Kitabı oku: «Once a Rebel», sayfa 2
Dust coated everything as if untouched by human hands for some time, which didn’t make sense since the rest of the house had been cleared of furniture. He thought about opening the small window but there was no use staying in the stuffy room. Nothing of interest here…
He saw the chest.
Sitting by itself on the far side of the room, it appeared free of dust. Frowning, he moved closer, and saw that it was old but in good shape. He crouched down, hoping he wouldn’t have to break the lock, and discovered it unlatched. He lifted the lid and found a pair of vintage toys, hand-carved from the looks of the train pieces. There was a book, too, which he set aside, and a photo album, which he balanced on his knee and flipped open. He was curious because the album didn’t seem as worn as the other things in the attic, though the photos encased in brittle plastic sheets were old and faded, mostly featuring landscapes. When he came to the one of the blonde, he angled the photo toward the light, peering closer.
Had to be a Winslow. The woman was a dead ringer for one of the missing sisters, except she wore an old-fashioned dress and her hair was longer and pinned up. His gaze skimmed the next picture and his heart thudded. The same blond woman stood with her arm linked with another woman.
Who looked exactly like the other missing sister.
He dropped the album as if it had scorched him. The photos fell free of the plastic sleeve. He picked them up. On the back was written 1877. Was this some kind of joke? Puzzled, he tucked the photos into his breast pocket just as a flash of light came from the chest. He blinked and ducked his head to find the source. All he saw was an antique camera. He picked up the big, bulky contraption, which couldn’t possibly work….
Beneath his feet the floor shook violently. Shit. Nothing terrified him like an earthquake. He’d been through two of them in L.A. Hot white light flashed in his face, blinding him. With an unholy force, the earth shook again, and he flung the camera, panic clogging his throat. Trying to focus, he dropped to his knees. He had to get out. Find the door. He flailed blindly as the floor rumbled and threatened to swallow him whole.
The violence stopped as suddenly as it had begun. He stayed frozen, waiting for the aftershock. Nothing happened as his vision slowly cleared. He should have felt relief. Except he was no longer in the attic.
3
CORD SQUINTED UP at the clear blue sky. A pair of hawks circled overhead. Clouds hovered close to hills blanketed with fallen yellow and orange leaves.
He blinked blearily. Nothing changed.
He spun around. The Winslow house. It was gone. There were no buildings, only an endless dirt road and skeletal trees, their limbs forking the sky.
How was this possible? He’d been in the attic only a moment ago….
Sniffing the air, he knew he wasn’t imagining the aroma of smoked meat mingled with charred hickory. That meant he was still alive, right? He looked down at his jeans and the tops of his cowboy boots, and then touched his gun through his cashmere sport jacket. The .38 caliber sat snugly in his shoulder holster.
He suddenly remembered the earthquake. The flash. The blinding white light. A gunshot? He opened his jacket and checked his blue striped cotton shirt. No blood. Only nervous sweat coated his skin. Hell. That didn’t mean he wasn’t dead. What other reason was there for him unexpectedly standing in the middle of nowhere?
Shading his eyes, he strained to see down both sides of the dirt road. He saw nothing, though the scent of the roasting meat seemed to have grown stronger so he had to be close to some sort of civilization. Like icy fingers squeezing the lifeblood from him, a chill gripped him, and he turned up his blazer collar as he started in the direction of the tantalizing aroma. That was another thing—if he were dead, the smell wouldn’t be so appealing.
He swallowed hard, but had to work at gathering enough saliva in his parched mouth. The dust he kicked up as he trudged on didn’t help, so he crooked his arm over his mouth and nose. After about a quarter of a mile, he stopped and listened. He thought he heard voices. Children laughing? At least he was going in the right direction.
The thought had barely flitted through his mind when he saw the eagle. As if beckoning him, the majestic bird dipped lower in the sky before soaring back up and glided just ahead of Cord. A sure sign that he was going in the right direction.
MAGGIE DAWSON pressed a hand to her nervous belly and then gathered her long skirt in one hand and carefully climbed down off the wagon. She prayed with all her heart that today was the day she’d hear from her sister. Mary had never been the fastest letter writer but once she learned of Maggie’s predicament, surely she’d responded hastily.
“Afternoon, Maggie, fine fall day we’re having.”
Maggie forced a polite smile on her face as she turned toward Mrs. Weaver’s voice. “Yes, nice and cool. Good baking weather. I have a mind to bake a couple of apple pies for Pa. You know how he does so love his sweets.”
Mrs. Weaver stopped in the middle of the boardwalk and tilted her narrow face to the side. “Come to think of it, I haven’t seen him in a good long while. How’s he coming along?”
Gritting her teeth, Maggie turned back to tethering her horse so Mrs. Weaver wouldn’t see the bright red spots that heated Maggie’s cheeks. When was she going to learn? Mrs. Weaver would have kept on walking if Maggie hadn’t opened her big mouth and rambled, and then she wouldn’t have to tell a big fat lie. Which plainly she was very bad at doing, partly in thanks to her cursed fair skin and disgusting red hair.
