by Jill Barnett
The clock ticked. She twisted the buttons. Second after interminable second went by, and still not a word. But she could feel him looking at her, with those yellow eyes. A button came off in her hand and she stared at it.
His chair creaked and she popped open her purse and hid the button inside. All was quiet again, so she fiddled with the contents of the small bag until she could feel his gaze finally leave her. A sigh escaped her lips.
She glanced at the door. What is taking them so long? Her eyes went from the door to the wide mahogany desk. Like the one outside, it was covered with bound ledgers. A thick law text encased in tan leather lay open next to a box labeled Simplistic Typewriter Ribbons, guaranteed not to smear. The box was empty, and Addie smiled. Her mind flashed with the picture of a jittery and ink-stained Mr. Hamilton, tangled in spools of Simplistic typewriter ribbons.
Lawyers were cool, calm people. At least she had always thought of them as such. Mr. Hamilton destroyed that image. He was sure a nervous little man. She twisted another button and it popped off her glove.
Just like you.
She stared at the button and the three-inch gap on the wrist of her glove. She was acting silly, nervously twisting off buttons just because of Mr. Creed's looks. She did wonder what a man like him could possibly have to do with her aunt and uncle. Maybe he was some long-lost relative of her uncle's. After all, Addie had never even met her uncle Josiah, but from Emily's letters she knew her aunt had been happy. Josiah Mitchell, a bachelor in his forties and a grizzled, western farmer, had swept into Emily's life, and in less than two months Addie's aunt had married and moved to California. But in all her letters Emily had never mentioned any other relations. Then Addie remembered that the telegram had said she was the only living family member, which meant this man couldn't be a relative. More than likely she was just letting her imagination get away from her, all because this Mr. Creed had scruffy hair, yellow eyes, and apparently no voice. Maybe he worked for them. That would make sense. He was most likely the hired help. And he was probably a really nice man, when he talked.
The button slipped out of her fingers and bounced onto the wooden floor, rolling loudly, like a cannonball instead of a small little pearl. Addie leaned down and grabbed the button. As she bent over the side of the chair, upside down, some little urge made her sneak a peek at him. He was dressed in black, dusty black, except for his gray shirt. His legs, which seemed to go on forever, were stretched out in front of him. His dirty leather boots were crossed at the ankles, and dried mud speckled the floor where his heels rested. Addie's gaze slowly drifted up the length of his legs. No wonder he was so tall, she thought. She had never seen anyone with legs that long.
Suddenly he switched ankles and his chair cried out a late warning. Addie bolted upright, too fast. Darts of light danced before her eyes. She blinked, trying to clear her spotty vision. Dadgummit! She'd bet he caught her gaping at his legs. Her heart drummed hard so she folded her hands, prayerlike, in her lap. Maybe a heavenly plea would help ease this awkwardness.
But instead of praying, she strained to get a glimpse of him out of the corner of her eye. Slouched in his chair, he stared out the window. She wondered why he didn't say anything. Even in Chicago people would converse if they were stuck in a room alone. Maybe he had trouble talking to a lady. Some men did. She remembered the shy boys in college. Many times she and her female classmates had to initiate the conversation.
Yet this man in no way resembled the shy college men she had known. In fact, he didn't look the least bit shy, or reserved, or even approachable. There was a tense air about him, something primitive. She debated a minute, and then decided she was being foolish. It was up to her to break the icy silence.
Addie took a deep breath and forced a smile. "Lovely weather, isn't it?"
Nothing moved but his head, as he turned to pierce her with those eyes. "No."
Her smile died.
"It's too damn hot." The sound of his deep voice seemed to echo in the room.
She gaped at him, his words not registering because of the rich sound of that voice. It didn't fit him, the tall man with the shaggy hair. She'd expected him to have a raspy voice, as hard and weathered as his looks. Instead it was clear, and so incredibly resonant that the timbre of it sounded like the bass section of the Chicago Symphony, playing something bold, like Vivaldi.
