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  Ian was not at all surprised when Milo said, "I wouldn't want to do that, Rawhide." Of course he wouldn't, Ian thought as he watched the look of frustration that flitted across Milo's rugged face. Milo was completely infatuated with Priscilla Murray, the last thing he wanted to do was alienate her father.

  Rawhide was not placated. "Do you think I'm too old to ride in your posse, sir?"

  Milo scratched the side of his head and looked unduly frustrated. "You do seem a might long in the tooth to be out riding for days on end."

  Rawhide was furious. "I served in the Confederate Calvary when I was over fifty years old and even then I could out ride and out shoot any man in my regiment."

  Milo surrendered but most ungracefully. "Oh, what the hell, come along if you want to."

  The meeting was adjourned and the weary attendees began to drift away. As the last straggling hanger-on made his way out the door, Milo caught Ian's arm and pulled him aside. "This here business of Rawhide ridin' with the posse is gonna work to our advantage."

  Against his better judgment Ian asked, "How so?"

  "Hell, man, we may be gone two or three weeks. Durin' that time I want you to visit Miss Priscilla every day and speak to her on my behalf."

  A shiver scooted down Ian's spine. "Milo, I don't think… I mean maybe you should assign someone to take your place as head of the posse and stay here and woo Miss Priscilla yourself." After a moment's thought, he added, "I would be glad to take your place."

  Milo scoffed, "You don't know shit from Friday about ridin' or shootin' or trackin' outlaws." Belatedly he seemed to realize that his words could be considered offensive. "I don't mean to be insultin' you. Shoot I don't know nothin' about courting sweet young women and besides, I learnt a long time ago that if you want somethin' done right, you do it yourself and I want this posse thing done right. I'm gonna find Toby Matthews and his Kickass Gang and hang them bastards--to the last man, to a tall tree."

  Ian opened his mouth to object.

  Milo silenced him with a stern look and a lifted hand. "My mind is made up so git on over to Miss Priscilla's while I'm gone and speak pretty words on my behalf." With that admonition, he walked from the hall and in the direction of the livery stables.

  Chapter Six

  Prissy Murray or Hot and Bothered

  Priscilla stirred in her bed, turned over and sat up. Once again an erotic dream had disturbed her sleep and brought her to troubled wakefulness. Of late she had come to dread falling asleep at night because of the dreams that relentlessly pursued her through those long nocturnal hours. She was now beginning to fear waking in the mornings. The fantasies that invaded her thoughts through the day had become just as vivid as, and even more provocative than, the dreams that troubled her through the long, restless nights.

  Priscilla padded barefoot across the chilly floor to her washstand. Pouring water from a pitcher into a shallow pan she splashed the cold liquid over her face until it ran down her neck, onto her gown and dripped between her breasts. Despite the chill that hung in the room, a throbbing heat pulsated between her legs and cramped into her stomach. Hanging onto the sides of the washstand she leaned forward and recited in a sing song voice, "The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want. He maketh me…."

  She was interrupted by Beulah who had appeared from nowhere to stand just inside Priscilla's bedroom door. Balancing a tray in one hand and carrying a pitcher in the other, the usually dour housekeeper smiled as she said, "I brought you some breakfast." Coming across the room she set the tray on the dresser and put the pitcher down beside it before turning to scrutinize Priscilla. A troubled look slowly replaced the smile on her doughy face. "I could hear you talking to yourself all the way down the hall. Are you all right?"

  Priscilla was too taken aback by Beulah's sudden appearance to pay attention to her question. This obese, dour old woman didn't walk from the stove to the pantry without puffing and complaining with each step she took. Why now had she decided not only to traverse the longer distance from the kitchen to Priscilla's bedroom, bring with her breakfast and fresh water, but to smile as she did so? As if that wasn't surprise enough, she was now inquiring about Priscilla's well being. "Beulah, what are you doing here?"

  Beulah was puffing like a steam engine. Ignoring Priscilla's question, she asked, "Are you," pant, "worried about your papa?"

