Kitabı oku: «Once a Rebel», sayfa 3

He pushed off from the post he’d been leaning on and motioned for her to precede him. Self-conscious, she walked stiffly ahead of him. Thankfully once they left the barn he stayed abreast of her all the way to the cabin.

She opened the door and for the sake of pretense called out, “Pa, I’m home.” Since there were only two rooms, that’s where the deception ended. She shrugged and pushed the door wide. “He must be out back.”

His gaze narrowed. “Wouldn’t he have heard us?”

“He could be out prospecting. I can’t know where he is at every second of the day.” Her eyes widened when she realized how shrewish she’d sounded. “I’m sorry. I don’t know how long he’ll be,” she said, averting her gaze. It automatically went to the man’s hand as it closed around the doorknob. “Leave that door open, please. It’s stuffy in here.”

“Stuffy? It’s chilly.” He pulled the door toward him.

“Don’t.” Tensing, ready to yank the knob from his hand, she met his eyes.

He looked surprised at first, then suspicious.

She tried to look relaxed, but stayed where she was in case she needed to take action. “It’s not proper for us to be alone, you know that. Pa will be most upset if the door is closed when he returns.”

He studied her as if trying to decide if he should trust her. But she hadn’t lied. A gentleman knew it was improper for an unmarried lady to entertain him alone. Requesting that the door remain open was perfectly acceptable.

Finally he snorted and, looking around the small room, murmured under his breath, “And he’ll pull out his shotgun.”

Her flaming cheeks surely gave her away. Having no choice, she dove behind the door for the carbine.

THANKS TO OVER ten years of stunt work, Cord still had lightning reflexes. He grabbed her wrist just as she was about to wrap her hand around the rifle barrel. “You crazy fool. I said I wouldn’t hurt you.”

She struggled, twisting her hand to get free, shoving him with her other hand, but she was no match for him. Although she did get in a couple of good licks to his injured shoulder. He winced, gripping her fragile wrist tighter than he’d meant to. She gasped, her face flushed with exertion, and quit her fight.

He wasn’t as quick to release her. Another jab to his throbbing shoulder and he’d want to wring her neck. He kicked the rifle out of reach, and kept her pinned to the wall. A tremor wracked her body and the fear he saw in her dark green eyes gave him pause. He loosened his grip but wasn’t foolish enough to let her go.

“You said you wouldn’t hurt me,” she taunted softly, trying to flex her trapped wrist.

“Don’t play that game with me.”

She briefly averted her gaze, her breath coming out in small quick pants and tickling the skin at the V of his shirt. The woman was tall, had to be about five-ten, slender and small-boned. With that fair skin of hers, he was bound to leave bruises. None of this was her fault. Wrong place, wrong time. Shame spilled over him.

He released her, and grabbed the rifle before she could get to it. “You even know how to use this?”

“Hand it over and I’ll show you.” She shot him a resentful look as she rubbed the skin around her wrist.

“Sorry, but I had to defend myself.”

“That’s what I was going to say.”

Cord smiled. “Touché.”

She frowned. “I don’t know what that means, mister, and I don’t care. I’m asking you nicely to please leave.”

“It’s Cord,” he said absently, studying the rifle. Not just a prop that he’d seen a hundred times, but the real deal. Beautiful workmanship. “Cord Braddock.”

When he eventually looked over at her, the stark terror in her eyes sliced through him.

“I wasn’t really going to shoot you,” she said, shrinking back to press her spine against the door’s hinges.

He realized his fascination with the Spencer carbine had frightened her. Lowering the rifle to his side, he automatically reached out his other hand to comfort her. With a whimper, she crumpled halfway to the bare plank floor.

“Maggie, no. I was just—” He withdrew his hand and shoved it through his hair. “Look, I’ll unload the rifle so neither of us will think about using it. How’s that?”

“I reckon that might be a fine idea,” she murmured, her terrified gaze glued to the end of the barrel.

He stared down at the stock, hoping he could figure out how to unload it since the prop guys usually took care of that kind of thing. And then the thought hit. He looked up at her. “It’s not loaded.”

