Wild Hearts (The Wild Women Series, Book 4)

By Sharon Ihle

Priscilla Stillbottom, a respectable rancher’s daughter, dreamed of performing on the stage.
But she never expected that fleeing an unwanted husband would make that dream come true.
Or that she'd end up a star saloon singer in a rough-and-ready Colorado mining town.
And she certainly never imagined Payton Cobb, the devilishly handsome saloon owner, whom she must outwit to hide not only her past, but a newly sparked hunger too.
Payton Cobb knows most folks who come to Central City are running from something, even the elusive "Miss Prissy", whose fiery innocence he can't seem to outrun—or resist!
Originally titled: Tempting Miss Prissy
REVIEWS:
"...a real work of art... wonderful characters... vivid, entertaining scenes... a keeper for sure!" ~Gloria Miller, Literary Times
THE WILD WOMEN, in series order:
Untamed
Wildcat
Wild Rose
Wild Hearts

• Language: English
• Publisher: ePublishing Works
• Release date: Nov 4, 2011
• ISBN: 9781614171485

Sharon Ihle

Best-selling author, Sharon Ihle has written more than a dozen novels set in the American West. All have garnered rave reviews and several have foreign translations. Many of Sharon’s books have won prestigious awards, and as an author, she has been a Romantic Times nominee for Career Achievement in Love and Laughter. A former Californian, Sharon now makes her home on the frozen plains of North Dakota. Hard to believe, but it’s true.

Book preview

Wild Hearts

The Wild Women Series

Book Four

by

Sharon Ihle

Bestselling, Award-winning Author

Previously titled: Tempting Miss Prissy

Published by ePublishing Works!

www.epublishingworks.com

ISBN: 978-1-61417-148-5

Without limiting the rights under copyright(s) reserved above and below, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior permission of the copyright owner.

Please Note

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

The scanning, uploading, and distributing of this book via the internet or via any other means without the permission of the copyright owner is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author's rights is appreciated.

First published by HarperPaperbacks as Tempting Miss Prissy.

Copyright © 1994, 2011, 2012 Sharon J. Ihle. All rights reserved. With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from the author.

eBook design by eBook Prep www.ebookprep.com

Thank You.

Accolades & Rave Reviews

Master storyteller Sharon Ihle spins a heartwarming tale full of humor and tears... brilliant, candid, and poignant dialogue. Tears will be running down your face at the touching conclusion. This is a book you'll read! ~ Rendezvous

Awards

Bookrak's Best Selling Author Award

(for The Bride Wore Spurs)

~

Romantic Times' Best Western Historical Romance

(for The Law And Miss Penny)

~

Recipient of many Reviewer's Choice Award Nominations.

More eBooks by Sharon Ihle

Maggie's Wish

Spellbound

The Law & Miss Penny

To Love a Scoundrel

Dakota Dream

River Song

~

The Wild Women Series

Untamed

Wildcat

Wild Rose

Wild Hearts

~

The Inconvenient Bride Series

The Bride Wore Spurs

Marring Miss Shylo

The Marrying Kind

Dedication

With much love to the very best and most supportive in-laws a gal could hope for: Chuck and Hildagard Schmuckle and Tom and Elaine Ihle. I also have to mention my dear Colorado friends, Kylene The Mustard Queen Luchsinger and Bev Set 'em up! Butler—baseball just isn't the same without you two.

Chapter 1

Central City,

Colorado Territory,

1872

Priscilla Stillbottom stood perusing a sign that read: ACTRESS/SINGER WANTED—INQUIRE WITHIN. This was in itself an act of desperation. The fact that she was strongly considering applying for the job, and at an establishment named The Fox's Den, went beyond desperation right straight to madness. More proof of her dangerous frame of mind lay below the name of the business. There an artist had sketched the head of a sly-looking fox with one eye closed in a lusty wink. Below the animal's portrait were the words:

Booze! Birds! Billiards!

Daily entertainment! Journalists welcome!

Free drinks at the whistle—twice daily!

Taos Lightning served here!

