He drank some coffee, thinking. "Those houses would make a good hideout for Irish O'Malley and Logan Cash too. I should investigate them."

  Alarm widened her eyes. "You think they're still around?"

  He put down his cup and stood. "Irish doesn't give up easily. What are you cooking?"

  "A big batch of chicken stew for a family I help now and then. Carolyn has eight children and little money to feed them."

  "How generous of you. I'm sure they appreciate your efforts."

  "Yes. Carolyn is a sweet woman but not very healthy, and the children are well-mannered most of the time. Tomorrow I'll cook for the Knudsons."

  Braxton gave his head a slight shake. The woman had a good heart. He admired that. She'd been through hell like the rest of the women in Wildcat Ridge, yet she kept going and did what she could to help others.

  He stood and put his empty coffee cup on the dry sink. "Thanks for the coffee. It was good to see you, but I'd best be going now."

  "I'm glad you dropped over," she said, following him to the door.

  He paused before turning the knob and studied her face, seeing concern and caring in her sky-blue eyes. On impulse, he stepped closer and planted a kiss on her mouth.

  "See you later," he said, his voice a bit huskier than before.

  Certain he felt her gaze on his back as he strolled up the street, he smiled. He'd surprised her with his kiss and it pleased him. He sure hoped it pleased
her as well. He'd met several women in Wildcat Ridge, but none like her.

  When he came to the row of empty houses on Pine Street, he slowed and sharpened his senses. To be caught off-guard by Irish and Logan would not do. He needed to do the catching.

  The yards had become weedy, the low fences dilapidated. Some of the windows lacked glass panes and more than one door stood ajar. He studied the lack of footprints on the pathways, and the deafening silence. Where there should be children playing, dogs barking, and parents talking, all he heard was the wind banging a loose shutter.

  A black and white cat lay on the porch of a house with traces of blue paint on the doors and window frames. The animal watched him with wary eyes, then slunk off into the weeds.

  Finally, he came to a path with footprints. Instead of pausing for a better look at the premises, he kept going, painfully aware of being watched. Across the street, the buildings on Gold Avenue slanted southeast, leaving a wedge of vacant ground. Braxton crossed over, walked through the lot and took the alley to the jail.

  Etta sat at her desk studying wanted posters. "Finish your rounds, Brax?"

  "Yes, but I was wondering if you've searched those empty miner's houses on Pine Street and the hill beyond?"

  "Been keeping an eye on them. You notice something I should check out?"

  He sat and accepted the coffee she pushed across the desk to him. "The fourth house from the south end looks occupied to me. The front path is scuffed, and I could swear I felt someone watching me. You know of anyone still occupying those houses?"

  "No. Most are locked. Some are boarded up." She put aside the posters and leaned toward him. "You thinking they'd make a good hideout for Irish and Logan?"

  "Exactly. Shall we take a look-see?"

  "Yeah. Let's go." She stood, and he followed her out the door, his coffee forgotten.

  They took the alley and started up Pine but only made it to the third house before a bullet lifted the hat off Braxton's head.

  He dove behind a water barrel. "Get down!" Leaning against the barrel, he drew his Walker Colt and shot back.

  Etta rolled across the ground to hide behind a half-buried boulder.

  After emptying his gun, Braxton stopped to reload and realized the gunfire had stopped. Peering around the barrel, he called out to the marshal crouched behind the rock. "You all right?"

  "Yes. You?"

  "Yeah. See any movement over there?"

  "No, I believe they're gone, probably out the back door. They could be in any of these houses or heading over the hill." She raised her hat up on the tip of her rifle barrel.

  Nothing happened.

  They both stood and hurried across the road, bursting into the house, guns ready. A few pieces of old furniture lay about. Spent cartridges littered the floor under the window. The back door stood open. Braxton peered around the edge of the doorway. When he didn't see anyone, he moved outside, ducking behind an old wagon with a broken wheel.

  No gunfire.

  No outlaws.

  Etta stood. "They're gone."

  Braxton walked over to where she stood gazing at the houses higher on the hill. "Damn. I hate not knowing when and where they'll strike next time. I think we'd better check them all. Let's go back and get our horses in case we spot them."

  "We can split up and have a better chance of finding them."

  They spent the rest of the day searching but found nothing.

  Chapter Eleven

  The sound of distant gunfire set Priscilla's heartbeat racing. Her legs shook.

  Irish O'Malley and his partner wanted Braxton dead. They'd proved that through their attack at the jail and the second one two days ago when Braxton and Etta cornered them in one of the row-houses. Were they making another attempt?

  Sick to death of worrying about him, she grabbed her father's army Colt, which she had taken to keeping close to her, and raced down the street. She refused to sit around half the day waiting to learn if he still lived.

  About to turn into the alley leading to the jail, a noise or movement caused her to look toward the miner's row-houses. Beyond the abandoned homes, Braxton and the marshal were galloping up the hill.

  Damned if she'd be left out to fret and worry over Braxton. She'd done enough of that yesterday. She ran to Etta's and saddled her usual spotted mare. By the time she reached the hilltop, she saw no sign of either Braxton or Etta.