“Oh.” Slowly she inched back up the wall. “You still have that small gun. Is it loaded?”

“Yes.”

“Maybe you should—”

“No.” He leaned the rifle back against the rough wood wall. No way would he unload the sucker and leave himself that vulnerable. He still had no idea where the hell he was.

1878 Deadwood.

How was that possible? His gaze took in the woman’s plain long-sleeve blue dress, buttons down the entire bodice, clunky black shoes, the gray wool shawl that had fallen to the plank floor. All of it straight out of a Hollywood studio’s costume closet. Even the way she wore her hair, pulled back in a tight bun at her nape, made her look the part of an old-fashioned spinster. Or would have if her unruly auburn hair had cooperated. Instead, tendrils curled around her face and clung to the side of her neck, giving her the kind of sexy tousled look that hairstylists on movie sets spent hours trying to create.

She visibly swallowed, pressing a hand to her midsection, and he guessed he’d stared too long. The last thing he wanted to do was frighten her further.

“I thought I’d put a couple of logs on the fire and make some coffee,” she said in a small voice. “If that’s all right.”

“Sure.” He waved a hand, and she hurried toward the pile of wood stacked next to the stove. The door was still open and it was cool in the cabin. He thought about closing the door, since he’d figured out the reason for leaving it open was to hide the rifle, but then again, if she felt more comfortable with it open until her father returned, that was okay with Cord.

He made sure she was out of striking distance and then peered through the window framed by blue checked curtains. He could see the sagging barn and the corral next to it where a chestnut grazed. Probably her father’s horse. The animal was in much better shape than the mare she used to pull the wagon.

“How many horses do you have?” he asked over his shoulder.

“Well, there’s Bertha, of course. She pulls the wagon. And then there’s Red, a chestnut we bought from a driver last year. Red’s Pa’s horse.” Her voice caught, and she quickly turned away to light a lamp.

Cord continued to stare out the window. If the chestnut was here, her father had to be nearby. Apparently she’d just worked that out for herself and didn’t want to alert Cord. He spotted a well halfway between the cabin and what appeared to be a shed. The small structure was barely big enough to hold a…

“Shit.” An outhouse?

He looked over just as her lips thinned into a disapproving line. He didn’t bother to apologize this time, although he would try to watch himself. But given the circumstances, if she’d suddenly been dropped into his world, the prim Ms. Dawson would probably be cussing, too.

After a final glance around the outside perimeter, he turned back to watch her measure out coffee grounds. Everything seemed surreal. The heavy iron kettle, the potbellied stove, even the plain oak kitchen table that no one had bothered to finish properly. Yet there were small decorative touches like the blue-and-white runner that ran down the middle of the table and the braided rug near the door that matched the blue gingham curtains. A glass jar of dried flowers sat near a metal washbasin.

Cord frowned. Near the same basin sat one cup and one plate and one fork. Odd, or was he reading too much into it? Her father could have left them behind after he’d finished his lunch. Or there was no father. Around here, a man wouldn’t leave an unloaded rifle at the ready. His gaze drew to the semi-open door to the only other room in the cabin. A bedroom?

He turned toward Maggie and found her nervously watching him. She looked away and dragged her palms down a beige apron she’d tied around her waist.

“I need to get some water,” she said, reaching for a metal bucket. “Then I’ll make the coffee.”

“Where do you get the water from?”

She wrinkled her nose at him as if she thought him dimwitted. “The well.”

“Ah, of course.” Not dimwitted, just freakin’ nuts. He needed time to sort this out. Review the events of the day. Maybe this whole thing had something to do with the camera flash. But what? Had Masi had a hand in this? God, he hated that his mind kept going back to the old Navajo legends. They were just stories told by the Dine. Just silly stories.

“So I’ll be right back.” She’d made it to the door before he registered she’d even moved.

“I’ll get it.”

“That’s not necessary,” she said hastily.

“Better yet, we’ll go together.”

Her face fell. “You really should think about going to town. It’ll be dark before long.”

