Badlands Bride
Badlands Bride
Cheryl St.John
Shooting a bandit was reporter Hallie Wainwright's introduction to the Wild West, where she'd traveled with a bevy of mail-order brides.But it was the more intimate "hello" in the arms of Cooper DeWitt that sent her heart racing - and made it all the more difficult for her to tell the brawny plainsman that she wasn't the woman he'd sent for… .When she jumped from the stage, shining with true grit and spewing tall tales, Cooper DeWitt thought he just might have struck gold. Raised with the Sioux, Cooper needed a wife who could brave the frontier and corral his restless heart. The problem was, his would-be bride had no intention of marrying him!
Hallie raised a brow in question. (#ud534ee6d-219e-5f1f-a465-f906edbe7be2)Letter to Reader (#u2fa8f103-425b-5df5-83da-25ff96ac83f3)Title Page (#ub0604930-0e78-56e3-9655-211dd09bd882)About the Author (#ud080f4c9-e581-5461-9f4f-dded1b86db5d)Dedication (#ubb9c772b-830a-5bce-b811-0ab86dc135f0)Chapter One (#u76149e71-0736-55ed-8a0f-cc4ef84a56bc)Chapter Two (#ua52cacec-55c4-5116-9e23-45e5b2cc18cf)Chapter Three (#u56ad87ad-ea79-5886-9761-49df2172e24b)Chapter Four (#ubcec70a7-6a19-590a-9b15-f2c48291c04a)Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
Hallie raised a brow in question.
“Come.” Cooper gestured and led her outside the door with one hand on her upper arm. “There are the other men, Hallie. Once they know you’re alone at night... ”
She saw the picture. Remembering the way they’d ogled her at the trading post with lecherous eyes, she didn’t need any more convincing. “I’ll take a few things and stay with Chumani.” The warmth of his hand burned through her sleeve. “Thank you,” she said. “You always think of my safety.”
His eyes dropped to her mouth, and she caught her breath at the heat she read in their depths. His other hand raised her face to his.
Hallie’s heart set up a flutter. “What—?”
“You could talk a man blind, Hallie.”
Her eyes widened and his face lowered.
“I don’t think—”
“I don’t care if you think or not. Just don’t talk....”
Dear Reader,
Since her outstanding debut in our 1994 March Madness promotion of brand-new authors, Cheryl StJohn has been delighting readers with her unique brand of historical romance. This month’s story, Badlands Bride, is about a newspaper reporter who goes west pretending to be a mail-order bride, only to find herself stranded in the Dakotas for one long cold winter. We hope you enjoy it.
Margaret Moore’s new medieval novel, The Baron’s Quest, is the captivating story of a rough-edged Saxon who falls in love with the refined gentlewoman whom he has inherited as part of his new holdings. Pearl, from Ruth Langan, is the next in her new Western series, THE JEWELS OF TEXAS, featuring four sisters who are brought together by their father’s murder.
Liz Ireland rounds out the list with Millie and the Fugitive, a lighthearted Western about a spoiled rich girl and an innocent man on the run.
We hope you’ll keep a lookout for all four titles wherever Harlequin Historicals are sold.
Sincerely,
Tracy Farrell
Senior Editor
Please address questions and book requests to:
Harlequin Reader Service
U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave., P.O. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269
Canadian: P.O. Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont. L2A 5X3
Badlands Bride
Cheryl St.John
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
CHERYL ST.JOHN
is the pseudonym for Nebraska author Cheryl Ludwigs. Cheryl’s first book, Rain Shadow, 1994, received award nominations from Romantic Times, Affaire de Coeur and Romance Writers of America for their RITA.
She has been program director and vice president of her Heartland RWA chapter, and is currently a liaison for Published Authors’ Network and a conference committee chairman.
Married mother of five, grandmother of three, Cheryl enjoys her family. In her “spare” time she corresponds with dozens of writer friends from Canada to Texas, and treasures their letters. She would love to hear from you.
Send a SASE to:
Cheryl St.John
P.O. Box 12142
Florence Station
Omaha, NE 68112-0142
This book is dedicated with appreciation and
recognition to the distributors and booksellers who
promote romance and romance authors, especially:
Nelson News, Omaha/read all about it! bookstores:
Kim Huebner, Terri Foster, Rosie Christensen,
everyone in the book room and all the drivers;
read all about it! bookstores, Nebraska and Iowa:
Karen Lafler, Jennie Mathisen, Clay Nottleman,
Robbi Pozzi, Matt Rohde, Laura Tadlock,
Linda Theile, Sue Turner, Kirk Utley, Pam Williamson
and the staff at each store.
Debi Jo Miner, 3 R’s, Omaha
Linda Mullet, Waldenbooks, Sioux City
Terry Showalter, Lee Books, Lincoln
Sherry Siwinski, Waldenbooks, Grand Island
Penny Spoerry, Waldenbooks, Des Moines
Kathy Uttecht, The Book Center, Norfolk
Jo Lent, Waldenbooks, Mall of the Bluffs
my friends at Baker Place, Omaha
Donita Lawrence, Bell, Book & Candle, Del City, OK
To all of you who order my books and recommend
them to the readers, keep my backlist in stock and host
signings, this doesn’t begin to cover it, but here it is:
Thank You
Chapter One
Ignoring the reflection of the businesses across the street behind her and the words The Daily meticulously painted in gold and black lettering on the glass, Hallie Claire Wainwright observed herself in the window of her father’s newspaper office. She adjusted the jacket of her carefully chosen two-piece fitted dress and smoothed a hand over her dark hair, fashioned into an uncharacteristically neat bun.
“I think I’ve earned the responsibility of reporting on the boxing matches,” she said to her reflection. The sporting event would make the front page every day for weeks, and Hallie could think of nothing more exciting than seeing her name beneath the headline.
“I’m sure I could get interviews with the participants,” she said convincingly. “Perhaps they’ll share insights with me they wouldn’t give the men.” Forest green curtains obscured the interior of the newspaper office, but she didn’t need to see in to picture her oldest brother, Turner, setting type and her father in the office beyond.
“I’ve been doing the menial jobs without complaint. It’s time you gave me a chance. I’ll do my best.” Hallie gave her likeness a last confident nod and opened the door.
The reassuring smells of ink, paper and grease, which she’d grown up with, boosted her confidence. Turner didn’t glance up as she strode pass the Franklin press to her father’s office. She rapped twice and opened the door.
Samuel Wainwright glanced up and immediately returned his attention to the papers on his desk top.
“Father, I —”
“No.”
Her mouth dropped open. “How do you even know what I was going to say?”
“You have that stubborn look on your face.”
“I want to cover the boxing matches.” She placed her fists on her hips. “Evan—” her lip curled around the name of the new apprentice “—gets all the good stories.”
Samuel shifted his smoking cigar stub from one side of his mouth to the other and leaned back in his creaky leather chair. “Now, Hallie,” he cajoled. “Don’t get in a huff. You know it wouldn’t be acceptable — or safe—for you to take up with that rowdy crowd in the Piedmont district. Any female in Boston with half a brain in her head wouldn’t set foot within a mile of the place.”
She rolled her eyes. “That’s all the brain you give any woman credit for having.”
He harrumphed, then shuffled through a stack of papers, finding one he wanted and ignoring her while he checked the list in his other hand against the sheet.
“Hello, Precious,” Turner said, entering.
Hallie winced inwardly.
He’d rolled his white shirtsleeves back, and his dark hair stood up on his head in finger-combed waves. He handled the office work, overseeing the typeset and presses. “I want to check this against your copy,” he said to their father.