There were more attractions listed below that, along with the names of songbirds who had appeared there and announcements for upcoming billiard tournaments and charity raffles, but Priscilla skimmed past all that. She'd made up her mind to apply for the job the minute she read the words Inquire within. It was a crazy idea at best, against her strict upbringing and churchgoing ways, but given the state of her finances—she was down to her last three dollars—and the fact that she'd secretly dreamed for as long as she could remember of taking center stage and singing before a real-live audience, the decision was remarkably easy. The hard part was trying to work up enough courage to walk inside the saloon.

The doors, a matched pair of ornately carved and lavishly varnished slabs of oak, featured large inserts of stained-glass artistry depicting country scenes and foxes in various poses. At the center of each colorful panel a clear oval of beveled glass beckoned to passersby to take a peek inside. At least, that's the way it looked to Priscilla. Dropping her valise at her feet, she bent over, brought her right eye level with one of the clear windows, and then flattened her palms against the polished wood. She'd had just enough time to focus on a large, blurry shadow, when the door was suddenly jerked open from the inside.

Priscilla literally fell into the saloon and landed facedown on the hardwood floor. Stunned, she tried to draw a breath. Her mouth gaped open, but for some reason, she couldn't pump air into her starving lungs. As she lay there, voices came at her from all sides, asking stupid questions like Are you hurt, ma'am? and You gonna be all right?

She wanted to lash out at those voices, to scream that not only was she not all right, there was a very good chance she was dying, but she still couldn't draw in enough air to whimper, much less speak. Hands plucked at her, making matters worse—already she was frightened half out of her mind to be so helpless in front of strangers—but finally, a strong pair of hands pushed the others away and lifted her up off the floor. After carrying her to a chair and setting her down, Priscilla's savior bent her over at the waist and began to massage her back.

Then, his voice gentle but firm, he spoke quietly so only she could hear. I know it feels like you're going to die, but all that's happened is the wind got knocked out of your lungs. As he spoke, his hands continued to caress her back, soothing her cramped muscles. Don't try to gulp it all in at once. Just take tiny sips of air. You'll be fine in a minute.

And, surprisingly enough, he was right. A moment later, Priscilla was finally able to raise her head and draw a full, painless breath of air.

Thank you, sir, she said, finding her voice before actually turning her head toward the person who'd saved her. She glanced to her right and into an astonishing and engaging pair of silvery eyes. Compounding their impact was the fact that they were set off by thick eyebrows of raven's wing black. For the second time that day, Priscilla felt as if her lungs had collapsed.

Better now? he asked, his deep voice soothing her the way his hands had moments ago. He was waiting for a reply, she could see that by the way he cocked his head and studied her, but Priscilla still hadn't figured out how to breathe again. Ma'am? Would you like me to get a doctor?

Wha—Oh, no. She laughed and managed to tear her gaze off of him long enough to gather her wits. I'm a little embarrassed is all. You wouldn't happen to have a doctor around who can cure that, would you?

Sorry, but no. He rose from his haunches then, and extended a hand. "I didn't mean to surprise you like that, but when I saw your shadow at the door, I thought you were a kid trying to sneak a peek at some of my more, ah... colorful female customers."

Your customers? She let him pull her to her feet. Are you the owner of this establishment?

I am.

In that case, you're just the man I'm looking for.

I am?

Priscilla thought she saw amusement in his expression, or something close to it, for his eyes were twinkling in a most intimate manner and his brow was lifted in mock surprise. Wary of the strange way this man was affecting her, she settled her sights on his wide sloping nose and trim nostrils as she explained her visit.

I was looking for you to inquire about the job as a singer. Is the position still open?

Well, yes, ma'am... and no.

As he spoke, Priscilla couldn't help but look from his nose to the highly expressive mouth beneath it. His supple lips were even better windows to his thoughts than his unusual eyes, for each word he spoke seemed to be accompanied by a little smirk, the hint of a dimpled grin, or even a quick frown of disapproval, as if he'd judged her and found her lacking.

I am in need of another singer, he went on to say, but in case you haven't noticed, this is a saloon, and what I'm looking for is a saloon singer. His skeptical gaze perused her from top to bottom, and then he slowly shook his head. Excuse me for saying so, ma'am, but you hardly fit the bill.

Priscilla hoped his comments referred to her manner of dress and not her general appearance. Counting on that, she pleaded her case. Oh, but please, sir, you've got to give me a chance. I can learn to sing anything, honest, I can. Won't you at least let me show you what I can do?

