"That doesn't matter now," she said.
"Thanks. I'll come for you tomorrow. Don't go home without me."
"All right. Be careful, please."
A moment later, he was gone.
When Braxton took Priscilla home after church the next morning, Thalia came along to help clean up. They found Etta crouched in the back yard near the kitchen steps.
"Did you find something?" Braxton asked her.
"Look at this hoofprint. Does it look familiar?"
"Not really. It's not from Raisin."
"Not from my mare either." They stood and joined the women waiting by the porch.
"Would you like to come in?" Priscilla asked Etta.
"No. I'd better get back to the office. Don’t like to leave it unattended." She walked to her horse and swung onto the saddle. The mare whiffled, and Raisin whiffled back.
"All right," Braxton said. "I'll be there shortly."
"Take your time." Etta rode off.
Braxton opened the door for Priscilla and Thalia.
"Oh, my." Thalia raised her hands to her face in horror at the mess they found.
Furniture had been toppled over, the cupboards emptied onto the floor. Even the wood box had been emptied. The oven door on the stove lay open.
"I'm not sure I want to see the rest of the house," Priscilla said, righting a chair.
Braxton picked up several pieces of broken glass and tossed them into the trash bin. "It's all very similar to this, I hate to say. The boys were quite thorough. They even checked the cellar and attic."
"Oh, no. They didn't destroy all my canned fruit and vegetables, did they? I didn't have much left, and I'll need every jar to keep from starving." She surveyed the mess with a critical eye. "Just replacing the staples they've destroyed will cost more than I have left."
"We'll worry about that later. I won't let you starve."
"I know, but—" Sudden terror filled Priscilla. "Have you seen Felicity? They didn't hurt my cat, did they?"
Rushing into the disheveled parlor, she called, "Felicity. Here, kitty, kitty."
She barely noticed the ripped-up cushions or broken knick-knacks. Leaving the parlor, she raced up the stairs. "Felicity, where are you?"
Though she checked every room, the cat was not found. "Oh, Thalia, what will I do without my cat? I loved her so."
"She probably ran outside when those awful men came in. I bet she'll come home eventually."
"I hope so." Going to the back door, she opened it and called to the cat. After several moments, she closed it. "I'm going to be devastated without her."
She couldn't explain why but losing Felicity would be almost harder than losing her father and husband. It sounded ridiculous even to her own ears, but that's how she felt. It would be the last straw, the final blow to send her over the edge into a depth of grief impossible to contain.
Braxton drew her into his arms. It was all she could do not to bury her face in his collar and bawl. She might have done so had Thalia not been present. Somehow, Priscilla knew Braxton would comfort her and not chide her for being overly emotional.
"What now, Priscilla?" Thalia asked. "We could go outside and search for her."
"No. We have a mess here to clean up. If Felicity doesn't show up soon, I'll take you up on the offer."
"Why don't I go to the cellar and get one of the empty crates I saw down there?" Braxton suggested. "It will give us something to load the broken goods into." He was already heading for the back door.
"I'll start sweeping up the flour and beans." Priscilla fetched a broom from the corner.
"I can do that." Thalia took the broom from her. "See what you can salvage from the parlor."
There, books had been pulled down from shelves and trinkets scattered over the floor, along with the stuffing. She picked up a small porcelain statue of a mother and babe her mother had dearly loved. Holding it to her heart, she surveyed the rest of the room. The intruders had slit open the cushions and ripped out the stuffing. Why they would expect to find money there, she had no idea. Inside cushions would be the last place she'd think to hide something. At least the books weren't destroyed.
After one look, she carefully placed the statue on the mantel then returned to the kitchen where she could find company. When Braxton returned, he lined the crate with old Deseret News issues and began tossing in broken pottery. Utensils and tin ware were placed in the wash basin. Between them, they soon had the worst of the debris cleared away.
"You look exhausted, honey," Braxton said. "Why don't you rest?"
Priscilla gestured to the clock on the kitchen wall. "It's time to start supper."