Samuel extended a paper, and the two men concurred. Used to being ignored, Hallie sat on the corner of the ink-stained oak desk and crossed her arms over her chest, unwilling to acknowledge her father’s wisdom in this particular case. So what if he was right for once? Her father and brothers, Charles and Turner, always came up with some inane reason that she couldn’t handle a story, and ninety-nine out of a hundred times the real reason—the infuriating reason — was that she was a female.
Turner reached for a strand of Hallie’s hair that had fallen loose. “You’re a sight.”
She batted his hand away.
“What are you pouting about now?”
“I’m not pouting.”
He laughed. “You’re mad as a March bare. Still in a fix over Evan? He says he can’t sleep nights for the ringing in his ears. For the last week at supper, you’ve managed to discredit everything about the man, including his parentage.”
Hallie uncrossed her arms and shot a glance at her father. He wore a smile of bored amusement. “I keep hoping someone around here will notice that he’s not any more capable than I am.”
“And as we’ve told you a thousand times,” Turner said, raising a superior brow, “Father needed Evan.”
She tried her best to swallow her resentment. Her father did need help, and she’d worked so hard to prove herself. Samuel had hired the young man to assist Charles with the reporting, so he could devote himself to the book work and editing. It hurt immeasurably that none of them had considered her for the position. And it frustrated her beyond words that they refused to listen to her reasoning.
It was one thing to constantly defer to her brothers, but now an outsider had displaced her! “Perhaps if I put on a pair of trousers, the lot of you will notice I have a whole brain in this head.”
Turner scowled. “If you put on a pair of trousers, the men around here will notice more than that. And I’ll have to turn you over my knee and discipline the object of their attention.”
Hallie resisted the urge to stick her tongue out. Just because they treated her like a child didn’t mean she’d give in and behave like one.
“Did you turn in the piece on the quilting society?” Turner asked.
“Now that was an unequaled challenge,” she replied, tracing a worn scar on the desk top with an index finger. “Think it’ll make the headlines tomorrow?”
“Look,” her father said, interrupting. “Remember those classifieds we ran a while back? Here’s more of the same.”
Turner bent over the desk and read aloud. “‘Bride wanted.’ Another one—‘Wife wanted to cook, do laundry and care for children.’”
“What kind of self-respecting woman would answer an ad like that?” Hallie asked, frowning her distaste.
“A woman who wants a husband,” Turner replied, directing a pointed glance at his sister. “Unlike you.”
She ignored the familiar taunt. “It’s barbaric.”
“But newsworthy,” her father added. He caught his cigar between two fingers and squinted at her through curls of blue-gray smoke. “Some of the young ladies at Miss Abernathy’s Conservatory answered the last ads. Why don’t you do a story on them, Hallie?”
“Really?” she asked, jumping up.
“I haven’t seen anything in the other papers,” he continued. “Maybe, for a change, we can print a story before they get the idea.”
The assignment filled Hallie with a new sense of importance. The Daily was always trying to get the jump on the bigger papers, and even though the other newspapers always managed to edge them out, the Wainwrights had increased circulation over the past year. Any newsworthy story that first appeared in The Daily was a feather in their journalistic cap.
“I’ll work on it right away.” She kissed her father on the cheek and smugly tilted her chin on her way past Turner.
Samuel and Turner exchanged conspiratory grins. “How long do you think that will keep her out of our hair?” Turner asked.
Samuel ran a hand over his balding pate. “Let’s hope until Evan has a foot in the door. It’s hard enough being a cub, without having to deal with Hallie when she’s got her hackles up.”
“Well, then, we’ll just have to keep her busy.”
“Isn’t it just the most romantic thing you’ve ever heard?” The young woman with golden hair and ivory skin ignored the cake and tea on the tiny table and stared vacantly across the front of the lace-decorated establishment where the ladies of Boston came to socialize over afternoon tea.
Hallie thought traveling to God-only-knew-where to marry a man she’d never laid eyes on was the most asinine thing she’d ever heard, but she politely refrained from saying so.
“Where are the northern Dakotas, anyway?” Tess Cordell asked, coming out of her dreamy-eyed trance. “One of the girls said up by the North Pole.”
“I don’t think it’s quite that far.” Hallie tried to recall her geography lessons. “It’s far to the west and up north. Quite remote, I’m sure.”
Tess took an envelope from her reticule and carefully removed and unfolded a letter. “His name is Cooper DeWitt. He has a stage line and a freight company, so he must be very wealthy.” Her pale blue eyes took on that dreamy quality again. “The only thing he requested in a wife was that she be able to read and write. I think that’s good, don’t you? He doesn’t sound like a demanding sort of fellow.”
“Or discriminating,” Hallie added.
“Right,” Tess agreed, the comment apparently sailing over her head. “He’s not superficial like most young men who care only that a woman be from a good family.”
Hallie heard the resentment in her voice. Obviously Tess was not from a well-to-do family, or she wouldn’t have responded to an ad from a desperate frontier man. “Does he say how old he is?”
Tess frowned at the paper momentarily. “No.” Her expression brightened. “But he does mention that he’s never had a wife, so he must be young.”
Or uglier than a buck-too!hed mule, Hallie thought more realistically. What was this poor girl getting herself into? She almost wanted to offer her assistance if the girl needed someone to provide for her so badly she was willing to do this. But she held her tongue. Her family had told her often enough that her thinking was not that of a typical twenty-year-old woman. Tess was obviously delighted with her plan. “What else does he say?”
“Only that the country is beautiful and that I would have everything that I need.”
“How romantic.” Hallie made a few notes on her tablet. “Are you worried about being so far from anyone you know?”
“Well...” Tess chewed her lower lip. “I don’t have family, but a couple of the other girls have accepted positions in the same community, so we’ll be traveling together. I’m sure Mr. DeWitt will see that I can visit from time to time.”
Hallie noted the term accepted positions for later reference. “Are the other girls as excited as you?”
“Oh, yes!” Her pale eyes sparkled. “This is an adventure of a lifetime!”
“I want to speak with the others, too. Can you give me their names?” Hallie scribbled a list and thanked Tess for the interview.
Hallie met the other young women, then hurried home to write her article. The enormous, masculinely furnished house was quiet, as usual. She slipped into her father’s study and seated herself in his oversize chair, arranging paper, pen and ink on the desk top. She loved the room, did her best thinking among the familiar heavy pieces with the Seth Thomas mantel clock chiming on the half hour.
Nearly three hours passed before Hallie noticed the time. Double-checking the information, wording and neat printing, she blotted the pages. Her father would undoubtedly cut it in half, but, pleased with her work, she delivered it to his office.
He read the pages while she waited. “This is just what we wanted, Precious,” he commended her.
Gladdened at the acknowledgment, she ignored the patronizing nickname.
“Keep on this,” he said.
“You mean...?”
“I mean follow up. Go with them when they shop for the trip, watch them pack, all that. We’ll run a series on the brides, right up until you wave them off at the stage station.”
Surprised and more than a little pleased, Hallie nodded. “All right.” She patted the edge of the desk in satisfaction. “All right.”
Hallie read her articles in print each day, delighting in the fact that her father hadn’t cut more than a sentence or two. She was so delighted, she didn’t allow the fact that her father’s new apprentice was covering the boxing championships and making headlines nearly every other day upset her—too much.
The day before her subjects were due to leave, she stepped into the office early. On the other side of the partially open mahogany door her brothers’ voices rose.
“I’ll take this sentencing piece,” Charles said. “I’ll be at the courthouse this morning, anyway.”
