Miss Phipps and the Cattle Baron (5 page)

Wariness creeping into her eyes, she replied,
"Things are proceeding as planned."

Eyeing the crow bar clutched in her hand, he
said, "You were struggling with opening the crate when I came in.
Where is your pressman?"

"He injured his wrist while moving the crate
in," she explained. "The press is very heavy. But I can manage fine
on my own." She jammed the crowbar into the crack between the
boards again, attempting to wedge them apart. But the boards held
fast.

Adam walked up and took the crow bar from her
hand. "It takes more muscle," he informed her. "Like I said,
printing's a man's business." He shoved the bar between the boards
and wedged them apart, then quickly ripped the boards off the
wooden base, dismantling the crate. He set the crowbar aside and
offered a smile.

She did not smile back. Instead, she stared
at him, lips compressed, pupils enlarged leaving narrow rims of
olive green. Or was it light brown? They seemed changeable. "If
you're trying to validate a point," she said, her voice irritated,
"you've only proved that I am not very good with a crow bar. But
since I'm not in the crating and shipping business, that's of no
importance." She gathered the slats of wood scattered about the
floor and started stacking them by the pot-bellied stove, which was
positioned against one wall.

Adam tipped the old Stanhope press first to
one side, then the other, while retrieving the wood slats trapped
beneath its four paw-like feet. Seeing the outdated thing, with its
hand cranks and levers, he had to stifle a laugh. At best, she'd be
able to pull two-hundred sheets an hour, one side at a time, and
the sheets would have to be run through a second time in order to
print the reverse side. If she and her pressman worked around the
clock, they'd never be able to keep up with their competitors. But
he applauded her grit and determination, even though her newspaper
was bound to fail. "The press looks like it's been well cared for,"
he volunteered, a gesture intended to underscore good will.

"My father was meticulous about his printing
equipment," she replied. "After he died, my pressman, my mother,
and I carried on as he would have wanted us to."

"You must not have had many subscribers
then," he said. "You could not have pulled many copies a day."

"We were in the process of building up our
numbers when my mother passed away from pneumonia," she said. "But
since our newspaper was a weekly publication, as will be
The
Town Tattler
, there was no pressure to get it out every
day."

"So, it will be a weekly," Adam mused. How
much trouble could that cause? Not much, he surmised. Satisfied
that this homely snip of a woman with her outdated equipment posed
no threat to the cattle industry, he said, magnanimously, "Tell me
where you want the press and I'll move it in place."

Her lips parted as if to protest, then she
blinked several times, and said, "If you could move it a little to
the left and square it with the wall, that would be
appreciated."

Adam promptly complied. "Is there anything
else I can do while I'm here?" He turned and found her standing
just behind him. As he waited for her response, he noted a
confusion of cobwebs in her hair. Reaching into the tangle of
tresses, he said, while taking in the scent of lilac wafting from
her, "You have collected yet more cobwebs in your curly red hair.
The last time I was here, I was certain you had already gathered
the bulk of them."

Her hand came up, trapping his hand beneath
hers. Eyes wide, nostrils flaring with her quickened breaths, she
removed her hand at once and pressed it to her chest, seeming to be
struggling for air. Fearing she might swoon, Adam took her by the
arms and said, "Are you all right? You look a bit winded. Perhaps
you've been trying to do too much too soon." Her arms were
well-muscled, he noted—a woman without a man to do her heavy work.
Which explained why she looked so fit for a woman approaching
middle age. That thought had the odd effect of making his pants
grow tighter. What in hell was coming over him with this woman.
responding like a pubescent male, becoming aroused by the sight of
a trim ankle or the pointy tips of budding breasts pressing against
a dress.

"Yes, I suppose you're right," she said.
"With my pressman laid up, I've been entirely on my own to put
things in order." She lowered her hand from her chest, drawing his
attention to the rise and fall of her ample bosom and the way the
front of her dress stretched with each breath. His pants became
tighter. He looked up to find her staring at
that
part of
him, eyes wide. After a series of nervous, blinks, she said in a
voice, edged with panic, "Thank you for helping. Please leave at
once. I must get back to work."

