скачать книгу бесплатно
“How’s your pa? Ain’t seen him in over two months,” Mr. Carlson asked, his kind ruddy face nearly her undoing.
Maggie pressed a hand to her waist and swallowed around the lump of grief in her throat. “He’s been feeling a mite poorly.”
“Again?” The man frowned. “Seems he’s been sick since September. Maybe you ought to have the new doc go out to your place and have a look—”
“No,” she said too abruptly and forced a brittle laugh. “He hasn’t been sick this whole time. He’s been busy prospecting the past month. Last night it seems he ate something that didn’t sit well in his belly, is all.”
“Ah.” Mr. Carlson smiled, clearly appeased. “Well, you take care driving that wagon home. You might tell him I noticed that left rear wheel might be wobbling some.”
“I’ll be sure to do that, Mr. Carlson. Thank you.” Maggie hurried out of the general store before anyone else could ask her about Pa. Lord, she didn’t need the wagon wheel to break now. Who’d fix the darn thing? Not Pa. Not buried twenty yards behind their cabin.
At the thought, her breath caught on a sob and she nearly stumbled off the boardwalk and into Bertha. The gray mare turned accusing eyes on Maggie, as if she knew that Maggie hadn’t even dug her father a proper grave. Rock-hard ground and trembling hands had allowed for a four-foot hole and she hadn’t dared wait longer to get him in the freezing ground.
God, please, please, don’t let anyone find out he’s gone before I hear from Mary.
How many times had she uttered the prayer but to no use? She supposed she could write her younger sister, but Clara lived with her husband and two children clear across the country somewhere outside of Boston. No, Mary was closer in San Francisco and still Maggie’s best choice. As soon as her older sister received her letter she and her husband would come for her. Mary was the smart one, the brave one. She’d know exactly what to do.
Maggie unhitched Bertha, gathered her skirt with one hand and climbed onto the wagon. Seeming unfriendly or not, she kept her face straight ahead, not wishing to engage in conversation with anyone as she slowly rode out of town. If anyone knew she was staying at the cabin alone, tongues would wag. And it might not matter that Maggie had regrettable curly red hair or was taller than most of the men in Deadwood, if the miners got wind that she was a woman living alone….
Well, she wasn’t precisely sure what might happen if they came sniffing around, she only knew it would be a bad thing because Pa had told her that some men simply didn’t know how to treat a lady. She knew about kissing, of course, because when she was fifteen and hadn’t yet sprung up that extra six inches, Clem Browning had kissed her on the mouth twice. She and Clem had been behind the rotting barn where the whole family had lived in Kansas before Pa took it in mind to come prospecting.
As soon as she passed the smokehouse and livery at the edge of town, she breathed a sigh of relief. She took a final look over her shoulder and then clucked her tongue, signaling Bertha to pick up the pace. The fat old mare barely minded but Maggie was so grateful to be out of sight that she didn’t care. A brisk wind had picked up and she pulled her wool shawl tighter around her shoulders.
Her mind was on the growing chill in the air and the dwindling woodpile behind the small two-room cabin she and Pa had shared when she saw movement in the trees to the right. She didn’t slow down but kept her gaze on the scrub oak. A white-tailed doe leaped into sight before scurrying deeper into the woods.
Maggie smiled at herself and then flicked the reins, anxious suddenly to be home, snug in her little cabin. She still had laundry to do and peaches to…
He jumped in front of the wagon from out of nowhere, blocking Bertha’s path with his big body. “Lady, don’t scream. I just need to talk to you.”
A strangled cry lodged in her throat. She yanked on the reins when she should have urged the mare to gallop. No need to panic, she told herself, not sure if her throat would work. She wasn’t too terribly far from town, and the stranger said he just wanted to talk. “Wh-what do you want?”
His hair was long and as black as a moonless night. Even before she shaded her eyes from the sun she saw that he had a strong face with high broad cheekbones, a long narrow nose and a stubbornly square jaw. She squinted at the stranger, and without thinking, leaned toward him for a closer look and met dark probing eyes. She jerked back.