But his words were sure raspy enough. She should have been insulted. But he was right. It was hot. And the room was getting hotter. It had been a stupid thing to say. Of course, a gentleman would have never contradicted her. She should have trusted her first impression. He was uncouth, a real toad of a man. But what a shame, because the toad had the voice of a prince.
Montana stared out the window. She annoyed him, pestering little fly of a woman. And the last thing he needed was to be shut up in some room with a foolish female. Especially one who had nothing better to do—when she wasn't staring at him—than chatter about the weather. He bit back a yawn and resisted the urge to lean his head back against the chair. His eyes burned, but if he dared to close them, he'd fall asleep. He was exhausted.
It had taken over two long hard-riding days to get here from the Tehachapi hills. Wade Parker's telegram arrived the day after he'd promised to help an old friend. He had wired back to Parker that he'd be delayed and wouldn't be in Stockton for two weeks.
It was still hard for him to believe the news in the telegram. Old Doc Henderson had left him a plot of farm land. He hadn't thought about his pa's friend in years, let alone seen him. But apparently the doctor had remembered him. Montana's hand gripped the chair arm. Or maybe the doc remembered the injustice done to Pa.
Burned into Montana's memory was that day, fourteen years ago, when he had watched his pa gunned down so the railroad could line its already gilded pockets. Every time the weather got hot, that dry California hot, he remembered that day. And it was so real he could almost smell the sharp loamy odor of baking dirt, hear the drone of the flies, feel the taut, scorching air, and smell death.
And today it was that damn hot.
He glanced at the woman. Her fingers fiddled with something and she stared at the clock, probably doing her best to ignore him, which was just fine with him. Prattling about the lovely weather when it must have been a hundred in the shade. Christ! He had no use for her chitchat. He didn't rightly understand what the hell she was doing here anyway.
When he'd finally ridden into Stockton, Parker had left a message for him to come to the town of Bleeding Heart, another half day's ride. He'd ridden hellhound to get here, and no sooner had he sat down than Wade and this other fellow, Hamilton, had started arguing about some stupid case involving this Pinky woman. All he wanted to do was find out where the land was and get the deed. Then he could wash up, eat, and get some sleep before riding out tomorrow to survey his property.
His property. God. After years of going from one small western town to another, from one farm, one ranch, to the next, never staying long because he couldn't let himself take root. He knew damn well that the land he worked would never be his. He'd had no claim to any land, no wealth, no home. Until now. Montana rubbed his fingers over his tired eyes. He was afraid this bequest was a dream. One in which he'd wake up and find it snatched away. But as he glanced about the room, he knew he wasn't dreaming. Montana Creed was sitting here, in a strange lawyer's office, and in less than an hour from now he'd have it—land, his own land, his father's dream.
The door finally opened and Parker and Hamilton returned. Neither face showed much emotion. Hamilton sat down and Wade pulled a chair up alongside the large desk. Both men looked at each other for a moment, then Hamilton suggested Wade start.
"Although I'm representing Mr. Creed, this concerns both of you, so I'd appreciate it if you'd hear me out." Wade looked at the Pinky woman and she nodded. "My client, Benjamin Henderson, M.D., received a plot of farm land. I believe it's almost a section, approximately six hundred and forty acres. The gift was in payment for saving the
life of a young girl, the only grandchild of Agostin Bernal, first landowner in the Del Valle Valley. Dr. Henderson died in April and he left this land to Mr. Montana Creed."
Montana watched as the little wisp of a woman finally turned her dark head and city-pale face toward him. She looked him in the eye. He couldn't read her expression. She had huge dark eyes, almost black, that seemed to hide what she was thinking. It was odd. Montana had an uncanny knack for pinpointing a person's train of thought by looking them right in the eye. But at the moment her eyes were unreadable.
"It took some doing to locate Mr. Creed," Wade continued. "With the help of an old friend of his, I found him, and notified him by wire of the terms of the will. These were clear and simple. Mr. Creed was given full and sole title to the section of land."
Montana breathed a silent sigh of relief. Since he was included in this explanation, for a brief second he was afraid that Wade would say that this woman had something to do with the land, his land.
"Then the problem arose…'' Wade announced.
A problem? Montana pulled himself up in the chair and waited.