Realizing she feared she was in danger of
losing her virginity to a potential rapist, Adam said, "I assure
you, you are in no danger of me taking advantage of you." When her
face reddened with mortification, he clarified. "What I mean is, I
apologize for removing the cobwebs from your hair. I had no right
to approach you in that way."

Her darkened pupils diminished, as she
replied in a nervous voice, "I'm afraid my hair is a blessing, and
a curse. A blessing because I don't need to fuss with curling
irons, and a curse because those curls collect anything they come
in contact with."

Adam scanned the tangle of curls, some caught
up in combs, others springing free and framing her face. "You're
right," he said. "Along with the cobwebs are tiny pieces of
debris." Fighting the urge to pick the pieces out one at a time, he
said, "From whom did you inherit your very red hair? Your mother,
or your father?"

She combed her fingers through her hair,
dislodging pieces of debris and sending a tortoise comb askew. "Red
hair has come down through my father's line, presumably since Tudor
times," she replied. "The carrot color is also a curse, as you can
imagine. But it's what God gave me, so I accept it, though I
sometimes wonder why He was angry with me to do so."

Until now, Adam thought carrot red hair as
unattractive as the pale, freckle-faced women who seemed to be
burdened with it. Oddly, it didn't seem as unsightly as before.
"Why do you believe red hair is a curse, Miss Phipps?" he
asked.

Her eyes rolled upward, as if trying to see
her own hair, as she said, "Because clearly men turn from women
with bright red hair, afraid perhaps that if they were to marry
them, they would beget a brood of freckle-faced children with the
same. But I'm used to that, and if God appeared right now and asked
me if I'd like for Him to change the color of my hair and make my
freckles vanish, I'd smile and assure Him that He has, in fact,
blessed me. Because of my hair, and the unappealing way I look, I
have become a strong, self-supporting woman who is not in need of a
man for my livelihood and wellbeing. In fact, I believe it was
God's plan for me to be completely independent of a man."

"Except when you need one to tear apart the
crate containing your press," Adam reminded her, with a smile. To
his surprise, Miss Phipps smiled back, revealing a set of the most
perfect white teeth he'd ever seen. And they were framed by a pair
of lips that begged to be kissed, though he wondered if she'd ever
been kissed. From the way she talked, there was a distinct
possibility that she had not. The thought of being the first was
oddly appealing...

Without thinking he leaned toward her, and
she quickly stepped backwards, tripping over a box. She landed with
a thud on her backside, sending her skirt flaring up to her knees.
Adam crouched beside her. "Are you all right?" he asked, eyes
roaming over a pair of well-shaped calves and slender ankles devoid
of stockings. Impulsively, he raised his hand to touch the smooth
white flesh, then caught himself and reached for the hem of her
skirt instead, drawing it down to cover her legs.

She seemed at a loss for words, and he had to
remind himself that Miss Priscilla Phipps was probably as innocent
of the ways of men as a girl half her age. She had all but admitted
that there had been no men in her life because of her unappealing
looks, which he was actually beginning to find quite pleasing, in
an peculiar sort of way. "I'm fine," she said. "Clumsiness is also
one of my curses. God did have fun putting me together. But then, I
guess even He is in need of some amusement at times."

Adam stood and extended his hand. She grasped
it, and after pulling her to stand in front of him, he looked into
her eyes and said with all sincerity, "And I believe God did man a
great service when he put you together, Miss Phipps." His eyes
drifted downward to her breasts. "A fine job indeed." Realizing
where his gaze had strayed, he looked up.

Face flushed, she said, "What you are
referring to are the
only
things God did right by me. Now if
you'll excuse me, Lord Whittington, I ask that you leave because—"
her eyes darted to his crotch and shot back up "—God is also
creating a problem for you that is inappropriate while in the
presence of a woman who is not your wife. Good day."

Adam gave her a little nod, and said, "Your
point is well taken. Good Day, Miss Phipps." He turned and left,
wondering what the devil was coming over him. He'd bedded many
strikingly beautiful women over the years, but as he headed toward
his buggy, he realized that a homely spinster woman, well past her
prime, was effecting him unlike any woman ever had. It was a
strange and perplexing conundrum that the one woman, who shattered
all the standards he'd ever set for his next wife, would catch his
interest.