A patron standing just to her left—Priscilla thought it might be one of the men who'd asked about her health as she lay gasping on the floor—hooted a laugh and said, I fer one'd like to see what the little gal can do.

Others nearby joined in with his laughter, then they all began hooting in unison, championing her cause.

Looking at least a little irate, the saloon keeper tore off his smoke-gray hat and waved it toward the bartender. Dutch? he shouted. Blow the whistle, will you?

A moment later came a shrill blast sounding a lot like the whistle of a train. Then, their boots rattling the floorboards as they stampeded toward a common goal—free drinks—the dozen or so customers who'd been lounging about The Fox's Den swarmed around the bar.

His mouth split into a broad grin, Priscilla's prospective employer turned back to her, and explained. I don't usually blow the free-drink whistle until later in the day, but I thought we ought to finish our conversation a little more privately.

Thank you, Mr... er...

Cobb. Payton Cobb, but most folks around here call me Foxy. That or Payton will do. He fit his hat back onto his head then, disappointing her.

In addition to his unusually lush brows, Payton Cobb had the most beautiful head of coal black hair she'd ever seen. Thick and wavy, but neatly trimmed midway down his neck, Cobb's inky hair was set off by a matching pair of sideburns which grew down past his earlobes to the tips of his jaw. That little bit of facial hair made a sensual frame for his strong features and broad bone structure, softening what otherwise might have been a very aloof and imposing mien.

Sensing that the man was aware of her thoughts, Priscilla jerked her head up and met his gaze. Ah, as I was saying, thank you for the consideration, Mr. Cobb, but I'd be a lot more grateful if you'd give me a chance to earn this job. Will you? His expression didn't change much, not even around the mouth, so when he agreed, Priscilla assumed he'd made up his mind before she'd even repeated the question.

I suppose I owe you at least a tryout after dropping you on the floor the way I did. The stage is to your right.

Oh, thank you so much. First I've got to see to my bag. I left it outside the door.

I'll see that it's taken care of. He raised his hand and snapped his fingers, and surprisingly enough, someone responded as if he'd just been waiting for the cue.

Yeah, Foxy? a man hollered in reply.

The lady's bag is outside. Bring it in and stow it behind the bar for now, please. Then, cocking the finger he'd just snapped, Cobb said to her, Follow me.

Feeling as if she were on the cusp of something big and exciting, Priscilla fell in behind him. The saloon was bigger on the inside than it looked from the street, and split into two sections, from what she could tell. The area to the left of the front doors where all the customers had flocked, featured a very long bar, a pair of billiard tables, and several chairs snuggled under countertops built right into the walls. A thin layer of hazy smoke hung over that part of the saloon, looking like a rain cloud about to dump its load. The section to the right of the door featured at least a dozen gaming tables, along with a few scattered drinking tables, a beautiful grand piano, and at the back wall something that looked like a small theater.

Sauntering toward that back wall, the tails of his suit jacket flapping against his trim hips with each strut he took, Foxy, as she was trying to think of him, took a chair from one of the empty tables, turned its spindle- back toward the wooden stage, and then straddled it. As Priscilla crossed between him and the little theater, he looked up at her and asked, What's your name, sweetheart?

Priscilla... She hesitated a moment, wondering how she ought to present herself, and decided to go ahead and use the name she'd been born with. Stillbottom.

Stillbottom? Cobb's lips were wobbling by the time he got the last syllable out. Did you make that up, sweetheart?

No sir. That's my real name.

No kidding? His mouth cracking a full grin now, he lowered his voice and added, If you have any chance of going to work for me, it better be just that—your name, not a characteristic.

Priscilla didn't know what to say or do in the face of such blatant ribaldry—if indeed she'd read his expression correctly—but she felt that she ought to say or do something. Thankfully, she was saved the trouble of figuring out what to do when both doors to the saloon crashed open to admit a very large woman. Walking along beside her in a peculiar, three-legged humping motion was a big dog with a shaggy multicolored coat of white and mahogany. The paw on the animal's fourth leg, which he'd yet to touch down to the floor, was wrapped in an large ball of gauze.

The enormous female—Priscilla wasn't much good at judging such things, but she felt certain the lady weighed in at around 250 pounds—lumbered, rather than walked, over to where Payton Cobb sat grinning and waiting for the show to begin. As the woman continued walking toward the stage with her voluminous white Mother Hubbard dress brushing tables and chairs along the way, Priscilla couldn't help but think that she looked like a miniature circus tent bouncing across the floor.

