Wicked Temptations (3 page)

"Well, it isn't," Priscilla assured him. "I have my own press. I expect to have it in operation before the week is done. My newspaper will be called
The Town Tattler
, and I invite you and the other members of your cattlemen's association to become subscribers. After all, it is always good business to know what your opponents are about."

"And in what way do you believe your paper to be a threat to the
Cheyenne Daily Leader
or the
Cheyenne Daily Sun
?" he asked.

Priscilla held his lofty gaze, and replied, "Because there is an excellent chance that
The Town Tattler
may be in opposition to them. I travelled across country with homesteaders, whom, it is my understanding, you cattlemen would like to see driven out of the territory."

He eyed her in amusement. "I'll keep that in mind." He glanced at the old press again, and said, "And the brides which you have taken possession of? Will they be operating the press that you brought along?"

Priscilla bristled at the man's condescending manner. "The women will be setting type, something that women, with their smaller more nimble fingers, are far more adept at doing than men. As for operating my press, I have a pressman who is strong and well trained in its operation.
 
Now, as you can see," she said, spreading her arms as if to encompass the entire room, "I have a lot of work ahead of me before we can move my equipment into the building, so I ask that you leave now so that I can begin the task."

Jaw muscles bunching, eyes narrowing in displeasure, Lord Whittington stalked through the doorway. But as Priscilla was about to close the door, he turned and braced his hand against it, and said, "Tell Miss Burns that I will expect to hear directly from her that she wants to break our contract. She will not find a better arrangement than what I have to offer. My ranch house is large and comfortable, and my house on
17th Street
is suited for entertaining, with double parlors and a dining room that can accommodate large dinner parties. It also has an impressive library, master suites on both the ground floor and the second floor, and five other bedrooms, each with its own bathroom. And I have a staff of servants to see to running the house."

For one long dreamy moment, Priscilla imagined herself in that grand house, sitting on a bed covered in silk sheets, with a light wrapper draped around her shoulders, and the man in her line of vision would be walking toward her, and she'd drop the wrapper from around herself, and she'd be wearing nothing under it...
 
Her breath quickened, and her heart started a staccato beat. Steeling herself from such outrageous notions, she said in a clipped, dry tone, "You present a very tempting offer for many women, Lord Whittington, but I assure you, Mary Kate Burns is not one of them. And she has made up her mind. Good evening." Priscilla slammed the door firmly in his face.

The man set her on edge, caused her to have thoughts no decent woman should have, least of all a spinster nearing forty who had never had intimate relations with a man in her life. Who'd never even kissed a man. But when Lord Whittington stood looking at her, she'd felt an almost irrepressible urge to reach out and touch him.... Along with a pressing need to remove him from her presence. Which she had done, in no uncertain terms. Tomorrow she'd face the ramifications of her brash action in slamming the door in his face. For now, she fanned herself with her hand, wondering what was coming over her.

CHAPTER TWO

'She prides herself on her father and glories

in him, everybody saying she also resembles him.'

— Venetian ambassador Giovanni
Michiel

about
Elizabeth
, in1557

Priscilla looked at herself in the mirror and saw an older version of the red-headed schoolgirl who'd fancied herself descended from
Good Queen Bess
. It started when she'd found a color plate of Queen Elizabeth in a history book, the color of the queen's hair catching her attention. She'd gone on to read in the book that Elizabeth had King Henry's pale complexion, golden lashes, and curly copper-red hair, and Anne Boleyn's oblong face and pointed chin, wide-set almond-shaped eyes, and pronounced cheekbones. But unlike Anne Boleyn's clear, unmarred complexion,
Elizabeth
had freckles on her pallid skin.

As Priscilla studied her reflection, the color plate came back in vivid detail. It had depicted Queen Elizabeth in her late thirties, the age Priscilla was now, and the likeness was even more striking than when Priscilla was a girl of fourteen with only a hint of the woman she would become. Everything about her face resembled the queen now, except her nose didn't have the hook
Elizabeth
inherited from Henry, nor did she have
Elizabeth
's teeth, rotting from decay.

She leaned closer and peered into her eyes.
Elizabeth
's had been described as hazel by some, golden-brown by others, and even agate-grey in one account. But it was said that the varying effects of
Elizabeth
's eyes were produced by the combination of her large black pupils and light falling across the irises, the unusual color a cross between Anne Boleyn's dark brown eyes, and Henry's piercing blue ones.

But enough about the queen. Sharing a likeness with a woman who lived three hundred years ago did nothing for Priscilla now. But having the bank manager prepare bank drafts for the disgruntle men would at least bring finality to that matter.

An hour later, she met with the manager of the bank, who informed her that her funds from their eastern branch had arrived, and that her account was set up. She had the man prepare bank drafts for Clayton Rathborn, Jethro Bottoms and Adam Whittington. Frank Gundy had still not approached her about Edith Hogan, but she would be ready for him when he did. With the bank drafts prepared, and the women's contracts for the men to sign clasped in her hands, Priscilla waited in the lobby of the bank for the men to arrive.

