By the time Saturday night rolled around, Priscilla felt as if she had long been a part of the Steele household. Ben Steele treated her as if she were another of his daughters. Stella involved her in the preparations for the party. The younger girls took her in hand and taught her the rudiments of square-dancing. George promised faithfully to claim her for the first few dances until she felt more sure of herself. Dusty ignored her.
Preparations for the party proved more elaborate than Priscilla would have imagined. As Stella explained, they could not dance in squares, or many squares at least, in the confines of the parlor, and so a larger space was required. Since the March weather might not hold and they might need a fire, the barn was unsuitable, also. That left the bunkhouse as the only building large enough, and so all the men cheerfully moved their bunks and belongings into the barn. When Priscilla pointed out that in the event of foul weather, the men would be sleeping in the unheated barn, in her opinion a much graver situation than dancing in a cold building, Stella reassured her by telling her the men slept outside half the time anyway and would consider it a luxury just having a roof over their heads. Besides, Stella argued, she could not pass up the opportunity to give the bunkhouse a thorough cleaning, something that had not occurred in recent memory. It took two days and the labor of all the females on the place to accomplish this feat, but by the appointed day, even Stella was satisfied with the results.
Priscilla had been debating with herself for several days about what dress she should wear to the party and had at last decided to risk wearing her very best ball gown. It was far from being the height of fashion since it was, in fact, last year’s gown, but she had been in mourning for her father and had not had anything new made up in months. Not that anyone in Rainbow would know, of course, and the dress had the advantage of having a slightly fuller skirt than the more current styles, something that would prove helpful when square-dancing, she was certain. On the other hand, it was rather fancy for a small party in a small town and Priscilla did not want to give a bad impression by being overdressed. Unable to decide, she finally sought Stella’s opinion.
“You mean that red dress?” Stella asked delighted, remembering it vaguely from watching Priscilla unpack.
“Yes,” Priscilla admitted reluctantly. The dress was not actually red, but rather a delicate shade of rose, more a deep pink than a true red. “Red” sounded so, well, sinful.
“Wear it!” Stella decreed. “It’s just the thing, something that’ll set ‘em on their ears.”
“I’m not certain I want to do that, exactly,” Priscilla protested.
“Yes, you do. No sense hidin’ your light under a bushel. Won’t do no good anyhow. Just make ‘em want to peek under the bushel.” Stella’s broad wink brought an involuntary gurgle of laughter from Priscilla, and thus her decision was made for her.
On Saturday afternoon Priscilla joined the Steele girls for a frenzy of bathing and curling and primping and pressing. Even the youngest of the Steele sisters wanted to appear to advantage, and Priscilla helped them all get their ribbons in place and their curls turned just so. Finally, she and Ruth retired to Ruth’s room—having her own room was her privilege since she was the oldest j girl still at home—and completed their own toilettes. Priscilla helped Ruth slip into the simple pale blue frock that matched her eyes and accented her slender figure.
Then Ruth helped Priscilla squeeze into her corset and assisted her in lowering the yards of heavy satin over Priscilla’s head and in doing up the myriad of tiny buttons that ran down Priscilla’s back. Heaving a sigh of exaggerated relief when she had finished the tedious task, Ruth stood back and playfully ordered, “Now turn around and let me see how it looks.”
Priscilla turned obediently, but her anticipatory smile faded when she saw Ruth’s enormous eyes and gaping mouth. Certain she had made a terrible mistake in her choice of attire, she asked, “What’s wrong, Ruthie?”
“Oh, Priscilla, you’re beautiful!!” Ruth groaned with such patent envy that Priscilla almost laughed with relief.
“You’re beautiful, too, Ruthie,” Priscilla said with perfect sincerity. Ruth shook her head determinedly, but Priscilla overrode her objection. “Yes, you are!” she insisted.
“Not like you!” Ruth said with perfect honesty.
“Not yet,” Priscilla conceded, “but you will be. You already have a lovely figure and it will fill out even more in the next few years, and your face is very pretty and your skin is perfect and... well, as Stella would say, you’d better watch out because you’ll be beating the men off with a stick. In fact,” she added, giving Ruth a careful scrutiny, “maybe you’d better carry a stick with you tonight.”
Ruth flushed with pleasure. “Do you really think so?” she asked uncertainly, looking down at her simple gown.
“You’ll see for yourself. Just wait!” Priscilla assured her as they found their shoes and put the finishing touches on their coiffures.
When they were finished, they joined the rest of the family who were waiting impatiently for them in the parlor. Ruth’s entrance caused a murmur of approval from those assembled, a murmur that ceased abruptly when Priscilla entered the room. Every eye examined her from head to foot and back again, and every tongue was momentarily stilled by the sight.
The dress that Priscilla thought of as rose appeared almost wine-colored as it shimmered in the lamplight. The bodice of the dress was constructed of a series of drapes and folds that molded ingeniously over Priscilla’s curves, serving both to enhance the roundness of her breasts and to accent the slenderness of her waist. The drapes were echoed on a larger scale in the skirt which fell in a bell-shaped series of flounces to the floor, an elaborately simple style that had taken all the cunning of a very clever dressmaker to create. But as impressive as it was, everyone in the room found himself staring at where it wasn’t, namely at Priscilla’s chest. The stately bodice did not begin at all until quite low on Priscilla’s torso, leaving bare a remarkably smooth pair of shoulders, a rather large expanse of pure white bosom, and just the barest hint of cleavage.
Priscilla watched their stunned expressions in dismay. “Oh, dear, is it... too much?” she asked in despair.
George leaned over to his wife and whispered, for her ears alone, “No, I’d say she’s got just the right amount,” earning himself a very sharp elbow in the ribs as Stella rose to reassure her friend.
“Didn’t I tell you it’d knock them on their ears?” she asked triumphantly.
More sure than ever that this was not the reaction she wanted to create, Priscilla tried to protest, but Stella would have none of it, and at Stella’s urging, the rest of the family joined her in insisting that Priscilla’s dress was perfect. Outgunned, outmaneuvered, and outflanked, Priscilla found herself on her way to the bunkhouse where the musicians were warming up and the guests were beginning to arrive.
