"Howdy girls," he called out, rough and deep, and he changed his direction just to intercept them. "Are ya havin' a slow night?"
Garnet stared at the man, deeply repulsed at his friendliness. Goodness, they were decent women. He was dressed so darkly she could hardly make him out except for the flash of guns strapped to both thighs. The sight made her heart quake.
He strolled closer, his chuckle deep as he called out, "How much'll it cost me fer both of ya?"
Golda whimpered, and Garnet skidded to a halt. Cost him? For what? Indignation rolled over her, stealing away some of her fear. He thought they were selling their charms on the street. Why, she'd simply never been mistaken for a . . . heavens, she had never been so insulted.
"I said, how much?"
"How much?" Garnet hissed. "A decent woman is worth more than you can pay."
"Is that so?" The man cocked one eyebrow, interested now. "I got me a lot of gold."
"A lot of gold?" Oh, she was mad. "Is that all?"
"Ain't that enough?"
Garnet thought of how Pa had left them over the years. "A woman wants much more than a bit of silly dust. She requires substance of character and steadfast integrity. Both of which you obviously lack."
She glared at the sorry excuse for a man. It was evident he had no moral fiber. He'd probably abandoned a wife and half a dozen children just to hunt for gold in the wilderness.
Just like her pa had.
Deplorable. Simply deplorable. She had no notion what the world was coming to.
The man blushed furiously and ran off in the night.
A lot of gold indeed! Garnet huffed. No wonder Pa had found his way here. He was among his kind–shiftless men who dreamed of achieving fortunes without an honest day's labor. She was greatly displeased to see for herself the depth to which civilization would sink without a woman's firm hand. Surely they could locate Pa, board him on the next stage out of town, and be away from this foul camp.
If she could survive the smell.
Chapter Two
Wyatt Tanner had a headache that drilled through his left temple at an angle behind his eye and bored right through the back of his head. Then it ricocheted like a bullet in a barrel. Darn cheap whiskey. It did this to him every time.
He should have skipped the poker tables tonight. It was Saturday, almost Sunday morning. A time when all thoughts turned to home. Some drank to forget, while others drank to console themselves, missing the womenfolk they'd left behind. It was all they moaned about as they made their bets and played their hands.
In all, it was a grim night and not good for his kind of business, listening to the talk that came when liquor loosened tongues. He wasn't going to find out any more information, not by playing poker with men who would think of nothing else but the women they left on purpose.
Yep, good thing he was heading home for a good night's sleep. He'd have better luck tomorrow. Wyatt pulled the brim of his hat low over his eyes and kept walking.
The slightest noise crackled behind him on the dark, desolate road.
He froze, his senses alert. His heart pounded triple time. He thought of the killer he'd come here to find and of the substantial gold he'd won at the tables tonight. Both made him a target for a murderer. Taking no chances, his fingers inched toward his holsters.
There it was again. Sounded like a double pair of footsteps coming from town. He squinted into the darkness, but he hadn't been outside long enough for his eyesight to adjust to the moonless night.
The entire population of Stinking Creek was in town gambling and drinking. These men, they had to be following him. Until he solved the murders in this town, Wyatt would take no chances. He headed for cover and drew his revolver.
The two figures moved closer. He squatted down beside a skinny tree trunk. Two short men. He could see the movements of their hats against the background of leaves and branches. They moved closer, slow and cautious, oblivious to the target they made. Then he heard it, the sound of voices high and quarreling.
Those were no men. Not with those swishing petticoats. Why in the devil's clutches were two women squawking like a flock of hens on his road? Worse, they were paying no attention to their surroundings. They did not notice the dark figure looming behind them in the pitch-black night.
Wyatt watched as the man drew a rifle. The barrel shone black as the midnight rider aimed at one of the women. Wyatt didn't hesitate. He pulled the trigger, his pistol fired, and a woman screamed.
