by Jillian Hart
Another footfall, then she could see the dark shadow of a man, not as tall as Wyatt, and his shoulders not half so broad, yet broader than poor moonstruck Lance. Then she saw the man's hand and the gun it held. Anger flared and she swung with all her might.
The bottle connected with the side of his head. Glass shattered, and the man cried out, then crumpled to the ground in silence. His gun tumbled out of his slack fingers and kicked up a small puff of dust.
"Oh, Lord! I've killed him." Garnet raced to the man's side. He appeared motionless. His hat rolled off his head. Too bad he'd collapsed in the shadows, because she couldn't see anything of his face, but she could smell both the pungent whiskey and the coppery scent of fresh blood. He didn't appear to be breathing. He didn't seem alive.
Now what did she do? Garnet knelt at his shoulder and extended her hand. She felt the front of his chest and inched her way across to the male-hot skin of his throat. She couldn't find a pulse, but then her hand was shaking too hard to feel anything. Maybe a light would help. She rose, but could not find the man's lantern.
"Golda." She ran for the cabin. "Grab the lantern for me. I think I killed a man."
"Garnet! How could you?" The door swung open to reveal Golda's shadowed face. "You looked before you hit him, right?"
"I'm no fool. It wasn't anyone I knew." Garnet's hand shook as she reached for the tin. The matches inside rattled and she had trouble grabbing hold of one. "I feel sick. I hit him extremely hard. Maybe a little too hard. I'm very strong from working the farm, you know. Even now with Ruby's husband to help."
Garnet thought of her sister, who had married despite all warnings, and her chest constricted. How she wished she were home, safe in her comfortable house, in her kitchen getting a meal ready. Her sisters would be there, talking as they peeled potatoes and set the table.
Golda's hands trembled, too, as she produced the small battered lantern. "Are you afraid to go back outside?"
"Yes. I was hoping you could come with me. All you would have to do is stand behind me and hold the light. Could you do that?"
"What are you going to do with the body?" Golda's eyes grew round.
"I have no idea." Garnet stumbled down the steps, limping across the uneven earth toward the rear of the cabin. Shadows covered the ground where the forest was thick. The lantern light flickered along the dusty earth.
Garnet stopped at the corner of the stable, but the orange glow revealed no body, no man dead or unconscious. "He was here. Look at the stain. It's blood."
"Oh, no." Golda's head snapped toward the forest. "He's escaped. Maybe he's watching us. Maybe he's waiting for us. Maybe you've made him really mad, Garnet."
"Maybe I did." She knelt to study the drops in the dirt, a steady dribble that could only mean a serious cut. Well, at least she had stopped him from whatever devious plan he had, but she didn't know if he was capable enough of returning.
Feeling watched, Garnet rose. "Turn down the wick."
"But then we can't see anything. We can't see him coming for us."
"He can see us all the better with all this light." She started toward the cabin, hating the uncertainty. Had she made matters better or worse?
When they reached the cabin, she bolted the door and stayed up all night, listening in the dark for the man's return. He never came, not when a pack of wolves howled nearby, out on a hunt. And not when dawn chased the darkness away and brought light to the world.
* * *
Wyatt had better things to do than to traipse across the Rocky Mountains looking for a cheat and a liar. If he caught up to Eugene Jones, Wyatt was going to toss the old good-for-nothing fake in jail. Let him cool his heels and think about what he'd done.
After all, it was Eugene's fault Wyatt wasn't home tracking down the man who killed his brother. Ben had been a gentle soul with dreams of a better life when the gold rush struck. He'd left his job and home, since he had no family to tie him down, and gambled on finding a rich strike, just as thousands of other men did.
Wyatt squinted against the rising sun. He'd been riding all night, following a trail he feared would grow cold any second. He hated losing valuable time on his murder investigation. He also hated leaving Garnet alone in his cabin unprotected. He'd offered her a gun and she'd refused, no matter how he pressed.
Remembering how her chin had set with a stubborn determination touched him now, pulling him from dark thoughts. How he'd enjoyed the times their fingers had brushed. His blood thrummed just thinking of it, of how fragrant her skin was, sweet like satin, rich like silk.
