At first, she could only stand there and take it all in. Then the pressure of his mouth increased, and she felt her lips ebb and flow with his in a sort of slow dance that soon picked up tempo.
"Priscilla," he breathed against her mouth.
"Hmm?"
"As good as you taste, I could do this all day."
All day? Gracious. She couldn't imagine that but thought she might not mind. A deep-pink haze formed behind her closed eyelids, and the world seemed to shrink to the two of them, their bodies touching intimately from thighs to shoulders. Priscilla felt flushed and thought what a marvelous way this would be to keep warm in the winter.
"What are you doing to me?" she whispered.
"Kissing you."
No, there was much more to it, and whatever it was, she wanted it. A tiny voice sounding a little like her father ordered her to flee. She ignored it.
Braxton drew away enough to gaze down at her. "Lady, you've been hiding this side of you from me. Hell, from the world."
"What side?"
"The passion locked inside you. I'd give anything to see you completely let go."
"Let go of what?"
A knock on the front door prevented him from answering. As if someone had turned on a light, it hit Priscilla what they had been doing and she jumped away from him, her hand going to her moist lips that felt tingly and hungry for more of his attentions.
"Dear heaven, what have we done?" she whispered.
"Nothing to be ashamed of. I'll get the door." Braxton left her there to compose herself and went into the small entry.
Priscilla heard the squeak of the door opening, followed by the trill of women's voices.
Oh, no. She closed her eyes and sucked in a deep breath.
"Pris?" Braxton called. "You have company."
Pulling herself together, she walked into the hall to see three women gazing up at Braxton as if he were a giant peppermint stick. "Ladies," she said, "why have you come?"
It wasn't the politest thing to say, but she didn't care. She wanted them gone. That nearly brought her to a halt. She was going to hell, and it was Braxton's fault. Before he came with his sultry glances and tantalizing kisses, she never would have behaved as she had today. It mortified her. More than ever, she wanted the women gone.
Agnes Hinkle stepped forward, smiling. "Hello, Priscilla. We came to ask your opinion on the decorations for the auction dance."
"Dance?" Had she fallen into a different world? One looking much the same, but felt entirely different? Had she slept for more than one night and missed the goings-on in town? "What dance? Why do we need decorations?"
"To make it festive and draw in more people," Olive Muckelrath explained.
Priscilla absently shook her head, wishing the world would right itself and make sense again. "I don't understand. What does this have to do with me?"
"Pris," Braxton interrupted. "Shouldn't you invite the ladies in?"
"Oh, of course. Please, come inside." She nodded toward the parlor.
The women trooped in and sat on the settee like three little ducks in a row. Priscilla looked at Braxton hoping for a hint of what she should do next.
"Shall I fetch some refreshments?" he asked.
"Oh, uh, certainly. There's a jar of soft cider in the ice box and cookies in the pantry."
He nodded, not bothering to point out he already knew, and went out.
The three women on the settee, their bags clutched in their laps, exchanged glances. Agnes and Olive tried to stifle their giggles. The third, Malinda, a pretty girl of only sixteen, failed to contain herself.
"Priscilla, how did you do it?" she asked.
"Do what?" Priscilla stared at her.
"Catch that delicious man."
"I haven't caught anyone. What are you talking about?"
"She means Mr. Gamble," Agnes said. "You must admit he is quite a catch."
Priscilla cast her eyes toward the ceiling. "He's not a fish, and I haven't caught him."
"You haven't?" Malinda asked, disappointed.
"No. We're only friends." Priscilla sat in a chair beside the fireplace. "Now, how can I help you?"
"As we said…." Olive scooted forward on her seat. "We want to know if you think we should stream paper ribbons from the center candelabra in the church to the windows as decoration for the Auction Dance."
"What auction dance?" Priscilla wished they would go. She didn't understand any of this.
"Priscilla," Agnes said. "Concentrate. The auction will be here before we know it. We plan to have a dance inside the church the night before. We'll push the benches up against the walls or take some out onto the grass for people to sit on. But we want it to be festive so we're debating whether to use strips of colored paper to hang from the ceiling or maybe have bowls of flowers here and there."
"Why, do whatever you want," Priscilla said. "It has nothing to do with me."
Again, the women looked at each other, seeming disappointed this time. Braxton chose that moment to return with a tray bearing glasses of cider and English biscuits. He set it on the low table in front of the settee and left quietly, the ladies' eyes following him out.
With a wishful sigh, Malinda took a glass from the tray. "How I wish I could find someone like him. Do you think we dare hope for men as good looking to come to the auction?"
Priscilla decided this had gone on long enough. She had supper to finish. The roasted chicken and potatoes would be burned. "Listen, I think it's lovely you're planning a dance, and however you decorate the church will be fine, I'm sure."
Olive surged to her feet. "Say no more, Priscilla. Thank you for allowing us to pester you about this. I can see we picked a bad time."
Embarrassed by her own poor manners, Priscilla jumped up as well. "Oh, please, I didn't mean to be rude. Heavens, my mother would turn over in her grave if she saw how I treated you." She put a hand to her temple. "I-I have a terrible headache. I was doing laundry and the smell of lye and bluing does that to me."