"Thalia and I will make some sandwiches."
"Yes, Priscilla, go lay down," Thalia pleaded.
She shook her head. "I couldn't sleep with all this mess everywhere."
No sooner had she spoken than the back door opened, and Hester came in with Cordelia.
"Etta told us what happened," Hester said. "Where do you want us to begin?" She held up a broom and dust bin.
Cordelia set a large covered bowl on the table. "I brought stew."
"You wonderful, wonderful friends." Priscilla went to them and gave each a hug. "Let's eat before we do anything else."
The women went to work setting out bowls and utensils. They all sat down, and Cordelia passed the bowl and ladle.
"Oh, this is delicious, Cordelia," Priscilla said after her first bite. The others all agreed.
"I'm sorry I didn't think to bring bread," Cordelia said.
Priscilla jumped up. "We have bread."
Braxton rose and eased Priscilla back onto her chair. "I'll get it."
When everyone was full, Hester asked for instructions. "What do you want us to do first?"
"Why don't you start in the parlor?" Priscilla said. "I'll take Thalia upstairs with me."
"What about me?" Cordelia asked.
"Oh, yes. You can do the sewing room, if you will, please."
"I'd be glad to." Cordelia followed Hester from the room.
"Lead the way," Thalia said with a sweep of her arm toward the stairs.
As the women started up the steps, Braxton called after them, "I'll finish up in the cellar."
"Thank you, Braxton," Priscilla shouted down.
"Did you tell him your decision?" Thalia asked, grinning.
"Oh, no. With all this to deal with, I forgot. Can you believe that?" Priscilla laughed.
"You're incorrigible, Pris. Surely you could have found a moment to speak to him."
"You've been with us. Have you seen an appropriate time when I could have brought up such a delicate subject?"
"No, I guess not."
"It will wait until later after we're done with all this work."
In no time, the cleaning party had everything spic and span again. Even the cellar had been put to rights, though he'd had to throw out several canned jars of fruits and vegetables.
"Oh, Braxton," Hester said, digging in her pocket. "Do you smoke?"
"Rarely. Why?" he replied.
She held out a spent cigarette butt. "I found this tangled in the stuffing from the parlor."
He took it from her. "No way to know who left it but we can be fairly sure it was one of the bas… uh, scoundrels who ransacked the house."
"Maybe you should show it to Etta," Priscilla suggested.
"I will." He tucked the butt into a vest pocket. "Meanwhile, it's off to bed for you, young lady."
"Come on, Priscilla," Thalia said. "I'll tuck you in and then be on my way."
Lying safe and sound in her bed, Priscilla wondered where Braxton had gone. She missed him. A knock came at her door.
"Pris, honey?" Braxton called. "Can I come in and say goodnight?"
She sat up, pulling the covers up to her chin. "Yes, come in."
He entered, sat in the chair by the bed, and reached out to take her hand. "I'm sorry you had to go through this, sweetheart. I'll catch those devils, I promise."
&nb
sp; "In truth, it may have been a good thing," Priscilla said, turning over her hand and embracing his. "It's made me realize all these possessions are only that, possessions, nothing compared to the life of a loved one. If only Felicity would come home."
As if hearing her name, a small mewl came from behind the dresser which didn't quite stand flat against the wall because of the wainscoting.
"Felicity?" Priscilla sat up straight.
The cat squeezed out, ran to the bed, jumped up and lay curled beside Priscilla with a loud purr. "You naughty cat. You were hiding back there all this time. Don't you know how worried I was? I thought those terrible men had taken you or hurt you."
Braxton grinned. "Never doubt the ingenuity of a cat. If there's a way to get out of a bad situation, they'll find it."
"Oh, Braxton," she said, squeezing his hand. "I adore you."
His brows rose as if surprised. "I adore you. No, more than that, Priscilla. I love you."
"And I love you."
Smiling from ear to ear, he took the cat from her, set it on foot of the bed and sat beside her. "Would you mind saying that again?"