The saints preserve her, he was part Indian. Fear threatening to choke her, she did something she never before thought of doing. She grabbed the whip and made to use it. “Giddyap, Bertha, giddyap!”
“That’s not necessary.” The man shot his arm in the air and grimaced when the whip snapped across his wrist instead of poor Bertha’s rump. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
“Step aside, mister. Or I’ll—I’ll—” She swallowed hard. “Step aside. Please.”
While holding on to the harness, he worked his way around Bertha and toward Maggie. “I just want to ask you a question,” he said in calm, perfect English. Of course he plainly wasn’t full-blooded Indian. Maybe one of those half-breeds she knew passed through Deadwood from time to time, but hadn’t actually seen. He dressed funny, too. Like he might come from back east.
“What do you want to know?” she asked, surprised her voice hadn’t cracked. She kept a firm grip on the whip, fervently hoping she wouldn’t have to use it on him. The next time she came into town she was bringing Pa’s shotgun, or even better the Spencer carbine, which she could handle easier. She was alone now, she had to consider such things.
“Where are we?” The man’s gaze stayed locked on hers, while his long lean fingers stroked Bertha’s flank.
She frowned at the odd question and made a motion with her chin toward town. “Deadwood.”
“Deadwood,” he repeated, confusion flickering in his eyes.
They weren’t as dark as she’d first thought, more hazel with gold and green flecks. “Where are the houses?”
“Mostly in town. There are a few cabins scattered closer to the river like—” She bit down hard on her lower lip. He didn’t need to know where she lived.
The faraway look in his eyes disappeared and he focused sharply on her. “Which way is the highway?”
“The what?”
“What about the old Winslow house? It should be right…” He shook his head and briefly closed his eyes, gripping the side of the wagon as if to steady himself. “There was an earthquake a few minutes ago.”
Maggie glanced over her shoulder toward town. Maybe the man was sick. Should she get help? “Sometimes when they blast at the mines the ground shakes a bit but not today. They haven’t been—”
He frowned at her. “The mines?”
“The gold mines.”
“They don’t still have working mines near here.”
She stared at him, wondering if he were a mite touched in the head. “That’s pretty much all there is, mister.”
He seemed confused, his gaze first meeting hers, and then narrowing on the rickety old wagon. When he finally looked back at her, their eyes met only briefly before his gaze wandered down the front of her plain blue cotton dress, lingering long enough on her breasts that she shrunk back.
“What day it is?” he asked suddenly, his voice strained and hoarse.
“Tuesday.”
“The date,” he said tersely enough to send a fresh frisson of fear up her spine.
“November tenth or eleventh, I’m not sure.”
“And the year?”
Maggie moistened her parched lips. The man was clearly loco. She should scream. If she did, loud enough, maybe, just maybe, someone in the livery could hear her. “Eighteen seventy-eight.”
CORD STARED NUMBLY at the woman. No teasing glint lit her green eyes. In fact, the emerald color had darkened with fear when he’d demanded to know the date. Her face was pale with alarm, except for the scattering of freckles across her nose, and her full lower lip quivered slightly. She looked as if she’d run if he let her. No, she wasn’t teasing him. This was no hoax.
Finally, she lifted her small pointed chin. “I’ll thank you to release my horse, sir. I best be on my way before my pa starts searching for me. He would not take kindly to me speaking with a stranger.”
Cord stared past her in the direction from where she’d come. He’d seen the old buildings, although he’d stopped short of getting too close, and still he hadn’t believed his own eyes. The place looked like any one of a dozen movie sets he’d worked on as a stuntman. But even from the outskirts, the stench of horse manure mixed with smoking meat and human waste was real. Brutally real. Goose bumps raised from his skin.
What did this mean? After the ridicule Masi and the elders indulged from him and Bobby, had they been right all along? Was this some kind of life after death he was experiencing? Had he been transported back one hundred and thirty years? But he didn’t recall dying. Wouldn’t he remember being shot or crushed by an earthquake?
