Once a Rebel

She briefly squeezed her eyes shut. God help her, she had to stop thinking about him. At least for now.

“This is it?” the man asked slowly.

She wished she could remember his name. Although in a few more minutes it wouldn’t matter. Either way. She swallowed hard and nodded, but he wasn’t looking at her. She replied, “Yes. This is where we live.”

“Who else besides you and your father?”

She took a moment too long to answer and sighed. What would be the use of lying further? “That’s all.”

He took the reins from her. “Where is he?”

“Either inside or washing up at the creek.” She started to climb down, but he touched her arm.

“Stay where you are.” As if he didn’t trust her, he kept hold of the reins as he jumped down from the wagon. It didn’t matter. Bertha hadn’t even waited for a cue but plodded slowly toward the barn in search of grain. The man jerked on the reins. “Where the hell is she going?”

“She’s thirsty and she wants to be fed, and there is certainly no need for that kind of language.” Using the opportunity for Bertha’s abrupt stop, Maggie carefully climbed down. “I’ll need to unhitch her and get her watered.”

The stranger looked unconvinced and then motioned with his chin. He followed so close behind that Maggie knew then that when the time came, it wouldn’t be easy getting to the rifle first. Her only advantage was that she alone knew where it lay hidden. She tried to still her trembling hands as she worked to release Bertha from the traces. He came up behind her suddenly, his chest rubbing against her back, and she jumped so hard that her head thwacked his chin.

“Christ, I was just trying to help.” He jerked away, soothing the offended area, and only then did she notice he was trying to lift the harness for her.

“Sorry,” she murmured, still feeling the heat where their bodies had met. “But I’d thank you kindly not to take the Lord’s name in vain.”

“What?” He bit out the word, and then his face relaxed. “It’s just an expression. It doesn’t mean anything.”

“It does to me.” She turned away and finished tending Bertha.

“Why hasn’t your father come out? Shouldn’t he have heard us?”

“Apparently not,” she said crisply.

He sighed and stepped a good distance away. “Look, I’m sorry. I’ll try to watch my language.”

She gave a small nod, her thoughts swirling. If he were truly a bad man, he wouldn’t apologize. Or he wouldn’t have tried to help her with Bertha, for that matter. Maybe when he found out that Pa wasn’t around he’d just leave. Was going for the rifle right off wise on her part?

The problem was, once they were inside and the door was closed, he’d see the shooting iron. Maybe she could leave the door open, pretend she wanted to air out the room. Yes, that was the most prudent plan.

She gave Bertha a quick rubdown, silently promising to come out later and do a proper job, and then portioned some oats for the mare. That was another foreseeable problem if Mary didn’t answer soon. Eventually Maggie would have to replenish feed, which meant she had to trade some gold.

“All done,” she said with forced brightness as she lifted the hem of her skirt and spun toward him.

His gaze swiftly moved up to her face. Where he’d been staring she had no earthly idea. Unless she had a tear in the back of her skirt. The thought brought a surge of heat up her neck and into her cheeks, but she couldn’t very well check for rips now.

He pushed off from the post he’d been leaning on and motioned for her to precede him. Self-conscious, she walked stiffly ahead of him. Thankfully once they left the barn he stayed abreast of her all the way to the cabin.

She opened the door and for the sake of pretense called out, “Pa, I’m home.” Since there were only two rooms, that’s where the deception ended. She shrugged and pushed the door wide. “He must be out back.”

His gaze narrowed. “Wouldn’t he have heard us?”

“He could be out prospecting. I can’t know where he is at every second of the day.” Her eyes widened when she realized how shrewish she’d sounded. “I’m sorry. I don’t know how long he’ll be,” she said, averting her gaze. It automatically went to the man’s hand as it closed around the doorknob. “Leave that door open, please. It’s stuffy in here.”

“Stuffy? It’s chilly.” He pulled the door toward him.

“Don’t.” Tensing, ready to yank the knob from his hand, she met his eyes.

He looked surprised at first, then suspicious.

She tried to look relaxed, but stayed where she was in case she needed to take action. “It’s not proper for us to be alone, you know that. Pa will be most upset if the door is closed when he returns.”

He studied her as if trying to decide if he should trust her. But she hadn’t lied. A gentleman knew it was improper for an unmarried lady to entertain him alone. Requesting that the door remain open was perfectly acceptable.

Finally he snorted and, looking around the small room, murmured under his breath, “And he’ll pull out his shotgun.”

Her flaming cheeks surely gave her away. Having no choice, she dove behind the door for the carbine.

THANKS TO OVER ten years of stunt work, Cord still had lightning reflexes. He grabbed her wrist just as she was about to wrap her hand around the rifle barrel. “You crazy fool. I said I wouldn’t hurt you.”

She struggled, twisting her hand to get free, shoving him with her other hand, but she was no match for him. Although she did get in a couple of good licks to his injured shoulder. He winced, gripping her fragile wrist tighter than he’d meant to. She gasped, her face flushed with exertion, and quit her fight.

He wasn’t as quick to release her. Another jab to his throbbing shoulder and he’d want to wring her neck. He kicked the rifle out of reach, and kept her pinned to the wall. A tremor wracked her body and the fear he saw in her dark green eyes gave him pause. He loosened his grip but wasn’t foolish enough to let her go.

“You said you wouldn’t hurt me,” she taunted softly, trying to flex her trapped wrist.

“Don’t play that game with me.”

She briefly averted her gaze, her breath coming out in small quick pants and tickling the skin at the V of his shirt. The woman was tall, had to be about five-ten, slender and small-boned. With that fair skin of hers, he was bound to leave bruises. None of this was her fault. Wrong place, wrong time. Shame spilled over him.

He released her, and grabbed the rifle before she could get to it. “You even know how to use this?”

“Hand it over and I’ll show you.” She shot him a resentful look as she rubbed the skin around her wrist.

“Sorry, but I had to defend myself.”

“That’s what I was going to say.”

Cord smiled. “Touché.”

She frowned. “I don’t know what that means, mister, and I don’t care. I’m asking you nicely to please leave.”

“It’s Cord,” he said absently, studying the rifle. Not just a prop that he’d seen a hundred times, but the real deal. Beautiful workmanship. “Cord Braddock.”

When he eventually looked over at her, the stark terror in her eyes sliced through him.

“I wasn’t really going to shoot you,” she said, shrinking back to press her spine against the door’s hinges.

He realized his fascination with the Spencer carbine had frightened her. Lowering the rifle to his side, he automatically reached out his other hand to comfort her. With a whimper, she crumpled halfway to the bare plank floor.

“Maggie, no. I was just—” He withdrew his hand and shoved it through his hair. “Look, I’ll unload the rifle so neither of us will think about using it. How’s that?”