"I love you."
"You have no idea how I've prayed to hear those words." He kissed her. "Does this mean you'll marry me?"
She smiled. "Yes, Braxton. I'll marry you."
Braxton returned to the marshal's office in high spirits. Whistling, he hung up his coat and sat across from Etta who was working on a ledger she quickly put away.
"Well, you're in fine spirits," she said. "What are you celebrating?"
"I'm engaged to be married."
"Congratulations. When did this happen?" Etta took a sip of coffee from a mug on her desk.
"About ten minutes ago." Leaning back in his chair, he braced his hands behind his head, grinning. "I'm a lucky man."
"When will the wedding take place?"
"Haven't set a date yet, but soon if I have my way." He rose and helped himself to the coffee on the stove.
"Let me know when you do. How did things go at Priscilla's?" she asked, taking out her cigarette makings. "Other than the engagement, I mean. Did you find any evidence?"
"Oh." He reached into his pocket for the cigarette butt, then stopped as he watched her expertly roll a smoke. No, her smoking was a coincidence. Irish and Logan smoked too, and self-rolled cigarettes all looked alike. But he left the butt in his pocket. "Nope. Nothing."
Chapter Sixteen
"Oh, Braxton." Priscilla ran her hand along the edge of the fireplace mantel, blue eyes shining. "I love this. Look at the carving. Where do you suppose they found someone talented enough to do such fine work?"
"No idea. It is a good house though." He liked it very much. It reminded him of the home he'd grown up in back in Illinois. He'd had a good childhood there with loving parents and a younger brother and sister. Someday, he'd take Priscilla there to meet his folks.
They stood in the largest of the houses on the hill above the miners' row-houses on Pine Street. Up here, there were no roads, only narrow lanes going to each house and no farther. The front parlor window gave a fine view of the town laid out below and Moose Creek winding its way down from the mountains. Of course, Moose Mountain on the opposite side of the town wasn't as attractive with slag piles everywhere and the trees cut down for mine supports. But the trees were growing back, two-foot tall striplings dense enough to resemble like green hair growing on the hill.
Braxton stepped over to a window in the parlor and lifted the pane to allow in some air. The house was musty-smelling, having been locked up for months.
Priscilla went to explore the kitchen and dining room. The view from the kitchen in the back of the house made up for what might be missing out front. Hills and forests as far as one could see with high mountains—much higher than Wildcat Mountain even — tipped with snow still in June and a beautiful sunset at evening time.
"Is this the one then?" Braxton asked, joining her as she inspected the big iron stove.
She blinked at him. "The one?"
"The house you want to move into." Had she forgotten why they were there?
"Oh, I don't know." Priscilla closed the oven door. "What do you think?"
"Well, the ground floor looks acceptable. Let's explore the upper level."
They climbed the stairs to find three good-sized bedrooms and a bathing room with a porcelain tub and sink.
"It's marvelous. Look, how lovely," Priscilla enthused, running her hands over the porcelain.
Braxton smiled. "Yes. Gorgeous."
She laughed. "You're not even looking at the tub."
"No." He stepped close and cupped her face with his hands. She was far more precious than a porcelain tub and more beautiful than a sunset. But it was the inner Priscilla he'd come to love, her generosity, kindness, intelligence and, yes, even her high morals though they frequently left him physically frustrated. "I'm gazing at you, sweetheart. You're gorgeous."
She stared at him, seeming dumbfounded, though why, he couldn't understand. She knew he loved her. He'd told her so.
A chuckle built inside him. For a widow, she was surprisingly innocent in some ways. Moved by the moment, he kissed her.
When she didn't object, he did it again.
After he broke off the kiss, she grinned. "Don't look at me like that, Braxton. Even if I were willing, which I'm not, there's no bed here."
He faked a mournful sigh. "A pure shame isn't it?"
"It's getting close to time for me to start supper. We'd better go."
"Am I invited to eat with you?"
