She walked to just beyond arm's reach. He didn't retract his arm, but let it rest on the sill, hand dangling.
"If my name is cleared, I'll become the marshal's deputy," he said.
"I know." Priscilla smiled at the irony of a man in jail becoming a deputy. Not that she considered Braxton dishonest. In truth, she trusted him.
"Come closer," he said.
Should she? What if he tried to kiss her again?
What are you afraid of — giving in?
Of course, she feared she'd weaken and allow him to take more liberties with her. That, she couldn't allow. She was still in mourning. Or should be. What did her not wearing black mean? Yes, she became sick of seeing so much black with every woman in town dressed in the somber color. But was there more to it? Hadn't she loved her husband? Regardless of her feelings for Robert, letting Braxton put his mouth on hers wasn't proper.
Living in the same house wasn't proper either.
She was being foolish. She'd already broken enormous rules because of him.
No, she must keep her distance. If he touched her again, she might be lost. What was happening between them? What did it mean?
Fear plagued her. Much as she'd cared for Robert, marriage had been a disappointment. How could she be sure wedding a different man would be better?
You never enjoyed Robert's kisses. That alone sets Braxton Gamble apart.
But for how long? The first time Robert kissed her had been under the elm tree and that had excited her.
Because it was forbidden.
She couldn't deny the truth in that. She had been too young to know what to expect then. Just to be wanted had thrilled her, and Robert had been a handsome man studying to be an attorney. Braxton was only… what? A prospector? A geologist? A bank robber? Even so, it was his lips that had sent sizzles down her spine.
Face it, Priscilla. You want more.
"What about those men who attacked you?" she asked "Have they been caught?"
"If they have, I haven't heard about it. Aren't you going to come over here?"
"I can't. I have chores. Thanks for letting me know about the loan." She hadn't lied, not truly. She always had chores to do. Turning, she all but ran home.
Priscilla fingered the shirt where she'd meticulously repaired a tear in the elbow. Robert hadn't liked wearing a mended shirt. He'd wanted a new one, which went against everything her mother had taught her. If a garment could be refurbished without it being obvious, spending money on a new one would make her a wastrel.
With a sigh, she folded it and added it to the others she meant to take to George Tweedie to give or sell cheap in his store to folks who could afford nothing better. Her chore had left the wardrobe mostly empty. Robert hadn't liked wearing a shirt more than one day, even if she'd changed the collar and cuffs for him. Now, her few dresses hanging there looked lonely and forlorn.
She set the basket of old clothing aside and carried a second basket full of dirty garments and sheets downstairs and outside. Her barrel-like laundry tub stood against the house. She pulled it out into the yard to be used more easily.
Back in the house, water hissed in the kettle on the stove as it began to heat. She opened her soap box and found only a sliver of lye left. She would use that but preferred to mix it with Ivory, to soften it. The cupboard under the dry sink, the sideboard and pantry all proved devoid of soap. How could she be out?
Had she unconsciously hidden it to give her an excuse to go into town and see Braxton? Of course not. She looked down at the basket full of laundry. She could go to the mercantile and buy some Ivory bars, but that would cost more than she could afford these days. To make her own would take most of a day and then need time to cure.
The ashes she'd collected for such a purpose proved adequate but not her lard. All her supplies were getting low. She would have to go to Tweedie's Mercantile. Fortunately, it was early in the day and she had time for that. She'd take the old clothes she'd collected to him to sell or give away.
Would Braxton still be at the jail? Had he been set free yet?
Pain lanced through her, to think he might have been released and left town.
Taking down the old face powder tin she used to hold her cash, she checked to see if she had enough. Her hoard had dwindled to a few coins. She took out what she would need, replaced the can and dropped the coins into her skirt pocket.
After taking off her apron and hanging it on the rack by the back door, she donned her hat. Still drawing on her plain, worn gloves, she left the house and locked up. Only the older women in Wildcat Ridge bothered with hats and gloves anymore, which Priscilla found inconceivable. Her mother would have called it shameful.
She hadn't gone a block before Clara Cooley ran up to her.