The women were staying in a boarding house on the outskirts of town, but as soon as she was finished at the bank, she'd collect the women and they would spend the day cleaning the upstairs living quarters, where the women would be staying until they could accumulate enough money to return to the boarding house. Thankfully, her building was located in the center of town, so they could walk to most stores. But she would get around town on her Rover, which she'd purchased just before leaving
Missouri
. She had only ridden the new safety bicycle a few times, but she'd mastered pedaling and steering in one afternoon. It was a marvel of design. If the women of
Cheyenne
were not aware of the personal freedom and self-reliance bicycling embodied, they'd learn about it in an upcoming editorial.

Before long, Jethro Bottoms and Clayton Rathborn arrived, spiteful and bad-tempered and grumbling about meddlesome old maids and fickle mail-order brides. They begrudgingly signed the contracts and left. After an hour, when Lord Whittington had still not shown up, Priscilla left the bank to look into renting a buckboard and horse.

Two hours later, Priscilla, driving a vehicle piled high with cleaning supplies, new mattress pads, bolts of cloth, and bundles of bed linens, and accompanied by four women who were chattering enthusiastically, arrived at the old Sentinel building. The notice she'd posted on the mercantile remained there, but Frank Gundy had not come forward to claim Edith, so they had no idea where things stood.

By early afternoon they'd cleared the upstairs rooms—mostly boxes of papers that mice had used for nests, along with some broken chairs and other discarded furniture—and the old wooden floorboards were scrubbed clean. After the floor boards had thoroughly dried, Priscilla and the women stashed their trunks alongside one wall, placed the mattress pads on the floors of two rooms, and cut and tacked panels of new yard goods over the windows for privacy. While each woman made up her bed, Priscilla prepared a dressing table out of a discarded dresser and hung a mirror over it, then fashioned a wash stand from a small, worn, but attractive table and placed her own china pitcher and bowl atop it. She intended to live there permanently, so after the press room was set up and the women were back in the boarding house, she'd look into renovating the upstairs into comfortable quarters for herself. One of the advantages of remaining unmarried was the luxury of living and doing exactly as she pleased.

Meanwhile, Jim Jackson, her pressman, was downstairs clearing out the old equipment in preparation for patching the plaster and painting the walls and fixing the door that hung askew. When the women were finished cleaning and waxing the floors, Jim could bring in the printing press, the bundles of Ready Print, and the many cases filled with type, type sticks and other printing equipment that she'd hauled west in the covered wagon.

It was late afternoon and the women were on their hands and knees in the back room, scrubbing the floor, while Priscilla and Jim stood in the main room, discussing what needed to be done. The front door slowly opened, and a man poked his head inside. Priscilla wiped her hands on her apron and said, "May I help you?"

The door opened wide, and the man's tall, solid frame blocked the light, darkening the room as he stood in the doorway. "I'm Frank Gundy Jr.," he said, hat turning in his hands. "I'm looking for Miss Priscilla Phipps. The notice said she'd be here."

Priscilla studied the man, who looked to be in his late teens or early twenties at best. She had expected Frank Gundy to be older. At least from his photograph he looked older. And in his letter to Edith, he mentioned having children. "Then you're here about Miss Hogan," she said.

"Well, yes ma'am," Frank replied. "That is, I'm here for my father. He sent me to pick up his bride."

"Your father?" Priscilla stared at the man. A pleasant looking young man with the stubble of youthful whiskers. Certainly a better match for Edith than the man's father.

"Pa's having a problem with one of his mules and couldn't come, so he sent me over to fetch Miss Edith Hogan. Is she here?"

Edith stood in the doorway to the back room, appreciation in her eyes, a shy smile on her lips. "I am Edith Hogan," she said.

The two stared at each other. When neither spoke, Priscilla took the moment to explain to the man what was going on, and to assure him that a bank draft, made out to his father, would be waiting at the bank.

Young Frank Gundy looked at Priscilla, as if at a loss for words. Then he shifted his gaze to Edith and said, "Ma'am, my Pa will not be happy about this. He's been waiting a long while for you and has the place fixed up for your arrival. There's fresh bedding on Pa's bed and a bath tub by the stove
so's
you can bathe. Pa even took a bath in it this morning and shaved fresh
so's
he'd be clean when he and you... that is, when you are... together as husband and wife."

Edith stared at Frank, wide-eyed. When she said nothing, Frank continued. "My Pa's a good man, Miss Hogan. He never once hit Ma. And the farm's in fine shape so there aren't many chores that need doing. Pa just wants a wife for tidying the house and keeping him company at night and fixing his meals and sharing his bed. And he's not mean or anything. He'd be real gentle with you too since he knows you're still a maiden lady."

