Wicked Temptations

by Patricia Watters

  The evening would invariably include a romp in bed. Afterwards, the woman would take a foil-wrapped cigar from an ornate box and make an art of peeling off the foil, rolling the cigar between her fingers, placing it between his lips, and lighting it. And while he'd puff on the cigar, sending perfect rings of smoke drifting upward, she'd go about the business of putting herself together. That alone was an art these women had perfected. When she was done, she'd bend down so he could tuck a sizeable bill between her ample breasts, and she'd leave. Although the women always took care of his need, when the evening was over, he never felt quite satisfied. But tonight he had no need for a woman. His disturbing encounter with Priscilla earlier alleviated his problem. He also had the feeling that if a beautiful woman stripped naked in front of him, that part of him would remain unchanged. How one woman could make him impotent with merely words was both troubling and baffling.

  Hearing a lively exchange behind the closed double doors to a smoking room, he entered the room and found several members of the Wyoming Stock Growers Association, smartly dressed in white tails and ties, sitting around a large table, debating the latest issues, while sucking on imported cigars. The men tipped goblets and snifters and shot glasses toward him in acknowledgement. But instead of joining them at the table, he sank into the thick cushions of a large chair, elaborately upholstered in soft brown steer hide. A steward offered champagne, which Adam rejected for brandy. After Priscilla all but accused him of being the brains behind the attacks on the homesteaders, he'd been so mad he headed straight for the Club, wanting something strong and warm to take the edge off his anger.

  Cupping his palm around the bowl of the snifter, he held the brandy beneath his nose to allow the aromatic bouquet to fill his nostrils, then took a sip, held it in his mouth for a moment, and swallowed. By the time he'd downed a second glass, his anger began to wane, and he could settle back in his chair and focus on what the men were discussing...

  "...then I say here's to them—" Albert Bothwell, a cattleman with a huge spread in the Sweetwater Valley raised his shot glass in a toast. "That's one less fence to contend with." He looked at Adam. "They were your boys, weren't they?"

  Adam was only just beginning to absorb the conversation. "Who?"

  "The two men who tore down the nester's fence north of the city. One of them got shot in the arm. Someone said it was one of your boys. Sorry to hear about that. But we'll cover for him if there's trouble. Rustlers seem to be multiplying around here faster than jack rabbits, and the rustling's got to be stopped."

  After thinking it over, and taking into consideration what Priscilla said, Adam was fairly certain Tom Rafferty had taken the bullet when pulling down the fence. And Tanner would also be part of it since he had been with Rafferty the night he got shot. He didn't like his men going off on their own, even if it was to tear down a fence and release a heard of stolen cattle, and he'd have words with them. He eyed the men at the table, who were waiting for his reply.

  "If my men did it, they did it on their own and won't be doing it again," he said. "That's not the way I handle things."

  "It's the way the WSGA does," Bothwell said. "Last I heard you were one of us."

  Moreton Frewan, an Englishman with a large spread on the Powder River said, "Cowboys like those two, who spend their days branding strays for us, are the ones who break off and start their own herds. That's where the trouble begins. Half the small ranchers around here got their start stealing our stock. It's our duty to blacklist any man suspected of branding mavericks for themselves, and to bar them from employment with members. Mark my word, Whittington. If your men tore down the fence on their own, they will eventually break away from you and start building up their herds from your stock."

  "I'll keep an eye on them," Adam assured Frewan.

  Bothwell thumped his knotted fist against the table, and said, "The small ranchers are also turning their stock into our herds as a reason to go in and brand our mavericks and claim them as theirs. I say we blacklist every cowboy who's branded mavericks or bought or sold orphans."

  John Durbin, another large rancher on the Sweetwater, who also had interests in a meatpacking plant in Chicago, puffed on his cigar, flicked ashes into an ornate silver ash container, and said, "We have the Maverick Law on our side now, so anyone taking mavericks or unbranded strays will be arrested for rustling."

  "They're being arrested now," Bothwell said, "but juries let them walk free. They say the law is unconstitutional and they plan to challenge it."