“Priscilla said I’ll need a stick to beat off the boys tonight,” Ruth volunteered proudly, trying to divert the attention that Priscilla was finding so embarrassing on the walk across the yard.
The younger girls were impressed, but George took the opportunity to whisper to Stella, “If Ruthie needs a stick, I hope Priscilla’s got a gun on her somewhere.”
Stella gave him a warning glance and another poke in the ribs just as they arrived at their destination. The large, empty room was now lined with chairs and benches of every description, gleaned from every corner of the ranch. At one end, on an improvised raised platform, sat the “band,” two fiddlers and a harmonica player. At the other end of the room, Stella had set up a refreshment table holding an assortment of cakes, pies, and pastries, and a bowl of punch. “Unspiked punch,” Stella had informed her with a sniff. Stella did not approve of spirits but had to allow her father to provide a keg of whiskey for the men, although she insisted on keeping it out of sight in the yard, beside the bunkhouse, where it would not offend the ladies.
The Steele’s cowboys were mingling with the few early arrivals when the family arrived. Priscilla’s entrance would have caused a stir no matter what she had been wearing, Stella insisted in a fierce whisper as Priscilla balked in the doorway after two of the men had choked on their punch. A firm hand on her back, which she discovered belonged to a grinning George, propelled her into the room and up to the nearest cluster of guests to be introduced.
Her initial unease quickly vanished as she read the admiration on the faces of the men and the envy on the faces of the women. The envy she handled easily with her naturally gracious manner and a few well-chosen compliments. The admiration she simply ignored, treating each man she met with equal, and restrained, warmth. Names and faces soon began to run together in her mind as the crowd swelled to over a hundred people—just a small group, George insisted—and equally soon she lost track of how many men she had promised to dance with. George reassured her, telling her that they would no doubt remember, and when it came to the Belle of the Ball, it was first come, first served on every dance anyway.
Dusty had been glad that his back had been toward the door when she had come in. His first clue that something was wrong had been when Tucking Comb had strangled on his punch. Pounding the hapless cowboy on the back, Dusty had turned to see what had caused such a reaction. He had almost groaned aloud at the sight of her. Good God, she looked like a dance-hall whore. What had possessed Stella to let her show up in a dress like that? Half-naked, that’s what she was. If she didn’t catch her death of cold, it’d be a miracle. And what would happen when a fella danced close to her, like in a waltz? He’d be able to see clear down to her navel! Dusty found himself strangely ambivalent about that possibility: totally averse to anyone else having that opportunity but strangely eager for it himself. Well, he’d just make sure that he was the first one to waltz with her. That way, if there were a view... he’d mention it to Stella. Let her take care of it. He’d do Priscilla that much of a good turn. Feeling very virtuous, he had watched her progress around the room through narrowed eyes, feeling a growing irritation at the way she smiled and laughed with each new acquaintance. A born flirt, that’s what she was. It was a good thing she’d never tried that stuff on him. A damn good thing.
Priscilla could not help but be aware of Dusty’s scrutiny or of his potent disapproval. The knowledge that she had displeased him gave her a new confidence as she joined George for the first dance. As good as his word, George claimed her for the first two dances, although he had to face down a dozen anxious cowboys to do it. By then she was feeling secure enough to follow the steps without his guidance, and George begged off, saying he feared for his life if he monopolized her any longer and steering her to the refreshment table.
While George was pouring her a glass of punch, Priscilla noticed Dusty with two cowboys she did not know standing on the other side of the table, their backs to her. She could not pass up the opportunity to examine his attire as he had earlier examined hers. Hatless, he had oiled his hair, managing to tame it into a semblance of order, which she knew instinctively would not last long. It made him look like a little boy whose mother had slicked him up for church in the hope that the effect would last at least until he reached the church door. He was wearing a yellow checked shirt that someone had lovingly starched and pressed—someone female, she supposed, who had been charmed into performing the favor—and a brand new yellow silk scarf hung around his neck. His long legs were encased in equally new nankeen trousers, from which that female person had also pressed the “store-bought” crease. The trousers were tucked into a pair of glossy, star-topped boots decorated with the large single star in honor of the Lone Star State. She had to concede that although he would have been laughed out of any party she had ever attended back east, he was, in this place, something of a dandy and was dressed fit to kill, a fate she soon thought might well be too good for him.
One of the cowboys that Priscilla did not know was saying to Dusty, “I ain’t seen you dancin’ with the schoolteacher yet.”
George started to say something to them to warn them she was there, but Priscilla silenced him with a gesture.
The other cowboy said, “She sure is a pretty little thing.”
“Oh, she’s tolerable, I reckon,” Dusty allowed, annoyed that he had noticed.
At this, George was determined to break in, but again Priscilla restrained him.
Dusty continued, “But I suppose I’ll do her a favor and 1 ask her to dance.” He craned his neck, looking over the crowd. “Now where’n hell’d she git to, anyway?”
“I’m right here, Mr. Rhoades,” Priscilla informed him gleefully. All three men started as if they had been struck and turned sheepishly around. Priscilla smiled coquettishly and batted her eyes. “But you needn’t do me any I favors,” she continued sweetly. “I have more than enough partners, so you don’t need to trouble yourself.” Still smiling, she took George’s arm and strolled away.
As she danced through the next few sets, Priscilla tried to enjoy the feeling of satisfaction that embarrassing Dusty Rhoades had given her, but another, deeper feeling prevented her. That feeling, as much as she hated to admit it even to herself, was relief. Relief that she would not have to dance with Dusty Rhoades, not have to be held in his arms, and that, she knew deep down, was the real reason that she had refused to let George warn him of her presence. She had been hoping he would let something slip, hoping she would catch him, and then do exactly what she had done. Oh, she could have handled the situation differently. She could simply have made her presence known and waited very smugly for a public apology, or she could have agreed very demurely to dance with him, thanking him for the great favor he was bestowing upon her. Either tactic would have been a master stroke and would have humiliated him in front of his friends, who in turn would have repeated the story to everyone at the party. But those solutions had one drawback: she would have had to dance with Dusty Rhoades. For three days she had been dreading the moment when he would take her in his arms. The mere thought of those strong arms going around her, those big, rough hands touching her, was unsettling, and the memory of what had happened the last two times she had been held by those arms was positively unnerving. Not that he would try anything like that on a crowded dance floor, of course. She knew that, but she also knew that allowing his touch was inviting disaster. Why, just the touch of his hand the other day in the ranch yard when he had been trying not to apologize to her about the biscuits... Well, she had nothing to worry about tonight. She had successfully driven him away, and she would be safe the entire night. Safe? What an odd choice of words, she thought vaguely as she tried to execute the dance caller’s command to “alemand left.” But safe she would be, and the knowledge brought a new gaiety to her laugh, and she truly began to enjoy herself. She could not help but notice that Dusty danced practically every dance, but he always managed to be in a different square, and, she also noticed, to be with a different girl each time.