“Don’t worry about me, Maggie.” He smiled and took the bucket from her. “I figure I’ll be spending the night.”

5

MAGGIE JERKED so hard, the bucket flung wildly toward her. “You can’t stay here.”

Cord smiled and again took the bucket from her. “That’s not very hospitable being as I’m your guest.”

“My guest?” She stared at the way his mouth quirked at the corners. Was he teasing her? She used the back of her wrist to push the hair away from her face. “You’ve forced yourself in here, Mr. Braddock. That hardly qualifies you as a welcome guest.”

“Let’s see what your father says, shall we?” He stepped aside and gestured her out the front door.

With a brusque swirl of her skirt, she passed him. “He’s going to be angry, I can assure you of that right now. And he has a temper, a very, very bad temper. Especially if he’s been drinking, which is what he might be doing at this very minute.”

“Thanks for the warning.”

“He’s good with a gun, too. Fast with perfect aim.”

“Even when he’s drinking, huh?”

She sniffed when she heard the smile in his voice, as if he knew she was lying her head off. “Sometimes if he gets too drunk, the sheriff or the deputy escorts him home. They come inside for coffee before they head back to town.”

“Good to know. That would save me a trip.”

Maggie gritted her teeth and said no more until they got to the well. With false bravery, she said, “I’ll make beans for supper. There’s some leftover cornbread. After you eat, you can bed down in the barn.”

When he didn’t respond, she snuck a peek at him as she reached for the pulley rope above the well. He was looking around, his eyes alert to the dusky shadows beginning to fall over the tall grass beyond the clearing. At this time of year sunset seemed like a circus magic act. Bright one moment and then sinking fast at the end, leaving behind pink wispy clouds against a gray sky.

In the distance, a coyote howled and, hating the eerie sound, Maggie quickly hauled up the bucket of water. The rope cut into her work-roughened hands and it riled her that she suddenly cared about the scars and calluses that marred her palms.

“Here.” With one hand, Cord lifted the heavy bucket from her and dumped the water into the pail.

She saw him wince and then briefly probe his right shoulder, before returning the bucket to its place above the well and then picking up the full pail with his other hand. She turned back toward the cabin, and they walked in silence until they got near the front door. “After I put the beans on I have chores to do out here,” she said, and then added quickly, “Pa usually does them but if he’s not back before sundown I take care of the horses and the chickens.”

“What’s he riding?” Cord gestured toward Red. “If the chestnut is his.”

“A mustang he recently broke and means to sell at auction.” Her quickness surprised even her. She was going straight to hell for all the easy lies. If Mary didn’t get here soon there would be no hope for her eternal soul.

The corners of his mouth lifted slightly. “Okay, when you’re done in the kitchen, I’ll help you out here.”

Maggie’s heart fell. “That isn’t necessary,” she muttered, going ahead of him through the front door. “I know your shoulder is hurt.”

She wasn’t prepared for the firm grip on her arm before he roughly spun her around to face him. Water sloshed out of the pail onto the floor and on her boots.

“How do you know that?” he asked tersely, setting down the pail and taking a step toward her.

She shrunk back, her heel catching on a loose plank she’d meant to fix. He was big and broad, his face dark and threatening, and her mouth went so dry it felt as if her tongue had swelled. “I saw you favor it,” she managed to say in a voice she almost didn’t recognize.

Dark brows knitted together as if she were speaking some strange language that he needed to interpret, and then something passed through his eyes that looked like relief. His features relaxed and he stooped to reclaim the pail. “You want this in the kitchen?”

She nodded, not trusting herself to speak. After waiting until the way was clear, she moved widely around him to get to the sideboard, where she kept her best cast-iron pot. Quickly she got the coffee started and then the beans on, thought briefly about adding some bacon, and decided she didn’t want to feed him that well. In fact, she hoped the cornbread had dried out since last night’s supper. But she’d wrapped it well in a clean cloth and had churned fresh butter this morning because that’s all she’d planned on fixing for herself tonight.

