Miss Phipps and the Cattle Baron (22 page)

To Priscilla's surprise, and dismay, Adam
didn't try to convince her that he wasn't one of them, or assure
her that he'd stand against any man who used unjust means to drive
the nesters away. Instead, he folded his arms, stared out the side
window, and said nothing. And as the coach pulled up to her place,
a sense of sadness settled over her, like a dark cloud moving over
the land, changing a world of bright beautiful colors into the
murky grays of uncertainty.

***

There was no end to the procession of buggies
and wagons, heading down a lane lined with red, white, and blue
flags and banners, towards the fairgrounds and the Fourth of July
picnic and horse races. Picnickers would be dotting the grounds
everywhere, and concession booths would feature iced drinks and an
array of foods and confections. There would also be three-legged
sack races, lassoing matches, baseball games, and of course, the
to-be-expected mayoral stump speeches. Adam would be among the
candidates, and Priscilla was curious to hear his spiel. Although
he represented the interest of the cattlemen, she wondered how he
would craft his speech to include the homesteaders.

She originally planned to rent the buckboard
again, but since each of the women had suitors coming for them, or
at least escorts, she rode the two miles to the fairgrounds on her
Rover. Edith and young Frank Gifford were engaged to be married,
Mary Kate was with a young man she'd met at church, and Libby and
Abigail were in the company of two brothers who had adjoining
claims with farms west of town. It was only at Trudy's insistence
that Priscilla agreed to come. But at the last minute, Trudy rode
with some of her friends, who would be helping her distribute the
stack of leaflets in support of her father, that she had
painstakingly hand-printed.

Never had Priscilla felt so much the maiden
lady that she was. Unattractive, unescorted, almost untouched. A
woman on the shelf. Where she would remain for the rest of her
life. It had been over a week since Adam accompanied her home from
his mother's house, and once they'd arrived at her place, he'd
walked her to the door, made no move to kiss her goodnight, and
left. Nor had he tried to see her after that. Clearly they had
reached an impasse, and neither of them had attempted to rectify
the situation, although Adam had been on her mind constantly since
that time. And as she pedaled the last mile, in her plain,
teal-blue, tailor-maid with its snug-fitting jersey bodice and
divided skirt designed for bicycling, she wondered if Adam might
arrive at the picnic with a woman on his arm.

It would be to his advantage to have at least
the prospect of a wife, when running for mayor. Townsfolk seemed to
place importance on a man's position in regards to family life. But
at least he would not be parading around with a red-headed,
freckle-faced spinster on his arm. One covered in dust, she
realized as she trailed behind a buggy ambling along at a snail's
pace, but too fast for her to pass. But no matter. No one would
notice her. Rarely did anyone notice Priscilla Phipps in a crowd.
Often, when she was a younger woman still believing in impossible
dreams, she'd wonder if she was invisible, the way men saw through
her, or around her, as they walked toward a prospective dance
partner, leaving her standing alone and gazing over a crowd that
barely knew she existed.

So today, in her unadorned cycling outfit,
with her carrot-red hair toned down by dust, and her face flushed
from the vigor of pedaling, she only hoped she would again be
invisible to the crowd, especially to Adam. She must certainly be a
sight for sore eyes. But, of course, arriving at the picnic on her
Rover would draw some attention. But it would be no less than
anyone would expect of a spinster lady. Susan B. Anthony's words
seemed especially fitting
: "Bicycling has done more to
emancipate women than anything else. It gives women a feeling of
freedom and self-reliance. I stand and rejoice every time I see a
woman ride by on a wheel, the picture of free, untrammeled
womanhood."

And that was precisely how Priscilla felt
today. Free. Self-reliant. Untrammeled.

Fifteen minutes later, as she pedaled through
the entrance to the fairgrounds, she was aware of people taking
notice, and when she set the parking stand on her Rover, a small
crowd gathered around her.

"Please father," a young woman about Trudy's
age said in an excited voice, "just look at it. It's what I read
about in
The Town tattler
. Everyone's going to have one
soon, and if you put in an order now, it would arrive on the next
train from Chicago, just in time for my birthday."