“Right,” Samuel said. “Evan?”
“I still have the lawyer to interview and, of course, the matches tonight. I’ll try not to take a punch myself this time.”
Male laughter echoed.
“That’s some shiner!” Charles said.
“Great coverage, son.” Samuel added. “You’ll do anything to get an unusual angle. That’s the stuff good reporters are made of.” The aromatic scent of his morning cigar reached Hallie’s nostrils, and she paused, a hollow, jealous ache opening in her chest at her father’s casual praise of Evan Hunter. “How many more matches?”
“Another week,” Evan replied.
Hallie reached for the door.
“What’re we gonna do with Hallie?” Turner’s voice carried through the gap beside the door. “Her brides leave tomorrow.”
Hallie stopped and listened.
“That turned out to be an excellent piece,” Charles commented. “We’ve had good response.”
“Plus we got the jump on the Journal,” Samuel agreed.
“Who’d have thought that when you came up with something to keep her off Evan’s back during the matches, we’d actually get a good piece of journalism?” She recognized Turner’s voice.
They laughed again.
A heavy weight pressed upon Hallie’s chest. Hurt and self-doubt squeezed a bitter lump of disappointment into her throat. Of all the patronizing, condescending, imperious—
They’d handed her the story like presenting a cookie to a toddler they didn’t want underfoot! And now they gloated over their own superiority. Hallie had never felt so wretched...so cheated...so unimportant.
“Do we have any sources in the Dakotas?” Charles asked.
“Why?”
“The real story is on the other end of that stage line.”
A moment of silence followed Charles’s comment, wherein Hallie imagined them nodding piously at one another.
“Yes, when the men who sent for those gals set eyes on them,” Samuel agreed. “No. We don’t have anyone that far west.”
“Too bad,” Turner said.
“Too bad, indeed,” Charles said. “We could have had a real follow-up story there.”
“Let’s just hope the Journal doesn’t think of it.” Samuel added.
Heartbroken, Hallie gathered her skirts and trod stealthily back out the front door. She walked the brick street without direction. It never entered her mind to go home. Her mother would only tell her as she always did that her father and brothers did such things for her own good. Clarisse Wainwright had been born and bred to be a genteel wife and a mother to Samuel’s sons. The fact that Hallie had come along had been an inconvenience to all of them, or so Hallie saw it.
Hallie hadn’t been born the proper gender to take a prominent place at the newspaper, as much as she wished to, as much as she knew the same amount of ink flowed through her veins as her brothers’. They’d patted her on the head and sent her on her way since she’d been old enough to toddle after them.
The truth lay on her crushed heart like lead. They would never see her as good enough, as equal, as valuable or necessary. Even Clarisse had been necessary only to the point of bringing Charles and Turner into the world. Now her mother lived the life of a pampered society wife, spending her days with her gardening club, at the tearoom and playing the latest vogue card game, bridge.
Hallie would never accept an invalid life like that. Surely there was some way to prove herself to her father. If only he would give her a chance, he’d see she was as capable as Charles and Turner—and more so than Evan Hunter—because she’d been born to the life.
If only she’d been born a man.
Her mother had forced her into dresses and threatened her with Miss Abernathy’s if she didn’t take an interest in her hair and clothing. Hallie had conformed to their expectations—to the world’s expectations—and resigned herself to her unchangeable, unappreciated gender. But she could not accept the role they wanted her to play. Hallie wanted more.
Should she give up or go on printing the same outdated page of her life over and over? Neither of the choices appealed to her.
Finding herself across from the tearoom, Hallie stared dismally at the brownstone facade beside the hotel and recalled her interview with Tess Cordell. Charles had said the real story was where Tess was going. There must be some way Hallie could keep in touch with her. Perhaps, even though the mail took weeks, she could convince Tess to correspond with her for future articles. Maybe Tess would send information about the other young women, too. It wouldn’t be anywhere close to as in-depth reporting as she needed, but it was the only answer she had.
She set out for Miss Abernathy’s, realizing she’d answered her own question. She couldn’t give up. Not when the result meant settling for a superficial existence.
She found Tess Cordell hurriedly packing, arranging and rearranging, discarding items she couldn’t fit into the two small bags open on the bed. Hallie surveyed the disarray in the small room. “Whatever are you doing? Yesterday you were all packed except for your overnight valise.”
“I’ve changed plans, Miss Wainwright.” Cheeks flushed, her fair hair atumble, she tucked a cotton night rail into the battered valise and clasped her hands together. Her blue eyes sparkled with excitement. “I’m going to Philadelphia.”
“Philadelphia!” Disappointment sank in Hallie’s stomach. “What about the Dakotas?”
Tess managed to look a little sheepish. She busied herself stuffing items back into the trunk against the wall. “I was engaged until a few months ago. Eric—he’s my fiancé—well, his family put pressure on him to call the engagement off. He did, and I was devastated.”
The strength left Hallie’s legs and she wilted onto a wooden chair.
“Mr. DeWitt’s ad seemed the only thing for me to do at the time,” she explained. “But last night Eric came to see me. He’s taken a position in a Philadelphia law office, and he realized he couldn’t go without me. You know that expression ‘smart as a Philadelphia lawyer’? Well, that’s Eric. Rich, too. And he loves me. So you see there’s nothing else I could do but go with him.”
“But this DeWitt fellow...”
Tess reached toward the bureau and turned back, tossing two envelopes on the bed. “Eric gave me money to replace what I spent. Of course, it must be returned to Mr. DeWitt.... Will you be a dear and see to it for me?”
Hallie stared at the envelopes, her plans dashed.
Tess buckled two leather straps around the last case. “I’ve asked Miss Abernathy to store my trunk until Eric can send someone for it.” She tidied her hair and settled her bonnet on her head. “I hope I didn’t rum your story, Miss Wainwright, but this is the best opportunity I’m ever going to have. Please understand.”
In disbelief, Hallie watched her pick up her bags and hurry through the doorway. “Good luck,” she said to the empty room.
She sat in the silence, absorbing yet another wash of disillusionment. As far as she knew there were still three other women planning to leave on the stage the following day. Perhaps one of them would agree to help Hallie with her articles. None had been as young or as personable as Tess, but she would have to make do.
She moved from the chair to the rumpled bed and picked up the envelopes. One contained the letter she’d seen Tess with. Hallie unfolded it and read the scrawled handwriting.
Dear Miss Cordell,
My wife must be able to read and write. Enclosed is a cashier’s check to purchase whatever you will need. There are no women’s shops here. The Territory is far from the life you are used to, but the land is beautiful and you will have everything you need. I’ve never been married. I trapped for many winters and now operate a freight company and stage line. A justice will meet us at the Stone Creek Station next month.
Sincerely,
Cooper DeWitt
Hallie tucked the letter back into the envelope and picked up the other, pulling out a stage ticket and two hundred dollars. No wonder Tess had been impressed.
She fingered the ticket, took it out and turned it over a couple of times. The real story’s on the other end of that stage line.
With a little thrill of excitement, she realized what she was thinking. No. It was too dangerous! She slid the ticket back into the envelope. She would cash it in, buy a cashier’s check for the amount plus the cash and return it to DeWitt.
We could have had a real follow-up story there. The voices from the other side of her father’s door haunted her. Get Hallie off our backs...let’s hope the Journal doesn’t think of it... Turner’s condescending tone came to her. What are you pouting about now, Precious?
What if she did it? What if she used this ticket to get her to the Dakotas? She could interview the men who sent for wives. She could get the follow-up story on the other women—the real brides.