“He’s still feeling poorly. That’s why I’ve been the one coming to town lately.” Maggie cinched the reins and forced herself to face Mrs. Weaver.
“Well, honey, I wouldn’t be making him apple pie if I were you. He needs a good brothy soup. Just this morning I told Harold we need to slaughter one of the chickens. I could bring some—”
“Oh, thank you, anyway, Mrs. Weaver. But I just made a pot myself this morning. Pa’s probably eating some of it right now. He—” Shut up, Maggie, she told herself sternly and stepped up onto the boardwalk. She’d been lying and evading so much lately she should be better at it by now. “Say hello to Mr. Weaver for me,” Maggie said as she rudely backed away from the older woman’s disapproving face.
Her stomach in a twisted knot, Maggie entered Arnold’s general store and went straight to the threads. She would have much rather run straight to the corner where Mr. Carlson sat at a wobbly scarred oak table and sorted and dispensed the mail, but she never wanted to appear too eager and always first bought a few yards of fabric or a new color thread that she didn’t need.
After making her selection and quickly paying for her purchase, she approached Mr. Carlson with a bright smile on her face.
He looked up and smiled back. “Lordy, Miss Maggie, I do believe you have an extra sense about when the mailbag arrives. You’re pert’ near my first customer each week.”
Her smile faltered, and she shrugged a shoulder. “Being as I’m in town, anyway…”
Over his wire-rimmed spectacles, he eyed her speculatively for a moment, and then bent his balding head to sift through a pile of letters. “Nope. Nothin’ this week. You got somethin’ goin’ out?”
She pressed her lips together to hide her disappointment, and shook her head. “Not this time, Mr. Carlson. Thank you.”
What was the use? She’d already sent Mary three letters just in case she hadn’t received the first two. Maggie just had to be patient was all. Not one of her finer qualities, as Pa had reminded her often enough. Not unkindly, but just as it was a father’s duty. At least he hadn’t blamed that particular defect of character on the fact that at twenty-five she was a hopeless spinster. No, there were plenty of other reasons for her lack of suitors.
“Maggie?”
She’d made it to the display of mason jars next to the iron skillets, and turned back to Mr. Carlson.
“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.
She briefly squeezed her eyes shut. God help her, she had to stop thinking about him. At least for now.
“This is it?” the man asked slowly.
She wished she could remember his name. Although in a few more minutes it wouldn’t matter. Either way. She swallowed hard and nodded, but he wasn’t looking at her. She replied, “Yes. This is where we live.”
“Who else besides you and your father?”
She took a moment too long to answer and sighed. What would be the use of lying further? “That’s all.”
He took the reins from her. “Where is he?”
“Either inside or washing up at the creek.” She started to climb down, but he touched her arm.
“Stay where you are.” As if he didn’t trust her, he kept hold of the reins as he jumped down from the wagon. It didn’t matter. Bertha hadn’t even waited for a cue but plodded slowly toward the barn in search of grain. The man jerked on the reins. “Where the hell is she going?”
“She’s thirsty and she wants to be fed, and there is certainly no need for that kind of language.” Using the opportunity for Bertha’s abrupt stop, Maggie carefully climbed down. “I’ll need to unhitch her and get her watered.”
The stranger looked unconvinced and then motioned with his chin. He followed so close behind that Maggie knew then that when the time came, it wouldn’t be easy getting to the rifle first. Her only advantage was that she alone knew where it lay hidden. She tried to still her trembling hands as she worked to release Bertha from the traces. He came up behind her suddenly, his chest rubbing against her back, and she jumped so hard that her head thwacked his chin.
“Christ, I was just trying to help.” He jerked away, soothing the offended area, and only then did she notice he was trying to lift the harness for her.
“Sorry,” she murmured, still feeling the heat where their bodies had met. “But I’d thank you kindly not to take the Lord’s name in vain.”
“What?” He bit out the word, and then his face relaxed. “It’s just an expression. It doesn’t mean anything.”
“It does to me.” She turned away and finished tending Bertha.
“Why hasn’t your father come out? Shouldn’t he have heard us?”
“Apparently not,” she said crisply.
He sighed and stepped a good distance away. “Look, I’m sorry. I’ll try to watch my language.”
She gave a small nod, her thoughts swirling. If he were truly a bad man, he wouldn’t apologize. Or he wouldn’t have tried to help her with Bertha, for that matter. Maybe when he found out that Pa wasn’t around he’d just leave. Was going for the rifle right off wise on her part?
The problem was, once they were inside and the door was closed, he’d see the shooting iron. Maybe she could leave the door open, pretend she wanted to air out the room. Yes, that was the most prudent plan.
She gave Bertha a quick rubdown, silently promising to come out later and do a proper job, and then portioned some oats for the mare. That was another foreseeable problem if Mary didn’t answer soon. Eventually Maggie would have to replenish feed, which meant she had to trade some gold.
“All done,” she said with forced brightness as she lifted the hem of her skirt and spun toward him.
His gaze swiftly moved up to her face. Where he’d been staring she had no earthly idea. Unless she had a tear in the back of her skirt. The thought brought a surge of heat up her neck and into her cheeks, but she couldn’t very well check for rips now.