The man standing with the young woman studied
the bicycle for a few moments, then looked at Priscilla, and said,
"My daughter is intrigued by your bicycle. Is it true that it has a
steerable front wheel?"

"Very steerable," Priscilla said. "As you can
see, the chain drive operates the rear wheel, making it easier to
pedal. And unlike the penny farthing, with it's huge front wheel,
the Rover's wheels are the same size, making it closer to the
ground, and much more maneuverable. I just arrived here from
Cheyenne, which is a two-mile ride, and even on the dirt road it
was smooth riding. But it also has the new pneumatic tires with air
in them, instead of the hard rubber ones which can be bone-jarring,
like those on penny farthings."

The man looked at it with interest. "It does
seem safer than a penny farthing, and more comfortable, I presume."
One hand came down on the padded leather saddle, the other curved
around a hand grip.

Priscilla heard the woman standing beside the
girl—presumably her mother—say to the man in a hushed tone,
"Really, George, you cannot possibly be considering such a thing.
Look at the way the woman's dressed. And she's covered in
dust."

"There is nothing wrong with the way the
woman's dressed," the girl protested. "That's the new rational
dress movement wear."

"Which is precisely my point," the woman said
to her husband. "Soon our daughter will be shedding her corset and
skirts and riding around in those awful bloomers."

"I won't wear bloomers," the girl insisted,
"but there's nothing wrong with tailor-mades with divided skirts.
They're practical and unrestricting, and all my friends are wearing
them."

"Which of your friends?" the woman asked,
curtly.

"Well none yet. But they will be as soon as
they get their Rovers. Everyone is talking about getting them now,
and it would be totally unfair if I were to be the only one without
one."

While the man and woman squabbled about the
bicycle, Priscilla happened to glance up and find, to her
mortification, Adam, standing not more than ten feet away, staring
at her.

Tall and handsome in his charcoal-gray frock
coat with silk lapels, white linen shirt with a stiff collar and
wide silk ascot, and a top hat reminiscent of Abraham Lincoln, he
stood within a circle of admiring women, each dressed in the height
of fashion, each seeming to be vying for his attention. And still,
his eyes were on her... A woman as drab as a church mouse. What was
it he could possibly see in her? An why could she not dismiss the
disturbing thought of that bath tub filled with warm water?

***

Adam watched Priscilla close the stand on her
bicycle and offer it to a young woman, who stepped over the low bar
and sat on the saddle...

"Can you imagine arriving here on
that
?" one of the females encircling him said, her eyes
fixed on Priscilla.

"Well, actually, I can," another woman said.
"At least for her. That's Priscilla Phipps, who owns and edits
The Town Tattler
. She wrote an article about bicycling in
the latest issue, and it sounded kind of intriguing."

"But look at the woman. She's covered in
dust. And that outfit she's wearing. It's the plainest thing I ever
saw."

"It's practical," Adam found himself mumbling
as he scanned Priscilla's ample bosom and small waist in the
form-fitting bodice, and noted the gentle taper of her hips beneath
the austere skirt. The women encircling him saw a plain woman in a
plain outfit. He saw a woman he wanted to strip naked and carry her
off to bed. A woman with spunk and determination who he couldn't
shove from his mind, no matter how hard he tried. Even with her
hair covered in dust, and her freckled face flushed from pedaling
her bicycle, she was more appealing to him than any of the mindless
butterflies gathered around him. But he wasn't fooled by these
women, who were more attracted to his wealth and the prospect of
becoming the mayor's wife, than to him...

"I actually love
The Town Tattler
,"
one of the women said. "I went to the last meeting and heard the
women speak, and she was amazing. She may look like Old Mother
Hubbard, but she sure has guts. And she makes a lot of sense." The
woman turned to Adam. "I believe your daughter was also there, if
I'm not mistaken, Lord Whittington."

"She was," Adam replied, continuing to look
with appreciation at Priscilla, who was crouched with one knee in
the dirt, pointing out the bicycle chain to the man. A thatch of
carrot-red hair fell across her forehead, which she blew away with
a sharp puff of breath, bringing a smile to Adam's lips. Then she
dusted off her hands, stood, pressed her palms to the small of her
back and stretched, throwing her chest forward, while causing his
fingers to rub together, and all manner of havoc to take place
below his belt...

