Spencer carbine, which she could handle easier. She was alone now, she had to consider such things.
“Where are we?” The man’s gaze stayed locked on hers, while his long lean fingers stroked Bertha’s flank.
She frowned at the odd question and made a motion with her chin toward town. “Deadwood.”
“Deadwood,” he repeated, confusion flickering in his eyes.
They weren’t as dark as she’d first thought, more hazel with gold and green flecks. “Where are the houses?”
“Mostly in town. There are a few cabins scattered closer to the river like—” She bit down hard on her lower lip. He didn’t need to know where she lived.
The faraway look in his eyes disappeared and he focused sharply on her. “Which way is the highway?”
“The what?”
“What about the old Winslow house? It should be right…” He shook his head and briefly closed his eyes, gripping the side of the wagon as if to steady himself. “There was an earthquake a few minutes ago.”
Maggie glanced over her shoulder toward town. Maybe the man was sick. Should she get help? “Sometimes when they blast at the mines the ground shakes a bit but not today. They haven’t been—”
He frowned at her. “The mines?”
“The gold mines.”
“They don’t still have working mines near here.”
She stared at him, wondering if he were a mite touched in the head. “That’s pretty much all there is, mister.”
He seemed confused, his gaze first meeting hers, and then narrowing on the rickety old wagon. When he finally looked back at her, their eyes met only briefly before his gaze wandered down the front of her plain blue cotton dress, lingering long enough on her breasts that she shrunk back.
“What day it is?” he asked suddenly, his voice strained and hoarse.
“Tuesday.”
“The date,” he said tersely enough to send a fresh frisson of fear up her spine.
“November tenth or eleventh, I’m not sure.”
“And the year?”
Maggie moistened her parched lips. The man was clearly loco. She should scream. If she did, loud enough, maybe, just maybe, someone in the livery could hear her. “Eighteen seventy-eight.”
CORD STARED NUMBLY at the woman. No teasing glint lit her green eyes. In fact, the emerald color had darkened with fear when he’d demanded to know the date. Her face was pale with alarm, except for the scattering of freckles across her nose, and her full lower lip quivered slightly. She looked as if she’d run if he let her. No, she wasn’t teasing him. This was no hoax.
Finally, she lifted her small pointed chin. “I’ll thank you to release my horse, sir. I best be on my way before my pa starts searching for me. He would not take kindly to me speaking with a stranger.”
Cord stared past her in the direction from where she’d come. He’d seen the old buildings, although he’d stopped short of getting too close, and still he hadn’t believed his own eyes. The place looked like any one of a dozen movie sets he’d worked on as a stuntman. But even from the outskirts, the stench of horse manure mixed with smoking meat and human waste was real. Brutally real. Goose bumps raised from his skin.
What did this mean? After the ridicule Masi and the elders indulged from him and Bobby, had they been right all along? Was this some kind of life after death he was experiencing? Had he been transported back one hundred and thirty years? But he didn’t recall dying. Wouldn’t he remember being shot or crushed by an earthquake?
“He always carries his shotgun with him. I should not like to see you hurt.”
The woman’s words barely penetrated the fog of disbelief and panic that shrouded him. “A shotgun?” He glanced down at his shirt again. Still no blood. “What shotgun?”
“My pa.” She shoved away a stubborn curl of auburn hair that corkscrewed over one eye, and peered warily at him. “He carries a shotgun,” she murmured, gesturing pointedly at his restraining hand. “I should like to leave now before he comes to fetch me.”
He started to release the harness, but then again checked the direction in which she was traveling. Better he take his chances of finding out what the hell was going on from her folks than from a town full of nosy people who’d have more questions than he could answer. “Is that where you’re headed? Away from town?”
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
