Miss Phipps and the Cattle Baron (2 page)

Alice placed her hand on the back of his seat
and said, "I don't understand why any woman in her right mind would
want to share a room with a man at all. They snore, most of them
smell bad, and they look at women funny."

Weldon glanced over his shoulder at his
sister, and said, with an officious air, "They have to share a room
to make babies. Everyone knows that."

Alice pursed her lips. "What do you know
about making babies?"

"I know everything," Weldon said. He looked
up at his father. "Are you and Miss Burns going to make a baby,
Pa?"

Adam clenched his jaws. The conversation had
drifted into shaky territory. Not only was Weldon becoming aware of
changes taking place in his body, but Alice was quickly approaching
womanhood, and Trudy was involved with a young buck who was primed
for procreation at a moment's notice and she was not fighting him
off. "Miss Burns and I will make that decision together," he said,
"
after
we are man and wife." Until now, Adam hadn't given
much thought to extending the family. But the woman was only twenty
years old, so she would naturally want children of her own.

As for getting to know each other... Miss
Burns would probably want some time. For him, a warm female body in
his bed every night would take care of his problem just fine. All
he'd expect of her, beyond that basic need, would be to monitor the
children. If she turned out to be more, that would be all right
too. In any event, she'd have no cause to complain. He had enough
staff at the ranch to keep her comfortable while she managed the
children's needs and monitored who they were with. At least, with a
mother keeping a close watch, Trudy wouldn't be able to slip off
with Tom again.

"Where are we going now, Father?" Alice
asked.

"To the old Sentinel building to pick up your
new mother," Adam replied, then clucked his tongue and set the
horse heading down the street at a fast clip.

***

In the dim light filtering through several
murky windows, Priscilla scanned the interior of the building,
taking in floors strewn with mouse droppings, a door hanging askew,
and time-worn walls where patches of plaster cracked and fell away.
The type cases were busted, with ems scattered everywhere, tables
and stools were broken or in need of repairs, and although the old
Albion press stood in the middle of the room, its wood frame and
platens were split and rotting from dampness, and the iron screw
and other iron parts were so rusty, the press was sure to be
inoperable. Priscilla brought her father's press and printing
equipment with her from Missouri, but when she'd offered to hire
the women, she'd intended on selling the old Albion and other
equipment to cover the added expenses involving the women.

Although she had a moderate inheritance from
her parents, and had already factored in money for hiring two
typesetters, a compositor, and a printer's devil, she had not
expected them to be women in need of a place to stay, which meant
housing them until they could afford to move into a boarding
house.

She looked at the bank of stairs leading to
what would be their living quarters. If downstairs was any
indication, she did not look forward to what was up there. Jim was
good with plaster, and he could paint the walls and fix the door,
and just about anything else that needed fixing, but first, the
place would have to be cleared of the old press and broken
equipment, and the type cases would have to be repaired...

The sound of heavy footfalls on the porch
outside caught her attention. Before she could react, the door
swept open and a man's large frame filled the doorway.

"I am Adam Whittington," the man announced in
a voice smacking of well-established British aristocracy, "and I've
come for my bride."

Priscilla stared at the man. Tall and
powerfully built, with a crop of untrimmed brown hair, intense
brown eyes, and a double-breasted waistcoat that stretched across
his broad shoulders and thick chest, the man looked more like a
frontiersman in fancy dress than landed gentry. But then, Lord Adam
Whittington ruled a cattle domain in a wild, untamed land that was
as raw and rugged as the man appeared.

"The brides are not here," Priscilla said,
finding herself trapped in the man's dark gaze. Danger lurked in
those eyes, not the kind of danger she'd felt when she'd looked
into the eyes of a rattlesnake on the trail, but another kind of
danger, one capable of piercing her heart and finding its way into
her soul.

The glint of impatience flashed in the man's
eyes. "Then if you'll direct me to wherever she is, I'd like to
collect her and be on my way."