***

Three hours later, Abigail, Libby, Edith and
Mary Kate came bursting in, faces flushed with excitement. Abigail
tossed her hat in the corner, spun around, and said to Priscilla,
"There's going to be a picnic social after church next Sunday, and
all the single women for miles around will be coming with picnic
baskets for the single men to bid on. It's a fundraiser for the
church, and I'm going to pack the best picnic basket there."

Edith pursed her lips. "And what if your Mr.
Bottoms bids on it?"

Abigail's face fell. "He is
not
my Mr.
Bottoms. But surely he wouldn't bid. He knows he'd be wasting his
money."

Edith shrugged. "I hope you're right. All I
know is, young Frank Gifford better bid on my basket because if he
doesn't, I'm going to feign illness and leave."

Libby rolled her eyes. "There will be
hundreds of other eligible young men there, Edith. You don't have
to settle on young Frank Gifford."

"I am not settling on him," Edith said. "I
want
to get to know him better, and this is the best way I
can think how." She looked at Priscilla. "You need to go too," she
said. "There might be a nice older man eager to spend time with
you. And who knows, he might be all the things you're looking for
in a husband."

"I am
not
looking for a husband,"
Priscilla said. "I have enough to keep me busy with the newspaper
without complicating my life with a man. Besides," she added, "it
would be very embarrassing if no man bid on my basket."

"Of course someone would bid on your basket,"
Edith said. "You are a very... nice woman. Many men would like to
have lunch with you."

Priscilla braced her hands on her hips. "Yes,
but they would be men like Jeremy Bottoms, and Clayton Rathborn,
and... Lord Whittington." Her face flushed then, and she couldn’t
disguise the smile twitching the corners of her mouth.

Edith clapped her hands in delight. "You are
going to the picnic, Miss Priscilla, and you
will
bring a
basket. And the four of us are going to fix you up so even you will
be amazed at the way you look when we are finished."

Before Priscilla could protest, the women
rushed up the stairs, chattering excitedly about the prospect of
fixing up Miss Priscilla
. Which seemed pointless. She did
not want a man running her life. With a nice nest egg in the bank,
printing equipment to start anew, and the experience to make
The
Town Tattler
a success, she could remain independent. It would,
however, be sensible to meet the women comprising Cheyenne's social
core, since they'd be her subscribers. And it was, after all, a
fundraiser for the church. So perhaps she would endure lunch with a
man. Even if it turned out to be Lord Adam Whittington...

Her gaze rested on the press, and she
imagined how it had been the day before, when Lord Whittington
leaned toward her, as if to kiss her. That image faded into one of
them sitting on a blanket on the church grounds. She'd reach into
her picnic basket and hand him a meat pie, and he'd break off a
small piece and put it in
her
mouth. She'd look into his
eyes and chew and smile, and he'd brush a crumb from her lips and
curve his hand behind her neck and pull her to him and kiss her
soundly, just like in her Dime Novels...

She fanned her face, realizing she'd broken
into a sweat.

Silly, foolish woman. Why on earth would Adam
Whittington bid on her basket? With his wealth, and his vast land
holdings, and his handsome face, he could have any woman he wanted.
But she would not be packing a picnic basket to lure Adam
Whittington onto her blanket. She'd be doing it to help raise funds
for the church, and that was what mattered most. That, and getting
her newspaper started.

She looked at the press and tried to envision
Jim pulling the first edition of
The Town Tattler
off the
type bed. But the only image that came was of Adam's lips moving
toward hers. But this time their lips came together in a fiery kiss
that sent her sprawling backwards and her petticoats flying up to
expose her legs as before. But instead of pulling down her skirt as
he had, Adam would put his hand on her leg and push her skirt up
further, until he'd be looking at the full length of her bare leg.
And she'd make no move to stop him. Then his fingers would come up
to undo her dress, and she'd be wearing nothing under it. He'd look
at her breasts, which were as free of freckles as a new-born
babe's. God had done a good job with them, so she'd be proud for
Adam to see them... Tingles rushed up her body, settling like
pinpoints of pleasure in the pointy tips of her breasts. God had
blessed her there as well, giving her small pretty nipples as soft
and pink as flower petals. Odd how they grew hard and pebbly when
she had naughty thoughts. Deliciously naughty ones like she was
having now...