Miss Phipps and the Cattle Baron (3 page)

A puzzled frown crept across his brow. "Then
you actually do intend to start a newspaper?" he asked. Plainly he
had not taken her seriously. Until now.

Priscilla ratcheted her chin up a notch so
she could look directly at him, and said, "May I ask what concern
it is of yours? It's my understanding that you're a cattle rancher.
Granted, you own one of the larger spreads in the territory, but
your enterprise will be in no danger from me unless, of course, you
engage in improper or illegal means of operation, and I were to
report it in an article. But it would be a stretch for me to assume
anything of the sort. Am I right?"

"You are right, Miss Phipps. My cattle
operation is secure and my business practices above reproach. But
Cheyenne has several newspapers, and they would not look favorably
on yet another paper starting up."

"If you are referring to the
Cheyenne
Daily Leader
and the
Cheyenne Daily Sun
, I am familiar
with both newspapers," Priscilla said. "From what I've learned,
they serve the interests of the Wyoming Stock Growers Association
and have a wide circulation, which makes me curious. Why, may I
ask, would you think that a mere woman, starting up a small paper,
would be in danger here? That was your concern wasn't it? That as a
single woman, I might be in danger of bodily harm, if I were to
enter a field dominated by men?"

He gave her a look of tolerant understanding.
"It is not that you are a woman, single or otherwise," he said. "It
is anyone starting a newspaper. But a woman is naturally more
vulnerable than a man." His expression emotionless, he waited for
her response.

"I don't feel vulnerable in the least,"
Priscilla said. "After all, Miss Abigail Scott Duniway established
The New Northwest
in Portland, Oregon and has made a success
of it without being threatened, as did Miss Laura DeForce with the
Daily Leader
down in Stockton, California. And not far from
here, Gertrude and Laura Huntington have the
Platte Valley
Lyre.
But I don't believe you fear for my safety. I think you
have other concerns. Perhaps an ax to grind because women are
starting to infiltrate a field that has, until recently, been
completely dominated by men."

Lord Whittington drew in an extended breath,
plainly exasperated with the changes in his life—losing his
long-awaited bride, confronting a woman entering a man's domain.
When he stood staring at her, she said, "You seem as if at a loss
for words. Are you afraid I might penetrate your association's
publishing empire and steal their subscribers and advertisers?"

To her surprise, an amused glimmer came into
his eyes, and the hard line of his mouth softened with a
half-smile, which had the odd effect of bringing heat rushing up
her face to settle in her cheeks like hundreds of tiny hot
prickles. The corner of his mouth tipped up further, as he replied,
"Not if that's the press you intend to use."

"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 bunched, eyes narrowed 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 on17th 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 their own bathrooms. 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. She is a modest young woman who
has no desire to entertain in the way you would expect your wife to
entertain for you. 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 been kissed by 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 ramification of her brash action in
slamming the door in the man's 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 that

she also resembles him.'

—
Venetian ambassador
Giovanni Michiel

about Elizabeth, in1557

Priscilla looked at herself in the mirror —an
older version of the read-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 Elizabeth's 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 before did
nothing for Priscilla now. But having the bank manager prepare bank
drafts for four irritated 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, Jeremy Bottoms and Adam
Whittington. Frank Gifford 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
editorial.

Before long, Jeremy 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 Gifford 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, discarded table and
placed her own china pitcher and bowl on top of it. She intended to
live there permanently, so after the press room would be set up and
the women staying in the boarding house, she'd look into renovating
the upstairs into comfortable quarters for herself. One of the
advantages of remaining unmarried. 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. After the women would be finished cleaning and
waxing the floors, Jim would bring in the printing press, the
bundles of Ready Print, and the many type cases filled with ems,
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, when 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 Gifford 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
Gifford 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 said, "Mr. Gifford, please inform your father that
Miss Hogan has changed her mind about marrying him, and if he goes
to the bank, he will find a bank draft in his name to cover Miss
Hogan's expenses. The bank manager will turn the money over to your
father as soon as your father signs the contract, releasing Miss
Hogan from their agreement."