He liked how she could make it clear as glass she didn’t want anything to do with men. He’d seen that in Dabbler, back when he’d been avoiding her. Trying to anyway. He’d tried ignoring her on the trail, too, but being next to her every minute of every day had worn him down. Besides, resenting her for wanting gold had been foolish. She couldn’t help it any more than he could. Right now, what he was trying to control was how he wanted her. Suggesting they could share a tent had been a foolish idea.
“Let’s try the general store,” he said.
“What for? Our packs are still full. If you’d quit wasting time, we could—”
“We’re spending the night here,” he said, stopping her rant. It would be easier to tell her Whiskey Jack had said he’d leave a message in Bittersweet with directions to his camp, but since Cole had yet to find out who might have that message, he didn’t mention it to her. “Come on. There’s one thing I haven’t tried yet.”
Her glare was icy as she wrenched on the mule’s rope to follow him toward the dry-goods store. Once there, Cole grabbed one of the bags hanging off his front mule and handed her his rope. “Stay close to the door, where I can see you.” The town was full of new arrivals and those looking to pick anyone clean. He’d told her the same thing everywhere they’d stopped. Once again, she rolled her eyes at him, but took the rope.
He couldn’t help but chuckle as he bounded up the steps. One thing about her, she definitely made life more fun.
The solid wood door opened as he reached the top step.
“I was just closing up,” a man said, reaching for a sign hanging on a nail and flipping it to say Closed. “Come back in the morning.”
“Just a minute,” Cole said. “I’m hoping to make a deal with you.”
“No deals. Cash money or gold,” the man said, pointing to another sign that said as much in crooked, faded writing. Dressed from head to boots in wool—the shirt red-and-black plaid, the pants a dull gray—the man could have been another miner instead of a merchant. “I’ll be open by seven in the morning.”
“Just a minute,” Cole said, pulling open the drawstring on his bag. “You’ll like what I have in here.”
It took a moment, but just as he’d thought, curiosity won out and the burly man stepped closer to peek into the bag.
“That’s not gold,” the merchant said, drawing back.
“Almost as good,” Cole said. “It’s raisins.”
Again, precisely as he’d imagined, a gleam appeared in the man’s eyes.
“Raisins?”
Cole nodded.
“A man can’t survive on raisins,” the merchant whispered.
“I know,” Cole said. “But rumor has it, a man can.”
The grizzled character glanced around, scratching the chin beneath his thick beard. “Don’t know who started that rumor, but it’s spread faster than tales of half-pound nuggets. Men are acting as if they’re pure gold themselves.” Nodding toward the bag, he clarified, “Raisins, that is.”
“I’ve heard that,” Cole said. “These will bring you a goodly sum. They’re fresh from California. Sailed in on the Mary Jane only a few weeks ago.” He held out the bag. “Try one. They’re still soft.”
About to pluck a raisin out of the bag, the merchant stalled. “The Mary Jane?”
Cole nodded.
“You aren’t Cole DuMont, are you?”
Surprised, Cole nodded. “Yes, I am.”
“Well, why didn’t you say so?” the man asked, grinning broadly. “Whiskey Jack told me to expect you.”
Old lady luck was back. Cole had known it would happen; she never left him for long. “You know Whiskey Jack?”
“Sure enough do. He financed this here store for me. Was in town just a couple of weeks ago. That’s when he told me to be on the lookout for you. To give you directions to where his claim is.” The man stepped sideways then, eyeing Maddie. “He didn’t say nothing about a woman, though.”
Standing as she was, holding the reins of four pack mules and wearing a flat-brimmed man’s hat and the thick coat she’d bought in Dabbler didn’t begin to disguise Maddie was a woman. A fine-looking one, at that. One of quality, too. Cole had thought that right from the beginning. Her frame and stance, the way she held her chin up and head straight, gave her a regal appearance. She was full of stamina and determination, too, and though her background may have been hard, harsh even, she carried none of the weight with her. Not on the outside. He could see her being a rich lady. She’d be a powerful one, too. Not just due to money. She had it in her. A lot like his grandmother.
The hem of her dress was stained by the mud splatters of the trial, but it didn’t deflect from the nobleness of her character. It came through no matter what she wore. Perhaps because of the care she gave her personal appearance. Even after hours spent trekking up the mountainside, each night she heated a small pan of water and entered the tent before him to wash. This time of year, streams were plentiful, water melting off the peaks and running down the slopes, and yesterday, when they’d stopped by one such miniature waterfall to rest the mules, she’d warmed enough water to wash her hair.
Cole’s lips went dry and he licked them, recalling how she’d left her hair down so it could dry in the midday sun as they’d started walking again. Each time he’d turned around, those long black tresses, sparkling in the sunshine and fluttering around her face and shoulders had sent his pulse beating inside his skin. Her eyes did that to him, too. They were as blue as the gulf waters, and when they filled with merriment, or caught him looking at her, they shone so bright a man could be blinded.
He huffed out a bit of hot air and turned back to the merchant. “Maddie knows more about mining gold than any man.” His throat felt as if it held more gravel than the dirt beneath his feet. Partnering up with Maddie had more consequences than any male he could have paired up with, and he was smack-dab in the center of realizing most of those consequences.
