Once a Rebel

Her pink lips parted for a long silent moment, the pulse at the side of her slender neck leaping wildly. “Pardon me?”

“Your home…is it that way?”

“Why?”

“I’d like a word with your father.”

“My—? No. You can’t.” She shook her head, her lips drawing into a thin line. “No. You can’t.”

Cord growled in frustration. “Look, lady. I don’t have much of a choice.” Anger laced with fear flashed in her eyes. Even the mare sensed the tension and whinnied. Made him realize that because of his own panic, he was going about this all wrong. “My name is Cord,” he said, and soothingly stroked the side of the mare’s neck. “Cord Braddock. What’s your name?”

She hesitated. “Maggie.” Her throat worked as she swallowed. “Maggie Dawson.” Her gaze darted to the hand he’d slowly moved toward the reins. When she sensed what he was about to do, she jerked the reins to the side and used them to slap the mare’s broad rump.

“Giddyap, Bertha!” she cried desperately but the old mare barely moved. “Giddyap.”

“Can’t let you do that, Maggie Dawson,” he said as he jumped up on the seat beside her, causing the whole wagon to list heavily to one side.

She fell against him, blushing furiously, and then quickly righted herself. “What are you doing?”

“I’m not going to hurt you. I just need some answers.”

“You have to get off. Right now.” She edged over as far away from him as possible. “Go.”

Cord sighed wearily. “How far is it?”

“I’m not taking you anywhere.”

“Yes, you are.”

“I’ll scream. I swear I will.”

“I’m sorry about this, Maggie,” Cord said as he reached under his jacket for the .38. “I truly am. But you will take me home.”

4

MAGGIE’S EYES widened at the small gun he showed her, her fascination with its diminutive size and the contraption holding it inside his jacket momentarily replacing her fear. The brown leather straps were some kind of holster, except that she’d never seen one fit over a man’s shoulder before. That didn’t seem terribly practical. Not for speed, anyway. Irrationally the idea helped calm her.

“I really don’t want to hurt you,” the man repeated, reaching for the gun. “But I will if you scream.”

The fear rushed back. She tamped down the desire to jump off the wagon and run toward town. But what chance would she have if he truly meant to do her harm? Instead, she raised her gaze to his. “What do you want?”

“I’m a detective. I’m looking for two missing women.” He withdrew his hand, leaving the gun inside his jacket, his eyes sharp and alert as he assessed her face.

“Are you a Pinkerton?”

He hesitated, not a reassuring sign. “Something like that.”

“I didn’t know they hired Indians,” Maggie murmured thoughtlessly, immediately regretting her words. His face darkened, and she averted her gaze, her heart starting to pound harder. The truth was, she didn’t know much about the private security agency at all, except for gossip she’d heard about some of their agents having proved untrustworthy. “You should talk to the sheriff.”

“I’m not ready to do that yet.” The stranger surprised her by releasing the reins to her. “Let’s go.”

She took a deep breath and tried not to focus where his coat gapped, allowing for a glimpse of the odd-looking gun. There was little to do but comply with his demand and pray he didn’t hurt her. If she gave Bertha her head, the lazy mare would lumber at a snail’s pace and Maggie might get lucky and someone would happen by before they reached the fork that would take them to her cabin. Once they got there, she had no idea what she would do when he found out she lived alone.

The thought made her shudder violently and she nearly lost control of the reins. The man turned toward her but she kept facing forward, then she straightened her spine. As soon as they got to the cabin, she had to get to the rifle leaning on the wall behind the door before he saw it. She’d have the upper hand then. She’d simply make him go away. Threaten to put a hole in him the size of Texas.

God help her, could she actually kill a man? She shuddered again.

“Maggie?”

She jumped. Not just at his familiarity, but at the warm breath that danced across her cheek and stirred the stubborn curls that had escaped the bun at her nape. She moved her shoulder because his were so broad that he kept brushing against her arm.

Drawing her shawl tighter, she moistened her dry lips. “Yes?”

He gently, briefly touched the back of her wrist. “You should be wearing gloves.”

She blinked at him, and then at the patch of skin where he’d pressed the tips of his long lean fingers. Her flesh burned—no, tingled was more like it—where he’d touched her. She wanted to rub away the odd sensation, but she only stared at the unsightly red gash that wound around her pale knuckles. There were calluses, too, on the pads of her thumbs and on the one finger where she’d once dreamed a ring would’ve been placed years ago.

How scratched and ugly her hands were from tending the garden and carrying wood to the stove, from scrubbing clothes and the cabin’s wood floors. Not at all like a proper lady’s hands ought to look. Even when Pa had been alive, he’d sometimes be out prospecting for days on end and the chores had to get done somehow. She’d always worked hard and she wasn’t ashamed of that.

Fisting her hands, she wanted to hide them suddenly, away from his prying eyes. Instead, she lifted her chin and said nothing. Whether she wore gloves or not was none of his concern. He’d be better off worrying how he’d get back to town once she got her hands on Pa’s Spencer carbine rifle.

Her rifle now.

The words echoed tauntingly in her head. She bit down on her lower lip until the coppery taste of blood touched her tongue. It was only her now. Only her.

Without thinking, she glanced over her shoulder. The barren dirt road wound back toward Deadwood. They were nearing the fork that would take them along the creek and to her cabin.

He followed her gaze, his eyes coming gravely back to meet hers. “Let’s step it up.”

He talked funny, dressed funny and smelled too good for a man. Pretty fancy, in fact, for an Indian. Was he really a Pinkerton? Could it be that he simply was looking for two missing women? But why not contact the sheriff?

She cleared her throat. “Who are they? The women you’re looking for?”

“Two sisters. Reese and Ellie Winslow. One blonde, one brunette,” he said absently, his apparent preoccupation worrying her.

She squinted against the setting sun filtering through the trees and wondered why he wasn’t more interested if he really had been hired to find them. “And you think they’re in Deadwood?”

“I don’t know.”

At his impatient tone, she slid him a sidelong glance. His gaze scanned the tall prairie grass and scrub brush close to the road and then darted out to where the ponderosa pines started their climb uphill.

She tried not to think about what was sure to happen once they reached the cabin in the next twenty minutes. And then she realized that a plan was exactly what she should be thinking about. She’d have to act fast to get to the gun first and bring it up high enough to do any good. If they tussled over it, she’d lose. That simple. He was too tall and broad, and…

She slid another look his way. His left shoulder stood a good six inches above hers, and to her utter amazement, a thrill coursed through her. Even Pa had been shorter than she was, and both Mary and Clara certainly, by nearly a foot. Her gaze went to his big hands and long lean fingers. How easily he could choke the life out of her. The sobering thought made her recall what had to be done and it didn’t seem long before the small cabin came into view.

They’d had almost no money with them when they’d come west so the place wasn’t much. But her pa had been good with a hammer so the cabin’s roof no longer leaked, and one side of the sagging red barn where they kept their milk cow, a few chickens and Bertha stayed dry most of the time.

On the left, closer to the creek, sat Maggie’s pride and joy. The square of garden not only helped keep them fed for a good part of the year, but she’d also lovingly planted an assortment of colorful flowers that she sometimes snipped and brought into the house to sit in a canning jar in the kitchen. The air had been too cold lately and the flowers were gone now. Just like Pa.