“He always carries his shotgun with him. I should not like to see you hurt.”
The woman’s words barely penetrated the fog of disbelief and panic that shrouded him. “A shotgun?” He glanced down at his shirt again. Still no blood. “What shotgun?”
“My pa.” She shoved away a stubborn curl of auburn hair that corkscrewed over one eye, and peered warily at him. “He carries a shotgun,” she murmured, gesturing pointedly at his restraining hand. “I should like to leave now before he comes to fetch me.”
He started to release the harness, but then again checked the direction in which she was traveling. Better he take his chances of finding out what the hell was going on from her folks than from a town full of nosy people who’d have more questions than he could answer. “Is that where you’re headed? Away from town?”
Her pink lips parted for a long silent moment, the pulse at the side of her slender neck leaping wildly. “Pardon me?”
“Your home…is it that way?”
“Why?”
“I’d like a word with your father.”
“My—? No. You can’t.” She shook her head, her lips drawing into a thin line. “No. You can’t.”
Cord growled in frustration. “Look, lady. I don’t have much of a choice.” Anger laced with fear flashed in her eyes. Even the mare sensed the tension and whinnied. Made him realize that because of his own panic, he was going about this all wrong. “My name is Cord,” he said, and soothingly stroked the side of the mare’s neck. “Cord Braddock. What’s your name?”
She hesitated. “Maggie.” Her throat worked as she swallowed. “Maggie Dawson.” Her gaze darted to the hand he’d slowly moved toward the reins. When she sensed what he was about to do, she jerked the reins to the side and used them to slap the mare’s broad rump.
“Giddyap, Bertha!” she cried desperately but the old mare barely moved. “Giddyap.”
“Can’t let you do that, Maggie Dawson,” he said as he jumped up on the seat beside her, causing the whole wagon to list heavily to one side.
She fell against him, blushing furiously, and then quickly righted herself. “What are you doing?”
“I’m not going to hurt you. I just need some answers.”
“You have to get off. Right now.” She edged over as far away from him as possible. “Go.”
Cord sighed wearily. “How far is it?”
“I’m not taking you anywhere.”
“Yes, you are.”
“I’ll scream. I swear I will.”
“I’m sorry about this, Maggie,” Cord said as he reached under his jacket for the .38. “I truly am. But you will take me home.”
4
MAGGIE’S EYES widened at the small gun he showed her, her fascination with its diminutive size and the contraption holding it inside his jacket momentarily replacing her fear. The brown leather straps were some kind of holster, except that she’d never seen one fit over a man’s shoulder before. That didn’t seem terribly practical. Not for speed, anyway. Irrationally the idea helped calm her.
“I really don’t want to hurt you,” the man repeated, reaching for the gun. “But I will if you scream.”
The fear rushed back. She tamped down the desire to jump off the wagon and run toward town. But what chance would she have if he truly meant to do her harm? Instead, she raised her gaze to his. “What do you want?”
“I’m a detective. I’m looking for two missing women.” He withdrew his hand, leaving the gun inside his jacket, his eyes sharp and alert as he assessed her face.
“Are you a Pinkerton?”
He hesitated, not a reassuring sign. “Something like that.”
“I didn’t know they hired Indians,” Maggie murmured thoughtlessly, immediately regretting her words. His face darkened, and she averted her gaze, her heart starting to pound harder. The truth was, she didn’t know much about the private security agency at all, except for gossip she’d heard about some of their agents having proved untrustworthy. “You should talk to the sheriff.”
“I’m not ready to do that yet.” The stranger surprised her by releasing the reins to her. “Let’s go.”
She took a deep breath and tried not to focus where his coat gapped, allowing for a glimpse of the odd-looking gun. There was little to do but comply with his demand and pray he didn’t hurt her. If she gave Bertha her head, the lazy mare would lumber at a snail’s pace and Maggie might get lucky and someone would happen by before they reached the fork that would take them to her cabin. Once they got there, she had no idea what she would do when he found out she lived alone.