The merchant scratched his chin again. “Whiskey Jack told me to ask you a question. One only you’d know the answer to, just so I wouldn’t be giving his location out to anyone.”
“Go ahead,” Cole encouraged. “Ask away.” He needed something—anything—to alter his thoughts.
“How old was Captain Trig DuMont when he started sailing?”
Cole laughed. “He was born sailing.” In order to assure the merchant he was the man Whiskey Jack was waiting on, Cole added, “Captain Trig DuMont is my uncle. He and his twin brother, my father Adam DuMont, were born on a ship captained by their father, Belmont DuMont, my grandfather.”
Nodding, and smiling, the man held out a hand. “Name’s Truman Schlagel. It’s good to meet you, Cole DuMont.”
“Likewise,” Cole replied, shaking hands.
“Now, how much do you want for those raisins?” Truman asked.
“Room and board for our mules and Maddie and me.”
“Barn’s out back. So’s the cabin Whiskey Jack stays in when he’s in town. It’s not much, but better than a lot of others. Has a real bed and stove, and yours for as long as you want it. Or until Whiskey Jack comes to town.”
Maddie desperately wanted to know what all the whispering was about. Cole’s laughter, and the other man’s, were easy enough to hear, but anything else was drowned out by the sounds of the bustling town, growing louder as evening turned into night. Not by the sun—it still hovered in the sky—but the people, who upon entering town had headed straight for one of the six saloons she’d counted as Lucky had her traipsing from door stoop to door stoop.
She wouldn’t deny a man a taste of spirits now and again. Smitty said nothing compared to how a couple sips could warm a man on a cold night, but she’d never abide by all-out drinking. Men who rode with her father had done that—Bass, too. The stench of their breath still had the ability to haunt her
at times. She’d known what those men had wanted from her, and how drinking had made them foolish enough to believe they could take it. The memory had her glancing over her shoulder. One had fought hard and got too close once, and she’d shot him. Just in the thigh, but she’d never forgotten it. The brief glimpse she’d gotten of Mad Dog down in California said he still walked with a limp.
Shortly after the shooting, Bass had left her with Smitty. Something she’d always be thankful for.
She was thankful for the gun Trig had given her, too. A fine six-shooter. Mad Dog might never find her here, but it would do every man glancing her way in this muddy little town—aptly named Bittersweet—good to know she wasn’t afraid to shoot them where they stood.
“Maddie, this is Truman Schlagel.”
Turning her gaze from the busy street to Lucky and the merchant now standing near the mules, she nodded. “Mr. Schlagel.”
As bald as a turnip, yet with more gray hair on his face than a bear, the older man grinned, leastwise it appeared that was what happened under all those whiskers.
“Nice to meet you, Mrs. DuMont,” he said. “Welcome to Bittersweet.”
Her stomach muscles tightened. Though her upbringing had been full of them, she’d never participated in telling lies, and didn’t appreciate how Lucky let this one—about them being married—keep going. Just as she opened her mouth to set the tale straight, Lucky opened his.
“There’s a cabin out back we’ll spend the night in, Maddie, and then head out to where we’ll make our claims in the morning.” Grinning, Lucky took the rope to his mules. “And Truman invited us to supper. Let’s get these animals round back so we can join him.”
She nodded her thanks toward the shopkeeper and followed in the wake of Lucky’s mules, tugging hard for her tired animals to step up. Still worried he might try to leave—habits were hard things to overcome, and she hadn’t trusted Smitty at first, either—she couldn’t help but keep glancing back toward town.
“What are you scowling about?” he asked.
“Just wondering why you were so insistent we spend the night in town.”
“Because it may be the last chance we get,” he said over one shoulder as he led the mules into the barn. “Once we set out to meet up with Whiskey Jack, we may not be back this way for months.”
Once all four mules were tied up, she began unloading their heavy burdens. “Why should that matter?”
He stepped closer and hoisted the heavy pack frame off the mule as if it weighed nothing. “I figured you’d like the chance to sleep in a bed.”
“I’ve told you before, I—”
“I know,” Lucky interrupted. “But I am used to sleeping in a real bed, and I like it.”
His nearness, and his grin, had her heart picking up speed. That had been happening a lot lately, especially at night, when they snuggled to stay warm. No one had ever held her like Lucky did, and she liked it, which went against every grain inside her.
Maddie moved to the next mule, unloading bags and bundles so Lucky could remove the pack frames. Ever since Mad Dog’s attack, she’d hated men—except for Smitty—so why didn’t she feel that way about Lucky? He didn’t scare her, not like others always did. She didn’t mind looking at him, either. Actually, she liked looking at him. Even now, with short stubbles of whiskers covering his jawline. They appeared each night even though he shaved every morning. She liked that. The men that rode with her father rarely shaved. They never cut their hair, either, and though Lucky’s hair was long, he bound it at the nape of his neck with a leather strap, and as unusual as it was, it fit him.