"Priscilla! Where is your houseguest? He hasn't gone, has he?"
"I really couldn't say, Clara. You'd have to ask the marshal." She kept walking, while Clara dodged her steps, sometimes on her left side, sometimes on the right. "She has him in her jail as near as I know."
"Oh. What a shame. What did you think of him? Is he nice?"
"I don't know the man well enough to say, Clara. Please excuse me now. I have shopping to do." She hurried faster, and the girl soon fell back and went her way.
Would she have to deal with more of the same from other women in town before her errand ended? To avoid being seen and detained, she went all the way to Chestnut via Pine Street then over to the next corner where Tweedie's stood. The moment she entered the mercantile, the bell on the door jangled, making her wish she could yank it off. The last thing she needed was having her presence announced.
"Priscilla, how good to see you," Olive Muckelrath greeted her. "I have some fresh pork in my shop today if you need some."
"No, thank you, Olive." She tried to slip past the woman, but Tildy Hempsworth scurried around the corner and blocked the way.
"Hullo, Mrs. Heartsel," the girl said. "Are you alone?"
"Yes, I am."
"Where is the man I heard was living with you? Is he gone?"
Determined not to lose her temper, Priscilla drew a calming breath. Tildy was only a child. The adults were to blame. What was the matter with people these days? Had good manners gone out of style? Perhaps she should be glad Tildy had been that open about Braxton; it meant the town didn't consider him her lover. Yet.
"Tildy!" Olive snapped. "Shame on you, being so forward."
Wide-eyed, the girl retorted, "I only asked."
"There is no man living with me, Tildy. Excuse me." Priscilla squeezed between the women and the girl and aimed for the counter in the back.
"Mrs. Heartsel," George Tweedie greeted her. "How are you today?"
"Fine, Mr. Tweedie. I brought you some old clothes to sell. They're clean." She set the basket on the counter. She'd meant to order lard, but now she changed her mind. "And I need some soap, please. Do you have any Ivory bars?"
"Afraid I'm out of those." He carried the basket into the back and returned with it empty. "I do have Mrs. Cobb's soap and M.W. Dirt Killer."
"How much is Mrs. Cobb's?" She inched over a foot, hoping the big coffee grinder would help hide her from newcomers to the store.
"Three cents a bar."
"Give me three."
Mr. Tweedie turned away, then glanced back at her. "Oh, I wonder if you could do a favor for me if you're going past the jail on your way home."
Dang. She had intended to avoid the jail. "Be glad to help. What is the favor?"
"Could you let the marshal know her mirror arrived?"
"Mirror?"
"Yes, a dresser mirror. Nicest one I've ever sold. You'll have to ask her to let you see it once she has it set up."
"I certainly will."
He nodded. "I appreciate it. I'll get your order now."
Priscilla stared without seeing at the items inside the glass counter. An expensive mirror?
"Well, well," a voice said behind her. "Mrs. Heartsel."
She cringed insi
de, recognizing the oleaginous voice. "Hello, Mr. Crane. You must have come in on the stage. How was your visit to Salt Lake?"
"Oh, now. No need for formalities. You may call me Mortimer." He slid a little closer.
Priscilla stood her ground. "How is Ophelia these days, Mr. Crane?" His wife and their children had lived the last seven years in Salt Lake City.
His eyes darkened, and a furrow formed on his brow. "She's fine and dandy. I'd like to talk to you." He directed her toward an unoccupied corner of the store, a dark corner. "Privately."
"I truly must hurry, Mr. Crane. I need to do laundry. I only came to buy soap."
"Here's your Mrs. Cobbs, Priscilla," George Tweedie said from behind the counter. He slid a box across the counter to her. "Nine cents, please."
She took the money from her pocket and paid him. "Thank you, George. I must go now." Without another glance at Mortimer, she rushed out of the store.
"Wait!"
Oh, no. Mortimer had followed her.
She hurried faster up Chestnut Road. "I have no time now, Mr. Crane."
He caught up at the corner of Pine Street and took hold of her elbow, halting her.
