Читать книгу Silver Hearts - Jackie Manning - Страница 8

Chapter One

Nevada, 1867

Noelle peered through the prairie schooner’s dusty curtains and studied the black speck emerging from the sun-bleached horizon. Hope brought tears to her eyes, despite the reality that the image might be a mirage. She’d known that heartache before.

By habit, her fingers clenched the Hawken rifle. But as the shape loomed larger, the unmistakable rhythm of horse and rider emerged before her eyes. No, the horseman wasn’t a fixation of her mind. Mr. Douglas was returning, just as he’d promised.

“Thank You,” she prayed, unsure whether to laugh or cry with relief. “Forgive me for doubting You.” But when the back wheel of her covered wagon broke down yesterday, and Mr. Douglas had left to find help, both knew that the mission might prove futile. Then later, when she noticed the jug of medicinal whiskey was missing, Noelle wondered if Mr. Douglas had planned to go on without her.

She’d heard tales of trail guides who took advantage of single women left with all their worldly goods within the cumbersome prairie schooners. But Noelle had faith in Mr. Douglas, and he hadn’t failed her.

She laid the rifle down beside her in the wagon, then wiped the trickle of sweat from her temple with her apron. No need for her driver to see that she’d been crying. With shaky fingers, she tucked the stray wisps of blond hair under her poke bonnet. When she looked as presentable as possible, she stuck her head through the curtains to wait for him.

The noon heat caused the green dots of sagebrush and mesquite to shimmer into wavy patterns along the prairie. The endless heat. Thank God she still had half a barrel of water. More than enough to last until they reached Crooked Creek.

She ignored the trickle of sweat running down her spine; her gaze fixed on the advancing horse and rider.

Mr. Douglas’s gelding was a chestnut brown, not a grayish tan horse with black mane and tail!

Noelle’s heart pounded; her breath caught in her throat. The stranger who was riding toward her wasn’t the man she knew and trusted.

For good measure, she pulled out the old spare rifle that Mr. Douglas had brought with them. Two rifles were better than one, even if one was a relic.

Her hands shook while she clutched the powder horn and loaded the old weapon. Willing her fingers to stop trembling, she forced the panic from her mind. With teeth clenched, she laid the spare beside her and grabbed the Hawken, poking the barrel through the crack in the canvas.

The rider was well within her sights.

Dear God, she had never shot a man. But Mr. Douglas had coached her on what to do if the need arose. She pushed back the images of what terror might have befallen him. If only the wagon wheel hadn’t broken...

She could shoot a man if she must.

The rider, dressed in black, brought the horse to a stop. Although Noelle hid inside the wagon, she sensed the man knew, somehow, that he was being watched.

Tall in the saddle, the dangerous-looking stranger studied the wagon. Maybe, she hoped, he’d think the prairie schooner was deserted and leave.

She pressed the walnut stock against her shoulder until it hurt. No, if he thought the wagon abandoned, he might rummage through her goods for anything of value.

“Put down your rifle. I mean you no harm.” The man’s deep voice rang with authority. He dismounted and ambled toward her. Sunlight glinted off the pistols riding low on his gun belt. She saw with alarm that his right hand hovered close to his holster.

Tall, with a black hat tipped low over his eyes, the man’s face remained hidden. She was certain his features were ugly. Only ugly, dangerous men sauntered in that sneaky way.

When he was within twenty feet of the wagon, she yelled. “Stop right there or, I swear, I’ll shoot.”

He froze. He raised his head. Dark eyes glittered menacingly below the black hat’s wide brim. She knew he was deciding how to separate her from her weapon.

“Save your gunpowder. I’m here to help.” Noelle’s only answer was the click click of the hammer of the Hawken rifle.

“Are you alone?”

“No,” she lied. “My men have you covered.”

His deeply tanned hand shoved the wide brim from his forehead, revealing an unsmiling, lean and angular face. His dark brown eyes trapped her with their unblinking stare. The well-defined jaw and chin was hidden beneath a week’s growth of black beard. Her scalp tightened in reaction.

A black eyebrow lifted. “If your men are hiding behind your skirts, they’re not the sort who’ll do you much good.” His mouth curled, creasing the dimple like scar under his cheekbone.

“Get back on your horse or I’ll shoot you dead.” Noelle’s voice held a control she didn’t feel.

A tiny smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Charitable of you for offering to put me out of my misery.” He took a step forward, his dark brown eyes glittered in earnest. “Found a man on the trail. Need to know if he’s one of yours.”

A well of fear ran through her. “Mr. Douglas?” she cried out before she thought.