  Frank Canton, a stock detective hired by the stock grower's association, said in a metered voice, "Montana handled the problem in one night. Stock growers gave the names of rustlers and where they had their ranches and campsites, to hired guns, who went in and took them all out. We should do the same. I say we offer five-hundred-dollars for names of anyone branding cattle on open range and add them to our dead list."

  While a barrage of heated voices debated that idea, Adam eyed Frank Canton with misgiving. Although Canton had been sheriff of Johnson County, rumor was circulating that he was a killer and an outlaw. Adam made a mental note to watch the man carefully.

  Bothwell raised his voice to be heard, and said. "I say we get the U.S. marshal for Wyoming Territory in here. We need his support, so I'll offer to sponsor him for a complimentary membership in the club."

  "Sounds like a bribe to me," Adam said. "Not the way to get the law on our side." He also knew the days of the cattle barons with they're immense holdings and vast herds were coming to a close, and it was time to face it. "When we started running cattle here," he said, "there was grass as far as the eye could see. Now, with nine-hundred-thousand head on the tax rolls and another six-hundred-thousand grazing, the rangeland's overcrowded and overgrazed. By next year there won’t be enough grass to sustain them."

  "Whittington's right," Frewan said. "On top of that, investors in England are pushing for larger dividends, demanding bigger reimbursements for their investments, which is why we need to drive out the squatters and nesters."

  "That's not the answer," Adam said. "The answer is scaling back. I've already reduced my herd from twenty to eight thousand so the rangeland can be rotated and pastures won't get trampled down. I'm raising feed on the rotated pastures while also building barns for hay and grain storage. But without protection from cold, another severe winter like the winter of '86 could wipe out and entire herd, as some of you know, so I'm building shelters. We also need a system of irrigation ditches to bring in water from the Platte so we can maintain our grazing land."

  Albert Bothwell eyed Adam with enmity. "Sounds to me like you're giving in to the nesters, Whittington. Maybe we need to add your name to our blacklist, along with that rabble-rousing spinster you're sweet on. She came riding into Cheyenne on a wagon train with nesters and she's firing them up and promoting their cause in her paper, and it seems you're right in there with the thick of them. Montana had the right idea. I say we round them up and hang the lot of them and be done with it."

  "Here, here," said Tom Sun, a French Canadian who also had a spread on the Sweetwater.

  Adam stood, peered around at the faces staring back at him, and said, "Good evening, gentlemen. I believe I'm finished here for tonight." He turned and left. But as the door closed behind him, a cacophony of agitated voices rose in heated debate, and it came to Adam that his name might just have been added to their blacklist. Along with Priscilla's. He had no fear for himself, but he did for Priscilla. She was too stubborn and set on making a success of The Town Tattler to heed any warning he might pass on to her, so all he could do for the short term was to keep a closer watch. And wait.

  CHAPTER NINE

  'And in the end this shall be for me sufficient, that

  a marble stone shall declare that a Queen, having

  reigned such a time, lived and died a virgin.'

  — Elizabeth's response to Parliament's request

  that she marry and produce an heir, in 1559

  The o
nly reason Priscilla accepted Lady Whittington's invitation to dinner the following week was because Lady Whittington expressed her regrets that Adam would not be joining them. Lady Whittington also insisted that Priscilla wear her new Pre-Raphaelite dinner dress. After reading Trudy's article and seeing the illustration in The Town Tattler, Lady Whittington was anxious to see the new fashion. Priscilla's dress was made from soft flowing silk in muted shades of blues and greens, and it was designed to be worn without a corset or bustle. The dress was amazingly comfortable. The skirt was loose enough to walk and sit with ease, the sleeves, slashed from just above the elbow to the wrist in Renaissance style, allowed the arms to move unrestricted, and the dress was free of the excessive ornamentation that cluttered most feminine attire. Although it was designed to be worn in the privacy of the home while among family and close friends, Lady Whittington insisted Priscilla wear it when she came for dinner.