But what about this DeWitt person? He was expecting a wife. Hallie turned that question over a few times before a solution came to mind. She could simply explain the situation to him, give him his money back and call it square She could get her story, and he could send for another wife. He’d have to anyway, since Tess had backed out.
Enthusiastic now, she planned her departure. She couldn’t tell her family. They’d never allow it. Her mother would have a conniption fit. It would most likely take them a day to notice she was missing, and by then she’d be long gone. She’d write from the first station.
Satisfied with her plan, Hallie tucked the envelopes into her reticule and stood. She had packing to do if she was going to catch that stage tomorrow.
Cooper paced the dusty expanse of hard-packed earth surrounding the stage station and surveyed the broad horizon, temporarily forgetting its stark beauty. He saw only the barrenness of the land...the lack of people and buildings. He’d told her in the letter, but seeing was believing. And by now, wherever the coach was, she’d had time to see plenty.
Cooper frowned at the vista before him. The stage should have arrived sometime that morning. It was now early afternoon and there was still no sign of it. In his mind the delay signaled only one thing: trouble.
“Sky’s clear here,” Stuart Waring, another of the impatient grooms, said from behind him. “But that don’t mean they didn’t run into rain or mud.”
Cooper turned to the two farmers sitting on crates against the log wall. Stuart wore a faded shirt with a string tie cinched around his scrawny neck. His scarred boots had been polished and shined. The ever-present wind snatched at his hat, and he secured it quickly.
“Coulda had a horse go lame,” Vernon Forbes said. His jacket bore threadbare spots at the wrists and elbows, and he held a small, battered package. A gift for his bride? Cooper hadn’t thought of that.
Angus Hallstrom, the station operator who worked for Cooper, leaned against the doorframe and picked his teeth with a piece of straw. “Fact that the stage’s been robbed three times in as many months ain’t sittin’ well with me.”
Cooper had been thinking the same thing. He didn’t like the uncomfortable feeling that tiptoed up his spine and settled on his shoulders. Having money stolen or losing a month’s mail was one thing... harm coming to the woman he intended to marry was another.
George Gaston, the portly justice, sat in the only chair and sipped black coffee from a dented metal cup. Cooper observed the motley group of men and imagined what the city women would think of them.
A strange uncertainty rippled in his chest, and he glanced down at his clean buckskin pants and fringed shirt. What would Tess Cordell think of him?
Fifteen years ago, even ten years ago, content living, hunting and trapping with the Oglala, he’d never have imagined he would pair himself with a white woman. Time had changed that, as it had the existence of his people—rather, the people of his heart—and most of them were surviving on reservation land.
Buffalo no longer roamed the grasslands in great herds, like rippling black seas. The Oglala, Santee, Yankton and other Sioux had been forced to make treaties in order to receive food.
Cooper paced to his team of horses, waiting in the shade of a wind-bent tree. He ran a hand down the black’s hide and noticed his own skin, callused and rough, sun-darkened nearly to a shade like that of his Sioux family.
His white skin had given him an advantage over the men he called his brothers. He’d taken a land grant offered only to whites. He’d traded and sold years’ worth of furs for wagons and tools, caught his own horses and purchased everything else he’d needed to start his business.
For now, he could only take food and winter supplies to the reservation, but someday, and he hoped it would be soon, he would be in a position to really help his people. And Tess Cordell would help him do just that.
Hallie covered her mouth and nose with her damp handkerchief and tried not to choke on the thick dust gusting in around the drawn shade. The wheels hit another gully and her groan was drowned out by the other women’s cries.
Zinnia Blake held her wilted, green-feathered hat in place on her head with a dirty-gloved hand and Hallie tried not to laugh at the way the flesh beneath her chin jiggled. They hit another indentation and Zinnia flattened the hand over her enormous bouncing bosom. Even in the dim interior, her face glistened as red as a freshly washed tomato. “Isn’t it awfully hot for this late in the fall?”
“It can’t be much farther,” Olivia Mason predicted. She pounded on the roof with the heel of her hand and peeled back the shade. “Mr. Tubbs, is it much farther?”
The monotonous sounds of the creaking coach and the horses’ hooves were the only reply.
The wind stuck a coil of red hair to Olivia’s pale cheek and she dropped the shade back into place. “He promised we’d be there this morning.”
“Mr. Tubbs is doing the best he can,” Evelyn Reed said, coming to the driver’s defense. Hallie hadn’t heard her speak more than a dozen words the entire ten-day trip and figured she must be as tired of the other women’s complaints as she. Zinnia had been sick from the steamer’s constant chugging up the river. Olivia had insisted on changing clothes twice a day, and then complained about having no clean ones.
Once they’d crossed the Missouri and boarded Mr. Tubbs’s stage, things had grown progressively worse. Zinnia had a case of heat rash that drove her to tears. Olivia thought there should be a laundry at each rustic relay station. The meals were horrible, facilities for tending to nature’s call primitive to nonexistent, and Hallie had a crick in her neck from sleeping sitting up.
But she was having a glorious adventure. She took copious notes, describing the weather conditions, the vegetation, the stark but beautiful outcroppings of stratum eroded by time and nature. She would have a story to beat all stories when she got home. Maybe she would even write an article for a magazine... or perhaps a book!
The jarring motion of the coach slowed, and the women glanced expectantly at one another.
“Thank God!” Zinnia panted. “We must be there. And, good heavens, I no doubt look a fright.”
Olivia tucked stray red coils into her neat chignon.
The stage picked up speed again. Overhead, Mr. Tubbs shouted unintelligible orders to the horses. Inside the coach, the farers bounced and jostled. Hallie flipped up the shade and peered through the dust, gritting her teeth at the jarring of her backside against the poorly padded seat.
Appearing from a cloud of churning dust, horses and riders drew up with the stage. Shots were fired, and piercing screams erupted beside her. Heart pounding, she watched the riders gain on the stage. “Stage robbers!” she cried.
She’d stayed up many a night, thrilling to the excitement and action depicted in dime novels. Now, here was she, Hallie Claire Wainwright, participant in an adventure as exciting as those! Her heart pounded and terror shivered up her spine. She strained to see through the thick haze of dust, trying to impress each detail into memory for later.
Finally, after what seemed like hours, the stage slowed to a halt. The door was flung open and the barrel of a gun poked inside. Zinnia shrieked.
“Come out!”
Hallie glanced at the women’s panic-stricken faces. As long as they were being delayed, she might as well make the best of it. Her father would love the firsthand story of a stage holdup! Let Evan Hunter try to top this one.
“Let’s do as they say.” She gestured to the others, gathered her skirts and stepped out into the sunshine.
Chapter Two
Three bandanna-masked men in sweat-stained shirts and ill-fitting trousers pointed guns at the women exiting the coach. With their hats pulled low, the invisibility of faces and expressions was as threatening as the weapons. Two others in the same disguising attire sat atop horses. Another, this one barrel chested and short legged, held Mr. Tubbs at gunpoint on the ground.
The grizzled old driver squinted from the bandits to the women, one side of his unshaven cheek jerking in a nervous twitch.
“White women,” one of the three standing men said in awe. He wore a battered and wide-brimmed black hat.
The tallest, standing near Hallie, jerked his gun barrel toward the back of the stage. “The bags.”
The riders dismounted and lithely leapt onto the coach, unfastening the leather straps and tossing trunks and cases to the ground. Jumping back down, they opened the bags and trunks, pausing only seconds to shoot off resisting or locked latches.
The bullets frightened Zinnia to hysteria. She threw her hands toward the sun and wailed.
