A sharp snapping sound riveted her. "Why, that sounded like the stable door. Wyatt's home."
But another sound, like wood cracking, had her wondering. Wyatt was as quiet as the night, like a ghost who could drift soundlessly. Garnet ordered Golda to keep an eye on the fledgling fire and peered through a crack where the twilight crept between the wallboards.
She didn't see a horse. Wyatt had ridden off on his, so he would have returned with it. A crackle of alarm bolted down her spine. Then a light leaped to life in the stable, a soft orange glow. A lantern's light.
Another warning crackle speared her. Wyatt had left the only lantern behind in the cabin.
That was not Wyatt out there in that stable. In a flash Garnet remembered the out-of-control, dangerous men she'd glimpsed through the windows of the saloons when she'd first arrived in town. Any number of outlaws and killers must inhabit a place like this–with no law, no sheriff, no one to keep the peace.
What if he decided to break into the cabin next? Garnet rushed through the dark, despite her injury, and bolted the door.
"Garnet? What's wrong?" Golda whimpered, spinning from the fire, the yellow light from the meager flames brushing over her, showing her stark fear. "Is it Mr. Tanner? Maybe he's decided to show his true colors. I haven't wanted to tell you, but I do not think he could possibly be a safe or proper protector for a girl like me."
"Hush up and let me think, or there won't be anything left of either one of us for Mr. Tanner to come home to." Garnet wrung her hands.
What if that intruder didn't stop at a barred door? She had no weapon, not that she would use a gun if Wyatt had left her one. She did not approve of violence . . . but then she'd never been alone and afraid in a dangerous place like Montana Territory before.
She may have to amend some of her long-standing, firmly held beliefs.
"Garnet!" Golda stood, the blaze in the stove's belly forgotten. "You didn't tell me what's wrong. I'm a grown woman now. You said so yourself. I can help."
"Hand me a whiskey bottle."
"You can't possibly think to take up drinking at a time like this!" Golda almost wailed.
"Hand it to me." Garnet nodded when Golda obeyed, her face twisted in disapproval of the bottled spirits. "Now, bolt the door after me, and take a bottle for yourself. If anyone threatens you, hit him in the head as he comes through the door."
"You're going to leave me alone?"
"Yes. Quiet, now. Maybe the intruder doesn't know we're here, or he would have sneaked up on us first." Garnet took strength from that thought.
She stumbled out into the black night. No wind rustled the trees, no moon shone above to illuminate the forest. Garnet kept to the shadows, fear growing with every beat of her pounding heart, but anger, too. How dare that man, whoever he was, trespass. How dare he frighten her like this by sneaking around in Wyatt's stable!
By the time she'd reached the nearest corner of the stable, the man inside had doused his lantern. She'd been careful, but maybe he'd heard her approach. Garnet froze and held her breath. No sound came from within, no footstep, nothing.
He had heard her. Oh, maybe this was a harebrained notion, coming out like this. But she wasn't about to sit around in the dark cabin waiting to get attacked. She tightened her hold on the bottle, preparing herself for what was to come.
The quietest footstep whispered against the earth. The leather hinges on the door whooshed open, just the tiniest sound. The hair on the back of Garnet's neck rose. She lifted the bottle over her head, ready to strike, pulse pounding.
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 flaws 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.