"Why, it does the same thing to me," Agnes said as she and Malinda rose and collected their things.
"I'm truly sorry not to have been of help," Priscilla said, the world righting itself now. "Why don't we sit down and discuss it."
"We understand completely, Priscilla. Go take a headache powder and we'll figure these decorations out ourselves," Agnes told her. "Will we see you at the meeting Hester's called for tomorrow morning?"
"Tomorrow? I hadn't heard. At the church?"
"Yes."
Priscilla walked her guests to the entryway. "I'll see you there then. Again, I'm sorry for my shortness. I have a lot on my mind."
"I'm sure you do," Agnes said, grinning. Priscilla watched the ladies go, giggling behind their hands.
Braxton sat at the table with a cup of coffee when she returned to the kitchen. His gaze met hers, and he burst into laughter.
"What is so hilarious, if I may ask?" She went to the stove and removed the roasting pan from the over to see if the chicken and potatoes had burned yet.
"You," he said. "Does being kissed always leave you all flustered?"
"I truly don't know. I've never been kissed like that before."
"Not even by your husband?"
"Particularly not by Robert." She scolded herself the moment the words were out. How improper to criticize her dead husband to the man who had just kissed her the way Robert should have.
"I'll have to do something about that," Braxton said, grinning.
"I think not." She placed the chicken on a platter and set it on the table with the potatoes arranged around the meat. "What you did was completely out of line, Mr. Gamble."
He hung his head, but she saw a glimpse of his smile.
"And you are not the least sorry," she said.
He accepted the knife she handed him and carved the chicken. "No, I am not. Kissing you was the best thing I've done in months. Tastier than this chicken by far, I'll bet." He took a sliver, chewed, swallowed, and smile
d. "Yep. Much tastier. And this is delicious."
She sat down. "Stop trying to turn my head, Mr. Gamble. Eat."
He put down the carving knife, crossed his arms over his chest and said, "Not until you call me by my given name."
Unsure whether to grit her teeth or kiss him again, she said, "Very well… Braxton. But do not attempt your blackmail again. I'll not fall for it."
He winked. "You did once."
Chapter Tweleve
Priscilla returned home after the town meeting at the church on Wednesday to find Braxton waiting on the steps. He'd left her alone after their tiff the last time he came to her house.
Several women who'd departed before she had dawdled in the street casting glances at him. The rest of the women still emerging from the church filed past slowly, one or two brazenly waving. Braxton waved back.
Priscilla climbed the steps. "Do you know those women?"
He stood, grinning. "Are you jealous?"
"Don't be ridiculous." She unlocked her door. "Why would I be jealous?"
"Because you love me?"
She spun around to gape at him. "What are you talking about? Who says I love you, you conceited ape?"
He laughed. "Just wanted to see how you'd react. I'll tell you what, I'll show those women where they stand right now." With that, he pulled her into his arms and kissed her right there on her front porch.
Out on the street, women hooted and laughed. One sobbed.
As soon as the kiss ended, he grabbed her wrists preventing her from slapping him. "Now, now. We don't want to ruin the impression we just made, do we?"
"Oh, you make me so angry." She wrenched free and pushed open the door. Braxton stuck his foot in the doorway to prevent her from shutting him out. "Move your foot. Now. If you think I'm letting you in here after the display you put on, you'd best think again. Go away."
"Please let me in," he begged. "I want to know how the meeting went. Etta told me what it was about. She said you showed them a picture you painted of the springs."
"Yes, I did." Giving up, she let go of the door and walked into the kitchen.
Braxton followed, closing the front door behind him. "I didn't know you painted. How did the ladies like it?"
"Quite well." She took a pitcher of cider from the ice box and placed it on the table with glasses then sat down.
Braxton took a seat and pulled one of the glasses toward him. "I can't wait to see it."
"You'll have to go to Hester's office. I gave it to her."
"Too bad. What else did the mayor say?"
Priscilla drank some cider, got up, and fetched cookies from the pantry. "She's going to hire men to build a road to the springs as soon as possible and construct a building up there to sell refreshments Garnet Chandler will provide us at a low price. Whoever runs the stand will rent towels to people who come to use the springs, and there will be dressing rooms where they can change."
Braxton helped himself to the pastries. "Sounds like she's thought of everything. Who's going to run the stand?"
"She'll hire someone. A man because she doesn't think it would be safe for a woman at such an isolated spot."
"I'm sure she's right. Maybe I should apply for the job. I would prefer that to being a deputy."
"Aren't you happy as a deputy?" Priscilla helped herself to a cookie. Oatmeal with raisins, her favorite. She made a big batch every week, though not always oatmeal. That practice may have to stop soon. Her store of sugar was sadly low, and she'd already run out of raisins. She started to bite into her pastry.
"It's a good job. I like working with Etta but being a lawman could be a problem for a married man. It would take me away from home too often."
She loosened her grip and the pastry landed in her lap. "You're planning to get married? Yet you were kissing me in front of the whole town moments ago?"
"Only because you're who I plan to marry." He grinned.
To hide her shock and the surge of joy in her heart, she bent to brush crumbs from her skirt. Then she rose and returned the plate to the pantry.