At one point, a short time later, Priscilla stood talking for a moment with Ruth, who also had not lacked for partners, when Dusty approached with Curly in tow. Priscilla bristled a moment, thinking he meant to speak to her, but he managed to irritate her even more by totally ignoring her. “Why, Ruthie,” he was saying, the admiration plain in his demeanor, “I do believe you went and growed up when I wasn’t lookin’!”
Ruth blushed rosily, unable to conceal her delight. “Oh, Dusty,” she protested shyly.
“Curly noticed, too, didn’t you, Curly?” Dusty asked rhetorically, since he did not even bother to pause to allow his companion to answer, but instead leaned conspiratorially close to Ruth and confided, “Reason I know he did is ‘cause the sight of a beautiful woman always knocks him speechless, and he can’t say a word right now.” For some reason Priscilla could not fathom, Curly did not seem to mind being talked about in such a derogatory manner and just stood there, grinning. Dusty continued, “But the fact is, he’d be mighty pleased to dance with you even though he ain’t able to say so right now.”
Ruth seemed a little surprised but covered it well, replying with becoming modesty, “That would be fine,” and took his offered arm. Priscilla observed Dusty in amazement as he watched the happy couple take their places on the dance floor, brushing his hands against each other as if he were congratulating himself on a job well done. Before she could think to turn away, he caught her staring.
“Miss Bedford?” he said in feigned surprise. “Not without a partner? I maybe could find you somebody if you’re desperate.”
Unable to think of a suitable reply, Priscilla had to content herself with giving him a scathing look and gliding away to the arms of her next partner as the musicians struck up a waltz.
Dusty frowned as he watched her whirl away in the arms of another man in what should have been his dance. It had been a mistake to speak to her, he knew, but he had been unable to resist needling her a little, even if there hadn’t been anyone around to hear him. And he still didn’t like that dress. It just wasn’t decent.
From the corner of her eye, Priscilla caught his displeasure and supposed that he was disappointed because she had not stood there and crossed verbal swords with him. Perhaps that was the best way to conquer him, she thought. If so, she would never be able to succeed at it, since her fertile brain had already thought up the blistering reply that she should have given to his suggestion that she might need a partner. It would keep, though, until next time, and she was certain there would be a next time.
Several dances later, the musicians took a much-needed break and paid a well-earned visit to Ben Steele’s whiskey barrel. Priscilla took the opportunity to seek out Stella and gladly sat down beside her for a rest.
“You havin’ a good time?” Stella asked solicitously.
“Yes, a marvelous time,” Priscilla answered quite honestly.
“I see you ain’t short on partners.”
“Oh, no, all the gentlemen have been most attentive,” Priscilla agreed.
Stella looked at her thoughtfully. “Has Dusty asked you for a dance?”
“No,” Priscilla replied blandly.
“That boy! Where’s his manners? An’ you, the guest of honor. I’ll skin him alive!” she threatened.
Priscilla smiled politely. The musicians were taking their seats and preparing to play again.
“Oh, here he comes now,” Stella observed with satisfaction. “He’ll ask you now for shore.”
Priscilla managed to look unconcerned as she mentally rehearsed her brilliant refusal. Dusty approached them, and bowing with almost comic formality said, “Mrs. Wilson, may I have the honor of this dance?”
A little startled, Stella looked over at Priscilla who seemed to be very interested in something happening across the room. Uncertainly, Stella rose and walked out to dance with Dusty. After they had waltzed a few steps, she demanded, “Why ain’t you asked Priscilla to dance yet?”
Assuming a wounded expression, he explained, “She heard me say I was gonna ask her, and she said not to bother, she had plenty of partners without me.”
Stella studied that face she knew so well. “There must’ve been more to it than that!” she accused.
“You ask her. That’s the truth!” he insisted. Somehow he managed to look both wounded and innocent.
Stella wasn’t fooled. Dusty had been up to his tricks, no doubt about it. But exactly what had he done to have Priscilla refuse to dance with him? It must have been a doozy, she decided with a worried frown. Nothing that couldn’t be smoothed over, she was certain, but enough to ruin things for tonight, and she had had such plans for tonight. Priscilla in that dress, and Dusty all decked out, and dancing, and moonlight... what had gone wrong? This whole situation had gotten out of hand, but Stella Wilson was just the person to get it back in hand again, just as soon as she figured out just where things had gotten off the track.
The next time the musicians took a break, Priscilla was surrounded by admirers anxious to earn her attention, but she still managed to notice that Dusty was standing in a far corner, talking very earnestly with a buxom blond girl she thought was the storekeeper’s daughter. The girl was listening to him with such wide-eyed adoration that Priscilla felt like laughing until she saw them walking outside, arm-in-arm. She covered the pang she felt with forced gaiety, charming the group of cowboys who had gathered around her.
The night wore on, and Priscilla, being unused to such exertion, begged her latest partner for a rest, so she sat out one dance while he went to get her some refreshment. While she was sitting, watching the dancers, Dusty wandered over, apparently without noticing her, and sat down right beside her, ignoring several other empty chairs. For a moment he sat there, stretching out his long legs, picking an invisible thread from his pant leg, watching the dancers. Then suddenly, he noticed Priscilla.
“Miss Bedford! Not dancin’! Shore you’re not without a partner!” he said, feigning surprise.
“Of course not,” she said sweetly. “I’m just resting. My partner went to get me some punch.”