"You must be very proud of her," he heard the
woman say.

"Of Priscilla?" he said, then realized his
gaffe.

The woman looked at him, curious. "No, Lord
Whittington, your daughter."

"My daughter?" he said, trying to focus on
what the woman was saying.

"She presented a very good argument in favor
of the fashions being promoted by the Rational Dress Society, like
the outfit Miss Phipps is wearing. Of course, I'd never dress that
way," the woman assured Adam, "but I don't hold it against Miss
Phipps. After all, when you've reached her age and are still
unmarried, you can pretty much do as you please. In some respects
she's to be envied."

"I wouldn't know. I was not at the meeting,"
Adam said, somewhat incongruously, his focus still on Priscilla,
who'd parked her Rover beside a wagon and was walking off. Deciding
it was his opening to be rid of these mindless butterflies and
their idle chatter, he said, "If you'll excuse me ladies, I'd like
to talk to Miss Phipps... about my daughter." He broke from the
group and caught up with Priscilla, taking her by the arm.

Priscilla turned to face him. "What do you
think you're doing?" she asked.

Adam tugged her around the wagon and out of
sight of the women. "We need to talk."

Priscilla looked up at him, eyes taking on
hues of greens and browns with sparks of golden light, and said, "I
believe we've exhausted our options. What is there to discuss?"

"I've been thinking.... In fact, I'll be
bringing up some issues during my stump speech this afternoon. I
want you to listen to what I have to say."

"It will be nothing more than campaign
promises designed to bring in votes so that once you're mayor, you
can do as you please, which is to cater to the cattlemen and rid
the territory of those pesky homesteaders." Although she was
deriding him, the look on her face was one of longing. Of
expectation. Of wanting to be kissed. Which he'd do before he left
her to present his stump speech. "I admit, that was my goal when I
entered this race," Adam said, "but you've made me see things
differently."

He started to tell her about Seth Watkin's
mule, but he knew she'd view it as tooting his own horn, even
though it had been anything but that. Seeing Seth with his wife and
children, trying to build a better life for themselves, opened his
eyes to the truth. Who were the cattlemen, sitting in their
mansions on 17th Street, to be depriving men like Seth of a life
they could never have if it were not for the Homestead Act...

"It's one thing to see things differently,"
Priscilla said, "but it's quite another to actually act on that.
What will you really do if you get elected mayor?" She waited, lips
parted, nostrils flaring, breasts rising and falling with her
quickened breaths...

Damn, but he wanted to kiss her. He curled
his fists to keep from reaching out, and replied, "I'll be
proposing some new measures... laying out established routes for
driving cattle to the railroads, setting aside land designated for
homesteaders, offering land swaps whereby homesteaders would
acquire more acreage if they gave up land needed for driving cattle
to depots for shipping east." He reached out and pushed an unruly
thatch of carrot-red hair off her forehead, then rested his hand on
her shoulder, and she didn't duck from his touch. As he looked at
her wind-blown hair, and freckled face, and dust-covered clothes,
he thought about the circle of women with their flawless white
skin, and perfect noses, and eyes made up for capturing a man's
attention...

Manikins. They were all beautiful, wooden
manikins. "I've missed you," he said.

Priscilla's eyes brightened. "Don't so this,
Adam," she replied. "I'm fine until you touch me. But I need to
stay focused on my reason for moving to Cheyenne. I can't keep
succumbing to frivolous emotions."

"Frivolous emotions?" Adam said. "Do you
think that's all it is with us?"

"Unhealthy attraction then," Priscilla
qualified. "Look at me. I'll be forty my next birthday. The blush
is definitely off the bloom. Yet, you're a man in your prime, able
to attract women considerably younger than yourself. And when I'm
in my forties, I'll be even more unattractive than I am now. But
that's not the issue since you haven't asked me to marry you. But
even a short-term relationship with me would create problems for
both of us. I'd give up my virginity to a man I don't love, and
you'd be, if not a laughing stock in Cheyenne, then certainly a
curiosity as to why you aligned yourself with a woman as plain as
an old shoe, who no man so much as looked at before you came
along."