The thought made her shudder violently and she nearly lost control of the reins. The man turned toward her but she kept facing forward, then she straightened her spine. As soon as they got to the cabin, she had to get to the rifle leaning on the wall behind the door before he saw it. She’d have the upper hand then. She’d simply make him go away. Threaten to put a hole in him the size of Texas.
God help her, could she actually kill a man? She shuddered again.
“Maggie?”
She jumped. Not just at his familiarity, but at the warm breath that danced across her cheek and stirred the stubborn curls that had escaped the bun at her nape. She moved her shoulder because his were so broad that he kept brushing against her arm.
Drawing her shawl tighter, she moistened her dry lips. “Yes?”
He gently, briefly touched the back of her wrist. “You should be wearing gloves.”
She blinked at him, and then at the patch of skin where he’d pressed the tips of his long lean fingers. Her flesh burned—no, tingled was more like it—where he’d touched her. She wanted to rub away the odd sensation, but she only stared at the unsightly red gash that wound around her pale knuckles. There were calluses, too, on the pads of her thumbs and on the one finger where she’d once dreamed a ring would’ve been placed years ago.
How scratched and ugly her hands were from tending the garden and carrying wood to the stove, from scrubbing clothes and the cabin’s wood floors. Not at all like a proper lady’s hands ought to look. Even when Pa had been alive, he’d sometimes be out prospecting for days on end and the chores had to get done somehow. She’d always worked hard and she wasn’t ashamed of that.
Fisting her hands, she wanted to hide them suddenly, away from his prying eyes. Instead, she lifted her chin and said nothing. Whether she wore gloves or not was none of his concern. He’d be better off worrying how he’d get back to town once she got her hands on Pa’s Spencer carbine rifle.
Her rifle now.
The words echoed tauntingly in her head. She bit down on her lower lip until the coppery taste of blood touched her tongue. It was only her now. Only her.
Without thinking, she glanced over her shoulder. The barren dirt road wound back toward Deadwood. They were nearing the fork that would take them along the creek and to her cabin.
He followed her gaze, his eyes coming gravely back to meet hers. “Let’s step it up.”
He talked funny, dressed funny and smelled too good for a man. Pretty fancy, in fact, for an Indian. Was he really a Pinkerton? Could it be that he simply was looking for two missing women? But why not contact the sheriff?
She cleared her throat. “Who are they? The women you’re looking for?”
“Two sisters. Reese and Ellie Winslow. One blonde, one brunette,” he said absently, his apparent preoccupation worrying her.
She squinted against the setting sun filtering through the trees and wondered why he wasn’t more interested if he really had been hired to find them. “And you think they’re in Deadwood?”
“I don’t know.”
At his impatient tone, she slid him a sidelong glance. His gaze scanned the tall prairie grass and scrub brush close to the road and then darted out to where the ponderosa pines started their climb uphill.
She tried not to think about what was sure to happen once they reached the cabin in the next twenty minutes. And then she realized that a plan was exactly what she should be thinking about. She’d have to act fast to get to the gun first and bring it up high enough to do any good. If they tussled over it, she’d lose. That simple. He was too tall and broad, and…
She slid another look his way. His left shoulder stood a good six inches above hers, and to her utter amazement, a thrill coursed through her. Even Pa had been shorter than she was, and both Mary and Clara certainly, by nearly a foot. Her gaze went to his big hands and long lean fingers. How easily he could choke the life out of her. The sobering thought made her recall what had to be done and it didn’t seem long before the small cabin came into view.
They’d had almost no money with them when they’d come west so the place wasn’t much. But her pa had been good with a hammer so the cabin’s roof no longer leaked, and one side of the sagging red barn where they kept their milk cow, a few chickens and Bertha stayed dry most of the time.
On the left, closer to the creek, sat Maggie’s pride and joy. The square of garden not only helped keep them fed for a good part of the year, but she’d also lovingly planted an assortment of colorful flowers that she sometimes snipped and brought into the house to sit in a canning jar in the kitchen. The air had been too cold lately and the flowers were gone now. Just like Pa.