Priscilla's heart thumped in dismay. She had
never met a man who exuded so much command and confidence, the
combination evident in the firm set to his jaw and the almost
brutal line of his mouth. But she would not cower beneath his
uncompromising demeanor. Hardening herself for his reaction to her
forthcoming announcement, she said, "Well, the fact is, Lord
Whittington, Miss Burns has decided not to marry you. She is
working for me now. When the bank opens in the morning, I'll give
you a bank draft, reimbursing you for the cost of expenses for her
journey, and that will terminate her contract with you."

The man stood looking at her, hands clenched
at his sides, muscles bunching in his jaws. "Where is she?"

"I'm not at liberty to say," Priscilla
replied. "But the termination agreement in her contract with you
was quite clear. Upon reimbursement of expenses, she would be
released from the contract. Now, if you'll excuse me, Lord
Whittington, I have work to do."

"Bloody hell you do!
I contracted for
a wife, and that's what I intend to have. Now I will ask you one
more time. Where is Mary Kate Burns?"

The apprehension Priscilla felt moments
before was replaced by anger. She would not be intimidated by the
man, even if he did own half the territory. "Miss Burns is secure
from the likes of you," she said. "Furthermore, if she were here to
observe your rude and truculent behavior, and she had not yet
changed her mind about marrying you, she would certainly do so now.
Besides, you are far too old for the young woman."

"That is for me to decide."

"No, that is for Miss Burns to decide,"
Priscilla clipped. "Which she already has."

Before Priscilla could press her demand for
Lord Whittington to leave, the second of the four men she was
expecting stepped up to the open doorway. He removed his hat,
revealing a balding head ringed by mouse-gray hair. "I'm Clayton
Rathborn," he said, "and I've come to fetch Miss Johnson. I've got
the wagon outside for her things."

Priscilla recognized the man from a
photograph he'd sent to Libby. With his ruddy complexion and
pockmarked face, he was even less attractive than in his
photograph. The only reason Libby agreed to marry him was because
she'd been caught in a compromising way with a man she'd thought to
be a suitor prepared to ask for her hand, but who turned out to be
married. The wife who'd caught them described, in prurient detail,
the whole affair and posted it on the town bulletin board for all
to see and relish. Clayton Rathborn's offer to take on a "soiled"
woman as his wife was the answer to her prayers... At the time.

Priscilla backed around behind the old
printing press, wanting to put something solid between her and both
men as she said, "Well, you see, Mr. Rathborn, the fact is, Miss
Johnson has decided to—" she took a long breath to settle the
erratic beating of her heart...

"Let me guess," Lord Whittington said in an
irritated voice, "Miss Johnson has decided to renege on her
contract. Right?"

"It was her decision, Lord Whittington,"
Priscilla said. "I simply offered Miss Johnson a job so she could
support herself while working off her travel expenses." She found
the man's steady gaze disconcerting, but she was determined not to
be distracted by it. She had the gut feeling they'd cross paths in
the future, and it would not do for the owner and editor of
The
Town Tattler
to cringe in his presence. Squaring her shoulders,
she said to Clay Rathborn, "You will be reimbursed for Miss
Johnson's expenses."

Clay Rathborn's eyes narrowed. "I'll hear it
from Miss Johnson. Where is she?"

"Like I told Lord Whittington, the women are
secure until this has been worked out. Neither of you have a claim
on them. They have chosen not to marry you, and you will be
reimbursed for their expenses. And that is that."

Lord Whittington stepped around the press and
gazed down at Priscilla. "No, Miss Phipps, that is
not
that!
I contracted in good faith to take Miss Burns as my wife, and I
expect her to honor our contract."

Priscilla propped her hands on her hips, held
the man's caustic gaze, and said, "You are not bargaining for a
mule, Lord Whittington. You're contracting for a woman to share
your life, and sleep in your bed, and bear your children. It might
be a simple arrangement for a man of your callous nature to enter
into, but the young women who will be working for me do not look at
things the same way. For them, the prospect of finding love with
the men they marry is important. There's nothing more to be said.
You'll both receive your bank drafts when the bank opens in the
morning. Good evening gentlemen." She stood firm, waiting for the
men to leave.