I brung your stupid dog back, Foxy, she said, one hand clutching her huge girth as she paused to catch her breath. Doc couldn't save the big lug's foot, but he said once't it healed up, Thunder would be able to limp around on it good enough.

Thanks, Aggie. Cobb reached down to pat the Saint Bernard, who by now had reached his side and dropped his muzzle onto his master's thigh. Scratching the dog's shaggy head as he spoke to the woman, he said, Pull up a chair. You're just in time to have a look at a little lady who wants the job as our new singer.

Aggie turned to give Priscilla a cursory glance, nodded without changing her somber expression, then slowly made her way to one of the gaming tables to collect a chair. In her absence, Cobb explained, That's Agatha Bloom, my best faro dealer. Aggie also has the best eye I've ever seen for picking talent. Why don't you climb up on that stage now, and as soon as Aggie gets settled, you can go ahead with your act.

Thank you, Mr. Cobb. And thank you again for giving me this chance.

Wondering if perhaps he hadn't been a touch impulsive by offering her that chance, Payton observed the obviously nervous young woman as she tentatively made her way up the three steps at the rear of the stage. The theater was nothing more than a raised wooden platform butted up against the corner where the back and side walls met. To give the illusion of curtains, billowing loops of purple velvet hung down from hooks screwed into the ceiling, but the draperies were immobile, there only for effect. Off to the side of the stage sat Payon's precious piano, no hurdy-gurdy instrument, but a Steinway, and one that he kept in showroom condition by allowing only one person other than himself to touch it: his piano player, Shorty. Unfortunately for the would-be singer, Shorty wasn't scheduled to come in for almost two hours. Then again, thought Payton, he doubted that even the talented pianist could help this overeager, but obviously underqualified gal to win the job.

By the time Aggie returned, dragging her custom, oversized chair along with her, the young woman—Priscilla Stillbottom, for heaven's sake—was standing center stage with her eyes closed and hands clasped at her waist. She looked ridiculously innocent, and much too unsure of herself for him to even consider hiring her, but since he had agreed to let her try, Payton promised himself to be patient. Are you ready, Miss Stillbottom?

Yes, sir.

Stillbottom? Aggie turned to him in surprise. Her eyes, usually recessed beneath dark smudges and excess weight, bugged out. Is that her stage name?

Ah... nope. Biting his lip to keep from laughing, he whispered, Just humor the gal with me a minute or so. I promised I'd give her a try.

If you say so. Her eyes still round with surprise, Aggie looked back to the stage and said, Well, go ahead, honey. We're all ears.

Priscilla cleared her throat, hummed a note—middle C, Payton thought, but he was no music expert—and then, hands still clasped at her waist, she broke into song. What-t-t a friend we have in Jee-ss-us—

Hey, hey! Hold up a minute. Payton rapped his knuckles against the tabletop. Good Lord, sing something else, would you sweetheart? Anything but a church song.

Looking more nervous, Priscilla cocked her head to the side as if mentally scanning her vast repertoire, and then glanced down at Thunder, who'd dropped to the floor at Payton's feet. Instantly brightening, she said, I know one you're bound to like.

Then let's hear it. I've got work to do.

All right, just give me a minute. She closed her eyes again as if listening to the piano player in her mind, began tapping her foot against the stage, then popped her big blue eyes open, spread her arms wide, and cut loose. "Where, oh where has my lit-tle dog gone? Where, oh where can he be?"

She was enthusiastic, Payton had to give her that. Loud, too. He had no doubt every head in the bar was turned toward the back of the room. She also sang in a key that he absolutely had never heard in his life—and that included the days when Shorty tuned the piano. To his way of thinking, this was not a plus.

As Priscilla sang on, Payton shuddered and turned to Aggie. Unable to stand another moment of the racket, he said in a low voice, I haven't got the heart to shut her up and throw her out. You do it for me.

Oh, no you don't. I ain't the one let her in here in the first place, and I ain't gonna be the one to toss her out on her tail. Aggie clamped her meaty fingers around the arms of the chair as if preparing to heave herself out of it, but Payton covered one of her hands with his own, keeping her in place.

