Priscilla (The Widows of Wildcat Ridge Series Book 1) Read online

  Logan flipped long, light brown hair out of his eyes and muttered, "If it was me, I'd a done the same." Braxton looked smarter to him every day. They'd glommed onto him one night looking like he'd kill for a drink, so they'd given him a bottleful. Irish figured he'd make an easy patsy to leave holding the bag, so to speak, when they robbed the bank.

  Instead, Braxton had lit out with the money and left Irish and Logan to face the marshal. They'd managed to convince the lawman they were innocent, but Logan figured the old lady was bound to tell someone the truth. He tended to be more pessimistic than Irish.

  Irish nudged his horse to a walk, letting the gelding wander at will. "Braxton's gonna pay for the rotten trick he played on us."

  "You already shot him. Maybe he's dead."

  "We ain't that lucky," Irish grumbled. "Come on, we'll go see what this town has to offer. Could be Braxton's hiding there. He's gonna wish I'd killed him 'fore I'm done with him."

  Priscilla and Braxton found Marshal Fawks waiting in the evening shadows on the top step of Priscilla's porch.

  "So, you found him." Etta stood as they dismounted.

  Worried Etta might want to arrest him, Priscilla watched warily as they approached the marshal.

  "I apologize for leaving, Marshal," he said. "I panicked."

  Priscilla climbed the steps and sat on the porch swing, letting it sway beneath her weight. She liked watching the masculine way the man moved with a touch of swagger and a lot of confidence.

  "You have no reason to panic yet." Etta looked him over. "Who are you?"

  "Braxton Gamble."

  "Sit down. You look exhausted." She waved a hand at the chairs on the porch and sat in one herself. "Tell us how you acquired the saddlebag full of money you told Priscilla to take to the bank in Curdy's Crossing."

  He adjusted his position, bracing his leg on his other knee. A chagrined expression appeared on his face. "Plain old stupidity, Marshal. I'm a geologist by trade. I came west to try my luck at prospecting." He had a nice, smooth voice Priscilla could easily imagine singing ballads to women and lullabies to babies.

  "And have you succeeded?" Etta asked.

  He gave a wry chuckle. "Not with the price of silver dropping like rain. In Park City, I bought what looked like a promising gold claim, but before long I realized it had been salted and headed east. Figured I might as well go home to Illinois. A week ago, I ran into some old fur traders and ended up with nothing but the clothes on my back."

  "Bad luck, Mr. Gamble," Etta said.

  "Not bad luck, Marshal. More stupidity." His smile held a touch of self-recrimination. "Call me Braxton or, better yet, Brax."

  Priscilla's admiration for him hiked up a notch. She liked that he wasn't all ego, like some men she'd known. Like Mortimer Crane, for example. The one thing she could fault him for so far was being foolish enough to get drunk and let bad men lead him around like a blind goat.

  "Continue your story, Brax," the marshal prompted.

  "Well, I ended up in Curdy's Crossing where I'm ashamed to say I got drunk with a couple of friendly fellows who were generous with their coin. That alone should have warned me." He shook his head, his eyes dark with disgust. "Instead, I went with them while they withdrew some money from the bank."

  Felicity jumped into Braxton's lap. He straightened and put both feet on the floor to give the cat room to lie down. "From there on, the story goes downhill. We got inside the bank and the next thing I knew, Irish O'Malley — he was the leader of the two — announced it was a robbery. I didn't know what to do. Brain wasn't working too well. Irish ordered the teller to turn over the cash and told me to collect it in his saddlebags."

  Priscilla watched him stroke the cat's satiny fur, again and again, until the repeated movement and the thought of what a gentle touch could do to a woman mesmerized her. She'd always wished Robert would caress her that way, but he always wanted any touching to lead to coupling.

  "And did you?"

  "Yes, ma'am. The whiskey had clouded my brain up pretty good, but I was trying to figure a way out of the mess I'd gotten into. When Irish told me to shoot the old lady, I said, 'Hell no'." He glanced from Etta to Priscilla. "Sorry, ladies."

  "Just finish the tale, Brax," Etta said.