“Quiet!” The black-haired man moved forward and struck her with the back of his hand. Olivia couldn’t support her, and she wilted into an unconscious heap in the dirt.
“Take what you want and go,” Olivia objected. “There’s no call to hurt women.”
He yanked Olivia’s hair. She yelped, and her red mane tumbled across one shoulder. Grasping a strand in his leather-gloved fingers, he tugged her closer.
She slapped his hand away and stepped back.
“Open that pouch.” The man in front of Hallie, who appeared to be the leader, indicated her reticule.
He stood too close; his eyes were black and unyielding. The men’s aggressiveness frightened her. She’d never seen women treated disrespectfully. This was what the papers called the untamed West. There was no law. No one would even hear the shots. They could die out here and not be found for days or weeks.
Wisely, Hallie chose to open her bag and withdraw the contents. Three men darted forward, taking the other women’s possessions. At the same time, one climbed inside the coach.
The leader stuffed Hallie’s money into his pocket. She swallowed her objections. It was only money, after all, and her life was more important.
“You don’t cry.”
Hallie stared into his black eyes, her heart jumping into her throat.
“Do you talk?”
She raised her chin without reply. He circled her slowly, keeping the gun pointed at her. Halfway around, she had to turn her head and wait for him to approach from the other side. The way he looked at her body sickened her and made her feel naked.
“Lift your dress.”
She took a step back. “I beg your pardon.”
“You do talk.” He lowered the gun barrel to the front of her open jacket and nudged the material where her blouse buttoned. “Lift your dress, or I will.”
Nervously, Hallie glanced at the others. The bandits searched Olivia and Evelyn’s bodies roughly through their clothing, and the women screamed. Stoically, rather than have this man touch her the same way, Hallie raised her skirt and petticoats to her waist.
He squatted and patted her cotton-clad hips and legs with gloved hands. She clenched her teeth, nausea suffusing her insides.
Beside her, Olivia cried out and sprawled on the ground. The man wearing the black hat straddled her. Her red hair spilled across the dirt, and her skirts bunched beneath her.
“Wait just a gol-durned minute!” Mr. Tubbs cursed from his prone position.
The leader, still in front of Hallie, paused with a hand on her calf. She could see plainly that the bandit on top of Olivia had no intention of stopping. The others stood watching.
Hallie had a good idea of what that ruffian intended to do to Olivia, and it probably wouldn’t take long until the rest of them figured it was a fine idea and stopped being spectators. The leader, crouching before Hallie, bracketed one of her thighs with his gloved hands. With a strength born of terror, she kneed him in the face, knocking his hat off and releasing her skirts.
He yelped and dropped the gun, reaching for his nose and scrambling for balance.
Before he could stand, Hallie grabbed the gun and aimed it at him, securing both trembling index fingers on the trigger.
Since the bandanna was still tied across his face, only the top of his head, his black brows and obsidian eyes were visible. Hastily he grabbed his hat, jammed it over his black hair and stood, bright red blood soaking through the bandanna. He backed away.
“She won’t shoot,” said one of the others, now standing quietly.
If she didn’t, one of them would take the gun away from her and she’d be in an even bigger fix. Before she could think about it, Hallie turned the gun toward the man on Olivia and squeezed. The weapon jumped in her hands, jerked her shoulders and set her off balance. Acrid smoke curled from the barrel and Hallie steadied herself. The black hatted man clutched his arm and backed away. “Kill her!” he shouted to the others.
Hallie’s insides quaked and she waited for a bullet to impact with her skull. That shot had been a miracle. She could never shoot the rest before they killed her. A brief regret for the grief and shame she would cause her father and mother streaked through her head.
“No.” The man with the bleeding nose raised an arm, his gloved palm halting the action. Across the distance separating them, their eyes met, and his penetrating black stare sharpened her already soul-piercing fear.
He grunted a command. Hallie couldn’t tear her gaze away. If he’d told one of them to shoot her, she’d never see the bullet coming. Surprisingly however, the men gathered their stolen goods and mounted the horses.
With a final lingering perusal of Hallie, the leader leapt atop his horse and signaled. The gun trembled and her arms ached, but determinedly she kept it pointed at him. The bandits turned their horses and rode off, leaving a trail of dust on the horizon.
They were all still alive. Hallie shook so badly she finally dropped her arms, and the heavy gun barrel hit her knee.
A cackle rose on the air. “Whoo—ee!” Mr. Tubbs chortled, and spat a brown stream on the ground. “The fella what sent for you’s got a job cut out for him!”
She swung her attention back to Olivia. “You all right?”
The slender woman stood and brushed her clothing off without taking her eyes from Hallie. “Th-thanks t-to you,” she stammered, and promptly burst into tears.
Hallie groped behind her for the coach and sat on the step. “I figured we’d all be next.”
“I would rather have had them kill me,” Evelyn said softly.
A moan rose from the ground. Zinnia unfurled from her faint and sat. She blinked about like an owl, rolled to her hands and knees and stood, wobbling. “What happened? Where are they?”
“Miss Wainwright scared them away,” Olivia said, a look of amazement adding to her already bizarre appearance. Tears streaked her dust-caked cheeks and her bright hair stood out around her head like frazzled yarn.
“That she did!” Mr. Tubbs cackled and dusted himself off. “Whoo—ee! That she did!”
Zinnia’s ragged hiccuping breath jostled her ample breasts.
What had she done? Hallie regarded the baggage strewn across the ground and their clothing flapping in the wind. What could possibly happen to top this?
Her mouth curved into a relieved but jubilant grin. Boston Girl Foils Attack On Women. What a story!
Cooper glanced up at the sun. He’d just decided to unhitch the black and ride out to meet the stage when he spotted a cloud of dust on the horizon.
Anticipation rolled head over heels in his chest. He didn’t have to like her. It didn’t matter what she looked like. He didn’t care how old she was or if she was a widow ten times over. All that mattered was that she could read and write, and she’d promised him that in her letter.
It would probably be easier if he didn’t like her, since she was, after all, a white woman, and she would not like him. She didn’t have to like him. City women were vain and shallow. Her reasons for coming out here probably bore as much desperation as his for needing her.
The small dot appeared on the horizon, and his gaze followed it. What would prompt a city woman to come to the Dakotas? Love for a man? Not in this case. Lack of funds? Probably. No other prospects for marriage? Miserable thought.
“They’re comin’!” Stu shouted.
Slowly, Cooper strode to where the others stood watching the approaching Concord. He could make out the driver, Ferlie Tubbs, now, and sighed with relief.
Hooves pounded the earth, the jingle of harnesses and rings loud in the expanse of clear air. The stage drew near, distressed wood and leather creaking to a stop.
Ferlie squinted down at Cooper.
“Trouble?” Cooper asked.
The toothless ribbon sawer spit a thick stream of tobacco on the dusty ground and nodded. “Sonsa-bitches ran us down back at Big Stone Lake.”
“Everyone all right?”
“Alive,” Ferlie said.
“Hurt?” Cooper asked in alarm.
“Nah. Skeered the bejesus out o’ the fat one, and the orange-haired crybaby bawled the whole damned way.”
Cooper wondered whether he was marrying the fat one or the orange-haired crybaby.
“The hellcat’s just madder’n a bear with a sore ass,” Ferlie continued.
The door was flung open and, without waiting for assistance, a young woman in a dusty green dress with a matching hat askew on her head raised her skirts nearly to her knees and jumped to the ground. She wasn’t fat and her hair, beneath the ridiculous hat and dust, was nearly as black as a Sioux’s. The hellcat.