For over two months now she’d lived in dread that someone would come to the cabin and find out her pa was dead. Only Lester, the deputy, had come knocking and both times he’d shown up she’d managed to convince him that Pa was out prospecting. Now, what she wouldn’t give for the deputy—or anyone—to come calling, even that nosy Mrs. Weaver.

She angled a brief peek at him sitting at the table, where he’d hunkered down after throwing another log on the fire. He stared out the window a lot but he still seemed to follow her every move. Clara had once claimed that she read that Indians had special tracking powers, almost like having eyes in the back of their heads. But Clara was often prone to whimsy, lived with her head in the clouds most of the time, Pa liked to say.

Maggie blinked away a tear. She missed her family. Although she couldn’t dwell on them right now; she had to keep her mind clear. Swallowing a lump of emotion, she took a deep breath as she stirred the beans.

Goodness, it just occurred to her that if anyone did happen by, and they found her alone with a man—not just a man but an Indian—she’d be ruined. Her reputation would never survive the scandal. She’d even heard of white women who had killed themselves rather than be taken by a savage. What was the term? Blessed release? Shuddering, Maggie studied him discretely. He wasn’t exactly a savage. A half-breed who dressed better and was cleaner than most men in Deadwood, for sure. But that wouldn’t matter to the menfolk around here. She’d be branded for life.

As if he’d felt the weight of her stare, he turned to meet her eyes. It frightened her that she couldn’t read his impassive face. He’d claimed he didn’t mean to harm her. Did he have any idea of the predicament he’d placed her in? Did he care? The real question she needed to ask herself was…was it better to be ruined or dead?

SMELLING THE beans simmer, Cord’s stomach rumbled. That he could think about food at all was laughable. That is, if he weren’t so damned confused. And angry. And, worst, fear had left a bitter taste on his tongue.

He didn’t understand any of this, which meant he didn’t know how to solve the problem. Overwhelming helplessness pressed heavily against his chest, making it hard to even breathe. It had been eighteen years since he’d last felt so powerless, the day he’d left the reservation.

Another whiff of beans teased his nostrils and the reason hit him why he could be relaxed enough to feel hunger. Beans and rice and fried bread had been staples for him and Masi. When the tourist season died down, or her beadwork hadn’t sold well and money was low, they’d lived on nothing else for weeks. He’d sworn when he left the reservation he’d never touch the stuff again. And he hadn’t. At least not after he’d started making some serious money. But now, the savory smell comforted him, lulled him into remembering simpler times spent with Masi.

Until he looked into the auburn-haired woman’s accusing eyes. He wasn’t just a man keeping her trapped, but he was an Indian. For her, for so many others, that was crime enough. Not that her racist attitude excused him for one second. He knew he was scum and he wished he had thought beyond taking this coward’s way to buy some time, but it was too late. He was in too deep. She could finger him, and the best he could hope for would be a cot in the local jail, and at worst, a noose around his neck.

Especially if this really was 1878.

The more he looked around the small room, at the primitive stove, the cookware, the lack of plumbing, at the woman herself wearing a homemade dress worn at the cuffs and elbows, the more convinced he was becoming that he’d somehow slipped through a time warp. Crazy, yeah, but even though he wasn’t the sharpest P.I. in Hollywood, he knew evidence when he saw it.

His gaze snagged on what looked like a pamphlet sitting under some sewing supplies, and he swept the pincushion and a spool of thread aside so he could read the top. It was an 1877 Montgomery Ward catalog.

Stunned, he muttered something out loud, not sure what, but it got Maggie’s attention. She hurried to the table in a swirl of fabric and snatched the paper out of his hand.

“Don’t touch that. It’s my only copy.” She folded it in fourths and stuck it in a pocket secreted by the folds of her voluminous dress.

“I was just looking at the…darn thing.”

“I suppose you think it’s silly, too.”

“What?”

Her cheeks flushed. “That I would want a decent stove or one of those brand-new washing machines.”

“Not me,” he said.

“Well, Pa thinks—” She faltered and turned away to stir the pot again. “I happen to know that Montgomery Ward has a very good reputation, even though the goods come all the way from Chicago, and that people order through the mail from them all the time.”