Come on, Aggie, he implored. Help me out here. Take a look at her—she actually thinks she's good.

Glancing back at the stage, Aggie's brows came together in contemplation. She sure enough is carrying on like she thinks she's the next Jenny Lind. Seems odd for a proper-looking gal like that. Maybe that's her own little twist, you know, her specialty. We might just have us something here, Foxy.

We've got something all right. He pointed to the floor where Thunder was sprawled with both front paws up over his ears. And whatever it is, it's killing my dog.

Hush, now, she said, apparently seeing something she honestly liked about the young woman. Mercifully, the song came to an end then, and Aggie took over with the tone-deaf warbler. Is that all the songs you know, honey? Church songs and silly little rhymes?

Well, yes ma'am, but all I have to do is hear a song and the way the music is supposed to go, and only the one time, too, and then I can sing it. I swear.

Payton turned to his faro dealer. You're not really thinking about hiring her, are you?

Aggie shrugged. Maybe. She's fresh, she's got something—maybe it's her give-'em-hell attitude, I don't know, but I like it. I think the miners around these parts will, too. Why not give her a try for, say, a week, Foxy? What do you have to lose?

Payton looked back at the woman on the stage, and although he couldn't imagine why it struck him that way, Aggie's question felt like a loaded gun. When he turned back to her and said, Nothing, I guess, it sounded like a loaded cannon, but by then, it was too late.

Tell you what, girl, called Aggie to the obviously untrained chanteuse. I think we're gonna give you a try.

Clapping her hands together, Priscilla scrambled off the stage and hurried over to where her new employer sat. Oh, thank you, Mr. Cobb. Thank you both.

Just a minute now, said Aggie. We haven't quite figured out how to work your act into something we can use. There's lots wrong with it. She turned to Payton. Any ideas?

One for sure: throw her out, is what he thought, but even he couldn't do it now. Not while Miss Stillbottom was standing there with her big blue eyes glistening in excitement and her cute, pouty little mouth quivering like a virgin on her wedding night. Another of her specialties? he wondered absently as he resigned himself to the idea of keeping her around for a week.

Turning to his faro dealer, he washed his hands of the new act. This is entirely your show now, Aggie. I've got just one suggestion. Make sure she gets rid of that dress.

Umm. You've got a definite point.

As Aggie turned her sharp-eyed gaze on the gown to consider its possibilities, Priscilla glanced down at herself and silently acknowledged that she was turned out rather outlandishly.

Made of white eyelet calico, the dress was fashioned of row after row of wide frilly ruffles from her waist to the floor. The elaborate skirt bore several blue satin bows and ribbons scattered in a random pattern, and featured a wide sash made of the same blue satin. The bodice and sleeves of the gown, also made of white eyelet calico, were fitted, and the neckline had a slight scoop with a small blue satin rose at the center. It was a stupid dress, and Priscilla dearly hated it, but she'd been wearing it when she left home, and the only other clothes she'd had time to stuff into her valise were even less suitable for a performer.

You know, said Aggie, saving Priscilla from coming up with a solution to the problem. Maybe we could use that dress after all, and make it a part of the act.

Cobb frowned. What? She looks like, well hell, I don't know... a walking nursery rhyme or something.

Like little Miss Muffet? asked Aggie. Or how about Little Bo Peep? Hey. She sat up as straight as she could get. That ain't a bad idea, now that I think of it. The fellas ought to go nuts for it.

Cobb contemplated this for a moment. Maybe, but only if it's done right—and no sheep. I won't have any damn sheep in here.

How about a mountain goat? suggested the large woman. Maybe a little kid?

I suppose we could give it a try. Payton looked up at Priscilla, studying her again. What do you call yourself on stage, sweetheart?

She thought about it, trying to invent a really clever name for herself, but came up empty. Once again, the big woman saved her.

I've got it. How about we shorten her real name to Prissy? We'll bill her as Miss Prissy and her little lamb—except, of course, it'll be a goat.

Nodding, Payton again looked at Priscilla. I like it. Is that name all right with you?

Oh yes, sure, of course it is. Miss Prissy sounds fine to me.

One more thing, Cobb went on to say. You can wear that dress for the act, but see if you can't make it less... virginal, or something. This way it looks too damn much like a wedding gown.

