The grizzled miner who’d been standing in front of Mattie turned around and shouldered his way out of the crowd, swearing about the “Yankee preacher” as he went by.
“Don’t you see that that is the kind of behavior mankind engages in every day? Knowing for a certainty that we are going to die, knowing for a certainty that we cannot take anything from this life into the next, we still continue to spend our lives pursuing the equivalent of Confederate money—which is any earthly treasure. Friends, that is not just unwise. As I said before, it’s plain stupid.
“Now, some preachers would have you believe that Jesus was against the entire concept of storing up treasure. But that is not true. Jesus was not only for treasure, he commanded his followers to pursue treasure and to store it up where it will still be doing good a hundred million years from now.”
“You bein’ paid by the Miners and Merchants Bank?” someone joked. Laughter rippled through the crowd.
The preacher smiled. “Friends, I am here to make only one point today—”
“Well, make it and shut up,” someone said back. “We’ve all got drinkin’ to do.”
The preacher nodded. “Fair enough. Here it is: you cannot take it with you, but you can send it on ahead.” He searched the crowd, focusing first on one listener and then another. “Invest in eternity, brothers.” His blue-gray eyes focused on Mattie. “Invest in eternity, sister.”
Stepping down he said, very loudly, “If you want to know more, I’m not hard to find.” He picked up the box he’d been standing on and put his hat on.
“Hey, Preacher,” someone called, “you forgot to take up a collection.”
“I have a strong back and a will to work,” he said. “I’ll be fine.” He tipped his hat and, turning his back on the crowd, headed off up the street toward—who knew? As she watched his retreat, Mattie suddenly realized the preacher was the fool who’d helped the painted lady out of the mud the day Mattie arrived in Deadwood.
Late Sunday Mattie looked up from the counter in Tom’s store just as the preacher ducked inside. The crowd of gawkers in the store had finally thinned. They would be closing soon, and Tom had taken the plans for Garth Merchandise over to one of the sawmills to place an order for lumber.
The preacher crossed to where Mattie stood behind the primitive counter. “Aron Gallagher,” he said with a smile, “and you are the angel who listened all the way through to the end of my little talk earlier today. What did you think?”
Close up, the preacher’s eyes were more blue than gray. Close up, his powerful build dwarfed her. Close up, Mattie could tell the preacher had worked some scented oil through his hair. And that was the one thing that caused her to relegate the reverend Aron Gallagher to the ranks of the preachers who had frequented Jonas’s establishment—the ones who were no different from any other customers. Oh, they had a unique job, but after lecturing on Sunday they gambled on Monday just like any other low-down varmint. As far as Mattie was concerned, if there was a God, he would probably settle the score sooner or later. In the meantime, as long as they paid their gambling debts it was none of her affair.
“It was fine,” she said, glancing toward the street and wishing Tom would come back. “Can I help you find something on the shelves here? We’ll be closing up soon.”
“Really? Did you really think it was all right? Because I’m very new at this sort of thing.” He chuckled. “I don’t really know what I’m doing. Could you tell?”
“If you don’t know what you’re doing, why do you do it?”
The preacher sighed. “I can’t seem to find a way not to. I’ve tried running away from it and there’s just nowhere to run.” He looked around the store. “I was told the owner might be looking for some help with a building… . Is he around?”
“Mr. English should be back any moment now.” Mattie picked up a rag and began to dust the mug display, blushing furiously when she realized she was wiping out a thunder mug.
“Are you Mrs. English, then?”
Freddie ducked into the tent before she could answer. “You’re the preacher. I heard it was a good sermon. I didn’t come because I was hunting. Aunt Lou said she listened from just inside the hotel and you did good. Are you going to build a church? Deadwood needs a church.” Without waiting for the preacher to answer, Freddie took it upon himself to make introductions. “I’m Freddie Jannike and this is Mattie O’Keefe. She’s going to be a miner. Mr. Tom English is building the store. He’s partners with my mor. She’s gone now with the freighters. Did you want to buy something?”