"What is it? I must get to the jail. Etta is waiting for me." Good blazes. She'd told a lie. What was happening to her?
Desperation, that was what. She walked a few more steps every chance she could.
"You sure it isn't your new paramour I heard about who's waiting?" Mortimer asked.
Her belly tightened.
"Mr. Gamble is not my paramour. He was my boarder for a day or two." She kept inching toward home.
He laughed. "You expect me to believe no fooling around went on for those two days?"
"I told you, he was injured. He had been shot."
"Aw, come on." He grabbed her arm again. "You can be as nice to me as you were to him."
"Let me go." They struggled.
A woman in a black silk dressing gown stepped out of the Velvet Kitty. "What's the matter, Morty? You get tired of Cady?"
Cursing, he turned to the bordello's madam, and Priscilla ran.
She knew about Cady. The prostitute often came out of the Gentlemen Only Salon where she worked to walk over by Black Bear River. Rumor said because Cady was Mortimer's favorite, he wouldn't let her leave.
When Priscilla reached Lilac Avenue, she raced around the corner and up to the jail. If Mortimer followed, Braxton would protect her if he could.
"Mr. Gamble?" she called through the bars of the window. "Are you there?"
No one answered. Disappointed and terrified Mortimer would show up at her house, she decided to go to Thalia's. Surely, not even the great Mortimer Crane would bother her there.
Her dear friend opened the door on the second knock. "Priscilla, I'm glad to see you."
She glanced toward town praying she wouldn't see Mortimer coming. "May I come in?"
"Of course." Thalia stepped back, and Priscilla slipped inside. "Are you all right? You look harried."
"Oh, Thalia. I had a run-in with Mortimer at Tweedie's, and he followed me. I only got away because the woman from that place next to the boarding house came out and spoke to him."
Thalia led her into the parlor and gestured for her to sit. "What did he want?"
"For me to be nice to him. " Out of breath, Priscilla collapsed in an upholstered chair and wiped her hands down her face. "I came here in case he goes to my house."
"I'm glad you did. Let me get you some tea." Thalia hurried into the kitchen. Her home was smaller than Priscilla's but quite comfortable, decorated in blues and light browns.
A sound came from outside. Priscilla got up and went to the window. What if it was Mortimer? Dear heaven, he probably wanted to evict her from the rectory.
With a faint mew, Thalia's black and white cat leaped onto the window sill, peering inside. Relieved, Priscilla let the cat in and returned to her chair. Moments later, Thalia brought in a tray of tea and English biscuits from Tweedie's. She disliked cooking.
"You should have gone to the jail," Thalia said, handing Priscilla a cup and saucer. "Etta would have protected you."
"I did go to the jail. No one was there."
A saucy smile formed on Thalia's face. "Well, I bet Braxton would have been glad to send Mortimer packing and have you all to himself."
"Oh, Thalia. Don't be silly." Was she right? Could Braxton care about her?
"I am not being silly, Priscilla Heartsel. That man is crazy for you. Why can't you see it?"
Priscilla tasted her tea, added a tiny bit of sorghum and drank again. She adored Thalia but knew if she found out how Priscilla felt about Braxton, she'd never let up. "Because it's not there. How's Duncan? Have you seen him lately?"
"We weren't talking about Duncan," Thalia objected.
"We are now. Have you decided what to do about him yet?"
Pouting, Thalia looked away. "All right. Don't confide in me, even if I am your closest friend."
Stricken with guilt, Priscilla reached over to take the woman's hand. "I don't know how I feel about Braxton yet, Thalia. We barely know each other."
"You've known him longer than I knew Jeffrey before we…"
"Oh, Thalia." Scooting closer, Priscilla drew Thalia into an embrace. She'd hurt her friend by not confiding in her. Now, she'd reminded her of a painful memory. She should go home where she couldn't hurt anyone or admit something she'd regret.
"What do you say we go to the cemetery? I understand much of the snow is gone, though it's muddy." Priscilla stood, trying to appear excited about the idea to boost her friend's mood.