“Mighty glad to hear it,” he said reassuringly, then added seriously, “I got me a big problem.” Priscilla had no intention of encouraging him, so she sat silently, staring at the dancers, but he continued without any encouragement. “Yes, a mighty big problem. You see, I’ve danced one dance with every woman here, an’ now I have to decide who to dance with twice.” Now they both knew that he hadn’t danced with Priscilla, but she would have died before mentioning it. “You have to be real careful with womenfolk. You pay ‘em too much attention and they start gettin’ funny ideas.” Priscilla stiffened in outrage. Could he possibly mean funny? Well, if he thought she had any “funny ideas” about him, he was sadly mistaken, but before she could reply to his outrageous statement, he slapped his knee in discovery and said with great excitement, “Well, I’ll be. There’s one lady here I ain’t danced with yet!”
Priscilla was ready for him now. Just let him ask. She had a reply that would send him reeling. She smiled in malicious anticipation but, to her surprise, he leaped to his feet and muttered, “Excuse me, ma’am.” Before she could open her mouth, he was across the room addressing a little old lady. Wasn’t she the storekeeper’s grandmother? That blond girl’s great-grandmother? Why, she was eighty if she was a day. Dusty had to shout in her ear several times to make himself understood, and when he succeeded she fairly dragged him out onto the floor and proved to be such a lively partner that soon all the other dancers had stopped to watch and shout encouragement. Seeing Dusty the center of attention after so successfully insulting her was more than Priscilla could bear. Casting about for a means of revenge, she spotted the cowboy who earlier in the evening had told Dusty he thought she was pretty. She sidled up to him. He looked to be about her age, a rather homely boy with a front tooth missing. She smiled her sweetest smile and said, “I don’t think we’ve been introduced.”
He turned beet red and stammered, “N... No, ma am.”
“I’m Priscilla Bedford,” she offered.
“I know,” he said, his embarrassment almost painful to behold. “I mean, everybody knows who you are.”
“And who are you?” she asked with interest.
She would have thought it impossible, but he turned even redder. “I’m Gus Stanford. I ride for the Circle R. That’s Ol’ Man Rogers’s outfit.”
When the hilarity with Dusty and Grandma Smith was over, the musicians struck up a waltz, and Priscilla induced Gus to dance with her.
While they danced, or rather while Priscilla danced and Gus walked around with her, trying not to step on her feet, she flattered him. “You were very gallant to defend me to Mr. Rhoades.”
The compliment obviously turned his head, but his loyalty to his friend won out. “Don’t be too hard on Dusty, ma’am,” he urged. “He didn’t mean no insult. He was just showin’ off.”
She lavished on him her most approving look and said, “Now I know you are gallant, Gus, standing up for a man who is your friend in spite of the fact that he is the rudest, most obnoxious creature I have met in the state of Texas.” For a moment she was afraid Gus’s eyes would pop out of his head, but gathering her courage, she proceeded to further vilify Dusty Rhoades until she was certain Gus could not fail to repeat her denunciations to every cowboy in the place. As soon as the dance was over, she released him to do just that. With a triumphant sigh, she turned to her next partner.
Gus was conscientious in his mission, and the group of men gathered around the whiskey barrel outside were laughing uproariously when George and Dusty approached. They fell silent as George took a cup and proceeded to fill it.
“You ain’t gonna take a drink, are ya George?” someone asked with mock seriousness.
“You know me better than that, boys,” chuckled George, and they all laughed as he took a mouthful of the liquor, swished it in his mouth, and spat it out, emptying the cup on the ground.
“That ought to do it,” commented George.
“Stella’ll be hoppin’ mad when she smells that stuff on you,” warned Curly.
“I’m counting on it,” smiled George.
“Never could understand why you do that, George,” someone else said.
“That’s because you know nothing about women, my boy,” said George. “Stella will get angry, I will beg forgiveness, and she will forgive me. Now, a forgiving woman is a loving woman. Need I say more?” The bawdy laughter that followed said he need not, and with a sly wink, he left the group as Dusty took his turn at the whiskey barrel.
With great delight, one of the more intoxicated cowboys related Gus’s conversation with Priscilla to Dusty, and while he was chafing under it and the added comments his friends were making, a large and singularly ugly cowpoke named Jake spoke up and predicted, “Why, I’ll bet that girl’ll never give you the time a day agin!”
Through his anger and humiliation, Dusty’s cunning mind was already seeking revenge, and he jumped on Jake’s statement like a duck on a June bug. With a strange gleam in his eye, he clapped Jake on the shoulder and said, “Friend, did you say the word ‘bet’?”
Priscilla was sitting down taking a rest between dances when Dusty entered the room. She tried to stifle a yawn. It would soon be morning and as much fun as she had had, she was looking forward to removing her shoes and crawling into her bed at the schoolhouse. The thought had put a small smile on her lips and a faraway look in her eyes, and she did not notice when Dusty approached her. He startled her when he spoke.
“Excuse me, ma’am,” he said in such a respectful tone that Priscilla gave him a moment of careful scrutiny. “There’s a cowboy outside who’s been just achin’ to dance with you all night, but he’s just so bashful, it’s a sin. An’ he asked me, well”—he looked around in apparent embarrassment, such an uncharacteristic gesture that Priscilla was intrigued, and continued—“since I know ya, he wanted me to introduce ya to him, sorta break the ice.” Seeing the doubtful puzzlement on her face, he hurried on. “The party’s almost over and he’s skeered he’ll never get another chance.” She was still trying to decide if he were telling the truth. “We could just sorta walk outside, kinda casual-like,” he suggested.
Priscilla’s better judgment told her not to go, but it was such a good story! Try as she would, she could not think of a single man present with whom she had not danced at least once—except Dusty, of course—but if he were really shy, she might not have seen him. Yes, if Dusty were telling the truth, it was very flattering, and if he were lying, what could he possibly have up his sleeve? Her curiosity got the better of her. She would play along, she decided, vain enough to think that he could not get the better of her if she were aware that he was planning some trick.