His hair was thick and dark brown, his eyes that color, too. They were her favorite things about him. The way they twinkled, she could almost hear them laughing. Eyes couldn’t laugh, of course. Couldn’t make any sound, yet his sure seemed to. They were kind, too. Sometimes when he looked at her, her insides did funny things. Grew all soft and warm and, well, somewhat giddy. To the point it made her cheeks flush and her heart rush. Especially when he winked at her. Which he did often enough. Probably because he knew it made blood rush to her face.
Thinking of such things, she glanced over, and had to turn away to hide the flush of her cheeks when he winked, almost as if he’d known that was exactly what she’d been pondering.
Once the mules were seen to, Lucky took her by the elbow. “Let’s go see what this cabin of Whiskey Jack’s looks like. We may decide to sleep in our tent after all.”
“Why would we do that?” she asked.
He laughed. “You sure are different than every other woman on this earth, Maddie, girl. That’s for sure.”
“The world would be a dull place if we were all the same,” she declared, while trying not to think overly hard about what he might mean.
He laughed again and a few steps later they stopped in front of a tiny cabin made from huge logs. Lucky had to duck in order to walk through the door. She followed, blinking at the darkness. Light flickered. While he replaced the lamp chimney, she turned around to close the door. Not much larger than Captain Trig’s cabin back on the ship, there was a bed, a table and two chairs, and a stove.
“Looks fine to me,” Maddie said, although she tugged her coat tighter. Being closed up, the air inside the cabin was colder than that outdoors.
“I’ll get a fire started,” Lucky said. “Then we’ll go over to Truman’s. He said he has a pot of stew bubbling on the stove.”
She crossed the room and pushed a hand deep into the mattress. Though she’d never had a bed of her own, she had grown used to the one on the Mary Jane. “When I strike it rich, I am going to get the biggest bed money can buy.”
“Are you?”
Spinning around, she plopped onto the bed. Maybe that was why she liked Lucky. He let her talk about all her dreams, even encouraged it, as if he, too, believed they’d all come true. “Yes, I am. The softest, biggest bed ever, with lots of pillows.”
Lucky grinned, but didn’t say anything as he added more kindling to the flames. She leaned back to rest on her elbows. The other thing she was going to buy was a bathtub like Mrs. Smother had back in Seattle. At the time, she’d been too preoccupied with escaping to appreciate the luxury it provided. After the cold streams of Alaska, she found herself thinking about that big tub with its hot and cold water more and more.
Staring up at the crossbeams of the ceiling, she imagined she’d have no trouble falling asleep tonight. With only one little window above the headboard of the bed the daylight wouldn’t bother her at all.
Maddie scooted across the bed to get a better look out that one window. What she noticed had her jumping to her feet and digging in her coat pocket at the same time.
Out the door in a flash, gun in hand, she shouted, “You there, get away from that barn.”
Two men, looking about as rough as those who’d ridden with Bass, spun from the door. Lucky shouted her name and arrived at her side, yet she never took her eyes or the aim of the six-shooter off the men.
“Get away from the barn,” she repeated, slower and more meaningful.
The men, hands in the air, backed up, and then, like two whipped dogs, spun around and fled. Maddie would have fired shots over their heads, just so they’d know not to come back, but Lucky snatched the gun from her hand.
“What do you think you’re doing?” he asked, lowering the hammer on the trigger.
“Protecting our belongings,” she said. “They were going to steal them.”
“How do you know that?”
“What else would they be doing?”
Lucky handed her back the gun. “That’s probably what they were thinking about doing, but you don’t go running out the door.”
“What do you do, then?” she asked. “Stay inside and let them steal you blind?”
“No.” His gaze was in the direction
the men had skedaddled, and he frowned slightly. “Sometimes, Maddie, being a bit neighborly will get you further than running out with guns drawn.” He waved a hand in the general direction of the barn. “Those men could have had guns, too, and shot you.”
“That’s why I had to get the jump on them,” she said. “Everyone knows that.”
He smiled and scratched a brow. “Sometimes,” he said, as if he had to agree with her. “But sometimes a person’s better off to act kindly. You know, not upset anyone.”
She checked the chamber of her gun to make sure he’d properly uncocked it before putting it back in her pocket. “Tell me how that works for you, Lucky,” she said. “Right after some man shoots you full of holes.”
“Maddie,” he said slowly.
There was a hint of scorn in his tone, and that smarted. “I’ve mined gold, Lucky, but even before then I knew when men were considering stealing from me.”
He opened his mouth.
She shook her head. “I know when it’s time to be neighborly, too, so don’t try giving me a lesson in manners, or whatever it is you’re trying to do. Those men were up to no good, and no amount of your sweet talk is going to make me believe otherwise.”
“Sweet talk?” He shook his head. “I’m not trying to sweet-talk you, Maddie. This country is full of men, and we’ll be a lot better off making friends than enemies with the lot of them.”
“Well,” she said, taking note of the seriousness of his gaze, “I’ll gladly make friends with any of those who don’t try to steal from me.”
“Already had some thieves sneaking about, did we?” someone behind them said.
“Yes, we did,” Maddie assured, turning to where Truman Schlagel stood on his back stoop. She also tried to keep a smirk off her lips.
A Fortune for the Outlaw's Daughter Page 7