"…I came out to inspect the property. Doc's property had no improvements. It was just a section of land, never-farmed land. But what I found was a fully improved, working farm, complete with fences, barn, well, and house."
Slowly, Montana turned and glared at the woman. Somehow, she was involved.
"This is where I come in," Levi Hamilton interrupted, fiddling with a pencil. "The farm was the Mitchell place, your aunt and uncle's, Miss Pinkney."
Her look was still blank, but Montana could feel the land slipping from his tight fingers before he even had a chance to hold it.
Hamilton stood, jamming the pencil behind his ear. "The Mitchells purchased the land with land coupons, a legitimate purchase." He ran a nervous hand around his collar. "Unfortunately, the seller was a s-swindler, because their deed to the farm is fraudulent. Mr. Creed's benefactor held the true title."
Thank God! Montana watched her face pale more, and although he couldn't see into her eyes, he could tell the woman was distraught. He felt some pity for her, but not much, because he was so damn glad that the mix-up was her problem and not his. A smile of relief kept itching forward. It wasn't easy to hide.
Her voice was quiet. "So I didn't inherit anything?"
"Yes," Hamilton answered. "You did inherit the farm, but because the property wasn't truly theirs to give, we have a little problem."
"Oh."
Christ! She sounded like she was going to cry. That's all he needed. Montana uncrossed his legs and leaned forward. This was uncomfortable as hell. Three men watching this little wisp of a woman, waiting for the watery outburst.
It didn't come, which surprised him. He even felt a bit more pity for her. After all, he'd won; she'd lost. As the winner, he figured he should say something… sort of polite. He looked at her again. "Sorry, Miss Pinky. You win some 'n' you lose some."
Her head flew up. Her eyes narrowed. "Knee… Pinkney," she corrected.
"Uh… excuse me," Hamilton interrupted. "We have a problem here because Miss Pinkney does have a legal claim to the land."
Montana shot out of his chair. "What the hell do you mean she has a claim to the land? Her deed's no good!"
Hamilton craned his neck upward. "There's a legal term known as 'adverse possession.' The doctor's land was unimproved. The Mitchells improved it, innocently thinking it was theirs. They made the land worth more, by building a profitable farm, complete with outbuildings. There was nothing dishonest in their actions. Because they made the land more valuable, legally, Miss Pinkney has as much right to the land as you do." His eyes darted to the little woman and he gave her a nervous, toothy smile.
Montana wanted to drive those teeth down his throat. Instead he turned to Wade and shouted, "Is he right?"
"Calm down, Montana." Wade stood up and looked him directly in the eye. "We're gonna fight for it. Judge Beck will be here in a couple of days. We'll let him settle this. He's a fair man and you have legal title. Don't worry. Even I think Hamilton's claim is a bit farfetched."
Hamilton jumped to his feet. "It is not. Johnson vs. Wright, 1872. Beckman vs. Haines, 1888."
The woman had been sitting there quietly watching them. She continued to look back and forth from one man to the next. When her eyes lit on Hamilton, he said, "Don't you worry, miss." He raised his fist. "You have a right to that land and we're going to get it for you." His fist slammed onto the desktop. A brass pencil holder bounced off the desk and the pencils scattered onto the wooden floor. Levi Hamilton disappeared behind his desk.
Wade looked at Montana and shook his head.
Hamilton stood, brushing the dust off his knees.
"What were you saying, Levi?" Wade asked, poorly suppressed mirth tingeing his voice.
Hamilton's face flushed with embarrassment, or anger, Montana couldn't tell which. "I said, we're going to win that land." Hamilton glared up at Wade.
Wade crossed his arms, as if to say, just try. Then he returned the little lawyer's stare.
Montana would not lose this land. He gripped the desk edge and bent down so he was almost nose to nose with her lawyer. "I am not gonna let a bumbling lawyer and some fool of a woman take my land!" He turned and pinned the Pinky woman with his iciest look. "Especially one who looks like she doesn't even know where to plant a grain of seed!"