“All right,” she agreed with just the proper degree of kind condescension and rose gracefully from her chair. Dusty offered his arm, but she ignored it, walking regally ahead of him out the door. Pausing outside the bunkhouse, she turned to await Dusty’s further instructions. He indicated she should proceed in the direction of the cookhouse. As she walked into the shadows, away from the lighted area around the bunkhouse, she thought vaguely that this fellow must be shy indeed to be hiding away over here. The whiskey barrel and the men congregated around it were off in the other direction entirely, and Priscilla could not see a single soul in this part of the yard. A tiny shiver went down her spine, and she blamed it on the night chill which had felt so good when she had first stepped out of the overheated bunkhouse, and not on her sudden awareness of Dusty Rhoades. He was so close behind her that she could hear him breathing, so close that if she stopped and turned, he would... She caught herself remembering another time that had happened, the first time he had kissed her, and the heat that suffused her body could not be blamed on any other cause. Was that why he had brought her to this deserted spot? The suspicion angered her, especially when she could plainly see that there was no anxious cowboy waiting for her arrival. When she had almost reached the cookhouse door, she stopped, stepping carefully out of his way and looked around expectantly. “Where’s your friend?” she asked, letting him hear her skepticism.
Again Dusty looked around as if embarrassed and shuffled his feet awkwardly. “I reckon it’s me, ma’am,” he said.
Priscilla stared at him in wonder. Did he really think this clodhopper act would fool her, make her forget all the nasty things he had said to her all evening? With a disgusted sniff she wheeled away from him, heading back toward the dance, but he stepped quickly in her way and cried, “Wait!” in such a panicked voice that she stopped dead. What had caused the desperation in his plea? What could be so important to him that he had created this elaborate scheme to get her out here and made him willing to beg her to stay? It must not have been what she had first thought, she realized with an odd sense of disappointment. He had just passed up a perfect opportunity to take her in his arms. She had seen his hands come up when he had stepped in front of her, but he had pulled them down again, as if resolved to avoid physical contact. Then why else would he have brought her here? Could it be... could he possibly be sorry? Deciding at least to hear him out, she crossed her arms and raised her eyebrows in silent challenge.
“I wasn’t lyin’,” he began hesitantly at first. “I really do wanna dance with you. I don’t know why I acted like such a fool. Maybe it was Ben’s whiskey talkin’.” He paused to study the dangerous glitter in her eyes. He’d have to do better than that if he wanted to persuade her, he decided. And keep his hands off of her. It was hard, with her so close and all. Keep talking. If only the words didn’t stick in his throat.
“No, I can’t blame the liquor. Anyways, not for the first time, ‘cause I hadn’t had any then. That time I was just showin’ off for my friends. I didn’t want them to think...” No use going into that, he thought, quickly changing the subject. “Then when you burned me, I got so mad, well, I just wasn’t responsible anymore.” She was still listening, so he lowered his voice and said in a very injured tone, “A man don’t like to be laughed at.”
“A woman doesn’t either!” she replied tartly.
“Nobody would’ve laughed at you,” he said truthfully, and she knew that he was right. His ill-chosen words were only insulting because she had overheard them. No one else would have taken them seriously. Sensing her slight capitulation, he continued. “I really did want to dance with you. Shoot, every man there wanted to. Why should I be any different?” he added defensively, not wanting her to guess more than he was willing to say out loud. “Then I got to thinkin’, the party’s almost over, and I missed my chance by actin’ low down, and what could it hurt if I said I knew it and asked you to overlook it, and maybe you’d feel sorry for me and dance with me after all, just once, and if not, I’d be no worse off.” He made an appealing gesture with his hand. “So how about it? Will you?” He could see she was thinking it over.
It was a heady experience, she had to admit, having Dusty Rhoades plead for her company. The obvious compliment was certainly gratifying and if he had not actually apologized, he at least had admitted his fault. And he wasn’t trying to bully her. Or manhandle her. And she had to admit that while all of his insults had been private, except the first one which she had already dismissed, she had retaliated publicly, knowing how he would be embarrassed in front of his friends. She had more than paid him back for his slights. If only he were sincerely sorry, if only it weren’t so dark, if only she could see his eyes. He sounded repentant, but if she could see his eyes, she would know for certain.
Suddenly, Ben Steele’s voice boomed out from inside the bunkhouse. “This here’s the last dance, folks, so gents, grab your favorite gals!”
“Well?” he asked in appeal.
What harm could it do? she wondered, for some reason forgetting all the reasons she had had earlier for not wanting to dance with him. He seemed so harmless. It was the last dance, and he had taken so much trouble to convince her, and she did want him to be sorry. “All right,” she said with the air of one granting a great favor, and she was shocked to see how pleased, no, how delighted he was. He actually threw back his head and laughed! What could have made him so happy? Of course! He wanted everyone to see that the Rhoades’ charm had prevailed once again, and that she was just one more in a long line of helpless victims. Except that she was not yet helpless. “On one condition,” she added, and that sobered him instantly.
“What’s that?” he asked warily.
“That we dance”—she looked around, satisfying herself that they were indeed fairly isolated—“right here.”
“Here? Why?” he asked incredulously.
“I know exactly what you’re up to, Mr. Rhoades,” she informed him, “and I will not be displayed like a trophy, just so you can soothe your wounded pride.” She lifted her chin determinedly.
Dusty opened his mouth to lodge a protest, but at that very moment the music started. Swiftly he considered. If he dragged her back to the party, she would be furious and he’d never get a dance with her. On the other hand, if they danced here, no one would see them but at least they would be dancing. With a resigned shrug and a wry grin, he offered her his arms.
The sight of those arms caused Priscilla’s stomach to lurch dangerously. What was wrong with her? she asked herself irritably. He was just a man. She had danced with scores of men this very night. This one was no different. Or was he? Of course he was, she told herself sternly. He had kissed her as no other man had kissed her and that made him different, but different was not dangerous. Not when she detested him. He would take no further liberties with her, not if she had anything to say about it. He would simply dance with her, accepting the favor she so graciously granted him. She had nothing to fear from him. Fear. Now where had that alarming thought come from? she wondered, ruthlessly squelching the surge of panic that tried to rise as she stepped bravely into his arms.
Taking a deep breath, she placed one hand lightly on his shoulder and slipped the other very gingerly into his. He took it with equal caution and placed his other hand very carefully on her back. She realized at once that he was a much better dancer than any of the other men she had danced with that night, as she followed his strong lead to the lilting strains of the waltz. He seemed so much larger than usual, looming over her in the darkness. But as they moved, the light fell on his face and she saw that i he was smiling. It was such a winning smile, so boyishly innocent, and she loved the way his lips curled back from his teeth and the way his eyes crinkled up on the corners. Unable to resist, she smiled back at him.