Heart pounding, he broke out of the underbrush and into a run down the path, his gaze trained on the last movement of the horse and rider. But there was only shadows and forest.
Where did he go? Wyatt knew he'd hit the man; he had no doubt. Maybe it was a thief. Or maybe it was the killer he was hunting.
Wyatt drew up short when he spotted something up ahead. It was a rifle, left on the road. He knelt down to examine it, his senses alert to any danger he couldn't see. The stock felt wet. He examined it. Wet with blood.
He wanted to chase down the shooter, but his conscience reminded him of the women in the road, defenseless and probably terrified. They needed his help, whoever they were. Beneath the plain miner's garb beat the heart of a deputy marshal. His first concern was to make certain the women were unharmed and helped to safety.
Then he would get back to the job of hunting down his brother's killer.
He retrieved his lantern from the side of the road and lit it. Orange flames licked to life as he approached the fallen women. His heart stammered at the sight of the single female form sprawled on the ground. Light flickered across her still body.
"Where did the other girl go?" He lifted the lantern and light spilled across the road. He could easily see the bent stalks of bunchgrass and shivering leaves.
"You don't have to be afraid," he called. "I won't hurt you."
No answer. Well, he would worry about the one who couldn't run off, the one unconscious at his feet. He shifted the lantern, shadows dancing over her still form.
She was no fresh-faced maiden, not with those fine creases around her full mouth and lines in the corners of her closed eyes. But she was no hard-bitten woman either. Wyatt could see the softness of her skin, pearl-smooth even in this rough light.
She wore a modest gray dress, a fabric without print or stripes or tiny flowers. The material stretching across her small breasts and tightly cinched waist was plain and unadorned. Her full skirt had ballooned up under her, perhaps as a result of her fall, to reveal white pantaloons and socks. A bright stain grew in the muslin covering her upper thigh. Blood. She'd been shot.
He knelt down to study the rent fabric and skin. The small bullet hole revealed a raw tear and several layers of opened flesh. She'd only been nicked by the bullet, for it looked like a superficial wound. Wyatt shook his head, relieved. She was lucky and he was damn grateful, since there wasn't a doctor brave enough to set up practice in the notoriously rough mining camp of Stinking Creek.
Now that he knew she wasn't dead or dying, great questions troubled him. Who was she? Where did she come from? And most importantly, why? He didn't recognize her face. She certainly wasn't one of the town's painted ladies.
He eased the knife from his pocket and glanced around, watching the shiver of the shadowed trees in the slight wind. An owl glided by on outstretched wings. He heard no human sounds.
He exposed the sharp knife's blade. Its steely edge caught the thin lantern light and flashed in the darkness. He was no doctor, but he would do what he could. Even if it wasn't safe here kneeling in the road. Listening for the return of the dark rider, he reached for a length of the woman's starched petticoats and sliced off a good bit of hem.
The sound of fabric tearing blended with the other sounds of night. The chirp of insects, the hoot of an owl, the call of a wolf in the distance. A closer one answered. Wyatt considered the direction of the wind. Would the wolves smell blood and move in?
He quickly tied the band of cloth tight about the wound. Immediately blood began to seep through the bandage. Wyatt studied that growing stain, bright crimson against snowy white muslin. He'd best get her to shelter. His cabin was the nearest place.
Well, it looked like he was saddled with another patient to look after, whether he wanted her or not. He was no darn nurse. He had a murder to solve and a life of his own to get back to. Stinking Creek wasn't his idea of paradise.
Another wolf's cry sliced through the night. They had no time to dally. Wyatt wondered where the second woman had disappeared to. She'd probably run to hide from him. There was no way she could know he wasn't a threat. He listened for the sound of her in the woods, but heard only the movement of animals scurrying for cover. The wolves were here.