She jumped, obviously stunned by his angry words. Montana saw the anger that glowed from her face. Then she smiled, and he could see her mind working, could almost smell the smoke. She slowly turned to Hamilton. "As my attorney, you speak for me, correct?"
Hamilton nodded.
"Then please tell Mr. Creed that I am sure I can tell him where he can plant his seed."
Hamilton choked and Montana could feel the blood rush to his face. Even Wade's professional look of confidence broke into a slight smirk. Then they all looked at her, unable to believe what she had said.
She stood, calmly, as if she'd just showed them, and she tugged on her gaping gloves. Then she added, "I'll be at the hotel until the judge arrives." She looked right at Montana. "I'll see you in court, Mr. Creed."
Struck dumb, Montana watched her parade out the door, wondering if she could possibly have known exactly what she said.
Addie paced the small hotel room, wishing for all the world that she could have punched that Mr. Creed in his belligerent face. Her fists knotted at her sides and she could feel her nails cutting into her palms. She didn't care. She was too doggone mad. How dare he talk to her that way! As if she set out to steal his land—rather, her land.
Her land. It might not be hers. That toad might get it. Then what would she do? She'd sold the small apartment she'd lived in all her life, sold the belongings, and come west with only essentials and a few of her favorite things. She had some capital, but there was no way she could build a farm all alone. She wasn't even sure she could handle an existing one. But she was sure going to give it a try. And she would not let that man take her land.
She would have been willing to try to come to some agreement, maybe offer to buy him out, until he called her a fool. Twice in one day she'd been labeled such, and she didn't like it one bit. Just because she was a woman, he thought her… inferior. She could tell. Well, she wasn't, and she'd show him.
She sat on the bed. It was hard as the wooden train bench. She sighed, suddenly feeling the weight of the world on her small shoulders. She was worried. If the judge didn't rule in her favor, she wouldn't have a place to live. Lord knew she didn't want to go back to Chicago, but neither was she prepared to start from scratch. At least Aunt Emily's farm made her feel as if she had roots, even if they weren't her roots.
She walked over and opened the window, hoping some breeze would slip through. It didn't. It was perfectly still outside. The window overlooked the hotel's back street. An ice wagon pulled up and began to unload. Hay spilled onto the street as the iceman used his iron tongs to lug the blocks from
inside. That would be the only job to have in this heat.
Addie licked her lips, imagining what the ice would feel like melting in her dry mouth. A couple of kids ran up to the wagon. She watched one of them, a boy in cut-off pants and a straw hat, pull out a small knife and chip off some ice. He handed it to the smaller boy, the one with bright red-orange hair. They laughed, and then the iceman chased them off. A small dog yapped at their heels as they ran down the narrow street, and Addie remembered the dog and doughnuts.
It was different here. The children she'd just seen weren't mean and they weren't starving. Both had looked healthy, plump, and like children everywhere, they were into mischief. The gangs of Chicago kids would have probably beaten up and robbed the iceman.
Although it had only been a few hours, she knew she wanted to stay, despite that obnoxious Mr. Creed. Addie wanted the farm, and she had to find a way to ensure that she'd get it. The judge would be here in two days, so she had two days to come up with a surefire way of getting the land.
Addie paced and then sat, paced and sat, until she couldn't think anymore. Nor could she stand that board of a bed. Walking back to the window, she peered out just as a wagon barreled down the street. It pulled to a dusty stop at the hotel. The driver jumped down from the seat and whipped off his hat. He had a head of familiar white hair.
It was Custus McGee, delivering her things. He beat his floppy hat against his leg, and then the wide-brimmed hat sailed onto the wagon seat. He walked around the wagon, untying the tarp that covered her possessions.
Possessions. That was it! One look at her trunks sitting in the wagon and Addie knew exactly what she would do.
She leaned out the window. "Yoo-hoo! Mr. McGee!"
He stood, rooted to the ground, and stared up at her. Addie could see him chomp on his cigar stub while he watched her.
"Leave those things there, please. I'll be right down!" Addie grabbed her purse and ran out the door, right into Mr. Montana Creed.
His hands gripped her shoulders. She looked up at him. He looked as startled as she was. She raised her chin and gave him her haughtiest look.
