Читать книгу Once a Rebel - Debbi Rawlins - Страница 13

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.

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.”