  "All right. What happened next went real fast. Irish shot me. Called me all sorts of names. The woman moved as if to run. When Irish turned to shoot her, I swung the saddlebag and hit him in the shoulder, then yelled and raced out the door. Hurt like hell, what with having a bullet in me, but I made it to my horse with the saddlebag and stolen money. Irish and Logan — Logan Cash, that is — came after me, but I opened fire to keep them in the bank until I could run off their horses, mount my own, and gallop out of that damned town."

  Priscilla went inside to make a late supper. She could still hear their conversation. Why was it men couldn't seem to speak without swearing? At least, Mr. Gamble knew better and apologized when he transgressed.

  "What did you do then?" Etta asked Braxton. "Ride around until you stumbled onto this house and let yourself in?"

  "That's about right, Marshal. Thanks to the bullet in my shoulder, I don't recall anything from the time I staggered in there until I woke up to see Priscilla peering at me."

  Etta said nothing for a while, seeming to think over his story. "Sounds like you're innocent, but I'd best put you in one of my cells until I can verify your story. I've already wired the marshal at Curdy's Crossing. When the answer comes, and if it supports your story, I'll let you go."

  Priscilla emerged from the house with a tray of coffee and sandwiches in time to hear the marshal's statement. "Oh, Etta." She set the tray on a table. Felicity jumped off Braxton's lap, her nose twitching madly at the smell of the food. "Must you jail him? He's hurt and innocent."

  "That remains to be proven, Pris. This Irish O'Malley fellow isn't going to forget about the money Brax escaped with. He'll come after him. Staying here would put you in danger."

  "The marshal's right, and I don't want to bring you more trouble," Braxton said. "Lock me up instead."

  Alarmed, Priscilla said, "He'll be too easy for them to kill imprisoned in a cage, and you can't be there all the time to protect him." She had no idea why she was fighting for him. It felt wrong to put him in jail, and yet, she supposed that was where he belonged. Why did it matter to her so much? Because she'd saved his life?

  "That may be true." Etta pursed her lips the way she always did when contemplating something. "But the law is the law. You should know that, with your husband being a lawyer. I'd be remiss in doing my duty if I didn't arrest him until his name has been cleared. Tell me, Brax, are you married?"

  "No, ma'am. Haven't had the pleasure yet."

  "You stick around here long, you're likely to find yourself wed." Standing, the marshal said, "Come along. You won't have much privacy. I already have two prisoners."

  "You have prisoners?" Priscilla asked.

  "Two boys who broke into the Two-Bit Saloon last night to steal a crate of whiskey."

  "Oh, no." Alarm filled Priscilla's eyes. "Is Dulcina all right?"

  "Yes. She heard them bust the window and came to get me. George Tweedie is replacing the glass now."

  "I imagine this isn't the first problem you've had with folks thinking to help themselves here," Braxton said. "When I rode in and saw no one around, I reckoned the town was abandoned."

  Etta stuck her fists on her hips. "We've had our share of folks trying to tear down buildings and empty stores they don't own. Pris, you can visit him at the jail to change his bandage next time."

  "Perhaps you should have Dr. Spense check on him. Will you let me know what you hear from Curdy's Crossing?"

  Etta cast her a why are you so interested? glance, almost seeming annoyed.

  "I spent almost every minute with him for two days, Etta. I've had his blood on my hands. I don't want to see him hanged now."

  Etta's face cleared, and she nodded. "I'll send for Dr. Spense."

  "Y
ou know, if word gets around some men are after him, the women are going to be frightened."

  "I know, and I'll handle it," Etta said headed for the jail with Braxton in tow.

  Priscilla truly didn't understand why she hated to see him leave. She'd enjoyed his company, liked his sense of humor and found him more than easy on the eyes. Wavy deep brown hair like the expensive imported chocolate the Tweedies sold at their mercantile, eyes an intriguing blend of blue and gray that changed with his emotions, a strong jaw, and a mouth that made her want to touch it. It was almost a shame she didn't want another husband.

  Out the kitchen window, she saw her neighbors on the street watching Etta and Braxton and staring at Priscilla's house. It had begun. The widows of Wildcat Ridge had caught the scent of an unmarried man.

  Chapter Seven

  Friday, Priscilla entered the church for the town meeting and took a seat next to Thalia three rows from the back. Hester stood at the podium speaking about the advertising needed for the auction.