Dusty was handling her gently, as if he were afraid she might break, but of course that wasn’t the real reason. He knew good and well she wasn’t the least bit fragile. No, it was more like handling nitroglycerin—the least little jolt and it might blow up on you. The thought made him grin. When he twirled her around again to face the light, he saw that she was grinning back. She had the prettiest little mouth. And the sweetest, he remembered against his will. Involuntarily, he tightened his grip on her ever so slightly. This would never do, he chided himself. If he didn’t think about something else quick, he’d soon be doing something he’d regret.
Priscilla felt his hand squeeze hers, but before she could react to the tingle this sent up her arm and down her spine, his arm tightened around her waist, and she felt herself swung almost off her feet as he began to spin her around and around, faster and faster, turning and turning, an invisible force pulling her away, but his arm holding her to him like a steel band. He was laughing now, a deep, rich sound that struck a chord within her and caused the laughter to bubble up and out of her own throat. At last, breathless and dizzy and laughing, and clinging, they stumbled to a halt. For a moment, Priscilla rested her head against his chest, clutching his shoulders for support while the world whirled on without her. His hands tightened on her waist as she swayed drunkenly, and he pulled her to him protectively. The intimate contact as her softness was crushed against his hardness made Priscilla breathe in sharply, and that served only to flood her senses with the smell of him, the smell of whiskey and tobacco and the musky scent of sweat that made her only too aware of how close they were, how her fingers gripped the solid muscles of his shoulders, how his heart was pounding against her breasts. Or was that her own heart? Startled, she looked up to find the laughter had faded from his face also.
Dusty stared down at her in wonder. God, she was beautiful. Why had he never noticed it before? Or had he? It was hard to remember, hard to think at all right now, the way her body curved into softness under his hands, the way her hair smelled like flowers, the way her eyes looked so dark and deep, a man could drown... She stiffened slightly under his scrutiny, and instinctively he knew she was afraid he was going to kiss her. Wanting to, but sensing her reluctance and afraid she would pull away, he began to move his feet once again in time with the music that still floated over from the bunkhouse. She followed his shuffling lead, their movements no more than the barest excuse for remaining in each other’s arms. Priscilla’s hands relaxed their grip, and as she moved them to rest more comfortably on his broad shoulders, his own hands shifted to her back, drawing her nearer until her breasts, now strangely sensitive, brushed against his shirt front. She saw, because her gaze had locked with his, a strange blue fire burning in his eyes. Breathing took a conscious effort, a phenomenon she could no longer blame on the strenuous dancing, and she could not help but notice that the rise and fall of his own chest was rather labored also. They were even closer now. She could feel his thighs moving against hers through the layers of their clothing. She felt an odd tingle up the back of her legs that settled in her loins. As if sensing her response, or perhaps reacting to one of his own, Dusty slipped his hands down her back, into the curve of her waist and cupped them over her hips, drawing her body into intimate contact with his, a contact that made her gasp but not resist. How long they stayed like that, locked together, bodies swaying in an intimation of a waltz, savoring each other’s desire, Priscilla never knew, but it seemed like forever as she watched that blue (ire blaze more brightly, and saw the small struggle as he tried to hold himself back and heard the soft groan deep in his chest as he failed.
No gentleness this time, his lips met hers hungrily, demanding a response that she was powerless to deny. Her arms slipped around his neck as his embrace lifted her feet from the ground. Clinging to him, her fingers buried in the thick softness of his red-gold hair, her mouth locked greedily to his, she was only vaguely aware that they were moving, that he was moving her, until she felt the rough wooden boards of the cookhouse wall against her back. In total darkness now, in the shadow of the building, she could not see him as he pulled away from her for a moment, but she could feel his hot breath on her face and hear him groan again, more agonizingly this time, as he pressed his body against hers, pinning her against the wooden wall, flattening her breasts against the equally unyielding wall of his chest. Her heart was pounding now, sending streams of wildfire through what had once been her body but what now seemed to be no more than a blazing mass of need. A small, pleading sound escaped her lips as his mouth moved in a fiery path down her throat and his hands slid up her ribcage to catch and hold the fullness of her breasts.
This was what he had been longing for all evening, ever since he had first seen her—the chance to touch and taste her creamy skin, to explore and discover the delights of her softness. He moaned again as the warmth of her skin seemed to burn his lips like a fine liqueur, heating his mouth with intoxicating sweetness. She cried out faintly when his tongue found the tiny crevice between her breasts, savoring the lush smoothness that made the satin of her dress seem rough in contrast. Through that satin he could feel her breasts swelling, the nipples hardening to pebble-roundness under his palms.
Priscilla arched against him, offering herself with an abandon that might have shocked her had she been able to think, but she was now ruled solely by a primitive need, a need to get closer and then closer still to the heat of his body and the unspeakable pleasures offered by his hands and his mouth. His lips had zealously searched out every inch of exposed skin, as if he would devour her with his desire, but she reveled in it, in her own desire to be consumed. Her breasts swelled in his grasp, straining against the heat of his hands as if they would burst free, and that was what she wanted, she realized, as those hands slid up, fingers grazing her sensitive skin, seeking the hidden delights beneath the neckline of her gown. In another moment those delights spilled free as he eased the rose-colored satin down and down. The night air chilled her heated skin, only barely visible in the deep shadows, and then she was warm again, no, hot, as his eager hands captured her fullness and his searching mouth began to explore, finding first one stiffened peak and then the other, laving each adoringly and then moving to the other and then back again, as if afraid one might suffer from too much neglect. Someone was moaning softly, she noticed hazily, as she began to rock her hips against his in response to his gentle urging.
She was actually purring, he thought vaguely, sliding his hand down from the soft cushion of her breast to curve around her hip, guiding her into the secret rhythm while his mouth continued to savor the musky flavor of her skin. Groping, he tried to find her curves beneath the heavy satin skirt, and failing that, with a grunt of exasperation and a quick lunge, he managed to delve under the skirt and the petticoats and up again to caress her thigh, her hip, her belly, and then lower, to the place that burned for him as he burned for her. Her vibrant flesh quivered under the thin layer of silk that barred him, and he wanted her in that moment with a desire that was actually painful, wanted her and needed her and so much more. But not here, some still-sane voice inside his head demanded, not here.