She started down the stairs, her skirts swishing around her. "All right. I suppose after giving me so much time this afternoon to look at houses, I owe you that much."
"If I'd known it was going to be so easy, I'd have tried for more," he muttered, following.
Priscilla reached the bottom step and froze.
"What's the matter?" Braxton asked, behind her. "Something wrong?"
"I'd say something's very, very right."
The familiar voice brought Braxton's head up with a jerk. Irish O'Malley leaned indolently against the fireplace. Logan Cash stood on the opposite side of the room. Both had six-guns aimed at Priscilla and him.
"You planning on moving into this fine house?" Irish asked, running his hand along the edge of the mantel.
Priscilla looked ready to scream. Braxton drew her behind him. His gun hand settled on his waist above his Colt. "Hasn’t been decided yet if we'll take the house or not." He led her down the last few steps. "What do you want, Irish?"
The outlaw laughed. "You know what I want, but for now, you can drop the gun."
"I can't help you." Braxton took the six-shooter from his holster and laid the weapon on the step. "I searched everywhere I could think of and found nothing. Why don't you go talk to Marshal Fawks?"
"I was hoping you'd do that," Irish answered.
Priscilla stuck her head out from behind Braxton. "How do you know the money wasn't stolen by someone in Curdy's Crossing after Marshal Fawks turned the saddlebag over?"
Irish chuckled. "You accusing the marshal in Curdy's Crossing of theft?"
"Anyone could have taken it. Is the idea of the marshal there being a thief any more ridiculous than the idea of Etta stealing it?" she countered.
Irish's dark eyes narrowed. "Look, I don't care who took the money. I don’t care who might have the loot now. It belongs to me."
"Yeah," Logan added, glancing at his partner. "It belongs to us."
Braxton held up his hands. "I swear, fellows, I don't have that kind of funds."
Irish looked at Priscilla who stood now at Braxton's side.
"Move away from your lover there." He gestured with the muzzle of his gun.
She lifted her chin. "And if I don't?"
"I'll shoot him."
Instead of moving away, she stepped in front of Braxton. "I have a bone to pick with you first. You destroyed my house. What were you looking for, the money? I could have told you
it wasn't there. Course, you wouldn't have believed me, would you? You're not smart enough to comprehend logic."
"Get back here behind me, Pris," Braxton demanded trying to move her.
She wrapped both hands around the decorative finial on the newel post and ignored him.
Irish laughed. "You're a spitfire, aren't you? I like that." He ran his gaze down her figure. "I think I might like you, or at least spending some private time with you."
He turned to Logan. "What do you say, boyo? Maybe we'll take this pretty little lady with us. If we don't find the money at least we can have some fun."
"Sounds good to me," Logan answered pushing his hat up with the muzzle of his gun.
"You lay one hand on her and you'll answer to me," Braxton growled. "No matter where you go, I'll find you and kill you both."
Irish faked a shudder. "Oooh, I'm shivering in my boots. You're real fierce hiding behind a woman and—"
A bullet sang through the open window from outside and cut off the man's words, drilling deep into Irish O'Malley's chest. He flew backward, landing against the wall. Blood splattered everywhere.
Priscilla screamed.
Raising his gun, Logan aimed at the window. "You killed my friend, you bas—"
A second bullet cut off his words, and he slid down the wall in a heap on the floor.
"What the hell's going on?" Braxton muttered, snatching up his gun. He positioned himself in front of Priscilla, protecting her with his body as best he could. Something was very wrong here. He didn't know who shot Irish, but he knew damned well it hadn't been necessary. He studied the two men. "I'd say they're both dead."
"They're supposed to be." Etta stepped through the window from the porch outside, her smoking weapon still in her hand. "You can put away your gun, Braxton."
He slid it into his holster.
"Well, we got them, finally." Etta looked at the two dead outlaws.
"What are you doing here, Etta?"
"Followed them and waited to see what they were up to. You should be grateful. I saved your hides."
Priscilla (The Widows of Wildcat Ridge Series Book 1) Page 14