Wicked Temptations (18 page)

Adam unfolded his arms and turned toward her. "Then don't try."

"I have to," Priscilla said. "We're on opposite sides of some very important issues."

"But we're on the same side of this issue." He curved his hand around her neck and kissed the hollow of her throat then moved up to cover her lips with his.

Priscilla couldn't stop the little moan of pleasure that escaped her lips as his hands began to caress her breasts. Nor could she stem the driving need that was slowly consuming her. But after a few moments, she broke the kiss, and said, "You proved your point. I'm powerless to stop you if you want to kiss me, and do other things. So I guess the only way I can stop you is with words that challenge your masculinity."

"Only briefly," he assured her. "I'm again capable of taking your virginity. But I won't because the time isn't right. When it happens, we'll have to be on the same side of the issues that matter, you'll have to respect me as a man, and it won't happen in a coach."

Priscilla settled back against the seat. "I absolutely agree," she said. "But you have to understand, Adam, that I'll never be on the side of the cattlemen, which is the most important issue we face. Nor can I respect you as a man as long as you take a stance with them to drive the homesteaders out of the territory. So it seems that the place where
it
will happen is irrelevant. And I'm resigned to forever remaining a virgin."

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 concessionary 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 Gundy 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, 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 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 sporting a 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 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 woman 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 speak with 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 nesters."

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 speech. "I admit, that was my goal when I entered this race," he said, "but you've made me see things differently."

He started to tell her about Seth
Watkin's
mule but 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 railheads for shipping east." He reached out and pushed an unruly thatch of hair off her forehead, and 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 eyes made up for capturing a man's attention.