  The outlaws would seek shelter, a place where they could hide and ambush the lawmen searching for them. Priscilla scanned her surroundings. To the west lay the Black Bear River but cover there was hit and miss. No. Her bet would be on Wildcat Mountain. The forest offered far better hiding places. Nudging her horse, she rode that direction.

  Three-hundred yards from the trees, Priscilla reined in. A horse and rider had emerged from the underbrush at the base of the foothills, pigtail flying out from under a wide-brimmed hat.

  Etta!

  What had she been doing in the woods? She hated going there. She'd have sent Braxton to look for the outlaws on the mountain rather than go herself.

  Priscilla watched and waited. Once the marshal had disappeared toward town, Priscilla rode to the spot where Etta had emerged. She found only an animal trail, but it appeared to have been used recently. Curiosity drove her to check it out. Maybe Etta had needed to relieve herself. Maybe she thought she'd heard something moving up here.

  The farther Priscilla went, the denser the growth became, yet the narrow game trail continued, and she followed. Abruptly, the trail ended, and she noted some flattened areas in the underbrush where deer had bedded down. About to give up and turn around, she glimpsed something dark ahead amidst some large boulders.

  To reach it, she had to dismount and go on foot. A few feet from her goal, she tripped and barely caught herself in time to keep from falling. She looked down and saw an odd rock, rounded at the side and flat on top. It appeared to be quite large, but shrubbery hid most of it.

  A pine martin scurried away through the brush, its long tail flicking, and a jay scolded from the trees. Priscilla pushed aside a tall bush and there in front of her, rose a cave with a strange, almost squared off opening like a doorway. Before she could go deeper, her horse gave a frightened whinny.

  Priscilla rushed back to the horse in time to see what she thought might be a cougar or bobcat leap from the boulders into the trees and vanish.

  After calming the horse, she led the mare out of the forest. Standing at the edge of the trees, she saw no sign of a rider. Not knowing what direction to go to find Etta, she headed for home and the laundry she'd left to go galivanting after Braxton.

  She'd spent the remainder of the previous day trying to remove the blood stains from the bed coverlet her mother had crocheted. She'd rinsed it in cold water, rubbed it with salt and poured kerosene through the stain. After rinsing it thoroughly, she left it to soak in bluing.

  Now, she used buckets of water boiled on an outside fire to fill her wash tub. Priscilla's washing facilities filled her with pride. Her father had cut a wooden barrel in half and mounted it on a stand. A hole in the bottom allowed her mother to unplug it and let the water drain without the use of a bucket. From Montgomery Ward, he ordered a wringer which sat on the back half of the tub.

  Priscilla filled the tub with sheets, scrubbed them with sudsy water on a washboard, squeezed them through the wringer into a second tub of cold creek water.

  As she worked, her mind drifted to Braxton and Etta, wondering if they were all right and wishing she'd hear from them.

  After rinsing the sheets and towels, first in one tub, then another, she put a wooden cover over the wash tub to keep the water hot, wrung out the clean sheets and carried them in a basket to the clothes line.

  She had plucked the last towel out of her basket to hang up when Braxton rode up on his horse.

  "If I'd known you were doing laundry, I'd have brought you a few things," he said, grinning down at her.

  "Too late now." She gave him an edgy smile,
wondering what might happen next between them and if she'd be ready for it. "Is Etta all right? I heard the shooting and saw you riding off. Was it Irish O'Malley and Logan Cash?"

  "Yes, the sneaky weasels. We searched all the houses but had no luck, so we split up and tried to track them. Then, I decided to come and check on you."

  "I'm fine." She didn’t mention how worried she'd been. Or taking a horse to try to find them.

  He swung down from the saddle. "You have any coffee or some cider?"

  "Yes. Coffee's on the stove and the cider is in the ice box. Let me finish this, and I'll join you."

  "I can wait." He settled on an old tree stump her father had used for chopping wood. She had to pay her neighbor's son to do it now. "Thought you'd like to know the charges against me have been dropped. I’m a free man."

  She shoved a clothespin over the edge of the towel and turned to him. "Oh, Brax, that's wonderful."

  With one of those liquid movements of his that always amazed her, he stood and came toward her with a hungry look in his eyes that made her jumpy.

  "What are you doing?" she asked.

  "You used my nickname."

  "I did?" She hadn't noticed.

  "Yes, and it made me very happy." He drew her toward him until their chests brushed. His arms went around her, and he held on snugly.

  Priscilla closed her eyes, knowing she should scold him for being too familiar but couldn't push him away. It felt good to be held. She allowed herself to savor it for a long moment before forcing herself to step back.

  "What's the matter?" he asked. "Temptation too much for you?"

  She spun around to hide the truth from him. "No, of course not."

  "Let's go in the house. Am I in time for supper?"

  She feared being inside with him. If she couldn't keep him from embracing her in broad daylight in her yard, how would she keep him in check inside the house? More to the point, how would she contain herself? Yet, she couldn't refuse him a meal. "I suppose so. I have a chicken roasting in the oven."

  The moment they stepped inside she found herself in his arms again and his mouth on hers. Too surprised by the sudden, unexpected move, she didn't try to resist. A second later, she realized she didn't want to. This was not the simple pressing of two lips together or the digging, painful grinding of teeth against tender flesh she'd experienced with Robert. Instead, it was gentle; Braxton's lips skating over hers with the lightest touch, teasing, inviting.