Her eyes, dark from this distance, surveyed the windswept vista and weathered log building and finally regarded the four men. Cooper met her stare. She was young, strikingly beautiful, with winged brows and a full mouth—definitely not a woman without better prospects in the city.
A sniffling sound came from inside the coach. She cast a significant glance over her shoulder and quickly stepped away saying, “One more mile in there and I’d have forgotten I was a lady.”
The whining came from a short young woman whose drab dress resembled a sausage casing. She appeared in the doorway, another girl with wild hair the color of a stewed carrot holding her elbow. Tearstains streaked the dust on both their faces.
Ferlie jumped down.
“What happened?” Vernon asked, Stu and Angus at his side.
“Six of ‘em,” Ferlie said. “Rode us down at Big Stone. Robbed the womenfolk. Skeered ’em good. Woulda done worse.”
Vernon clenched his fists.
“This brave young woman took a gun away from one of those border ruffians and saved us,” the redhead explained, pointing to the hellcat. Beside her the fat lady sputtered into a fresh bout of tears.
The men cast one another skeptical looks.
Finally Vernon took the initiative and spoke. “Which of you is Miss Blake?”
The fat one sniffed. “I am.”
Vernon reached for her gloved hand. “Pleased to meet you. Would it be all right if I called you Zinnia?”
A smile bloomed on her round face. She ogled Vernon as though he were rain for her parched soul. “Mr. Forbes?”
The hellcat stepped closer to Cooper—or maybe just farther away from the woman with the red and swollen eyes.
Vernon tucked his package beneath his arm and awkwardly assisted Zinnia from the coach. “You’re safe now,” he said. “You need a good hot meal and a night’s rest.”
“Miss Mason?” Stu asked, approaching the redhead.
She nodded. “Olivia.”
The hellcat stepped back to the doorway of the coach and peered in. “Coming, Evelyn?”
Cooper stepped beside her and took the blushing young woman’s gloved hand while she held her skirts and managed the step to the ground. She was painfully plain-faced and shy.
“Evelyn? Evelyn Reed?” Angus took her hand from Cooper’s. He wore a nervous grin on his awestruck face. “I’m Angus Hallstrom. You musta been scared sh—” He stopped a second. “Real scared.” The two stepped aside and the woman kept her head down as he spoke.
Amused at the station manager’s enamored reaction to the plain-faced Evelyn, Cooper remembered the woman beside him—the only bride left. He turned and contemplated her.
“Someone must be notified,” she said, looking up. “We were robbed.”
Up close her sparkling eyes were three distinct colors. Gray ringed the outside, blending into green with rich golden brown at the centers. Her lashes were thick and black, and her brows arched delicately, heightening her refined beauty. “You’re safe,” he said, not knowing how to reply.
“She bloodied the big ‘un’s nose, grabbed his gun and shot the one jumpin’ Miss Mason,” Ferlie said. “You shoulda seen it, Coop. Hot damn!” He laughed again.
Cooper stared at her. This dainty creature had done all that?
“I may be safe,” she went on, as if Ferlie hadn’t interrupted, “but I’m poorer than Job’s turkey! Those rowdies stole every bit of my money. They even took my jewelry. Someone will have to get it back!”
“I’m sorry.” Again his words were woefully inadequate.
She positioned her full lips in an exasperated line.
Tess Cordell. And she was already unhappy.
“Mr. DeWitt?”
He nodded. “Miss Cordell?”
Her ivory complexion pinkened more deeply than the original flush of irritation. “Mr. DeWitt.” She straightened her posture and lifted her chin. “I’m afraid Tess didn’t come.”
“What do you mean, Tess didn’t come?”
“Apparently her fiance had broken off with her sometime before she answered your ad. He returned just as she was preparing to come.” She glanced over his shoulder and back. “She went to Philadelphia with him.”
He regarded her. Four women had been expected, and four women had arrived. Confusion gave way to a sensation of rejection he didn’t care for. “If you’re not Tess Cordell, who are you?”
“I’m Hallie Wainwright.”
He couldn’t control the brow that rose in doubt. “And?”
“And...” Her glance skitted from his face to the driver who now made his way into the station. Angus left Evelyn Reed standing in the shade near the others, unhitched two of the six lathered horses and led them to the corral. “I’m a reporter.”
He waited, taking stock of what he might read in her expression and movements.
“I’d been working on a story about the brides for The Daily. I wanted to follow up after the women got out here, and I’d hoped that Tess would be my contact. When she changed her mind, I didn’t know what I was going to do. So, I took the ticket and the money and came in her place.”
The Oglala didn’t have a word for lie. Whites were the only ones Cooper had known to practice deception, and his lack of experience evoked an unfamiliar vulnerability. What purpose would a lie serve here?
Cooper didn’t know which would be more disappointing : if she really wasn’t his intended wife, or if she was and had come up with this plausible story to get out of an impulsive agreement she now regretted. In either case, he had no bride.
“You came in her place?” he asked.
“Well, I—” Her face grew a deeper shade of rose and she stammered. “I, uh, did use the ticket, yes. And I intended to pay you back for that as well as return the money that you sent Tess.” Her gold-flecked eyes widened. “No! I did not come in her stead!”
Her horror at the thought of being his substitute bride didn’t lend him any confidence. He took note that the other couples were already speaking with the justice. Stu glanced toward them expectantly. Cooper turned back to her. “All right. Where is it?”
“What?”
“My money.”
Her mouth fell open. “They stole it! Those men who robbed us took everything of value they could carry on their horses.”
“So you can’t pay me back?”
She blinked. “No.”
“Fair try, Miss Cordell.”
Speechless for once, Hallie stared at the man. Beneath a fawn-colored hat, his blue eyes matched the endless sky overhead. He had a straight, stern nose and a shapely mouth with a tiny line at each corner. The deep dimple in his chin and the matching indentation beneath his nose lent authority to his serious expression.
“What are you saying, DeWitt?”
He scrutinized her face, and finally his expression changed. Drawing a breath, he said, “I understand why you don’t want to stay.”
“All right, why don’t I want to stay?”
“You’re a city woman. You’ve had a good hard look at this country...at the men...at me. And you’re ready to go back to your comfortable home.”
“It’s not that at all. You can’t presume to read my mind. I never intended to stay here. I never intended to marry you.”
His gaze didn’t flicker.
“Nothing personal, mind you. I am not Tess Cordell. I have a position at the paper back in Boston, and I’m not inclined to marry someone I don’t know—or anyone, for that matter.”
He shrugged a broad shoulder indifferently, the soft fringe around his shoulders and his sleeve swaying with his movement, then turned and walked away.
His action surprised her, as did the thick, dark blond tail that hung down his back to his waist. She’d never seen a man with hair longer than her own.
The closer he got to the crude building, the more realization sank in. If she didn’t intend to marry him, he didn’t plan to waste time listening to her explanations. He hadn’t exactly seemed the chatty, sympathetic sort.
Hallie sized up the situation. Here she stood in the middle of nowhere. The station and this handful of people were the only sign of civilization for who knew how far. She had a trunk full of dirty wrinkled clothes, a heavy satchel full of books and writing supplies, and exactly no money. He had every reason to think what he did.
“Wait!”
He paused and turned. “Yes?”
Hallie caught up with him. “I—uh, I have nowhere to stay and no way to get back.”
“Looks that way.”
“Perhaps you could loan me money for a room and a ticket home.” His unyielding expression didn’t give her much hope.
“There aren’t any rooms, Miss...”
“Wainwright.”
“Wainwright. And I have better things to do with my money than give it to strangers without being sure of getting paid back.”