To her dismay, the third of the four men
appeared. From his mutton-chop whiskers and handle-bar mustache she
knew it was Jeremy Bottoms, Abigail Chandler's intended. Before he
could speak, Priscilla said, "Mr. Bottoms, Miss Chandler has
changed her mind and she will be reimbursing you for expenses and
terminating your marriage agreement—"

"The hell she's terminating our
agreement!
Jeremy Bottoms shouted, face livid. "I've waited
three months for the damn woman and I'm not going home without her.
Where is she?" He started up the stairs.

Priscilla called after him. "You will not
find Miss Chandler up there, Mr. Bottoms. She is not in this
building. And she will not be going home with you. Ever! You will
be reimbursed for her expenses when the bank opens, and if you
decide to cause trouble, you will find yourself sitting somewhere
you will not wish to be."

Spittle spewed from the man's mouth as he
said,
"Are you threatening to have me arrested if I make a claim
on my bride?"

Priscilla glared at the man. "Yes, Mr.
Bottoms, I am doing precisely that!"

Veins standing out in his neck, he said, "You
haven't seen the last of me. I
will
find Miss Chandler and
she
will
marry me or she'll have hell to pay. I have two
young'uns needing lookin' after, chickens to feed, a cow that needs
milkin', a cabin that needs cleanin' and a garden that needs
planting. And I just paid thirty dollars for a new feather
mattress. There
will
be a woman in my bed before the week's
out!"

"That may be," Priscilla said, "but Miss
Chandler will
not
be that woman! Meanwhile, I suggest you
start looking for a nanny, a farm hand, and a mistress. You are no
bargain as a husband. I am just thankful that Miss Chandler will
not be strapped with the likes of you."

Jeremy Bottoms mumbled a string of expletives
under his breath, shoved his way between Lord Whittington and
Clayton Rathborn, and stormed out the door. When the other two men
didn't budge, Priscilla said in a firm tone, "Good evening,
gentlemen. I will be at the bank promptly when it opens. And if
either of you know Mr. Frank Gifford, please inform him that Miss
Edith Hogan will also be working for me, and that he too can be at
the bank when it opens."

Clayton Rathborn shoved his hat on his head,
cut loose with a string of expletives he did not try to cover, and
stomped out. But Lord Whittington remained.

"Is there something more that you want?"
Priscilla asked.

"Yes, as a matter of fact there is." He
scanned the room with its broken type trays and limitless ems
scattered across the warped wood floors, his gaze coming to rest on
the old Albion press. "If you intend to start another newspaper in
Cheyenne," he said, his voice holding a hint of warning, "you will
find your competitors very unfriendly."

"I am not worried about unfriendly men,"
Priscilla said. "The world is filled with them."

Lord Whittington eyed her in a condescending
manner, giving her the impression he was sizing her up as a
disgruntled, man-hating, old maid, which perhaps she was. Her
experiences with men had not been pleasant ones, Lord Whittington,
with his haughty, patronizing demeanor a shining example of what
she disliked about them. He placed his hand on the bar of the old
press and gave it a shove, but the giant screw, locked from rust
and disuse, refused to turn. A look of satisfaction crossed his
face. "Running a newspaper is not something a woman can manage on
her own," he said. "I assume you are on your own."

"And why would you assume that?" Priscilla
asked. "Is it because I am a rather plain-looking maiden lady, well
past my prime, or because you believe that a woman without a man is
incapable of pursuing a man's profession, even if that profession
is quite suitable for a woman?"

He eyed her with impatience. "I believe that
women are suited for running certain businesses, Miss Phipps. Many
own and operate millinery shops and other trades catering to
females. But running a newspaper is a dangerous and cutthroat
business. Not only does it take physical stamina, and in many
instances foolhardiness, but it is common for editors to lash out
at each other in back-alley terms, disputes often ending with
knives or bullets."

Priscilla glared at the infuriating man. "If
this is an attempt on your part to scare me off, Lord Whittington,
you will soon learn that I do not scare easily. And I am aware of
the dangers. I grew up helping my father run his newspaper.
Granted, it was a small-town paper, but we faced the same criticism
and threats that larger papers face."