The man scuffed the prairie sand with his scarred boots. “Was Mr. Douglas about fifty, sandy grey hair, and did he come to about my shoulders?”

Noelle’s breath caught; her heart pounded. “Yes. Is he all right?” she added, hoping to sound less desperate than she felt.

The man took off his hat, the breeze parting his longish black hair. “Sorry, miss. He’s dead.”

The stranger’s image blurred with her tears. She bit her lip, forcing back the reality of his words. “Why should I believe you? If he’s dead, where’s his body?”

The stranger’s right hand brushed his gun belt, then slipped behind to pull something from his hip pocket. Noelle tightened the grip on the Hawken. But when the man retrieved a square cloth to wipe his face, she realized how tense she felt.

“I covered the body with rocks until he can have a proper burial. When we get to Crooked Creek, you can give the sheriff the necessary details.” The man glanced at the sun, high in the cloudless sky. “We better get a move on. It’s a good day’s ride.”

He took a step toward her.

“Stay where you are.” She poked the end of her rifle farther into the sun. “How do I know you didn’t shoot him and aren’t planning to shoot me, too?”

“The man wasn’t shot. Heart attack, from what I could make out.” He cocked his head to one side and raised his hands in the air. “You’re holding the rifle, not me. Besides, what would I want with a prairie schooner with a busted wheel?” He squinted one eye and waited, as if challenging her for an answer, but she gave none.

Finally he said, “Look, miss. You’d best ride back to town with me. I noticed Indian tracks following your Mr. Douglas’s trail back here. Only God knows why the Indians veered from the hunt. Otherwise, they’d have attacked by now.” He put his hat on, then gathered the reins of his horse.

Tears welled at the corner of her eyes, and she fought down the whimper in her throat. “All I know is that Mr. Douglas was a decent, God-fearing man, even if he liked a nip or two. All he spoke of was wanting to see the Pacific.”

The stranger shook his head. “Damn fool greenhorns come out here...” He paused, then pulled the hat brim low over his eyes. “Hurry, lady. We’re losing valuable daylight.”

“I won’t go with you.”

She heard him swear under his breath. “I’m sorry about your loss, miss. Truly I am. But patience isn’t my strong suit. Now gather your water jugs and any whiskey you’ve got. Hop on back of my horse, and I’ll give you a ride into Crooked Creek.”

“You don’t understand!” She poked her head out from the canvas opening. “I can’t leave the wagon.”

“Pardon?” He tipped his hat at a rakish angle and studied her. The sunlight bounced off his cheek, and he didn’t appear quite so menacing. “We’re in big trouble, miss. Those Indians could attack any minute. Now, I’m riding out of here, with or without you. If you stay, you’ll end up just like your Mr. Douglas, only—”

“He’s not my Mr. Douglas. I-I mean, Mr. Douglas is...was my trail guide, not...” She felt embarrassed to explain anything to this man. “I-I won’t leave. You’ll have to fix the wagon wheel.”

He glanced at her over his shoulder. “Won’t leave? Why the hell not?”

“I’m carrying precious cargo. That’s all you need to know.” She brushed her fingers across her damp collar. “And I’d prefer that you speak to me without profanity, Mister...?

“Savage.” She sniffed.

His mouth curled, revealing the dimpled scar. “Luke Savage.”

“I’m Noelle Bellencourt. I’d be obliged if you’d fix the wagon, then guide me into Crooked Creek. I’ll pay you most handsomely.”

His black eyebrows rose, and wary dark eyes appraised her. “Miss, I’ve been on the trail for six straight days. All I want is a bloody steak, a bottle of rye whiskey and a bed with a...” He paused, as though weighing his words. “Real sheets,” he added without looking at her.

She felt her cheeks warm, aware that he’d meant a woman—a painted-hussy woman that she’d heard about. She delicately cleared her throat. At least he’d been enough of a gentleman not to say so.

“I’ll more than pay you what it’s worth, Mr. Savage.”

“I’d help you without payment, if I could. But it’s a matter of life or death that I make Crooked Creek by Friday noon. Now put down that rifle and gather your things. We’re losing time we don’t have.”

Noelle raised her rifle. “It’s you who does not understand, Mr. Savage. You’re not leaving without me and the wagon.” Her voice held strong. “I’m a good shot, but even if I wasn’t, at this range I couldn’t miss shooting your head off.”

His deeply tanned face showed no sign of her threat as he studied her. “Where you heading, anyway?”

“My uncle, Marcel Bellencourt, lives in Crooked Creek. He’s a very wealthy silver miner who struck it rich during the fifties. He’ll reward you for your trouble, Mr. Savage.”

