Читать книгу Once a Rebel - Debbi Rawlins, Debbi Rawlins - Страница 11

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.”