Cord shook his head and cast his gaze back to the window. If she was lying about having a father, she was doing a good job. Half the time he was convinced it was a ruse to chase him off, and then…Come to think of it, at this point in time, a woman simply wouldn’t be living by herself out here.

She turned back around and eyed him curiously. “Wouldn’t surprise me none if you got your duds from a catalog. I haven’t seen cloth that fine around here.”

“L.A.,” he said absently.

“Pardon me?”

“California.”

Her eyes lit up. “San Francisco?”

He smiled. Close enough. “Yep.”

She abandoned the beans, a wistful look on her face as she brought out a crock of butter and a pan wrapped in a white cloth. “I’ll be going there soon. I bet they have all kinds of nice shops. A person wouldn’t even need a catalog. They could go right downtown and pick out anything they wanted.”

“You going there with your father?”

Her face pinched into a brief frown before she turned away again. “My sister Mary lives there.”

“They have more than nice shops. You ever seen the ocean, Maggie?”

She shook her head and slowly looked at him.

“So big and blue, stretches as far as the eye can see. Makes you think anything is possible.” He recalled suddenly how Masi used to utter that same phrase as they sat and watched an unusually beautiful sunset together, or had happened upon a spotted fawn being born in the tall grass.

A smile tugged at Maggie’s lips. “I’ve seen pictures. But I’d like very much to see the ocean for myself.” Once she gave in to the smile, her face transformed. Her eyes sparkled and the pink tinge of excitement in her cheeks caught him off guard. She was actually very pretty.

Pictures.

Immediately the word echoed in his brain like a sound bouncing off canyon walls.

How could he have forgotten? His gaze ran down Maggie’s old-fashioned dress to her high-top shoes, and he drew back his jacket and reached into the pocket. What if the same thing that happened to him had happened to the Winslow sisters? It was a long shot, or maybe not, considering how they were dressed in the photos.

“I want to show you something,” he said, getting to his feet.

Maggie scurried backward until she was stopped by the shelving where she kept her pots. The smile was gone from her face, her skin suddenly so pale her freckles stood out. Her gaze was leveled on his chest.

Bewildered, he slowly withdrew the photographs and looked to see what had suddenly frightened her. The gun. He sighed. As much as he hated her jumping every time she caught a glimpse of it, he wasn’t disarming himself.

“I just want to show you these pictures,” he said quietly. “They’re of the two missing women.”

She put a shaky hand to her throat, briefly closed her eyes and nodded. They each took a couple of tentative steps toward the other. She stopped first and held out her hand for the photos. He passed them to her, and noticed what great pain she took trying to keep from brushing his fingers. Maybe she thought touching an Indian would somehow be infectious.

He swiftly pushed aside the unbidden thought. Being sensitive over old wounds wasn’t going to get him anywhere.

“You recognize either of them?”

She stared hard at the grainy photo of the two women with their arms linked. “I think this one,” she said slowly, pointing to Reese Winslow. “But it’s hard to tell.”

Cord’s pulse leaped. “Look at the second picture. The one of her alone.”

She went to the next photo. “Yes, the likeness is strong. She’s a healer, isn’t she?”

This time his heart did everything but explode from his chest. He nodded. “In her time, she’s a doctor.”

Maggie’s puzzled gaze shot up to his. “Her time?”

God, was he seriously starting to believe that…Masi’s voice cut into his thoughts. Anything is possible. He couldn’t go there. Not now. “Was it in town where you saw her? When?”

“She was in town for a while, but I didn’t actually see her with my own eyes.” Maggie concentrated on the photo, worrying her lower lip. “I saw a sketch of her on Wanted posters outside the jail and the general store.”

“A Wanted poster?”

She shrugged a slim shoulder and tried to return the photo. “Maybe I’m wrong.”

“Take another look. Why was the woman wanted?”

She studied Reese’s photo again. “She’s beautiful,” she said with the same wistfulness he’d seen earlier. “People said that about her, too. The ones who’d seen her…they said that she was too pretty and refined to be a—” Maggie cut herself short, her eyes as big as dinner plates when she looked up at him.