Luke scratched his week’s growth of black beard. “Funny. I know all the folks in Crooked Creek. Never heard of a Marcel Bellencourt, rich or poor.” He eyed her in that suspicious way that made her uneasy. “Sure it’s Crooked Creek where your uncle lives?”

“Of course. My family received Uncle Marcel’s letters from there since he arrived in Nevada. When my father died, my uncle asked me to make my home with him.” Noelle felt a warm blush rise to her cheeks. She hadn’t told a fib, exactly. But what difference did it make if Luke Savage thought her uncle’s request had been recent rather than a general understanding? Her father made her promise that if something were to happen, she should go West to live with Uncle Marcel. All that mattered now was that she persuade Luke Savage to help her.

Luke scratched his head and frowned at the broken wheel. His deep sigh spoke louder than words. “That wheel’s busted up good, miss. I’ll take you to town, then you can find your uncle and have him come out here with another rig.”

He sighed again. “You’ve no proper tools to fix a wheel. Didn’t your Mr. Douglas tell you that?”

“I’ve brought my possessions all the way from New York City. I’ve traveled the last three and a half months by steamboat, railroad and wagon train, and I’m not giving up this close to Crooked Creek, Mr. Savage.”

“Miss, I don’t want to scare you, but Indian pony tracks were all over the area where I found your trail driver.” He brushed his hat with his hand, waiting for her reaction.

She raised her chin a notch.

“If those Indians meet up with you, they won’t just take your clothing and rifle like they did your trail guide.”

Noelle gasped. “Took his clothing?” Her stomach almost turned with revulsion.

“Can you describe the clothing Mr. Douglas was wearing the last time you saw him, miss?”

Noelle steadied herself. “A b-brown leather vest, grey trousers and shirt. A g-gold pocket watch and ch-chain...” Her voice broke.

“I’m truly sorry about your guide, Miss.”

She felt her throat constrict with tears, but she fought back with anger. “If these Indians are as beastly as you say, then you’d better hurry and fix the wagon wheel.”

“You’re either the most stubborn woman or—”

“I’ll fix you something to eat while you’re working.”

“I tell you, I can’t fix the damn thing!”

“Please, there’s no need to yell or swear in my presence, Mr. Savage.”

“All right, all right.” He mumbled something unintelligible under his breath.

She felt grateful that he thought to spare her.

“I noticed a stand of cottonwoods over that yonder ridge.” He tipped his head in the direction of a high rise covered with sagebrush. “Maybe I can cut a few trees, run one over the wagon’s front and under the rear axle, then maybe we can walk the wagon into town. Got a saw or an ax?”

Relief and hope swelled within her. “Yes, mister...” She swallowed back the lump in her throat. “There’s an ax in the trail box.”

“I’ll get it.”

Her relief was short-lived when she remembered the stories told by the emigrants in the wagon trains loading at Leaven worth. Many guides took advantage of the lone women who drove rigs. After taking their money, the guides would break from the caravans, deserting the helpless women after only a few miles.

But Luke had ridden out of his way to backtrack Mr. Douglas’s tracks to the wagon.... Luke Savage was no gentleman, but she felt she could trust him. There was something about the way he looked at her when she reacted to the news of Mr. Douglas’s death.

When Luke returned with the ax, he tied it to the horse. “Best you come with me to the ridge in case Indians come. Bring the oxen, too.”

She jumped down from the wagon and began unhitching the animals while Luke slipped the handles of the water jugs over the pommel. Luke’s horse fidgeted back and forth, kicking clouds of dust into the air. When Noelle had unfastened the oxen’s yoke and hooked on their leads, Luke motioned her toward his horse.

“I’ll help you mount.”

She glanced up in suspicion. “What if you’re only saying that you’ll fix the wheel so I’ll leave with you? Why should I trust you?”

He lifted the brim of his hat up a notch. His dark brown eyes glittered with speculation and something else that caused a fluttery feeling in the pit of her stomach.

The buckskin whinnied impatiently. Luke grabbed the oxen’s leads, then mounted his horse. Staring down at her, he said, “Miss, I’m the only ace you got up your sleeve. Get on the horse, ’cause I’m leaving. If you decide to come, bring the rifle. You’ll be the lookout while I chop down those trees.”

Reluctantly, Noelle grabbed her rifle. He was right; she had no choice. She took his hand, but averted her gaze as she swung up behind him.

She heard him mumble under his breath. She didn’t have to see Luke’s solemn face to imagine his begrudging expression as he wheeled the massive buckskin in the direction of the high ridge.