Edith finally found her voice. "Mr. Gundy, please tell your father that I appreciate his offer to become his wife, but I'm looking for someone considerably younger. In fact, I'm prepared to join the right man in securing a homestead and being a help mate in starting a farm. I am not afraid of hard work." Her lips curved slightly, and she added, "Perhaps we will meet again in the near future. I'll be here working for Miss Phipps."

Frank's smile reflected as tiny points of light in his deep blue eyes. Then he turned to Priscilla, and said, "I'll give my pa your message about the bank draft." He looked at Edith, smiled again, and left. Edith stepped to the window and watched him walk away.

Abigail started giggling. "I don't know why you didn't jump at the chance to bed a man who was scrubbed clean and shaved and waiting for you to join him, never mind that he was an old hoot. Actually, young Frank was a looker. Maybe you could just add Junior to the name on the agreement and marry him instead."

Edith turned to Priscilla. "Could I? I mean, would it be legal if Frank Jr. agreed?"

Priscilla eyed her with alarm. She needed all four woman right now. Unlike the tramp type-slingers who roamed from newspaper to newspaper, hiring for short periods of time and then moving on, women typesetters and compositors were trustworthy and dependable, and they didn't stash bottles of whiskey around the place. If she could hold onto all four
 
women until the paper got going, it would go a long way in insuring its success. "You barely know the man," she said, "and marriage is forever. By working here, you can take your time before settling on a man."

Edith's brows pinched together, and her mouth drooped. "But I liked young Frank Gundy. I liked the way he was polite, and that he talked about how good his pa was, not as a husband for me, but just to let me know that he was thinking about my well-being."

Abigail picked up her scrub brush and started in again. "But there are hundreds of eligible young men in this city," she said, rasping the brush against the old floorboards, "and lots of them are rich from running cattle and mining gold. We don't have to settle for old men like the ones we were fixing to marry. But if you're set on getting to know young Frank Gundy, then going to church on Sunday would be a start. I'll bet he'll be there."

Edith smiled. "Yes, church," she said, then she dropped to her hands and knees and continued scrubbing, a cheerful little tune emanating from her throat, a smile fixed on her lips.

***

From his stance across the street, Adam watched a big Negro paint a band of brick red over the words, CHEYENNE SENTINEL, that were scrawled across the face of the old building. The man stood on the porch roof, a bucket of paint in one hand, a brush in the other. On the porch beneath the roof rose a mound of trash and printing equipment and discarded pasteboard boxes. He'd seen several women, along with Miss Priscilla Phipps, step out of the building on occasion to toss rubbish onto the growing pile. He had not gone to the bank to pick up the bank draft, as he had not yet given up hope of collecting his bride. He needed a mother for his children, and he needed her fast. He'd caught Tom Rafferty throwing dirt clods at Trudy's bedroom window at the ranch the night before, and if he could talk Mary Kate Burns into marrying him, he would install her and the children in the house on
17th Street
, and Trudy and Tom would be miles apart. It wouldn't be long before the young buck would find other pastures in which to graze.

As for Mary Kate, he'd stay with her a few nights a week, which should work for both of them, since there was no love between them. Actually, a rather good arrangement. He took a last look at the photograph she'd sent to him and headed across the street, certain she'd been one of the women who'd stepped onto the porch earlier. Seeing the door ajar, he walked into the building unannounced and stood just inside the doorway. Four heads looked his way. "I am Adam Whittington, and I'm looking for Miss Mary Kate Burns," he said. "I believe she's here."

To his annoyance, Priscilla Phipps emerged from the back room. "I told you yesterday, Lord Whittington, that Miss Burns will not be marrying you. Now, will you please leave. As you can see, we are all very busy."

"I don't care how busy you are," Adam said, "I've come to hear it directly from Miss Burns." He looked around the room. "Which of you is Miss Burns?"

"I am Mary Kate Burns," a small, slender woman said, her milky white skin and wide blue eyes the image of youthful innocence. She stood slowly then, the top of her pigtailed blond head about mid-chest to him, making her seem younger yet. She stared at him with those large innocent eyes while waiting for him to respond.

Bloody hell
. He'd be marrying a child. And to bed the woman...
 
He probably wouldn't even be able to function as a man. He slipped the photograph from his pocket and glanced at it again. It was the same woman alright, but with her gloved hand on the back of a chair, and wearing a hat and fashionable gown, she looked ten years older. But she wasn't ten years older. She was four years older than Trudy. And there was no way Trudy or the other children would look on her as a mother figure.

He handed her the photograph. "Miss Burns," he said, "if you want to get out of the marriage agreement, I will release you from it."

The woman turned worried eyes on Priscilla Phipps, as if looking for confirmation, and when Miss Phipps nodded, Miss Burns said, "Yes, Lord Whittington, I think it would be best. You have three nearly-grown children, and I do not feel competent to see to their needs. I am sorry for whatever grief I may have caused you and your family."