“My word is good,” she replied indignantly.
“That’s not the case with most whites.”
Hallie gave him a curious frown.
Once again he scrutinized her face and hair, ran his blue eyes over her clothing. “How do I know you’re not really Tess Cordell?”
Impetuously, she placed a hand on his arm. She thought he’d pull away, but her gentle touch held him even though the hard muscle beneath her fingers assured her no physical attempt on her part could stop this man if his mind was made up. He stared down at her fingers, and Hallie snatched her hand back.
She’d never met such a callous man. Her brothers may have been unsympathetic to her career plans, but they’d always been concerned with her safety and well-being. “So you’re just going to leave me out here in God-knows-where, without a penny, to fend for myself?”
“I’m sure a capable reporter like you will come up with something. You got this far, didn’t you?”
Yes, she had. Mustering her pride, Hallie stared at the dismal little station building and caught at her hat as another gale threatened to send it back to Boston without her. “Is there a storm coming?”
He glanced at the clear sky overhead and frowned. “There’s not a cloud in sight.”
“I just thought...” she mumbled. “The wind.”
His attention wavered to her clothing flattened against her body, outlining her breasts and legs. She turned aside.
“The wind is always like this,” he said.
“Oh.” Hallie had never seen so much horizon. Land stretched in every direction. She’d never seen so much sky or dust or known so many insects existed. She’d never met an unyielding man like this one. Who knew? Maybe Tess Cordell would have made it this far only to change her mind.
She glanced at the others, still waiting near the building. “I’m sorry Tess didn’t come.”
He made no reply.
“Why don’t you just take me to town? I’m sure I can make arrangements there.” Perhaps she could sell something she had left, or make a trade for a ticket.
“There is no town.”
“What?”
“Stone Creek isn’t a town—yet. Besides my freight company, there’s a livery, a trading post and a saloon.”
She brought her attention back to his sun-burnished face. “And a post office?”
“Mail leaves from here.” He nodded toward the station.
Hallie avoided his piercing eyes for several seconds. She ran through her dilemma in her head. No telegraph. No rooms. A fine fix. “How long until the stage goes out?”
“This one goes north tomorrow. It’ll be two weeks before another heads back east.”
“Is that mail, too?”
He nodded.
She stared at the tips of her dirty shoes. She could get a story in two weeks. But where would she stay? How would she eat? She was already starving. “Could you hire me? I’ll help you with your business until I earn enough to get home, or until I hear from my father.”
“You won’t work off two hundred dollars plus the ticket in two weeks.”
“I know that.” She shook her head in frustration. “I’m not holding you responsible, even though my things were in the care of DeWitt Stage Company, am I? Why don’t you give me the same courtesy?”
Hallie didn’t know what other choice she had left. Unless she begged one of the newlyweds to take her home, and besides the embarrassing imposition, she wouldn’t feel safe being too far from the stage station. It was her only link to home.
He studied her. “I don’t claim to know much about city ways or what’s proper and what’s not, but you can’t stay with me, even sleeping separately, without getting married.”
He was right. No one would probably ever know, but even with the remote possibility that they would, Hallie couldn’t risk the shame that would be placed upon her family, on her society-entrenched mother. “That is a problem. I don’t suppose you have two residences?” she asked.
He shook his head and glanced away.
She couldn’t help noticing his broad-shouldered frame in the soft leather clothing. Over six feet tall, the man was solid muscle. She couldn’t allow his size or his gender to intimidate her. She was used to dealing with stubborn men.
He returned his attention and caught her observation.
“Marriage is out of the question. I don’t want a husband.”
Something flickered behind his blue eyes.
“You’re insulted that I won’t marry you,” she guessed. She’d had enough experience with the male ego to know what she was dealing with.
“I need help. I don’t expect a woman to fall at my feet.” He took in her appearance again, from her hat flapping like a lid in the wind, to her clothing, and down to her feet.
Why should she feel inadequate beneath his stare? Hallie had never given in to the detriment of being a woman before, and she wasn’t about to start. “I’m sure you’ll find someone to help you, Mr. DeWitt. Just like I will find a way to get my story and go home.”
She hurried back to the coach for her satchel, pulled out a tablet and pencil, and marched toward the small gathering in front of the building.
DeWitt followed.
“George Gaston, miss.” The justice introduced himself nodded politely. “The ladies said Coop’s bride changed her mind.”
“I’m afraid that’s so,” she said.
“Well, let’s go in, and the couples gettin’ hitched should line up,” he ordered.
Hallie joined the gathering inside the station. The rough log walls looked like the inside of every other stopover she’d been in since crossing the Missouri, but at least she was out of the wind and sun for a few blissful moments. The three couples took their places and the justice quickly performed the ceremony. Hallie’s pencil scratched across the paper as she tried to take note of every last detail.
“You’re the witnesses,” the justice said, indicating Hallie and DeWitt. She signed three papers and handed the quill to DeWitt. He accepted it, carefully avoiding contact with her fingers, and turned his broad back to her.
Hallie stared at it only briefly before turning to George Gaston. “Would you be so kind as to give me a ride into town?”
He gave her a puzzled glance. “There ain’t no town.”
“To the trading post, then,” she clarified.
“I only have the one horse, miss. Don’t seem it would be proper.” He glanced behind her. “Coop’s the one with the rig.”
Her body ached from the ride, and she was so tired she could have curled up right here and gone to sleep. She sighed in frustration.
“I’ll give you a ride,” DeWitt offered from beside her.
She slanted a glance up in surprise.
“Come.”
“I need to post a letter to my father first.” She scribbled on a piece of paper. “Do you have an envelope?” she asked the station manager.
“Nope.”
Hallie looked at her letter in consternation.
“Just fold it and write the name and address on the back,” he told her.
She followed his direction and handed the letter over.
“That’s three bits, miss,” Mr. Hallstrom informed her.
Distressed, she glanced over her shoulder.
DeWitt drew the change from a leather pouch and laid it on the wooden counter.
“I’ll pay you back,” she promised.
Hallie congratulated the women, promising to see them soon, and followed DeWitt outdoors.
“I’ll pull the team over,” he suggested. “You show me which bag is yours.”
Though newly married, Angus jumped to the boot and performed his job, unbuckling the trunks and cases. DeWitt raised a brow at the sight of her trunk, but lifted it to the back of the wagon effortlessly, situating her valise beside it. She accepted his assistance and climbed up onto the seat.
Back aching, eyelids drooping, she rode beside him, desperately wanting to be able to eat and fall asleep. The man next to her made her feel even more helpless than her brothers did. If he believed her to be Tess, then he thought her a liar. If he took her word for who she was, he thought her a fool. Both assumptions got under her skin. “I’m a good reporter,” she said at last.
From beneath the brim of his hat he cast her a sideways glance. She read neither skepticism nor belief.
“There have been plenty of women writers, you know,” she said. “Mary Wollstonecraft wrote before the turn of the century. And there was Fanny Wright.”
His expression didn’t change.
“Anne Royall, too, but then she’s not a very good example, with all that Washington gossip. And of course there’s Lydia Maria Child’s antislavery book. So you see it’s not all that unheard of.”
Hallie reached into her satchel and pulled out her clippings about the brides. “Here’s one of my articles.”
She unfolded a column and held it up for him to look at.
His attention flicked over the scrap of newspaper dismissively.
The wind caught it and tugged it from her fingers. Her only copy disappeared into the vast countryside. Quickly, Hallie tucked the others safely back into her bag. “Those articles prove who I am, don’t they?”
“Anyone could have cut them from a paper.”
