Once a Rebel. Debbi Rawlins
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