What was wrong with him? Wyatt tried to shake those images from his head. He ought to be alert and concerned about his own hide, riding through this rugged wilderness, but he was thinking of her. Porcelain-fine skin. A luxurious cascade of ebony hair. A spark of integrity in blue-green eyes.
Hell, he didn't deserve a woman like her. Hadn't he learned his lesson? Hadn't his divorce taught him that a decent, proper lady didn't want a man like him? Garnet had been unbending in her refusal to even touch a loaded gun, much less keep one with her in his absence.
What did that tell him? She'd explained to him how she deplored violence of any kind. And he was a man who made his living on the violent side of life. Despite her toughness and her independent ways, he'd bet the entire yield of Ben's claim that she could never stomach the true Wyatt Tanner, deputy marshal.
There was the town of Cedar Heights in the distance. Wyatt pushed his tired horse into an easy lope down the trail, kicking up great plumes of dust. Morning birdsong punctuated the air as he rode down the main street. He checked at the only hotel in town–a seedy, disreputable establishment. Luckily the proprietor owed him a favor and agreed to open up early so they could talk.
No man matching Eugene Jones's description had spent the night in his hotel, but he had eaten at the diner. The wife remembered the old man bragging how he was going to catch the stage to Feddington, a town just across the Canadian border. Wyatt hired a fresh horse at the livery and rode after the stage. He caught it around noon, its axle broken on a rugged mountain pass. It had been robbed, and Eugene had lost the last of Garnet's money . . . that is, what he hadn't spent in the gambling halls along the way.
Chapter Six
It wasn't fair that Pa was gone, and now she was stuck with Garnet, who was mad as a wet hornet. Wiping the tears from her eyes, Golda padded carefully around the back corner of the shack. With all the dust that rose with each dainty step, she knew it was useless to try to keep her new pale pink dimity gown from becoming dirty, but she did want to try. Even in the wilderness, a lady ought to care about her appearance.
Something rustled in the bushes, sounding sharp and dangerous, and then a shadow struck out from behind the dense foliage. Golda remembered the trouble two nights ago and choked on a scream, then relaxed when she recognized him. The man who stood before her in the brilliant sunlight was Mr. Lance Lowell.
How handsome he was with broad shoulders and a sturdy look to his well-framed body. He was a bit lean, but time had yet to broaden him more. He smiled, and his round boyish face turned darling and captivated her.
She placed her hand over her breast to still her quick-beating heart. "Oh, Lance, I mean, Mr. Lowell. How perfectly lovely to see you again."
"I had to come." As if nervous, the handsome man tugged off his battered hat and held it by the tattered brim. "I heard about yer pa runnin' off in the night. I heard tell how Mr. Tanner searched every saloon and brothel in these parts for him. 'Bout tore the town apart."
"I know. He just got back." Golda's heavy sigh was nothing like the burden put upon her these days. "Garnet has been so unbearable and furious at Pa she can hardly slip a word from between her clenched teeth. And Mr. Tanner is positively terrifying."
"He's a dangerous man and oughtn't be anywheres near a lady as delicate as you."
Sincerity shone in his eyes and rang innocent in his voice, and Golda could not summon up one of Garnet's many lectures on the flaw
s of the male sex. Not a single one.
"It ain't right," he went on to say, "you bein' forced to stay in his cabin."
"I absolutely agree." Golda lifted a hand to fluff the curling tendrils around her face. She sensed that Lance had a kind heart, as kind as dear Pa's. "Oh, Lance, I feel so much safer now that you've paid me a visit."
"I got somethin' for ya." He reached inside his breast pocket and deposited a small drawstring bag onto her palm. "It ain't much, but it's all I got and I want ya to have it."
"Oh, Lance." Golda knew at once it was the gold he had panned from the creek with his own strong hands.
"You'll be needin' a stage ticket." Lance squared his shoulders proudly. "I mean to help you out."
"I have never heard of anything so noble or so selfless." And indeed, Golda never had. Her pa, no matter how she loved him, had never given her half as much. And as for Garnet, she was always too busy working day in and day out as a schoolteacher and on the farm. "You're a gallant gentleman."