  "Hi," Thalia greeted her. "What have you been up to?"

  "Um, I've been spring cleaning."

  "Oh, I wait until it warms up a little to do mine."

  Priscilla prayed Thalia didn't ask for more details, not wanting to talk about Braxton Gamble.

  Thalia opened her mouth to say something, but Hester interrupted.

  "Thalia," she said. "Can you give us a report on the progress of the Auction-Advertising Committee?"

  Thalia stood. A ray of sunlight glinted off the pale hair curling down her back over her typical brown shirtwaist. Priscilla considered the girl's wardrobe deplorable. Thalia should wear bright summer colors rather than drab browns and grays. Many of the women in town had given up wearing mourning since making the decision to find new husbands. The change gave them a huge sense of relief. Around a hundred and fifty women and children all in black had been overwhelming on top of all their grief.

  "We have a dozen signs almost ready to put up along the roads to lead visitors here," Thalia reported. "A few to post in the passenger car when the train comes through, and we have ads ready to send to newspapers. But we aren't finished yet."

  "Excellent work," Hester said. "Now, remember, we don't want to send out these ads too soon. I'd say three weeks before the auction. That would make it… Oh, dear. We need to get those out right away. June 27th is closer than I thought. Once they're out, resubmit them each week until the week before the auction, gaining us plenty of attention."

  "Very well, Hester." Thalia nodded. "We'll take care of it." She sat down.

  "Wonderful. Plans are coming along fine." Hester consulted a notepad. "Buster, how are you doing on your end?"

  Buster stood. "Fine, Hester. My foreman and I separated out the horses for the sale and Dr. Spense checked them over to make sure they're healthy." She glanced around the room as if to check for objections. "Okay. We'll be ready to move them to the stockyard behind the livery on August 2nd. They'll need time to calm down after the move."

  "Sounds like a good plan." Hester looked at her notes again. "Marshal Fawks has a few words she wants to say, and then we'll open the floor to questions."

  The mayor stepped back, and Etta took her place. "I just want to remind you all to lock your doors when you go out and at night. We've had more incidents of house destruction and theft in the past week. Also, I've been given to understand there may be two outlaws in the area who could be dangerous. Keep your eyes and ears open and report to me immediately if you see strangers on the streets."

  She paused, looking grim while a flurry of worried whispers circulated through the church.

  "I know we don't have room in our budget for a deputy," Etta went on. "But it's becoming more difficult every day for me to take care of everything, and with this new problem, I could really use help. If you could all donate, say, a dollar a month toward his pay, I could hire a deputy"

  Priscilla had her hand halfway up when Buster stood and asked, "How much you reckon we need to pay a deputy?"

  "Thirty a month at least. Most get forty."

  "All right. I'll take care of the deputy for now. Do you have someone in mind?"

  To Priscilla's surprise, Etta glanced at her before saying, "Yes, I do, but I'm not giving names until I've spoken with him."

  Did she mean Braxton Gamble? She had him in jail. He hadn't even been cleared of the robbery charge yet.

  Buster nodded and sat down.

  "Now," Hester said. "Does anyone have a question?"

  Clara Cooley, at the back of the room, stood and looked over her shoulder at Priscilla then at Etta. "Yes. Is the gorgeous man the marshal took from Priscilla's house and put in jail the same one you're saying some men are after?"

  The town meeting turned into Bedlam.

  "I can't imagine anyone who looks like him doing anything criminal," Clara rattled on. "But I want to know more about him."

  "Oh, hell," Etta muttered.

  "Oh, dear," Priscilla murmured.

  Forty-seven women all spoke at once, their comments and questions directed at Priscilla for the most part. Some exhibited shock, others enthusiastic interest. Flustered and embarrassed, Priscilla fended off the questions as best she could, saying, "I don't know."

  "Shut up, everyone!" Etta shouted.

  Shocked silence reigned. Some of the ladies sat back down. Others continued to stand. Priscilla forced herself to sit with a straight back, head held high, and pretended not to be embarrassed.

  "Yes, we're speaking of the same man," Etta said. "He is, I believe, innocent of the charge against him, but I can't let him go until I check out his story."