Luke lifted the ax sideways and swung the final blow that brought the quivering young cottonwood crashing to the ground. The rush of air provided a fleeting respite from the oppressive heat. He inhaled the fresh wood smell while he mopped a bandanna across his brow.

This log and the one he’d previously cut would be enough to fix the wagon. It had taken him nearly an hour, he reckoned—time he didn’t have.

The buckskin shied nervously, its eyes huge.

“I know, Deuce. I sense ’em, too.” Luke glanced at the spreading cottonwood about a hundred feet away where Noelle sat on a limb, rifle in hand, her gaze scanning the sun-baked range like a hawk. She turned toward him, then shook her head.

Luke nodded, but he doubted that Noelle would know what to look for. He had explained about the telltale dust funnels announcing unseen riders, but if the Indians had seen them ride over here, they could sneak up along the ridge without warning.

One thing was certain, the Indians were out there.

Luke swore again as he hitched one log to each of the oxen, bracing the load to drag behind the animals. He wiped the sweat trickling down his chest.

North and east, the flat, shimmering prairie would be too open for Indians to attack. But the west ridge, dotted with tall mesquite and sagebrush, would easily provide cover to hide the Indians and their ponies.

“I’m a damn fool to get caught up in this,” he muttered to his horse. “Beneath all her bluster, she’s a real greenhorn.” He shook his head, recalling bow her hands had trembled while she held that old weapon on him.

Luke led the oxen to the thick shade of the cottonwood tree where Noelle perched on a massive limb, rifle in her lap.

“What’s in that long crate that you guard like a she-cat with a new litter?” he asked, adjusting the oxen’s load.

“A gift for my Uncle Marcel,” she said, her eyes fixed on the green-dotted prairie.

“If he’s as rich as you say, why wouldn’t he have the goods shipped with an armed guard of men, instead of a—”

Noelle lifted her chin. “It’s none of your concern, Mr. Savage.”

Damn right it wasn’t. He swore under his breath. What he should be concerned about is how he’d make up the time to get to Crooked Creek by Friday noon. Lady luck had turned against him, and there was no sign that she might change her fickle mind.

Luke’s thoughts returned to Noelle Bellencourt. He knew women as well as he knew not to draw to an inside straight. Better, in fact. And he’d bet all the poker chips in the Silver Hearts Saloon that Noelle didn’t have a rich uncle waiting for her. But whatever her story, once she saw Crooked Creek, Nevada, she’d turn tail and head back East.

At the sound of his footsteps, Noelle turned toward him.

“When we get to town, you’re on your own,” Luke said. “If we walk all night, we’ll reach Crooked Creek by morning.”

“Why do we have to?”

“Because I’ve got to stop Blackjack from hopping the noon stage to ’Frisco. That slippery rascal isn’t getting away from me this time.”

“Blackjack?”

“My business partner, or I should say, was.” Luke mopped his face, then knotted the bandanna loosely around his neck. “Cheated me out of a string of gambling concessions. He knows I’m on his trail, but he’d never dream I’m this close.” Luke smiled as he thought of the surprised look on Blackjack’s face when he saw Luke, waiting for him with the sheriff.

“What type of business are you in, Mister Savage?”

He grinned. “Gambling, Miss. I’m the best poker player in all of Nevada.”

Noelle’s face paled. “And this...Blackjack? Is that his profession, too?”

“That, among others. But after I’m through with him, Blackjack will be shuffling his next deck in jail.”

Luke strode to the logs tied to the oxen. Satisfied, he moved toward the horse. The buckskin shied uneasily.

“Did you hear something?” Noelle asked uneasily.

“Yeah.” Luke felt it, too. It was as if someone were watching them. He’d had the feeling ever since he found Douglas’s body.

“Think it’s just the wind.” Luke hoped she’d believe him. “If Indians are out there, the open country affords no chance for ambush. We’re safe for the time being,” he added, hoping to reassure her. No sense having a hysterical woman on his hands.

He helped Noelle mount the horse, then walked beside her, leading the oxen as they lumbered along, handling the cottonwood logs easily.

Luke’s thoughts strayed back to the lone prairie schooner, stranded like a wounded white dove, and the woman riding beside him.

Before they reached the top of the ridge, a rifle shot, coming in the direction of the prairie schooner, cracked the silence.

Luke’s horse whinnied, then reared. Before he could reach Noelle, she had slackened the reins, leaned her weight forward, and grabbed Deuce’s mane to keep from falling.

Grateful that she’d had the sense to control the buckskin, Luke secured the oxen’s reins to a mesquite bush, then mounted the horse behind Noelle. He grabbed the reins, then kicked his heels into the animal’s sides, charging the horse over the rise in the direction of the wagon.