Thalia seemed to consider the idea and brightened. "Yes, let's. I hope I remember how to find Jeffrey's grave."
"We'll find it." Priscilla pulled her to her feet. "Let's go."
They borrowed horses at the livery and rode out Chestnut Road to the cemetery. Leaving the horses ground-tied, they stepped gingerly through ice and mud.
"Here's Papa," Priscilla cried beside one of the many new graves. "And Robert is beside him."
They left a few yellow-dogtooth violets by the wooden plank markers and went to find Jeffrey's. It took a long time before they found a simple cross with Jeffrey St. Clair carved into the wood.
"Why such a simple cross?" Thalia asked. "And away from the others?"
Priscilla's heart sank. She'd give anything not to have to answer her friend's questions. "These graves are for victims of the explosion who couldn't be identified, Thalia. They put Jeffrey's name on one because he was missing, but he could be in any of these graves with the crosses."
"Oh, Pris," Thalia whispered falling into Priscilla's embrace and bursting into tears.
Chapter Ten
Well, Brax, you're free now," Etta said, putting her feet on the desk and rolling a cigarette. Not many people knew she smoked.
She had returned from her trip to Curdy's Crossing to turn over the stolen money half an hour before. "Since we got the money returned and you've been cleared of the robbery, are you still willing to be my deputy?"
"I'm counting on it." He turned his pockets inside out. "I'm broke."
"So, I see. Where will you stay now?"
He lifted his brows and shrugged. "At the jail? At least until I get my first pay."
"I reckon that would be all right. Going back to Priscilla's is out of the question."
"I'd say so. She doesn't seem to want anything to do with me."
"It would ruin her reputation to let you stay there, you know. You could stay at the Ridge."
"You mean the hotel, I assume." He gave her the crooked smile he knew women liked. "Not the hill."
"Yes, but I can see that doesn't appeal to you," Etta said. "Tell you what, I have an extra room with its own entrance. We can block it off on my side, and I'll rent it to you for five dollars a month. Eight with meals."
"I'll take the eight with meals, if I can pay you on payday."
"No problem. You can move in today if you want."
He stood and loo
ked out the open door. The street was empty. "Don't have anything to move except my saddle and gear, and you've already stored them in your stable."
Etta lowered her boots to the floor and stood. "If you're restless, you could go on rounds a little early." She took a badge from her desk drawer and handed it to him. "You take the north end of town. I'll take the south."
"Sounds reasonable." He adjusted the gun-belt she'd returned to him, polished the badge and put it on, then pushed open the screen door and went out.
He ambled past boarded up stores, giving the appearance of a ghost town except for three boys chasing a dog into an alley.
"Hello, there."
He turned to see two young women coming toward him. Uh, oh. Too bad he wasn't faster. They weren't bad looking though. The one who had spoken was a well-built redhead with freckles.
"I'm Hilaina Dowd," she said. "May we ask who you are? We haven't seen you in Wildcat Ridge before."
Before he could answer, the sound of a dog howling in pain came from the alley. He didn't bother making excuses, just took off at a run.
The boys had the dog cornered next to some barrels and were poking it with a stick.
"Hey," Braxton yelled. "What do you think you're doing?"
The kids turned to look at him. Three of them appeared frightened and about to run, but the tallest boy, his hair flopping in his face, gave Braxton a smug smile. "He's just a stray. Nobody cares what happens to him."
Braxton stuck his hands on his hips and eyed the boy. "And you think that's a good reason to torture him?"
The boy lifted a shoulder indolently. "Thought maybe I'd kill him. My brothers are hungry."
Braxton glanced at the three boys, all skinny, dirty, and scared. "You ever eat dog meat before?"
"No," the smallest boy said. "I don't wanna eat it."
"It's not bad." Braxton took out his knife and began cleaning his fingernails. "Rattlers are better. Taste like chicken."
The kids' eyes grew wide. "You've eaten a rattler?"
"Sure. Man's gotta do a lot of things he doesn't like in his life. But the rattler could have bitten me, and I might've died from it. That dog isn't going to bite anyone. He just wants to survive. Like you."
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