  Priscilla couldn't bring herself to admit that she'd been so concerned about her own pressing problem that she hadn't given her father a second thought. "Father can take care of himself."

  Beulah frowned. "I don't know about that. Your papa is awful old and frail to be riding off in all directions chasing bank robbers. Besides that he can't hit a barn door at twenty paces on account of he's so nearsighted." She studied Priscilla with renewed interest. "You may not be worried about your papa but something's got you all unstrung. You're as nervous as a pregnant donkey in a cattle stampede."

  Any other time Priscilla would have found Beulah's crude analogy distasteful. In her present state she hardly noticed that the housekeeper had spoken. She was too caught up in trying to think of some way to appease the ache inside her before she succumbed to her baser nature and did something despicable. Putting a cloth into the shallow pan she wrung it out and wiped it across her face. "What time is it?"

  Beulah shifted her corpulent body and waddled toward the door. "I don't know. I'm not a clock watcher but the sun is high in the sky."

  Priscilla gasped. "I should have been up hours ago." She noted, and not for the first time, that Beulah was built in mounds of terraced fat that grew bigger as they progressed downward. Surprisingly, the feet that protruded from beneath her Mother Hubbard dress were small and dainty.

  Beulah stopped and without turning asked, "Are you worried about being late for your tatting and sewing classes?"

  Priscilla sighed. "I'm not teaching classes this week." She had canceled her classes, using as an excuse her father being away with the mayor's posse. The truth was that she didn't dare go out feeling as she did now. She had to find some way to ease the tension that coiled inside her like an over-wound clock spring. Perhaps hard physical labor would take her mind off the need that ached through her like a throbbing wound. An idea surfaced from beneath her sea of nervous confusion. "Since I'm not teaching classes this week and Father is apt to be away for several more days, you and I will use this time to clean the house and the shed."

  Beulah's doughy face once more took on a dour expression. "I've been down in my back of late."

  That was an excuse to avoid work and Priscilla knew it. "You will feel better once the task is begun." And so will I, she thought hopefully. Mopping floors, dusting furniture and scouring the wood cook stove should leave her too weary to dream or imagine or--God forbid--surrender to the growing urge to engage in what Miss Hockley had often referred to as the silent sin.

  Beulah squared her shoulders. "It would be better if I did the cleaning and I'll be happy to, just as soon as I get back from Centerville."

  "You're going to Centerville?" Priscilla laid the wet cloth on her washstand as reflexively she asked, "Why?"

  "My sister Kate has been feeling poorly. She wants me to come over and visit with her for a spell."

  Even in her agitated state Priscilla realized that this was not something that her father would sanction if he were at home. "Did you talk this over with Father before he left?"

  Beulah seemed hesitant. "Well, sort of…."

  If Priscilla hadn't been so hot and bothered she might have noted that Beulah was equivocating. But she was and she didn't. "Did he give you permission to go?"

  Beulah huffed and puffed before she said, "His main objection was that if I left you'd be here in the house alone while he was away but I have a remedy for that."

  The housekeeper's words filtered slowly through Priscilla's haze of sexual malaise. "I see. That's nice." Their meaning belatedly found its way into her brain. "What remedy are you speaking of?"

  Beulah spread her dimpled han
ds. "You can invite Miss Hattie Monroe and her old maid Aunt Abigail to come and stay with you while I'm away."

  Priscilla lacked the presence of mind to question that ambiguous response. Vaguely she recalled that Hattie's Aunt Abigail was visiting relatives in Saint Louis. "I don't know; how long will you be in Centerville?"

  Beulah actually smiled. "I'll be home before your papa gets back from chasing outlaws."

  Priscilla neglected to ask how Beulah could possibly know how long her father would be away. "You must be back in time for us to clean the house and the shed before Thanksgiving Day and that's less than a month away."

  Beulah moved with agility and speed that belied her age and size. She was across the floor and out the door before Priscilla could either sanction or censure her high-handed departure.

  As Priscilla struggled to collect her scattered thoughts, Beulah called out, "My bag is packed. I'm riding over to Centerville with Mr. and Miz Waggoner and their young 'uns. I'll see you when I get back." The front door slammed only seconds after she had called out a hasty goodbye.