Priscilla surrendered drunkenly to this new invasion, parting her legs slightly to allow his questing fingers the freedom they demanded, the freedom to coax this newly discovered part of her to life. The fire that had smoldered there since the first time he had kissed her now blazed forth and Priscilla hoped it would consume her. No one could feel like this and survive. If only she could touch him the way he was touching her, she thought as her hands caressed him almost frantically. She longed to be free of all these constraints, all these things making it so hard for him to... Free! That was it. She wanted to be free, in his arms—set free in some nameless way.
In one great burst of will, Dusty raised his head and found her lips for a long, mind-numbing kiss, and then he managed to lift his mouth from hers, just a fraction of an inch so that he could still feel the tiny gasps as her breath came and went but he could still speak. His own breath was ragged when he asked in a hoarse whisper, “Can we... go... somewhere?”
Priscilla could not think. Go somewhere? There was no other place she wanted to be, no place except here, with him, in his arms, feeling his hands, his lips... and then she realized what he meant. A place more private, where they would be more alone, where they would be free... Yes, oh yes! her mind screamed and the word trembled on her lips for one heart-stopping moment, but before she could utter it, a rebel yell split the night.
He pulled away so suddenly that she would have fallen if she had not had the solid wall against her back. “Fix your dress,” he ordered in an urgent whisper, as she watched the shadow of his hands reach down to smooth her skirt and then up to smooth his hair, the hair she had so eagerly caressed just moments ago. Mechanically, not really comprehending, she adjusted the neckline of her gown, only gradually beginning to realize that they were no longer alone in the yard. More yells and catcalls and shouts of approval broke through the passionate haze that had surrounded her. As her breathing and her heartbeat slowed to normal, and her consciousness turned outward, she became aware of the crowd of men moving toward them, yelling and cheering, and intent on congratulating Dusty no matter how reluctant he was to receive those congratulations, and he was very reluctant indeed.
Priscilla looked to him for some explanation of their sudden popularity, and although it was too dark to see his face, she could tell by the way he stood, the stiff way he tried to draw the crowd’s attention away from her, that something was very wrong, and that she was somehow involved in that wrong. Could they have seen—did they know what had happened and what had almost happened between them? It seemed impossible, and yet the thought made her stomach churn with apprehension. Frantically, she fluffed her skirt and fingered the folds of her bodice and searched the twists of her hair to determine if anything were out of place. It was so dark, perhaps no one would notice, she thought distractedly, watching the milling crowd.
The yells and shouts began to take on meaning in her numbed brain. What were they saying?
“You won!”
“You did it!”
“Never thought she’d do it!”
Do what? she wondered frantically. What were they talking about? Overcoming her panic, she fixed a frozen little smile on her face and asked, just loudly enough to be heard, “What’s going on here?”
“He won the bet!” someone yelled. She thought that it was Curly, but it did not matter.
“What bet was that?” she asked in dread of the answer.
“We bet him he couldn’t get you to dance with him and...”
Priscilla never heard the rest of Curly’s explanation. Horrified, she replayed the whole scene in her mind: Dusty’s mythical “friend,” his ingratiating apology, his elation when she had agreed to dance. Every word had been a lie. He had no personal interest in her. He was only trying to save face with his friends. He had used her, and how willing she had been! No, not willing, but eager.
Humiliation stained her cheeks as she remembered what else she had been eager for. Grateful for the darkness that hid her shame, she could not keep from shrieking, “This was a bet?”
Instantly, the men fell silent. They looked at her, quite unable to read her expression in the darkness but certainly recognizing the fury in her voice. They had not expected her to be angry and they shuffled awkwardly, each waiting for another to speak, to somehow smooth things over.
Priscilla felt the rage rise in her, an ugly, overpowering force. “A bet?” she shrieked again, her voice quivering with an intensity that made the men literally draw back. Pulling herself up to her full height, she treated them to the most scathing look she could muster, only hoping that they could see it. “Every one of you, you are all a bunch of lowdown, dirty, sneaking...” Words failed her for a moment, but then it came to her, “Polecats!” They seemed to shrink under her wrath.
Then she turned to Dusty and he could feel the anger emanating from her small body like a palpable force. When she thought of what he had done, how he had humiliated her, how she had almost let him... She felt the rage inside her grow, overwhelming her female body’s ability to contain it, and for the first time in her life she wished to be a man so that she could thrash Dusty Rhoades as he deserved to be thrashed. She had no words to express her contempt for him so she performed the only act of violence open to her. She threw back her arm and slapped his face with a force that whipped his head half around. Then turning swiftly before anyone could see her tears, she ran off into the night.
For a long time nobody moved, then slowly Dusty’s hand came up to touch his burning cheek, and he remembered how she had been before. How she had been when all that anger had been passion, when she had molded herself against him, answering him kiss for kiss, fairly purring in her pleasure at his touch. She would have gone with him, too. He was sure of it. In another moment she would have agreed, and by now she would have been lying in his arms... His eyes narrowed as he examined the men so sheepishly watching the direction where Priscilla had vanished into the night, and the words that had failed her came readily to his lips. He began to curse the men who stood around him, questioning not only their good judgment but also their ancestry and their moral turpitude. It took only a few invectives to rouse them from their stupor and all two dozen of them began to defend themselves in no uncertain terms, raising such a din that Priscilla might have heard it at the schoolhouse if she had not been so busy raising a din herself.
It was daylight by the time Stella had exacted testimony from all the witnesses and determined what had really happened. In her court she served as prosecutor, judge, and jury. George made a feeble attempt at the defense, but it was soon apparent that there was none, so he settled for the role of impartial observer.
“We didn’t mean no harm,” wailed Gus. “We never thought she’d get so mad!”
“She called us polecats,” complained Jake.
“Well, you are,” snapped Stella, “an’ a lot worse’n that! You’ve gone an’ done it this time. She’ll prob’ly leave on the next stage.”
“Leave? ‘Cause’ve what we did?” asked Curly apprehensively.
