Bushedwhacked Bride by Eugenia Riley Page A

disappointed.
    The sound of a plaintive mrooow distracted her, and Jessica turned to see the mama cat standing on the edge of the bed, gazing at Jessica with large green eyes, back arched expectantly as she waited to be petted.
    Jessica smiled. “Well, hello, Jezebel.”
    Setting down the cameo, she walked over and stroked the cat; it purred and licked her hand. The contact with the animal somehow comforted and soothed her, and she scooped the feline up into her arms.
    “Where are you keeping those kittens of yours, eh?” Jessica asked. “You know, Cole seems to think you and I share just about the same morals.”
    The cat seemed pleased at this, from her loud purring.
    “Hey, want to explore the house, Jezebel?”
    The cat mrooowed in the affirmative. Avoiding the bed room directly ahead of her—which Ma had already in formed her was Cole’s room—Jessica exited through a side door and emerged into the long central hallway with its planked floors, braided rugs, and pier table near the front door.
    The farmhouse was divided into two wings flanking ei ther side of the hallway. Behind Jessica were stacked the two bedrooms; ahead stretched the parlor and kitchen.
    She entered the parlor first. Though the small, square room was neat, it was crudely furnished with a ratty horse hair settee, two wing chairs with cracked leather uphol stery, and a scarred Windsor rocker. A stone fireplace filled one wall, with two Winchester rifles hanging above it.
    On a tea table obviously well scarred by men’s boots were scattered a few books and journals. Jessica eagerly perused them, and was amazed to find several dime novels in a series entitled “The Wild West,” as well as a Fanner’s Almanac from the year 1887! A shudder swept her.
    “Any idea where I really am, Jezebel?” Jessica mut tered. “ ‘Cause I’ve got no clue.”
    Again, a contented purring was her only answer. But increasingly Jessica doubted that these sorts of accou trements were merely props in some elaborate play staged to deceive her.
    At the back of the room, an archway connected the par lor to the kitchen, and Jessica stepped down into the large stone-floored room, which was the same width as the par lor but almost twice as long. At once the cat struggled to get down; Jessica set her on the floor, and Jezebel bounded over to lap milk from a saucer.
    Straightening, Jessica found her senses were besieged by a potpourri of smells: bacon fat emanating from the cast-iron stove; garlic, chives, and other spices spilling their pungent aromas from the drying rack overhead; newly cut mint and parsley adding dashes of freshness from the sideboard.
    The room itself amazed her, from its huge pine trestle table with benches along the sides and chairs at either end, to the quaint pie safe with tin doors punched to admit air, to the antique pine sideboard crammed with blue pottery depicting Currier and Ives scenes.
    Jessica half jumped at the sound of the back door creaking open. Then with relief she watched Ma enter bearing an enamel tub filled with several raw chickens.
    “Ah, there you are, missy,” Ma said, lumbering over to the sideboard and setting down her load. “Enjoy your bath?”
    Jessica considering telling Ma about Cole’s treachery, then thought better of it. “Yes. Quite pleasant.”
    Ma raised an eyebrow. “You know you shouldn’t be gallivanting about the house in that risqué getup.”
    “But you took my clothes,” Jessica protested.
    Ma chuckled. “Yep, everything is washed and hung up, though I must say you have some mighty peculiar undergarments, missy. Is that what you womenfolk wear in the cities these days?”
    “Er—yes,” Jessica stammered.
    “Well, what have times come to? Anyhow, everything should be dry before dinner.”
    ‘That’s good. Thanks.”
    “You thirsty?”
    “Actually, yes.”
    Ma gestured at a glass pitcher on the sideboard. “I’ll get you some tea.”
    Realizing Ma’s hands were doubtless still filthy from