Priscilla couldn't cork a startled gasp.

At the sound, Cobb glanced up her way again, this time narrowing his eyes with a considerable amount of suspicion. Another thing, sweetheart. Most folks come to mining camps like Central City for one of two reasons. One, they're looking to get rich by striking gold. Or two, they're running away from something. I'm not in the habit of asking folks what they're running from 'cause it's none of my damn business unless I decide to make them part of this establishment. Since I seem to have hired you, I've got to have some idea what kind of trouble you might be bringing along with you. Understand?

Her heart in her throat, Priscilla nodded. Yes sir, I think I do.

Then I have to ask: you didn't happen to run out on some fella who might come looking for you, did you?

Weighing her options, Priscilla gulped. She couldn't imagine that her family, or even Boris Hardtack, might come looking for her, and yet she didn't want to lie, especially to her new employer who was obviously growing impatient for her to answer. As she mulled over her options, he asked yet another question, this time, getting right to the point.

Let me make it a little plainer, Miss Prissy. Dressed the way you are, you look as if you've left some poor fool standing at the altar. Did you?

Relief flooded her.

Oh, goodness, no, she laughed, giddy with happiness over the fact that she hadn't been forced to lie to her new employer.

And she hadn't. Not really.

After all, Priscilla Stillbottom had not left her groom standing at the altar. She'd gone ahead and married him, and then she'd run away.

Chapter 2

Once Payton established the terms for Priscilla's employment, Aggie took her upstairs to what would be her temporary quarters for the next seven days. Pausing in the doorway of the small room after the one-flight climb, the faro dealer looked flushed and so out of breath that a passerby might have thought she'd galloped up the stairs, and several floors higher to boot.

Embarrassed for the woman, but concerned about her too, Priscilla asked, Are you all right, ma'am? You look a little faint.

I'm fine, and please call me by my name. It's Aggie. Breathing a little easier, she stepped into the room with Priscilla and closed the door behind her. I ain't much for walking upstairs, is all, or walking, period, now that I think on it. It's this big ole butt of mine. It plumb wears me out dragging a wagon-load like that around, but I can't seem to get rid of it.

Sorry that she'd brought the subject up, Priscilla tried to think of a way to respond that might make the woman feel better about herself, but the words wouldn't come. Besides being huge, Aggie was beige all over, colored in drab shades of brown from her hair to her skin. Even her eyes were pale and dull, like a dusty road. Not only was the dear woman terribly overweight, but she was as plain as a pauper's coffin. As much as she wanted to, Priscilla couldn't think of a way to compliment her without sounding insincere.

You know, she finally said, settling on commiseration as a way to put the woman at ease, I'll bet it's just this high altitude. I've hardly caught a decent breath since I arrived in Denver, and near as I can figure, Central City must be even higher.

We sit at damn near nine thousand feet, but that ain't it. Aggie gave her a knowing wink, and then slowly made her way across the room. Thanks anyway, but I'm used to the altitude. Enough about me and my big butt, let's talk about you and this job. I want you to know right up front that Foxy doesn't let this room out often, and never can I remember him offering it to one of his employees. When she reached the small pine armoire near a pair of glass doors overlooking the balcony, she rested heavily against the sturdy piece of furniture. Then she pinned Priscilla with a purposeful gaze. How much money you got left for yourself, sugar?

Three dollars. That's why I'm so thankful for this room. I wasn't sure that would be enough to pay for a hotel room and meals for the next few days.

Not if you wanted a room with a real mattress in it and real food. Until The Teller House is finished next month, we got mighty slim pickins when it comes to letting rooms around here. Aggie frowned deeply. Sorry as your finances are, I hope you understood that this here room is about all you're gonna earn this coming week.

Although her new quarters were sparsely furnished—other than the armoire, only a bed and a small wash- stand and cupboard occupied the room—they were the best accommodations Priscilla had ever had to herself during her entire life. This is more than enough payment, at least during my tryout week.

But how you gonna eat, honey? Aggie rubbed her midsection as if just thinking about going without food gave her a bellyache. Foxy puts out a pot of chili now and again for the customers, and you can help yourself to that any time, but you're on your own other than that.

Oh... I'll be all right. Food was her last concern at this point. I can make three dollars stretch out for a full week, if I have to.

"That'd hardly keep