Expecting to see the preacher’s expression change the way others’ sometimes did when Freddie rambled enough to reveal his childlike mind, Mattie was surprised when instead the preacher shook Freddie’s hand and introduced himself. “I’m Aron,” he said. “Aron Gallagher. And it would be wonderful to have a church someday, but I wouldn’t expect folks to hire a street preacher they didn’t know to pastor a church.” He smiled. “Actually, I was looking for Mr. English in hopes he’d hire me to help with his building.”
Freddie looked the man over. “Do you know anything about building stores?”
“I do,” the preacher said with a nod.
“Then you should come with me and talk to Tom,” Freddie said. “Our store is going to be big. With an upstairs for Mor and me and Eva. Tom can show you the drawings.” He glanced at Mattie. “But first I have to help Mattie close up.” The preacher offered to help and it wasn’t long before the merchandise they’d had stacked just outside the tent flap was all back inside.
“Thank you,” Mattie said as she grabbed the account book. She glanced at Freddie. “If you want to go with the reverend—”
“I’m not a reverend, ma’am,” the preacher broke in. “I’d be much obliged if you’d just call me Aron.”
If it weren’t for that scented oil in his hair, she’d have been inclined to think the preacher was an honest and humble man looking for a real job. As it was, she couldn’t bring herself to trust him, and she certainly was not going to call a stranger by his given name. She cleared her throat and spoke to Freddie. “If you’d want to help Mr. Gallagher find Tom, I’ll turn the lamps down and close up.”
“I promised Mor I’d set some traps,” Freddie said. “She said she isn’t hauling freight to feed the mice.”
“I can set the traps,” Mattie said.
“But you were going to come and eat with Tom and me at the hotel,” Freddie protested. “I wanted you to meet Aunt Lou.”
Gallagher broke in. “That’s perfect. Aunt Lou offered to share leftovers with me later.” He raked his fingers through his hair. “I tried to unrumple myself a bit, but I don’t think I succeeded very well.”
“Aunt Lou doesn’t mind rumpled people,” Freddie said. “And besides that, you look fine.” He glanced at Mattie. “Doesn’t he?”
Mattie wasn’t about to answer that. “You know, Freddie, I really do want to meet Aunt Lou, but I’m exhausted. I think I’m just going to have a cup of that stew you put on this morning and call it a day.” She glanced at Gallagher and nodded. “Good evening.” And with that, she began to turn down the lamps.
It was the preacher who caught on. “Good evening, ma’am,” he said, and together he and Freddie headed for the sawmill.
Ladling some of Freddie’s stew into a bowl, Mattie settled by the campfire with a contented sigh. They hadn’t moved Swede’s tent off her lot yet, and it was good to be tucked back here behind it, free from ogling eyes—and marriage proposals. She chuckled, wondering what Fergus and Finn McKay would think of their father’s plan. Overall, it had been a satisfying day. She’d earned an honest wage, and she hadn’t even minded setting the mousetraps, although she was glad Freddie would be handling them from now on. This time tomorrow she’d be up on her claim. How much gold would she pan the first day?
Just as she was thinking of turning in early, voices heralded the arrival of Freddie, Tom, and Mr. Gallagher. Apparently the preacher knew more than a li
ttle about building. So impressed was Tom by the man’s understanding of carpentry that he seemed to have forgotten all about his earlier opinion of preachers.
“It looks as though I really can have the store finished before Swede gets back,” Tom said to Mattie as he poured a mug of coffee and handed it to Mr. Gallagher. “Aron looked over my drawings and came up with ways to build faster—and better.”
Mr. Gallagher took a sip of coffee without sitting down. He was already looking the lot over. “We’ve still got some daylight left,” he said. “Why not get started?”
The two men began measuring and pounding stakes, and by nightfall the outline of a building had appeared on Swede’s lot.
“We’ll have to take the tent down tomorrow,” Tom said to Mattie at one point. He nodded toward a broken-down wagon at the back of the lot. “What would you think of setting up a room in that wagon for when you need to stay over in town? I know it doesn’t—”
“It’ll be fine,” Mattie said. “Not much different from a claim tent, as far as I can tell.”