  Priscilla was alone but she didn't mind. In fact she welcomed some time to herself. Without bothering to dress or to eat any of the breakfast that Beulah had brought her, she set about rounding up a bucket, a broom and a mop. There was no fire in the fireplace or in the cook stove. As she moved briskly through the house Priscilla could feel the cold nip at her toes, hug her bare legs and penetrate the thin material of her gown. That was good, she decided. Maybe the cold outside would alleviate some of the heat inside her rebellious body.

  Priscilla worked diligently for almost an hour. She cleaned her bedroom and then progressed on to Father's office before hunger pangs moved in around the other ache that plagued her so relentlessly. Sometimes she thought that her body was her enemy. It was not as if she had willed or wanted these feelings of arousal and excitement.

  As she passed the mirror in the hall, Priscilla paused and studied the reflection that stared back at her. She decided, as her gaze intensified, that despite the similarity the image on the other side of the glass bore to its flesh and blood counterpart, that wanton creature with the pouty mouth, the sultry eyes and the lurid fantasies running through her mind, was not Priscilla Murray. She recalled what Ian had said to her the night of the box supper. Perhaps you should have two names since it seems you have two distinct personalities.

  Like a bolt from the blue the answer came. She was two people. Prim and proper Priscilla was looking into the mirror but sensuous and sultry Prissy was looking back. Impulsively, Priscilla pulled her gown over her head and tossed it aside. The image of Prissy stood naked and staring back at her. Priscilla cupped her breasts with her hands and squeezed her nipples with her fingers. Prissy mimicked her every movement.

  Priscilla shivered as a sweet fiery sensation knotted in her stomach and rose in her throat. She smiled at the woman on the other side. The desire she had fought for weeks swept through her as the dam of resistance broke. "Feels good, doesn't it, Prissy?"

  Priscilla pulled a chair to the mirror, sat down and spread her legs apart. Prissy's private parts were moist and throbbing. Priscilla separated the lips and gently rolled her finger over the tube like structure just below Prissy's pubic hairs. Fiery sensations coursed through Priscilla's legs and ran up her spine. Rolling her head back, she licked her dry lips. "Oh, yes…" Then her fingers found the pea like structure located between the shaft and the lips. As she caressed this joy spot, Priscilla became one with Prissy. Ah, the joy, oh the pleasure, Prissy's finger moved faster and faster as her breath came in little gasps. "Oh God, oh, yes." Just when she thought she might die from the shivering delight of the blissful sensations building inside her, a male voice shook through her senses.

  "Hello, Beulah, is anyone home? It's me, Ian. May I come in?"

  Priscilla was jerked back to reality with a jolt. She jumped to her feet sending the chair she had been sitting in flying backward and crashing into the wall. In a voice that sounded alien even in her own ears, she answered, "Hello, yes, I'm here." Her brain was a muddled mess, her head ached and her insides had turned to jelly. She did have the presence of mind to call out, "Come into the parlor and sit down. I'll be there shortly." Grabbing her gown and holding it in front of her like a shield she dashed down the hall and into her bedroom.

  Once inside her bed chamber, Priscilla realized that it would take far too long to get into her chemise and drawers, her corset, her corset cover, her two petticoats, and her dress and then put on her shoes and stockings. She quickly pulled the gown over her head, slipped her arms into a robe and her feet into slippers. She was still struggling to tie the belt of the robe as she rushed out the bedroom door and down the hall toward front of the house. At the door to the parlor she paused, combed her fingers through her hair and called out, "Ian. Is that you?" What a stupid question, of course it was Ian.

  Ian called back, "Yes. It's me. Where is Beulah?"

  Priscilla drew a deep breath and stepped through the door. "Beulah is out." The sight of him only added to her already almost unbearable state of sexual frustration. He was wearing checked wool trousers and a jacket with bound edges and holding his soft-topped hat in his hand. As she extended one shaky hand and invited him to sit down, she couldn't help but wonder what he would look like minus his stylish clothing.