“Certainly,” Stella affirmed. “You boys insulted her, humiliated her. I wouldn’t blame her a bit.”
“We meant it as a compliment,” protested Gus.
“Well, I reckon you can plead insanity then, and nobody’d question it,” said Stella. “Now, your only hope is if you go down there and apologize and do it mighty humble.” She looked around but nobody would meet her eyes, and nobody moved. It would take a little something to get them moving, she realized. “An’ it might be a good idea to ride into town first an’ you each get her a present.”
“A present?” someone asked.
“Yeah, you know, a box of candy or some doodad that girls like, an’ while you’re gone, I’ll go down to see if I can’t get her in a forgivin’ mood.”
“It’s Sunday!” Curly said. “Ol’ man Perkins’ll never open up on Sunday.”
“You tell him I said to. Tell him we might lose our schoolteacher. He sets store by that school. He’ll open up,” she assured them.
Slowly, they filed out to find their horses until only Dusty remained sitting in a stony silence, his red cheek giving mute testimony to his guilt.
“An’ you, boy,” Stella said threateningly, “you’d better come back with somethin’ made of solid gold, an’ you’d better deliver it on your knees.”
Glaring at her coldly, he got up and walked out without saying a word.
Stella sighed and turned to George. “I reckon she’s at the schoolhouse. Walk down there with me, honey.”
George left her at the door, and she could hear the muffled sobs coming from inside. She knocked softly and called, “Priscilla? Honey, it’s me. Can I come in?”
There was no answer, so she went on in. Priscilla sat on the bed, trying to wipe her eyes. “Do you know what they did to me?” she quavered. Stella nodded. “They bet on me, as if I were a horse or something.” The sobbing started again and Stella went to her and held her for a while, cooing words of comfort.
“It seems a lot worse than it was,” Stella said. “You’re wore out, an’ everything seems worse then. Tomorrow you’ll laugh about it,” she suggested, but she could see that that was little comfort to Priscilla. “They told me their side of it. Why don’t you tell me yours?” Stella urged.
After making liberal use of Stella’s handkerchief, Priscilla began at the beginning with Dusty’s first insult and continued until she got to the place where he had finally asked her to dance outside the cookhouse. “So I agreed to dance with him right there,” she sniffed, trying not to blush at the memory of what she had no intention of telling Stella. “When the dance was over, all the men came rushing out and told me about the bet. I’ve never been so humiliated in my entire life,” she cried.
Stella noticed her heightened color but attributed it to Priscilla’s natural embarrassment in such a situation. “Now, now, don’t take on so. Fact is, they never meant no such a thing. They thought you’d be flattered!” Stella declared.
“Flattered!” Priscilla was incredulous.
“I know it don’t make no sense, but they’re men an’ they don’t have to make no sense. To look at it from their side, to them the most important thing about coming to the party was to get a dance with you. When you froze out Dusty, that was the worst punishment a man could get. Now, I ain’t excusin’ the way he acted all night ‘cause, Lord knows, there ain’t no excuse for it, but in spite of that, he still couldn’t stand the insult you give him, so he tried to get back some on it. The others, they should never have told, but they wanted you to know how how much store they set by you. They also figured you’d get a little put out with Dusty, but they never dreamed you’d get mad at them, too.” Stella chuckled. “I guess when you called ‘em polecats, they just about layed down an’ died. You never saw men so insulted.”
For the better part of an hour, Stella cheered and consoled, until finally they eould hear the thundering of hooves in the distance.
“They must’ve lathered them horses gettin’ to town an’ back so fast. Now, honey, you just step right out there. Hold your head up. You got nothin’ to be embarrassed about. Make ‘em crawl, though,” Stella cautioned. Priscilla almost smiled at that, but she could not quite make it.
The two women stepped out onto the stoop as the riders, about two dozen of them, approached and then dismounted.
Aunt Sally stepped forward, removing his hat and glaring at the rest until they had done so, too. “First off, Miss Priscilla,” he said respectfully, “I didn’t know nothin’ about this until Mrs. Wilson got the story from these”—he looked around contemptuously—”these coyotes. If I did, I’d’ve stopped it right off. Anyway, they’re all too ashamed to speak right up to you, so they ast me to step in.” He cleared his throat importantly, and continued. “These no good cowpunchers are almighty sorry for the dirty trick they played on you and are beggin’ yer forgiveness.”
“We didn’t mean no insult, ma’am,” offered Curly.
“Shoot no,” added another Priscilla didn’t recognize. “There weren’t another girl at the party we’d pay five cents to dance with, an’ I’ll guess over $300 changed hands over you!” The others nodded agreement, and Priscilla’s mouth fell open. She looked at Stella who affirmed it.
“I told you so,” Stella whispered.
Nobody moved for a minute and then Aunt Sally spoke with disgust. “Give her the presents, you fools!” One by one, they all rather shamefacedly approached to leave their wrapped offerings at her feet.
Finally, Priscilla found her voice. “What’s all this?” she asked, gesturing to the growing pile.
“Them’s presents to show how sincere they all are,” explained Aunt Sally.
“That’s not necessary!” insisted Priscilla. “I can see now that you meant no harm. I was too easily offended.” She meant it, too. They were not to blame. Dusty Rhoades held that honor.
“We ain’t takin’ no chances, Miss,” said Curly. “We shore don’t want you to leave here.”
“Leave?” she asked in genuine amazement. “You think I’d leave because of this?” The thought had crossed her mind but only briefly. She could not let them think her so poor spirited. Nor could she let Dusty Rhoades know how thoroughly he had demeaned her. “Oh, no,” she assured them, “I plan to stay here a good longtime.” She managed a small smile.
Murmurs of relief went through the crowd as the last of the gift-givers deposited his offering. Suddenly, Stella was looking around very intently. “Where’s Dusty?” she demanded. Priscilla had not realized he was supposed to be with them.
At first no one answered, and then Curly spoke. “He didn’t come back with us.”
“He’d better be headed for Mexico then,” snapped Stella. Someone snickered.
“He said to tell you he had some business in San Antone. He’ll be back tomorrow night,” explained Curly as the riders mounted up.
Aunt Sally considered, “Guess he figured there weren’t no present big enough in Rainbow to make up for what he done.”
No, thought Priscilla, nor anywhere else.