“You’re sure?”
Mattie smiled. “I’m sure.” She stood up. “In fact, I’ll move in tonight so you men can work as long as you like. I would appreciate it, though, if Freddie could stand watch. Not so much for me as to protect the last of the merchandise we haven’t moved yet.”
Tom nodded. “Done. And thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” Mattie poured the dregs of her coffee on the ground and crossed to the wagon, happy when there was no evidence of it being inhabited by anything other than dust. No need for mousetraps up here. She spent the last hour of daylight cleaning, and by nightfall when she spread out her bedroll and realized she would be able to see the moon and stars through the opening at the back, she decided she liked the new setup. If it rained she could draw the canvas together and close the opening. As for deep snow and winter’s cold, she would be able to sleep in the finished store long before that became a concern. How good it was to have Tom and Freddie looking out for her. Dare she think of them as friends? The idea felt right. She could not, however, say the same for Tom’s hired man.
Earlier in the evening Mattie had scolded herself for thinking badly of Mr. Gallagher because of his scented hair oil. When it turned out that he was just trying to get cleaned up to eat with Aunt Lou, she felt guilty for suspecting he had designs on her. Still, as the evening wore on, she had become increasingly uneasy until finally she thought she had it figured out. It was the way Gallagher moved, the way he watched people, the way he used his hands. Especially the hands. He might be charming. He might be a good carpenter. He might be calling himself a preacher today. But Mattie would have bet her first gold nugget that Aron Gallagher would be more comfortable dealing faro than he was preaching or pounding stakes at a building site.
Aron Gallagher was a gambler.
CHAPTER 6
In her tongue is the law of kindness.
Proverbs 31:26
It’s the brother. The sniveling, overprotective weakling of a brother. Jonas Flynn sat in the Kansas City hotel lobby looking down at the newspaper in his lap and wondering how he could have missed it. Now that he’d realized it, he could think back to a dozen times when he should have made the connection. But he hadn’t. Not until just this moment reading the article bemoaning the lack of concern for the miners up in Dakota, decrying the “Indian problem,” and opining what the United States government and Generals Crook and Merritt should be doing about it.
Flynn laid the newspaper aside and stood up. Crossing the hotel lobby, he took the stairs two at a time up to the second floor. Once in his room, he stared out over the city, wondering at his stupidity. He’d assumed that, wanting to get away as quickly as possible, Mattie would jump aboard the first train to roll out of Abilene. He’d spent weeks tracing her supposed eastern route, doubling back, stopping at every town along the way, checking every saloon, every dance hall, every gambling establishment. Even if the conductor or the ticket agent didn’t remember a brunette beauty with violet eyes, he still combed the town. Just to be sure. And now here he was in Kansas City. He’d spent time in places that made even him sick, and nothing. Not one trace of the thieving witch named Mattie O’Keefe.
He usually didn’t stop the hunt until so late at night that he dropped right off to sleep, and he hadn’t read a newspaper in days. But today … today he’d felt defeated and so out of sorts he’d paused long enough for a good cigar and a newspaper. And that’s when it hit him. Mattie O’Keefe hadn’t run away from him as much as she had run to her brother.
And where else would Dillon O’Keefe have headed than the rich gold fields in Dakota Territory? After all, their mother had raised her brats on fairy tales about the gold fields of California, where she’d hooked up with a young Jonas P. Flynn.
As he stared out the window, Jonas could imagine the O’Keefe siblings plotting against him: Dillon would leave Abilene, thereby lulling Jonas into thinking he’d finally succeeded in running him off. Mattie would stay for a while, charming Jonas into a sense of false security. And all the while she was just waiting to rob him and run. Jonas swore under his breath. He should have killed Dillon O’Keefe when he had the chance. And when he finally caught up with them, maybe he’d kill them both—just as soon as he got his money back.