  Ian continued to stand. "I hope I'm not coming to call too early."

  Priscilla lied through her teeth. "No, not at all, I'm glad you came." She must look a sight. Folding her arms across her chest she did her best to appear calm even though her heart was beating double time and her pulses were racing.

  Ian sat on the edge of the settee and laid his hat on the cushion beside him. "I know it's early in the day for callers but Milo asked me to look out for you while he and your father are away."

  Oh, God, he was going to start again with his praise of Milo Stanton and in her present agitated state, Priscilla couldn't bear to listen. In a testy voice that embodied her many frustrations she questioned, "Mr. Stanton asked you to look out for me?" How dare he add to her already troubled existence by coming here for the sole purpose of speaking on the behalf of Milo Stanton? "Did Mr. Stanton mean that you should 'look out' as in take care of me or did he mean that you should 'look out' as in beware of me?" She was being rude and offensive to a man who was only carrying out his friend's request. She offered an apology, of sorts. "I'm not feeling well today."

  Ian's concern was immediate and sincere. "Prissy, you're ill. You shouldn't be here alone." He settled back on the settee. "I will stay with you until Beulah returns from her errands."

  "Beulah isn't running errands." Priscilla was pleased that Ian had chosen to call her Prissy. "She's gone to Centerville and she won't be back for several days." His beguiling smile made it impossible for her to tell him a lie. "I'm not ill, just a little...." Her voice trailed away as she realized that she didn't dare tell Ian of the strange sexual difficulty that had so recently befallen her. Coming across the room she sat beside him on the sofa and rubbed her hand across the back of her throbbing neck. "I have a headache."

  Ian moved nearer. "If you would allow me, I could massage your neck." Her look of startled surprise made him add, "Massages can be very therapeutic."

  At this point Priscilla would have tried almost anything to ease her aching frustration. She turned her back to him and dropped her head. "I've never had a massage before."

  Ian lifted her heavy fall of hair and draped it over one of her shoulders. His hands were warm as he began rotating them in tiny opposing vertical circles across the back of her neck. "I feel a lot of tension here." His fingers waltzed the curve of her jawbone, "And here." He stroked the large band of muscles that tensed at the base of her skull.

  Priscilla felt the pressure abating. She rotated her head and sighed.

  Ian laid a calming hand on her arm. "Don't move. Just relax and let me do the work." Pushing her robe down, he slid his hands over the sides of her neck and onto her shoul
ders. His touch was soft and caressing as he massaged with gentle strokes. After a while he pressed upward with his fingers and let his thumbs glide lightly over her neck.

  Priscilla had never been touched so intimately before and she found, much to her surprise, that she liked it. She was disappointed when Ian pulled her robe over her shoulders and moved his hands away. She twisted to face him. "Thank you, my head feels much better now."

  Ian was having trouble catching his breath. "And how does the rest of you feel?"

  Priscilla rubbed her hands along her upper arms. "The rest of me is cold, especially my feet."

  Ian tossed his hat on the floor, moved to the end of the sofa and patted the space between them. "Take off your slippers, turn around and put your legs here."

  Priscilla obeyed even though her saner self argued against doing so. Her robe fell back leaving only her gauze thin gown to cover her legs.

  Ian took one of her feet in one of his hands and used his other hand to stroke across her instep and all the way down to her toes. And then he broke his stroke only to begin again under her toes and rub all the way to her heel. He repeated this process over and over until Priscilla was more relaxed than she'd been in ages. She wriggled her toes. "That feels wonderful."

  Ian smiled. "And now to complete the job" He pressed along her arch with the heel of his hand before grasping the side of each toe and rotating slowly, first in one direction and then in the other. By the time he had begun to stroke her Achilles tendon, Priscilla's tension had floated away to be replaced by a feeling of languorous expectation.

  Somewhere in the far reaches of her mind Miss Hockley's voice echoed in her ears, Women if physically and mentally normal and properly educated, have little sexual desire. This time Priscilla--or was it Prissy--ignored that chaste and chiding warning. Extending her other foot she begged, "Do this one now, please."

  Chapter Seven