"Hey," he said, "I wasn't through with those."
"Too bad." Hands firmly planted on her hips, she glared at him. Why did he have to keep pushing her about this? Was he teasing her? Whatever it was, she didn't like it. "I have no intention of remarrying, and if I did, what makes you think it would be to you?"
Braxton got to his feet. "I'm crazy about you, Pris. I know you're still mourning but I think you care for me too."
"Well, you're wrong."
Moving around the table toward her, hands up, he said, "Okay, Pris. Don't get your dander up."
Relieved he was going to leave quietly, she relaxed, but as soon as she did, he reached out and hauled her into his arms. Before she could voice a complaint, he kissed her. Again. She tensed and pushed against his chest.
Oh, but his lips felt blissful on hers. While cursing herself for not fighting harder, she kissed him back. A tingling began below her abdomen and she felt flushed and hungry for something she couldn't name, except she wanted more of what Braxton offered. Her hands slipped behind his head and she pressed closer.
"Lord, but I could go on kissing you forever," he murmured.
"Shut up and just do it," she whispered back.
She felt him smile against her lips, but not for long. He slid his tongue along the seam of her lips until she opened to him and he slid it inside. He tasted like oatmeal and tart apples. Sweet, heady, and strong.
He pressed his aroused body closer to her, and she couldn't help wriggling. Her heart pounded, her blood on fire.
The next thing she knew, he'd picked her up and was heading for the stairs. Priscilla knew what he planned and opened her mouth to object.
A knock came at the door. "Braxton, you in there?" Etta hollered. "Irish and Logan have been sighted riding toward the Gold King. You coming with me?"
"Aw, hell," he muttered, letting Priscilla's feet touch the floor. "I gotta go. I'm sorry, darlin'."
"It doesn't matter. What we were doing was insane anyway."
He glowered at her. "You still going to claim you don't want me?"
"I don't want to marry."
"Fine with me. We'll just live together."
"Ha! Get out of here. Oh, and tell Etta Mr. Tweedie has a mirror she ordered. I forgot to tell her."
"I'll tell her." He stalked to the door and slammed it behind him.
Priscilla ran to the window. Etta waited in the street on her horse, Braxton's Raisin beside her. He bolted into the saddle and off they galloped toward the mine.
The marshal's gaze weighed heavy on Braxton's back as they rode up the winding mine road.
"You look angry enough to spit," she said, drawing up beside him.
"Don't have to be angry to spit, but you're right, I am. Not angry, really. More like irked." He nudged Raisin to hurry up. They could both use a good gallop right now. "Why is that woman so obstinate?"
"Every facet of Priscilla's life was directed by her father until she married Robert, and he turned out to be worse than Ancil Bainum."
A furrow formed on Braxton's brow. "Bainum?"
"Her father. He was our preacher. Died in the explosion along with Robert. I suspect Priscilla's marriage was not a pleasant one for her. Robert seemed happy enough."
In one of the mining towns Braxton had inhabited, he'd rented a room in a saloon. The second floor had been divided in half, one side for renting out, the other for house prostitutes. Braxton had learned a good deal from those whores. Seemed he was easy to talk to.
They all said pretty much the same thing — a married man had a woman to cook, wash his clothes, bear his children, rear those children, and warm his bed at night. Many of those women did not enjoy making love, mostly, he gathered, because their men did nothing to see to it their wives enjoyed it. They took what they wanted and went to sleep. What the women got was a bunch of work from dawn to bedtime and little else to pleasure them except watching their rapscallions grow up.<
br />
Could that be the reason behind Priscilla's disdain for marriage?
"I think Bainum is an English name," he said. "That could explain some of Priscilla's stiffness."
"Actually, I believe it's Welsh."
Not knowing anything about the Welsh, he changed the subject. "Priscilla wanted me to tell you Tweedie has something you ordered, and she forgot to tell you."
She blinked, her brows lowered. "Oh, yes. The mirror. Tell her I got it. She can come see it at my house if she wants."
They scoured the mine site, what remained of it, which was mostly the big hole they dug looking for miners. What bits of the actual drifts they saw were disaster areas with wooden supports crisscrossing each other, some shattered. They found no outlaws, alive or dead.
At the snap of a twig, Braxton twirled around, his hand on his gun.
Twenty yards away, Etta stood with her rifle aimed right at him.
Braxton's heart skipped a beat then sped up. Did she mean to shoot him?
"What are you doing, Etta?"
She lowered the gun. "I thought I saw someone behind you between those two trees, but if I did, they're gone now."
He walked over to the trees and examined the ground, finding no sign anyone had been there. Turning back to the marshal, he said, "You're right. No one there now."
He couldn't say why he didn't mention the lack of footprints or other lack of evidence of anyone being there. Instinct. It had never failed him yet.
Well, maybe one time when he was drunk.
"Parts of the outhouses were found scattered through the woods," Etta said as he joined her. "The explosion was so violent it gave the mountain a good, second shaking. The folks who were up here trying to rescue miners were found in pieces, many of them burned beyond recognition."
"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.
Priscilla Page 10