A man in his position couldn’t let one of the girls get away with stealing. Now that he thought about it, he realized that he couldn’t kill Mattie. At least not until after he’d dragged her back to Abilene and made an example of her. The minute she’d left, a couple of the other girls had started looking at him with a certain glint in their eye. Especially the redhead. Maybe Flo was stealing from him, too. He hadn’t been able to prove it before leaving to chase Mattie down, but once the chase was over, once Flo saw what happened to girls who crossed Jonas Flynn—that, Jonas vowed, would be the end of that.
Mattie O’Keefe had been trouble for as long as he’d known her. He’d let her get away with things another girl would have been sacked or beaten for. “My voice is for sale,” she’d said. “My body isn’t.” The minx. As if she were something special. Jonas closed his eyes, and there she was in his imagination, her perfect hair tumbling over silken ivory shoulders … and those eyes … she was the tantalizing prize he couldn’t have … hadn’t had … yet… . And the way she danced just out of his reach had fueled his longing until at times he felt half mad with desire.
For a while he’d been content just to listen to her sing, to watch her sit at the high-priced table and deal cards and rake in the money for him. For a while it had been enough knowing that as far as anyone else was concerned, Mattie O’Keefe was the property of Jonas P. Flynn, and that after the other fools who’d slobbered all over her throughout the evening staggered out the door, Mattie came upstairs to his room. As far as anyone else knew, the door that connected his quarters with her room was always open.
Eventually, Jonas told himself, things would go according to his will. After all, in spite of his age, in spite of the loss of a hand and the need for a prosthetic hook, Jonas P. Flynn possessed the ultimate aphrodisiacs: money and power. And he had time. He’d let her sashay about and promote his business. He’d even created a false account to show her how much money she was earning. But that was all over now.
He’d been patient … so patient. And yet Mattie had remained unwilling to accept the realities of life: that what she earned on paper didn’t become real until she took that last step into his bed. And when he’d finally made it clear to her naïve brain, she’d actually believed she could say no.
Remembering the final scene between the two of them, he grimaced and swiped an open palm across his perspiring forehead. Turning away from the window, he crossed to the mirror hanging above the bureau and fingered the angry red line running along the ridge of his left cheekbone. He looked down at the ring she’d left behind—the ring he wore on his little finger as a reminder. He snorted. The ring was nothing. What mattered was his reputation. Half th
e girls in the place had heard them fighting. He could still imagine them with ears pressed to their doors, listening. If he let Mattie get away with this, every girl in the place would think she could talk back and choose what she would and would not do. A man couldn’t run a business that way.
Standing back from the mirror, Jonas admired the neatly trimmed gray beard, the impeccably tailored vest, the posture that said, THIS is a man of substance. A respectable businessman. Well, he was about to make certain that never changed. Packing quickly, he descended to the hotel lobby and checked out. At the train station a helpful ticket agent explained the route to the gold fields of Dakota. North to Omaha, then west to a place called Sidney, Nebraska.
“Now, I don’t know about how a gentleman gets north from Sidney,” the ticket agent said. “Of course there’s all kinds of freight being moved, but as for passengers—I know there was talk of a stage line, but whether it’s in service yet, I have no idea. I suppose a man in a hurry with the means to do so would just buy a good horse and head north. But with all the Indian trouble, I don’t know as that’s advisable.”
Jonas bought the ticket to Sidney. One way. As the train rolled out of the station and headed north along the Missouri, he leaned his head back and closed his eyes. He hated Kansas City. Give him Abilene any day. Abilene, where he’d built a small but lucrative kingdom, where justice was cheap and women knew their place. Except for Mattie O’Keefe. Jonas smiled. That was about to change.
Mattie waded into the creek and, crouching down, sunk the pan of gravel into the frigid water. Before she could attempt any kind of move like Tom had demonstrated, the strong current in the creek caught the pan, flipped it over, and threatened to wash it away. She stumbled around, rescued the pan, and then lost her balance, nearly falling flat in the middle of the creek.
A Claim of Her Own Page 8