“Tell me, Maggie. I need to know everything you can tell me.”

She pushed the photos back into his hands, hurried to the pot of fragrant beans and stirred furiously.

“Please. It’s important.” When she didn’t respond, he added, “You want to get rid of me, don’t you?”

The wooden spoon in her hand stopped midstir, and she turned hopeful eyes on him. “If I tell you everything I know, will you leave?”

“Possibly.”

She straightened, excited anticipation starting to curve her mouth.

“But I can’t promise.”

Her lips thinned again.

“Just trying to be honest.” Right. He knew damn well he wasn’t going anywhere now that it was dark. He needed sleep and a plan before he went barreling into town with no horse or viable currency. Although as anxious as she was to get rid of him, he had a feeling Maggie would help him out in both areas.

She appeared to be considering her options and then said, “I only heard gossip, mind you, but it’s been said that she saved two children. She did some other healing, too, while she worked with Doc.”

“Go on. How did she end up on a Wanted poster?”

Her lips parted, but nothing came out. Abruptly, she turned back to the cloth-wrapped pan and picked it up, while noisily grabbing two bowls and spoons off the shelf. “Supper’s ready.”

Cord sighed with annoyance. What was she holding back? He took the pan and bowls from her.

“I’ll bring the beans to the table.” She grabbed a clean cloth with one hand and used her apron with the other to lift the pot from the stove. Carefully she protected the battered table with the cloth before setting down the pot. “Oh, the butter.”

“I’ll get it,” he said, roughly setting down the pan and clattering bowls, his patience slipping. In spite of himself, his stomach rumbled when the faint smell of molasses drifted up to his nostrils.

She darted him a nervous look. “It’s on the—”

He set the crock near the pan.

“We’ll need a knife.”

He’d already swiped it off the shelf and balanced the wooden handle over the crock. “Can we sit now?”

“Of course,” she muttered, pulling out the chair across from his.

While she served the beans into the two bowls, he lowered himself carefully onto the crudely made ladder-back oak chair he’d used before, with renewed doubt that it could continue to hold his weight. Assured, he relaxed and picked up his spoon.

She stared dumbly at him, her palms pressed together.

“What?”

“We have to say grace.”

“Ah, Jesus.”

She got that pinched look again, and then her face softened into a pleased expression. “At least we have the same God. I thought Indians—” She promptly closed her mouth and lowered her gaze. Bowing her head, she prayed silently for a few seconds, and then without looking at him, picked up her spoon.

He sighed, telling himself it was useless to get angry. For all she knew he streaked his face with war paint, stuck feathers in his hair and took scalps when the urge struck. He couldn’t fault her for the beliefs of the time. Well-founded beliefs at that. He wasn’t ignorant of ancient tribal atrocities, regardless of what he thought the white man had deserved. He grunted to himself. White blood flowed through his veins as well.

After they each took their first bite, he asked, “Exactly what is it that you’re so afraid to tell me about the woman?”

She sputtered, bringing a white cloth napkin to her lips.

“Not a very gentlemanly observation,” she said with a lift of her chin.

He shrugged, unconcerned. “I’m listening.”

Her face flushed, and then she blurted, “She was a runaway soiled dove who worked at the Golden Slipper.”

Cord thought for a moment, and then snorted. “A prostitute?”

Maggie stared into her beans. “That’s what it said on the Wanted poster. That and she ran away with a horse thief. Could be gossip though because as soon as the sheriff got killed, the poster came down.”

Cord absently shook his head as he took the cornbread she offered and slathered the piece with butter. Hope began to crumble faster than the edges of the cornbread. The woman couldn’t be Reese Winslow. “Anything else I should know?”

“You can find out more from the new sheriff. I could take you as far as the livery at the edge of town,” she offered. “Bertha knows her way in the dark. It would be no trouble.”

Cord chewed for several seconds, and then glanced toward the bedroom door. “First thing tomorrow. Tonight, I need rest.”

As she followed his gaze, her face went white, and she made the sign of the cross.