  "Is he a thief or outlaw?" Cordelia Wentz asked from her place in the audience.

  "He's confessed to having taken part in a robbery." Gasps followed Etta's words. She waved her hands again. "He claims to have been tricked into it, and I believe him."

  "So do I," Priscilla said, standing. Why she was defending the man, she had no idea.

  "Is he married?" Clara asked. At fourteen, the girl had only recently discovered boys were something better than warty toads and was all too eager to learn more.

  "I don’t think that's pertinent under the circumstances," Etta answered.

  Clara persisted. "But it's only right to let us know if he's fair game or just another undesirable."

  Etta sighed. "He's too old for you at any rate, Clara, so don't worry about it."

  Hester stepped in to the rescue. "Meeting's over, ladies."

  The women, some disappointed, others almost angry, edged toward the door, their mouths still going like cats snapping at a mouse. Several gave Priscilla looks ranging from curiosity to condemnation.

  "Priscilla." Hester curled her fingers in invitation.

  "See you later," Priscilla murmured to Thalia and went to stand beside Etta.

  "What is this about?" Hester asked.

  "It's as I said," Etta told her. "Except that Priscilla found him passed out on her bed with a bullet in his shoulder the night we came home from the springs. She doctored him up, and I interviewed him."

  "Lordy, Lordy." Hester wrung her hands. "Exactly what we needed, more trouble."

  "I believe Braxton Gamble will be more help than trouble," Etta said. "He's the one I’m thinking would make a good deputy."

  Priscilla gasped. "Mr. Gamble?"

  "Yes. He's strong, available, and I like him."

  Why did Etta's confession throw Priscilla into a quandary? Because it meant he'd be staying in Wildcat Ridge? How much good would it do her with every woman in town vying for his attention?

  Including Etta? Could the town marshal be interested in him romantically?

  Well, why not? Priscilla had no claim on the man. Didn't want one.

  Hester started for the door, but Priscilla stopped her. "Wait. Did you get to the land office to see about our ponds?"

  "Oh, yes. I filed an application for a six-square-mile township section. As soon as we can get a surveyor up there, and if that goes well,
the land will become ours."

  "Township? Is Angel Springs going to be its own town?" Priscilla asked.

  "No, it's just a term for describing the amount of land. We don't want it to be a part of the town. Mortimer would claim it for sure then."

  "He likely will anyway," Priscilla said. "When will the surveyor come?"

  "Tomorrow. " Hester bobbed on her heels, still clapping. "Isn't it wonderful? Next, we'll need to get a small building put up to show we're 'inhabiting' the land. And, of course, come up with the purchase price. A dollar-twenty-five an acre."

  Priscilla felt a stab of doubt. "What if the surveyor reports the claim to authorities and they decide it should be public land?"

  Hester's smile faded. "I hadn't thought of that."

  Etta's lips tightened again. "Let's go talk to Braxton. As a geologist and prospector, he may know about surveying and claiming land." They left the church to find a cluster of women in the street waiting.

  "Go home, ladies," Etta told them. "There's nothing more to tell you."

  "Yes, there is," Clara Cooley said grinning. "What's he like, Priscilla?"

  "He's very much a gentleman," she answered for no reason she could account for. Braxton wasn't a scoundrel, but he was no gentleman either. "Now, if you'll excuse us, we have something to do."

  "Can we meet him?" someone called as she walked away.

  "Ignore them," Etta said, and the three women hurried to the jail. Once inside, Etta locked the door to ensure they wouldn't be disturbed.

  "Everything all right?" Braxton asked, standing up from the cot where he'd been sitting.

  "Yes, of course," Priscilla said, while Etta unlocked the cell door.

  Two youths occupied the second cell. One with dark hair dangling in his eyes whistled at Priscilla. "Howdy, sweet thing."

  "Whoo-ee. Did you come to see me?" the other asked, grinning. Dirty, with shaggy dirt-brown hair and a pimply face, he looked no more than thirteen.

  "Shut up," Etta told him. "Or I'll raise the fine your folks need to pay to get you out of here.

  "Dang," he muttered.

  Etta motioned the women inside the cell to speak privately to Braxton.