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downward to her breasts. "A fine job indeed." Realizing where his gaze had strayed, he looked up.
    Face flushed, she said, "What you are referring to are the only things God did right by me. Now if you'll excuse me, Lord Whittington, I ask that you leave because—" her eyes darted to his crotch and shot back up "—God is also creating a problem for you that is inappropriate while in the presence of a woman who is not your wife. Good day."
    Adam gave her a little nod, and said, "Your point is well taken. Good Day, Miss Phipps." He turned and left, wondering what the devil was coming over him. He'd bedded many strikingly beautiful women over the years, but as he headed toward his buggy, he realized that a homely spinster woman, well past her prime, was effecting him unlike any woman ever had. It was a strange and perplexing conundrum that the one woman, who shattered all the standards he'd ever set for his next wife, would catch his interest.
    ***
    Three hours later, Abigail, Libby, Edith and Mary Kate came bursting in, faces flushed with excitement. Abigail tossed her hat in the corner, spun around, and said to Priscilla, "There's going to be a picnic social after church next Sunday, and all the single women for miles around will be coming with picnic baskets for the single men to bid on. It's to raise funds for the church, and I'm going to pack the best picnic basket there."
    Edith pursed her lips. "And what if your Mr. Bottoms bids on it?"
    Abigail's face fell. "He is not my Mr. Bottoms. But surely he wouldn't bid. He knows he'd be wasting his money."
    Edith shrugged. "I hope you're right. All I know is, young Frank Gundy better bid on my basket because if he doesn't, I'm going to feign illness and leave."
    Libby rolled her eyes. "There will be hundreds of other eligible young men there, Edith. You don't have to settle for young Frank Gundy."
    "I am not settling for him," Edith said. "I want to get to know him better, and this is the best way I can think how." She looked at Priscilla. "You need to go too," she said. "There might be a nice older man eager to spend time with you. And who knows, he might be all the things you're looking for in a husband."
    "I am not looking for a husband," Priscilla said. "I have enough to keep me busy with the newspaper without complicating my life with a man. Besides," she added, "it would be very embarrassing if no man bid on my basket."
    "Of course someone would bid on your basket," Edith said. "You are a very... nice woman. Many men would like to have lunch with you."
    Priscilla braced her hands on her hips. "Yes, but they would be men like Jethro Bottoms, and Clayton Rathborn, and... Lord Whittington." Her face flushed then, and she couldn’t disguise the smile twitching the corners of her mouth.
    Edith clapped her hands in delight. "You are going to the picnic, Miss Priscilla, and you will bring a basket. And the four of us are going to fix you up so even you will be amazed at the way you look when we’re finished."
    Before Priscilla could protest, the women rushed up the stairs, chattering excitedly about the prospect of fixing up Miss Priscilla . Which seemed pointless. She did not want a man running her life. With a nice nest egg in the bank, printing equipment to start up anew, and the experience to make The Town Tattler a success, she could remain independent. It would, however, be sensible to meet the women comprising Cheyenne 's social core, since they'd be her subscribers. And it was, after all, to raise funds for the church. So perhaps she would endure lunch with a man. Even if it turned out to be Lord Adam Whittington.
    Her gaze rested on the press, and she imagined how it had been the day before, when Lord Whittington leaned toward her, as if to kiss her. That image faded into one of them sitting on a blanket on the church grounds. She'd reach into her picnic basket and hand him a meat pie, and he'd break off a small piece and put it in her mouth. She'd look into his eyes