Wilda's Outlaw by Velda Brotherton

exactly what I mean. Look at the girl. Has she been taught respect for her elders?” Prescott’s turning on Tyra gave Wilda breathing room, but she didn’t envy her cousin the attention.
    “I was playing…playing with—”
    “Silence. You are too old to be playing, it matters not what with.”
    Tyra covered her mouth and giggled. Both Wilda and Rowena shook their heads at her simultaneously, but it did no good. From the beginning Tyra had shown no fear of the master of the house.
    Prescott threw an arm in the air. “Why I thought to civilize either one of you is beyond me. Madame, please escort your cousin to her room and see that she is presentable for her meal. We will wait.” He raised a finger and the serving girl removed the soup bowls, returning them and the tureen back to the kitchen.
    Relieved to be out of his company, Wilda did as he asked, following the fleeing girl up the stairs. Madame, indeed. She’d almost thrown her linen napkin at him.
    “It matters not what with?” Tyra squealed when they were safely behind her door. “What a dunderheaded bore. You’re right, you should never marry him.”
    “I don’t think I shall. He’s impossible. I would rather be dead.” Wilda grabbed Tyra’s arm. “Did you mean it when you said you would help me…well…ask Joshua to…uh, well, you know.”
    Excitement danced in the girl’s pale eyes. “Oh, yes, yes I will. You’re actually going to do it? Oh, how delightful. Tell me what to do, anything, I promise to never tell.”
    “Hush, now. You’ll spill the secret out of sheer excitement. We will return to the table, take our meal, then you will come to my room. And if you say anything, even to Rowena…well, our plans will be ruined. Do you understand?”
    Wide-eyed, Tyra nodded her head up and down, up and down, dislodging more strands of hay.

Chapter Seven
    After the meal and an intensive grilling from Prescott about the fitting of her wedding gown, Wilda escaped and waited for her cousin to come to her room. That hateful gown. It was indeed beautiful, but she despised it. Let Rowena wear it; she would only have to let it out a little around the hips. Yes, and let Wilda ride free across the plains with her outlaw. The dream had already taken form.
    A soft knock on the door jerked her away from the fantasy. The door creaked open and Tyra slipped through a narrow slit, then shut it behind her.
    “What do you want me to do?” she asked, curls bobbing.
    “Are you sure you can get into town without being seen?”
    “Yes, of course. I mean, I’ll tell you a secret if you won’t tell anyone.”
    “A secret?” Slightly puzzled, Wilda tried to follow the change in subject.
    “Yes, a delicious one. Oh, don’t worry, it will help with your problem.”
    Though she noticed that the child’s language had already taken on a hint of this wild west country, Wilda waited without comment. Tyra obviously wanted to be coaxed, for she wrung her hands at her waist, twisting smudged fingers together.
    “Okay. Tell me the secret and how it will help me.”
    “The groom is teaching me how to ride, and how to speak…talk like an American. Did you notice?”
    “An American? Oh, my.” Wilda eyed the mussed dress. “How do you ride, dressed this way?”
    Tyra played with the pleats down the front of her bosom. “You promise you won’t yell at me, or tell Rowena or that horrid Mr. Prescott?”
    “I promise.” Impatience reared its head. She wanted to shake the words from that pretty mouth.
    “Vow on our mothers’ graves.”
    “Tyra. You will keep my secret and I will keep yours. Now talk.”
    A scowl of impatience must have warned the girl, for she hurried to explain. “I wear trousers.”
    Shock replaced Wilda’s impatience. “Men’s trousers?”
    “What other kind are there? Of course, men’s. And shirt and boots as well. How else would I ride astraddle?”
    “Tyra, why in the world…ride astraddle? You wouldn’t dare. It’s wicked.”
    The