“Something to do until supper.”
Once they were outside, Margaret wanted to show Fargo her flower gardens, which she claimed were the grandest in Illinois. At one point she pointed at a rose and said, “Have you ever seen one so big?”
Priscilla bent down and sniffed. “I like the big ones,” she said casually, and when she unfurled, she peeked at Fargo from under her long lashes to see if he got the point.
Talking animatedly about his breeding stock, Clyde steered Fargo to the stable. “Thoroughbreds, all of them,” he boasted of the twenty horses in their twenty stalls. “Some I’ve obtained from as far away as England.”
“Where is that new stallion you wrote me about?” Arthur Draypool asked, and everyone drifted toward a stall at the end.
Not Fargo. He hung back, and so did Priscilla. She was patting a mare. He moved over next to her. “Don’t you like stallions as much as you do big ones?”
An unladylike snort burst from Priscilla’s throat and she covered her mouth to smother it. “My, my, aren’t you naughty?”
“You’re one to talk.” Fargo lowered his voice. “When and where?”
“Why, sir, I have no idea what you mean,” Priscilla responded with a blank expression.
“I don’t play games, girl.”
Priscilla glanced at the others, then whispered without looking at him, “Neither do I. But I must be careful. If my parents find out, my father will have you shot.”
“When and where?” Fargo repeated.
Jace was strolling back toward them.
“Ten o’clock,” Priscilla whispered. “Under the maple east of the stable. For God’s sake, don’t let anyone see you sneaking out.” Straightening, she said loud enough to be heard, “I ride every day, rain or shine. If you were staying longer, I would show you a wonderful spot for a picnic.”
“Knowing you, that isn’t all you would show him, dear sister,” Jace lewdly declared.
“Don’t be crude,” Priscilla scolded.
“Come now,” Jace said. “You’re the one who has been making cow eyes at him, not me.”
“I mean it,” Priscilla said.
Chuckling, Jace nudged her. “You can pull the wool over Mother’s and Father’s eyes, but never mine. You would do well to remember that.”
“And you would do well to remember that I know about your visits to a certain shack out by the corn-fields. Father would disown you if he ever discovered you are cavorting with a darky.”
Jace seized her wrist. “Don’t you ever threaten me, you hear?”
“Oh, please,” Priscilla said in contempt, and pulled free. “We each have our secrets, brother mine, and neither of us will betray the other.” She smiled at Fargo and walked off, her hips swinging invitingly.
“Damn her!” Jace grumbled. “Damn all women. We should lock them in chains and keep them at the foot of our beds, like dogs.” He glanced at Fargo. “What do you think?”
“I think I need another whiskey.”
8
She was late.
Fargo had snuck out of the house shortly before ten and had been waiting at the maple tree for almost half an hour. Priscilla had yet to appear. He began to wonder if she had changed her mind, or if something had come up to prevent her from keeping their tryst. He hoped not. He was looking forward to treating himself to her charms.
The farm lay quiet under the stars. The field hands had long since retired to their shacks, marked by tiny squares of light in the near distance. The wide stable doors were shut and barred for the night, the chicken coop closed, the hogs and sheep in their pens. In a pasture beyond the stable cows dozed.
The air had cooled with the setting of the sun, but it was too muggy for Fargo’s liking. He preferred the dry air of the mountains and the desert to the humid East.
From inside the great house music wafted. Margaret was playing the piano. She had treated Fargo and Draypool to a recital after supper, and it had been all Fargo could do to stay awake.
Shifting, Fargo leaned against the trunk. He would wait five more minutes. If Priscilla did not show by then, he would turn in. He could do with a good night’s sleep in a soft bed.
Off in the woods an owl hooted. A cow lowed as if in answer. In the stable a horse whinnied. Ordinary sounds in an ordinary night in southern Illinois.
Fargo sighed and shifted his weight, and spotted Priscilla, framed in a ground-floor window. She was beckoning him. Amused by her antics, Fargo hooked his thumbs in his gun belt and ambled to the back door. She opened it just as he reached it, grabbed his arm, and practically yanked him off his feet pulling him inside.
“Thanks for keeping me waiting.”
Priscilla put a finger to her lips and ushered him into a small sewing room. She shut the door and whispered, “Don’t blame me! I was on my way out when I saw him.”
“Who?” Fargo found it hard to concentrate with her warm, lush body so tantalizingly close.
“The one who has been spying on you. He’s over by the shed where we store the plow and the harrow.”
An icy chill that had nothing to do with the temperature rippled down Fargo’s spine. “Describe him.”
“I can do better than that. It’s Bryce Avril, one of Arthur’s bodyguards.”
“Is he still out there?”
“I think so. I saw him run from the far corner of the house to the shed, and he never reappeared. I imagine he has been there the whole time, watching you.”
“Wait here,” Fargo said, and opened the door a crack.
Priscilla brushed against him, her hand rising to his shoulder. “What are you going to do?”
“I don’t like being spied on.” Simmering with anger, Fargo bent and began removing his spurs. Avril had to be acting under Draypool’s orders. No doubt they had been keeping an eye on him the entire time, which begged the question, Why? Was Draypool afraid he would change his mind and leave? Or was there more involved? He would sneak out a window and circle around to the shed. “Here.” He handed his right spur to Priscilla.
“I’ve always wanted to wear a pair of these. But I thought the kind they use out west have bigger rowels.”
“Some do,” Fargo confirmed, “but they’re more for show than anything else. A good rider doesn’t need to rip his horse to ribbons to get it to go.”
“Oh, I would never do that to a poor animal,” Priscilla said. “I like the rowels because they are shiny and bright.”
“The big rowels,” Fargo teased. “Don’t forget you like them big.”
Priscilla giggled and jangled the spur. “You are worse than naughty! You are deliciously wicked! I am sick to death of the stodgy sorts I must put up with around here day in and day out.”
“A girl your age?” Fargo had the other spur off and held it out to her.
“Before young gentlemen can call on me, they must pass my mother’s muster,” Priscilla explained. “And my mother’s standards are not the same as mine. They are the complete opposite, in fact.”
“Whoever courts you must keep their hands off,” Fargo guessed.
“Whoever courts me must not even think of touching me because if Mother catches us, I will never see him again,” Priscilla lamented. She brightened and raised a finger to his cheek. “You have a lot of missed opportunities to make up for.”
Fargo was about to say he was glad to oblige when they both heard the sound of the back door opening. Covering her mouth with his left hand, he peered out. None other than Bryce Avril had just slipped inside. Fargo guided Priscilla to one side and whispered, “Don’t move.”
Avril came down the hall as if treading on eggshells. He was staring toward the far end, evidently wary of being caught.
Fargo let him go past the sewing room, then silently opened the door and stepped to the middle of the hall. “Looking for someone?”