the distance, a coyote howled and, hating the eerie sound, Maggie quickly hauled up the bucket of water. The rope cut into her work-roughened hands and it riled her that she suddenly cared about the scars and calluses that marred her palms.
“Here.” With one hand, Cord lifted the heavy bucket from her and dumped the water into the pail.
She saw him wince and then briefly probe his right shoulder, before returning the bucket to its place above the well and then picking up the full pail with his other hand. She turned back toward the cabin, and they walked in silence until they got near the front door. “After I put the beans on I have chores to do out here,” she said, and then added quickly, “Pa usually does them but if he’s not back before sundown I take care of the horses and the chickens.”
“What’s he riding?” Cord gestured toward Red. “If the chestnut is his.”
“A mustang he recently broke and means to sell at auction.” Her quickness surprised even her. She was going straight to hell for all the easy lies. If Mary didn’t get here soon there would be no hope for her eternal soul.
The corners of his mouth lifted slightly. “Okay, when you’re done in the kitchen, I’ll help you out here.”
Maggie’s heart fell. “That isn’t necessary,” she muttered, going ahead of him through the front door. “I know your shoulder is hurt.”
She wasn’t prepared for the firm grip on her arm before he roughly spun her around to face him. Water sloshed out of the pail onto the floor and on her boots.
“How do you know that?” he asked tersely, setting down the pail and taking a step toward her.
She shrunk back, her heel catching on a loose plank she’d meant to fix. He was big and broad, his face dark and threatening, and her mouth went so dry it felt as if her tongue had swelled. “I saw you favor it,” she managed to say in a voice she almost didn’t recognize.
Dark brows knitted together as if she were speaking some strange language that he needed to interpret, and then something passed through his eyes that looked like relief. His features relaxed and he stooped to reclaim the pail. “You want this in the kitchen?”
She nodded, not trusting herself to speak. After waiting until the way was clear, she moved widely around him to get to the sideboard, where she kept her best cast-iron pot. Quickly she got the coffee started and then the beans on, thought briefly about adding some bacon, and decided she didn’t want to feed him that well. In fact, she hoped the cornbread had dried out since last night’s supper. But she’d wrapped it well in a clean cloth and had churned fresh butter this morning because that’s all she’d planned on fixing for herself tonight.
For over two months now she’d lived in dread that someone would come to the cabin and find out her pa was dead. Only Lester, the deputy, had come knocking and both times he’d shown up she’d managed to convince him that Pa was out prospecting. Now, what she wouldn’t give for the deputy—or anyone—to come calling, even that nosy Mrs. Weaver.
She angled a brief peek at him sitting at the table, where he’d hunkered down after throwing another log on the fire. He stared out the window a lot but he still seemed to follow her every move. Clara had once claimed that she read that Indians had special tracking powers, almost like having eyes in the back of their heads. But Clara was often prone to whimsy, lived with her head in the clouds most of the time, Pa liked to say.
Maggie blinked away a tear. She missed her family. Although she couldn’t dwell on them right now; she had to keep her mind clear. Swallowing a lump of emotion, she took a deep breath as she stirred the beans.
Goodness, it just occurred to her that if anyone did happen by, and they found her alone with a man—not just a man but an Indian—she’d be ruined. Her reputation would never survive the scandal. She’d even heard of white women who had killed themselves rather than be taken by a savage. What was the term? Blessed release? Shuddering, Maggie studied him discretely. He wasn’t exactly a savage. A half-breed who dressed better and was cleaner than most men in Deadwood, for sure. But that wouldn’t matter to the menfolk around here. She’d be branded for life.
As if he’d felt the weight of her stare, he turned to meet her eyes. It frightened her that she couldn’t read his impassive face. He’d claimed he didn’t mean to harm her. Did he have any idea of the predicament he’d placed her in? Did he care? The real question she needed to ask herself was…was it better to be ruined or dead?
SMELLING THE beans simmer, Cord’s stomach rumbled. That he could think about food at all was laughable. That is, if he weren’t so damned confused. And angry. And, worst, fear had left a bitter taste on his tongue.
He didn’t understand any of this, which meant he didn’t know how to solve the problem. Overwhelming helplessness pressed heavily against his chest, making it hard to even breathe. It had been eighteen years since he’d last felt so powerless, the day he’d left the reservation.
Another whiff of beans teased his nostrils and the reason hit him why he could be relaxed enough to feel hunger. Beans and rice and fried bread had been staples for him and Masi. When the tourist season died down, or her beadwork hadn’t sold well and money was low, they’d lived on nothing else for weeks. He’d sworn when he left the reservation he’d never touch the stuff again. And he hadn’t. At least not after he’d started making some serious money. But now, the savory smell comforted him, lulled him into remembering simpler times spent with Masi.
Until he looked into the auburn-haired woman’s accusing eyes. He wasn’t just a man keeping her trapped, but he was an Indian. For her, for so many others, that was crime enough. Not that her racist attitude excused him for one second. He knew he was scum and he wished he had thought beyond taking this coward’s way to buy some time, but it was too late. He was in too deep. She could finger him, and the best he could hope for would be a cot in the local jail, and at worst, a noose around his neck.
Especially if this really was 1878.
The more he looked around the small room, at the primitive stove, the cookware, the lack of plumbing, at the woman herself wearing a homemade dress worn at the cuffs and elbows, the more convinced he was becoming that he’d somehow slipped through a time warp. Crazy, yeah, but even though he wasn’t the sharpest P.I. in Hollywood, he knew evidence when he saw it.
His gaze snagged on what looked like a pamphlet sitting under some sewing supplies, and he swept the pincushion and a spool of thread aside so he could read the top. It was an 1877 Montgomery Ward catalog.
Stunned, he muttered something out loud, not sure what, but it got Maggie’s attention. She hurried to the table in a swirl of fabric and snatched the paper out of his hand.
“Don’t touch that. It’s my only copy.” She folded it in fourths and stuck it in a pocket secreted by the folds of her voluminous dress.
“I was just looking at the…darn thing.”
“I suppose you think it’s silly, too.”
“What?”
Her cheeks flushed. “That I would want a decent stove or one of those brand-new washing machines.”
“Not me,” he said.
“Well, Pa thinks—” She faltered and turned away to stir the pot again. “I happen to know that Montgomery Ward has a very good reputation, even though the goods come all the way