Mr. Lance Lowell, despite his battered dusty clothes, did indeed look like a flesh-and-blood hero to Golda's eyes. There was such a dependable responsibility in the way he held his shoulders and in the determined, manly set of his chin. Her heart fluttered. She hadn't had the opportunity to actually meet many men, but she couldn't help but believe Lance was so different than the type of men Garnet had warned her about.
Anyone could see the burn of kindness in his gentle eyes. Anyone could see how he took on burdens not his own.
Golda stared down at the small string poke, plump in her palm. She knew the value of the dust within would undoubtedly be small, but it was the thought that mattered. Perhaps there might be enough to purchase two stagecoach tickets out of town. Then Garnet could quit her infernal fuming.
But staring up into Lance's eyes, so soft and warm like melted fudge on the stove, Golda suddenly felt deeply sad at the thought of leaving. She had never met such a man as Lance Lowell and she didn't wish to leave him.
"We've missed the morning stage. I'm afraid we shall be stranded here in Stinking Creek for an entire week, until the next stage." Now she was almost glad.
"I know." Lance gripped his battered hat more tightly. "I hate for ya to go, but it ain't right for ya to be stranded here."
Golda's heart swelled. His selfless statement only proved his worth as a man. He gave her this gold knowing she would leave town with it. She dared to meet his gaze, a bold move for which Garnet would admonish her if she knew.
"Perhaps you might come visit me before I leave?"
A broad grin split the boyish handsomeness of Lance's round face. "I'd be mighty pleased to do that, Miss Golda. I was hopin' maybe you might ask me to visit."
Hope began to grow so tightly in her chest that it hurt, but Golda didn't mind. She had never felt so joyful, so alive.
For the first time in her life she had a beau. A man who clearly adored her, and who just might in time fall deeply in love with her.
Golda's heart swelled, right along with her most secret dreams.
"Mr. Lowell," she said now in greatest confidence, "I would welcome a visit from you any time at all."
* * *
"No! Absolutely not."
Garnet stormed across the cabin. She had never felt such furious rage in all her life than she did now at Wyatt Tanner's offer.
Not even at her pa, who'd duped her over and over again, had made her as angry as the man standing before her, whose dependable presence was like the steady beam of the sun above.
"Just take the damn gold," he ground out with sizable frustration. He hauled out the cabin's only chair and settled down to the table, looking dusty and trail-weary. "I can always pan more from the creek where I got it."
"But it's your life's savings." Garnet whirled around and stared at the man who reclined so casually in that crude chair. A new bottle of whisky winked in the sunshine that streamed through the yawning door. "I won't leave you as penniless as Pa left me."
"Trust me, I won't be penniless." Wyatt cracked open the seal on the bottle. "I have a gold claim. With gold on it. All it takes is a little work."
"If there is gold." Garnet crossed her arms. "I can't do it. I can't even consider it. I won't take your money, Wyatt."
"Give me one good reason why not."
"I've got my pride." She felt strung tight as a clothesline, ready to snap. "I've always fended for myself. And I'm not about to start relying on others to see to my needs."
"Oh, so that's it." He dared to chuckle. Clearly, he liked to live dangerously. "You're too proud a woman to take money from a man like me."
Garnet raised her chin a notch, her stance unyielding. "I have never needed a man's money, and I never will. I am capable of taking care of myself."
"How are you going to do that? Get yourself a patch of land and pan for gold?"
"Pan for gold? Goodness, I'll not resort to such unindustrious work. Surely there has to be some sort of respectable wage I can earn in this town."
And yet, even as she made the statement, she pictured Stinking Creek as it was the night she arrived. Scandalous. Dangerous. Sinful.
"The only respectable wages you could make are in the brothel." Wyatt tipped his head back and took three long pulls from the whiskey bottle. His throat worked with each swallow.
A brothel! "Is that what you think a woman is good for? A man's sport?" Oh, she'd had nearly enough of him, even if he had tried to rescue her savings from Pa. Furious beyond all measure, she stomped over to the table and wrapped her fingers around the neck of the whiskey bottle. She wished it was his neck.
