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?”
“I reckon that might be a fine idea,” she murmured, her terrified gaze glued to the end of the barrel.
He stared down at the stock, hoping he could figure out how to unload it since the prop guys usually took care of that kind of thing. And then the thought hit. He looked up at her. “It’s not loaded.”
“Oh.” Slowly she inched back up the wall. “You still have that small gun. Is it loaded?”
“Yes.”
“Maybe you should—”
“No.” He leaned the rifle back against the rough wood wall. No way would he unload the sucker and leave himself that vulnerable. He still had no idea where the hell he was.
1878 Deadwood.
How was that possible? His gaze took in the woman’s plain long-sleeve blue dress, buttons down the entire bodice, clunky black shoes, the gray wool shawl that had fallen to the plank floor. All of it straight out of a Hollywood studio’s costume closet. Even the way she wore her hair, pulled back in a tight bun at her nape, made her look the part of an old-fashioned spinster. Or would have if her unruly auburn hair had cooperated. Instead, tendrils curled around her face and clung to the side of her neck, giving her the kind of sexy tousled look that hairstylists on movie sets spent hours trying to create.
She visibly swallowed, pressing a hand to her midsection, and he guessed he’d stared too long. The last thing he wanted to do was frighten her further.
“I thought I’d put a couple of logs on the fire and make some coffee,” she said in a small voice. “If that’s all right.”
“Sure.” He waved a hand, and she hurried toward the pile of wood stacked next to the stove. The door was still open and it was cool in the cabin. He thought about closing the door, since he’d figured out the reason for leaving it open was to hide the rifle, but then again, if she felt more comfortable with it open until her father returned, that was okay with Cord.
He made sure she was out of striking distance and then peered through the window framed by blue checked curtains. He could see the sagging barn and the corral next to it where a chestnut grazed. Probably her father’s horse. The animal was in much better shape than the mare she used to pull the wagon.
“How many horses do you have?” he asked over his shoulder.
“Well, there’s Bertha, of course. She pulls the wagon. And then there’s Red, a chestnut we bought from a driver last year. Red’s Pa’s horse.” Her voice caught, and she quickly turned away to light a lamp.
Cord continued to stare out the window. If the chestnut was here, her father had to be nearby. Apparently she’d just worked that out for herself and didn’t want to alert Cord. He spotted a well halfway between the cabin and what appeared to be a shed. The small structure was barely big enough to hold a…
“Shit.” An outhouse?
He looked over just as her lips thinned into a disapproving line. He didn’t bother to apologize this time, although he would try to watch himself. But given the circumstances, if she’d suddenly been dropped into his world, the prim Ms. Dawson would probably be cussing, too.
After a final glance around the outside perimeter, he turned back to watch her measure out coffee grounds. Everything seemed surreal. The heavy iron kettle, the potbellied stove, even the plain oak kitchen table that no one had bothered to finish properly. Yet there were small decorative touches like the blue-and-white runner that ran down the middle of the table and the braided rug near the door that matched the blue gingham curtains. A glass jar of dried flowers sat near a metal washbasin.
Cord frowned. Near the same basin sat one cup and one plate and one fork. Odd, or was he reading too much into it? Her father could have left them behind after he’d finished his lunch. Or there was no father. Around here, a man wouldn’t leave an unloaded rifle at the ready. His gaze drew to the semi-open door to the only other room in the cabin. A bedroom?
He turned toward Maggie and found her nervously watching him. She looked away and dragged her palms down a beige apron she’d tied around her waist.
“I need to get some water,” she said, reaching for a metal bucket. “Then I’ll make the coffee.”
“Where do you get the water from?”
She wrinkled her nose at him as if she thought him dimwitted. “The well.”
“Ah, of course.” Not dimwitted, just freakin’ nuts. He needed time to sort this out. Review the events of the day. Maybe this whole thing had something to do with the camera flash. But what? Had Masi had a hand in this? God, he hated that his mind kept going back to the old Navajo legends. They were just stories told by the Dine. Just silly stories.
“So I’ll be right back.” She’d made it to the door before he registered she’d even moved.
“I’ll get it.”
“That’s not necessary,” she said hastily.
“Better yet, we’ll go together.”
Her face fell. “You really should think about going to town. It’ll be dark before long.”
“Don’t worry about me, Maggie.” He smiled and took the bucket from her. “I figure I’ll be spending the night.”
Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».
Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.
Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.