He tucked his left arm beneath the woman's knees and his right beneath her shoulders. He could feel the curve of her ribs and the rounding of her bottom. All female. Her head bobbed from side to side, then gently rolled to rest against his shoulder. Her lustrous dark hair felt like black silk against his chin. He tried not to pay attention, tried not to remember the last time he held a woman, his wife. His chest ached. Yes, best not to think of that.
It wasn't a long walk back to his cabin, but the night wrapped silently around him. He sensed the dark, shadowy presence of the wolves. Wyatt walked faster, always aware of the woman in his arms.
* * *
Golda Jones bit back the hard cold ball of fear in her chest. She crouched behind a thick, dark patch of tree branches. She had been careful not to make even one sound. It was difficult. Small twigs littering the ground beneath her shoes threatened to snap beneath the slightest shift of her weight. Willowy branches caught in her hair and moved with each intake of breath.
The moment she realized their lives were in peril, Golda had run for the cover of the forest. She'd been halfway there when she realized Garnet had fallen. Torn by indecision, she'd debated what to do. But when that gun-toting ruffian came dashing toward them, fear had overtaken loyalty and she'd hidden from the outlaw the best she could.
She just happened to have hold of both reticules, and she clutched them tightly to her belly. Garnet would want her to safeguard them, for all of their savings were tucked inside. If that outlaw took their gold, how else would they afford safe passage back home?
Although the villain carried a small lantern, she could not see enough of the road to tell if Garnet still lived. Now the man stepped into a soft glow of light. A cold hand of fear reached right out and clutched her rapidly beating heart. The dark stranger scanned the forest as if he knew she was there, as if he sensed her watching him. She snapped her eyes shut and stood in absolute darkness, terror pumping through her veins.
Golda opened her eyes. Far ahead in the oppressive night, she could see the man staggering under the weight of something he carried like a huge sack of grain. Garnet! She swallowed the scream in her too-dry throat. He was packing off her sister's body.
Her grief hammered through her in one cold sweep. Golda leaned her forehead against the reassuring solidness of the tree trunk. The bark was hard and rough against her fair skin. She held her breath until every urge to scream had faded.
Silence settled around her, as thick as fog. Funny, not even the wind seemed to blow.
The tiny hairs on the back of her neck rose, and Golda didn't need to turn around. She saw the slow movement low on the ground, a dark liquid blackness that shrank to absolute stillness when she looked at it.
Wolves.
Losing all rational thought, she screamed. Her cry rose up in the night, rending the thick silence that had settled over the earth like a warm wool blanket. With her heart in her throat, she grabbed tight hold of her skirts and ran. The dark shadows followed her, then sprang to life.
This time she didn't scream. She didn't have the chance.
* * *
Garnet knew she was dead. Yes, she was certain of it. First, there was the complete and utter weightlessness of her body. Second, there was the absolute blackness that met her eyes when she opened them.
Heaven wasn't what she expected. Light, maybe. Angels, certainly. But not this sense of aloneness. Or pain. Sheets of it, sharp and biting, right in the middle of her thigh. Her entire body tightened against the torture. She clenched her jaw until her teeth hurt. She tried to draw air into her constricted lungs and realized that since she was breathing, she must not be dead after all.
One thing was for certain. She wasn't lying in the dusty path where she last remembered being. There was no smell of that powder-dry earth, no sound of a wild breeze through leafy trees, no night animals moving in the shadows. She smelled day-old greasy cooking and coffee grounds. Oh, and something that smelled rather . . . well, bad.
Garnet sniffed again. It was the scratchy blanket that covered her–an unwashed blanket. Realization skittered over her. She remembered walking along the worn path with Golda, heatedly discussing how tired they were, how afraid they would be of Mr. Wyatt Tanner when they found him, and how they feared Pa already dead.
She remembered the shots ringing out like a thunderclap in the night. She hadn't realized she'd been hit, then her leg had buckled beneath her and she'd pitched face-forward into the dirt. There hadn't been pain then, only a cold wave of recognition that she'd been shot, washing over her with the fury of a prairie cyclone.