"Hey! That's not what I meant at all. Garnet, give me back my booze."
He bounced up so quickly his chair tumbled backward onto the dirt floor, but she gave the bottle a good toss before he could stop her. She watched the whiskey fly through the air end over end, alcohol spilling like rain. The bottle hit a thin tree and thunked to the ground, broken and empty.
Garnet's chest swelled with satisfaction.
He crowded beside her in the doorway and sighed with complete disappointment. "What in the hell did you do that for?"
Suddenly, she realized her mistake. Crowded together in the doorway, she turned to face him. They were improperly close. Nearly nose-to-nose. If she took a deep breath, her breasts would brush up against the soft cotton fabric of his shirt. Of his chest.
"Don't run off with another bottle of mine."
"Then don't drink in my presence."
"Lady, this is my house. I'll do whatever the hell I want." He pressed closer, close enough that his breath fanned her face. He smelled faintly of coffee and more powerfully of liquor. "If you don't like me, then I suggest you leave."
"Fine." Her chin firmed, but she wondered if she could hide the tears smarting in her eyes. "If you want, I'll pack our belongings and be on our way."
"With my gift of gold?"
"Wrong." Garnet felt the righteous anger spill out of her like flour from a sack. "I am beholden to no one."
"That's not entirely true. You stayed in my shack," he reminded her with a teasing grin. "That makes you beholden to me."
"And I greatly regret it," she admitted, trying not to laugh at him. The sparkle of humor brightening his eyes was contagious. Could she hold back her smile?
No. One quirked along her mouth, but he stepped away before it could change the tension between them. Garnet squinted in the too-bright sunshine. Inside the cabin she heard a clink of glass.
"Please, take the gold." He returned with a new bottle of whiskey. He broke the seal with the slightest pressure from his big hand. "I insist. Don't think of it as charity. Consider it incentive to leave my cabin and never come back." He winked.
"You want to pay me to leave you alone?"
"Yes." Wyatt tipped the bottle and drank deeply. "Why do you think I live out here in the wilderness where there are no women?"
"So you don't have to bathe?" He wasn't the only one who could tease.
"So I
can have some peace and quiet." He leaned against the wall, half in shadow, half in light, and took another pull on the bottle. Whiskey burned down his throat. "Take the money, Garnet. You can't stay here."
Not when he had a job to do, a cover to protect. Everyone in this town thought he was a miner panning for gold. And in order to find his brother's killer, everyone had to believe it. He couldn't have a woman hanging around, especially not one as sharp-eyed and intelligent as Garnet Jones.
"Don't worry. You want peace and quiet, you will have it." She snatched up an empty bucket and strode off. The sunshine played in her rich black hair, and her fast feet kicked up a growing plume of dust. From the looks of it, her leg was healing nicely.
Wyatt watched her disappear toward the creek. Amazing. She meant what she said. She wasn't going to take his gold.
Wyatt tipped back the bottle and let the fire-hot liquid burn a river down his throat to his belly. He was a man who thought he'd seen everything. The beauty of the wilderness. Indians in battle. Outlaws so cold and soulless that it was enough to make a man believe in evil. And yet, this was a first. A woman who wouldn't take a man's money.
He had never heard of such a thing. He had never believed that such a woman lived.
Unable to douse his curiosity, Wyatt followed her to the creek. Garnet sat on a large round boulder at the water's edge, her skirts carefully tucked out of the water's reach. The wind tugged at the long fall of hair neatly bound at the base of her neck. Small curls caught the breeze and shivered.
As if she was aware of his eyes on her, Garnet turned.
"Did you come to offer me even more money so I will leave you alone?"
"I'm afraid to." He crossed his arms across his chest, casually resting the bottle between two fingers. "You have quite a temper."
"One of the reasons no man would ever marry me." She watched the gurgling creek.
She was a small woman. She might be tall, but that only emphasized the slight build of her shoulders, the tiny width of her waist, and all her vulnerable beauty. She wore a plain butter-yellow dress today, a soft, muted color that made her seem delicate.