  Instead of taking her place at the head of the long mahogany table, which normally would be at the opposite end from Adam, Lady Whittington requested that she and Priscilla be seated directly across from each other toward one end of the long table, so they could more easily converse. While the wine was being poured, Priscilla gazed across the flickering candles at Lady Whittington, whose face held a cryptic smile, and she couldn't help but think that the older woman was up to something.

  Lady Whittington's smile broadened. "You look lovely tonight," she said. "It's too bad Adam will not be joining us. I believe he'd appreciate your new dress. And with your hair pulled up and ringlets about your face, you look especially queenly."

  That had certainly not escaped Priscilla when she'd looked at herself in the mirror earlier. Although, in the old color plate from her history book, the queen's gown was shown with a tremendously wide skirt and was elaborately ornamented, Priscilla's Pre-Raphaelite dress did have a look of royalty about it, though perhaps more a Medieval queen. "I'm glad Adam won't be here," she said. "He and I are not getting on. We are in complete disagreement about many things." She took a sip of wine.

  Lady Whittington looked at her soberly. "You and Adam may disagree about many things," she said, "but it's clear that he cares for you, and that you care for him."

  "If you are referring to that very untimely kiss," Priscilla said, "I'm sorry you witnessed it. I have no idea what got into me to respond the way I did, other than Adam caught me by surprise. It will not happen again. We are a complete mismatch."

  "Folderol! You are the first woman to actually be a match for Adam. He is beside himself trying to figure out what to do with you. You have turned his world upside down, and I find it quite amusing."

  "I do not know what you mean by turning Adam's world upside down," Priscilla said. "He seems to be carrying on quite well."

  "Fiddlesticks! He's snappish, moody, bellicose and entirely impossible to be around, because he is in love with you."

  "And I can assure you that he is most definitely not in love with me. The only reason he is all of those things is because he's angry with me because of my effort to get women to vote, and the fact that they will not be voting for him. What I don't understand is why you are not also upset with me. I'd think that you'd want Adam to get elected mayor."

  "What I want is for Adam to turn that ranch over to his foreman and agent and get married and move into this house and raise his children among polite society, and under the watchful eye of a stepmother. As it is, his daughters are chasing after cowboys, and his son wants to be a cowboy. Adam has had many chances to chose a bride from among the most beautiful and eligible women in Cheyenne, but none have held his interest. Besides that, I would like to have a few more grandchildren before I die."

  Priscilla looked at Lady Whittington with a start. "Surely you are not viewing me as a prospective wife for Adam and mother for your future grandchildren," she said. "Beside the fact that any children he would have with me would likely have freckles and carrot-red hair, I am almost past child-bearing age."

  "Almost, but not yet. Many women bear children well into their forties. As for the hair, you would be bringing the famous Tudor red hair to our family."

  "That may be," Priscilla said, "but the fact is, Adam and I can barely be together five minutes without snapping at each other."

  "You were certainly not snapping at each other in the hallway when he kissed you."

  "That is our other problem," Priscilla said. "We have an unhealthy attraction for each other, though I have no idea what it is about me that attracts a man as handsome as Adam. But I do believe he is actually physically attracted to me."

  "And I assure you he is."

  "But that is beside the point as we are not even speaking at the moment."

  The sound of male voices in the foyer caught Priscilla's attention. The fact that one of those voices was Adam had her stomach rejecting the thought of food.

  "Sorry I'm late, Mother," Adam's voice preceded him. "I was detained at the—" he stopped short when he saw Priscilla. He looked at his mother for an explanation.

  Lady Whittington shrugged. "I'm glad you could join us, Adam," she said. "As you can see, Priscilla has honored us with her company."

  Adam looked at Priscilla. "Yes... as I can see."

  Priscilla pushed her chair back and stood. "Thank you for inviting me, Lady Whittington, but I believe I must get back to my place."

  Adam looked from Priscilla to Lady Whittington, and said in a brusque dry tone, "What is the meaning of this, Mother?"

  "Just sit down both of you," Lady Whittington said in a firm voice.

  When Adam did nothing, his mother said, in a sharp voice, "I have something to say and I expect you to sit down and listen."

  Adam took his place at the head of the table, and Priscilla lowered herself into her chair, and they both looked at Lady Whittington and waited for an explanation.

  Glancing from one to the other, Lady Whittington said, "You, Adam, have been acting like an absolute peagoose, so I decided to do something about it and invite Priscilla here so the two of you can set things straight."

  Adam leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. "I don't believe Priscilla wants to set things straight any more than I do. We are on opposite sides of many issues, and I'm sure she will agree with me that most of them cannot be resolved."

  Priscilla held his cold gaze. "That is probably the only thing on which we agree."

  Lady Whittington pursed her lips as she looked from one to the other. "If both of you intend to remain stubborn and standoffish, then we shall eat dinner together and engage in polite conversation." She picked up her fork and speared a honeyed carrot.

  Adam looked at Priscilla, brows creeping together in a puzzled frown as his eyes roamed over the bodice of her dress. "I assume you're staying for the night."

  "And why would you assume that?" Priscilla clipped.

  "Because you appear to be dressed for... bed."

  "I'm wearing the latest in Pre-Raphaelite fashions," Priscilla informed him, in a polite huff. "If you bothered to read the very informative article that your daughter wrote in The Town Tattler you'd understand."

  "What I understand is that you are causing an uproar here in Cheyenne, with your inflammatory scandal sheet and your rabble-rousing town meetings, pitting men against women, husbands against wives. And your parading around in what appears to be night wear will only aggravate the situation."

  "The situation you are referring to is only with the men," Priscilla said. "The women of Cheyenne are very enthusiastic about my town meetings, my newspaper, and my fashion column. My subscriptions have exceeded my greatest expectations, I have more advertisers than I have room to print without going to a large quarto size, and I am an independent woman. But you, like most men, do not like it when a woman has power."

  "Power? What power? You're printing a single-page paper on an outdated press. I could shut you down in a day if I wanted to."

  "And just how would you do that?"

  "Any number of ways."


  Lady Whittington slapped her palm against the table sending glasses clinking and silverware bouncing. "Adam! Your behavior is reprehensible! Apologize to Priscilla at once."

  Priscilla cranked her chin up a notch. "That's not necessary," she said. "It just confirms what I said." As she held Adam's gaze, the haughty, self-important expression on his face began to fade, replaced by the countenance of awakening passion. And inside her, the longing for what he'd promised began to stir. She realized then how powerless she would be if they were alone, and he were to take her in his arms.

  To her surprise, and dismay, he smiled and said, "I apologize. My comment was uncalled-for. Please forgive me."

  "I doubt if you are being sincere," Priscilla said, "but on the chance that you are, I accept your apology." She glanced at Lady Whittington, who had the cryptic smile again.

  Lady Whittington leaned toward Adam, and said, "After dinner, you will please see Priscilla home. I sent the coach round for her because you were not here, but now that you are, you can see her safely to her door."

  Priscilla raised a hand in protest. "I don't need to be accompanied to my door, Lady Whittington," she said, in an anxious voice. "I feel quite safe riding in the coach alone and seeing myself to my door. Besides, I'm certain Adam has more important things to do this evening."

  Adam looked at Priscilla steadily. "On the contrary," he said, "I have nothing to do this evening, so I'll see you to your door." The message in his eyes was unmistakable. He intended to prove to her on the way home how powerless she was against him.

  Her palm moved protectively to her chest, drawing his focus there, causing her breasts to tingle. Perhaps she was powerless against him, but with only a few blocks to ride, she had no fear that Lady Whittington's next grandchild would be conceived in the coach. But if the coach took a detour, for any reason, she could not predict what might happen. Already she felt her defenses crumbling. It started when Adam focused on her breasts and she imagined his hands on them and his tongue teasing the puckered tips. But unlike her near deflowering in the coach, tonight there would be little beneath her dress.