“You should have asked one of the other women who came. They could have backed up my story.” She frowned thoughtfully. “I could have shown you my silver bracelet with my initials engraved on it, but by now some thief has probably given it to his... Do thieves have wives?”
He only glanced at her in silence.
“Well, he’s melted it down for bullets, then,” she said.
He turned his face away and watched the horses’ rumps and the rutted dirt road.
Finally a few buildings came into sight, and the animals picked up their pace, heading for a long log structure with grass blowing atop the slanted roof. Hallie had never seen anything so strange.
“Is that your house?” she asked.
“The freight building. You can’t see the house yet.”
“You’ve planted grass on top!”
He cast her a cunous look. “It’s a sod roof.”
An enormous barn sat beside it. Sectioned corrals holding horses and mules bordered the east side and the back.
He led the team through an opening wide enough to accommodate the horses and wagon, and stopped. Inside were rows of wagons, a wall of tools and the permeating smell of dung and hay. DeWitt unhitched his horses and whacked each on the rump. Placidly, they made their way through a doorway, where a short man wearing suspenders over his shirt met them.
“Hey, Coop! That the bride?”
Cooper hung tack on the wall. “No, Jack. She didn’t come. This is Miss Wainwright. A reporter from Boston.”
“Oh? Looks like this ’un would do.” He tottered off behind the horses.
Hallie lowered her eyes and stretched her legs. Cooper had called her by her name and identified her as a reporter. Did he believe her now? Her stomach growled, loud in the open room. “Why didn’t you introduce me properly?”
His brows lowered. “Don’t expect parlor manners out here, lady.” He beckoned with an arm that sent fringe swaying.
Hallie followed. He led her across an open space near the big log building to a smaller one a short distance away. The logs were freshly stripped of bark. Behind it, two windowless sod houses stood, smoke curling from the chimney of one.
He opened a new door and ushered her inside, hanging his hat on a mounted set of antlers. The scents of wood and wax met her nostrils. The room they stood in had a glass window at each end. One side was for cooking, with a stove and table and chairs, the other a sitting area, which included a wide fireplace and a stone hearth. Overhead, a loft could be reached by a sturdy ladder made of saplings.
The stripped logs couldn’t be seen from the inside. The walls had been plastered and whitewashed. Everywhere was evidence of recent construction and meticulous care. With new eyes Hallie took stock of the simple room and regarded the man who poked sticks into the stove and started a fire.
He’d built a home for Tess Cordell.
Did he feel cheated that she hadn’t come? Resentful? An ache like that he must know sapped even more of her energy. Sight unseen, he’d provided the best his stark country had to offer. His preparations revealed there was more to the man than met the eye. He wanted a wife to share this home with. Hallie couldn’t identify the lonely and disturbing feeling the thought wove into her empty stomach.
He’d only needed help, he’d said. He hadn’t expected a woman to fall at his feet.
But he’d done all this in anticipation.
Somehow, perhaps unfairly, Hallie thought it was only right that Tess hadn’t come. She hadn’t cared if Cooper DeWitt was old or young, hadn’t thought of anything but herself and the fact that he obviously had a little money. She wouldn’t have been happy here.
Would she?
He clanged a heavy black skillet on the stove and cut chunks of ham into it, his movements deft and sure. He looked different without the hat, less intimidating, more... approachable. His blond hair hung down the center of his back in a thick tail. He had a narrow waist and muscular buttocks and thighs.
Perhaps Tess had made a big mistake.
He glanced up and caught her looking.
Hallie met his eyes and willed herself not to think him handsome.
He dropped a heavy lid on the skillet. “I’ll get you some water and you can wash before we eat. There’s a privy out back.”
“A what?”
He stood motionless, staring at the table. “A place to relieve yourself.”
Embarrassment buzzed up Hallie’s neck to her ears. “Oh—uh, a necessary,” she said.
He brought water from outdoors and heated it on the stove. Carrying the metal pan through the doorway, he showed her into one of the two separate rooms. After placing the pan on a low stand, he left her alone.
Hallie surveyed the room. It held a wide rope bed covered with a rough blanket, a chest of drawers and an armoire, all new. There was no covering at the window, but wood pegs had been placed in an even row along the wall. All were empty. Waiting for a woman’s clothing.
She loosened her hair, ran her fingers through it and repinned it as best she could, leaving her hat on the end of the mattress.
The water was a blessing. Even though it was warm, she scooped a palmful and drank it before she removed her jacket and unbuttoned her blouse, washing her face, neck, arms and hands. The rough toweling he’d provided exhilarated her skin, and, once finished, she felt refreshed, although she would’ve given anything for a bath.
Hallie replaced her clothing and carried the pan out, tossing the water on the ground.
“Next time water the vegetables with it,” he said. Her nose nearly bumped his chest.
Next time? He took the pan and pointed to the table. Hallie sat obediently. Beside the plate lay a smooth white spoon and two-pronged fork. “These are lovely What are they made of?”
“Bone.”
She stared at the object in her fingers. “What kind of bone?”
“Buffalo.”
“Oh.”
He sat across from her and ate. She followed his example. The ham was a trifle salty, but the bread and eggs were filling. Hallie cleaned her plate, and didn’t object when he gave her more from the skillet on the stove.
“I didn’t see a chicken coop,” she commented.
“Turkeys.”
“Turkeys?”
“Wild turkeys. They lay eggs in the brush. I have some chickens coming this afternoon.”
She swallowed her last bite. “Well, thank you for your hospitality. I’d best be on my way.”
She stood.
He picked up the plates.
A thought occurred to her. “About my trunk...”
He looked up.
“May I leave it with you until I know where I’ll be staying?”
He nodded and moved away from the table.
“Very well, then. Thank you again.”
He turned back. “You know where to find me.”
She nodded, picked up her valise and let herself out his door. Immediately the wind snatched at her skirts and blew dust in her face. Hallie drew her gloves from her reticule and pulled them on. The bag’s weight brought an ache to her shoulder, but she made her way through the foot-deep dried ruts that formed a street of sorts, praying for success in finding somewhere to stay. Even an adventuress needed a rest now and then.
Chapter Three
The nearest building was a healthy walk, and exhaustion set in to Hallie’s body and mind. She crossed the distance, thinking of her letter to her father sitting at the station for another two weeks until a stage came through to take it east.
She could probably walk faster.
Well, not unless she got a night’s rest. And if she found her way. And if she could carry food and water to last weeks. And if she didn’t run into those godaw-ful robbers or others like them.
A shudder ran through her frame. She really was vulnerable. She’d never experienced the reality of it before. All of her father’s and brothers’ monotonous warnings came to mind. They’d known. But she’d led such a pampered, protected life, she hadn’t thought any harm could actually befall her.
What an eye-opening day this had been.
The trading post was like nothing Hallie had ever seen. The building itself had been constructed of blocks of sod, and the cracks were chinked with mud. The thatched ceiling was suspended by a rough frame, weeds and cobwebs dangling over furs and tools and foodstuffs, everything covered with thick layers of dust. Besides dirt, the overpowering stench of tobacco and gunpowder and unwashed bodies hung in the cramped space.
Three men glanced up from their seats around a black stove in the center of the room. “Look, Reavis, it’s one o’ them brides. A purdy one, too!”
An unshaven man got up with stiff-jointed unease and took his post behind a laden counter. Obviously baffled with her presence, he scratched his head with bony fingers. Hallie stepped closer, so her words wouldn’t be heard by the others. “Are you the proprietor?” she asked.
He chewed something that made a lump in his cheek and his whiskered upper lip puckered. His gray beard held a brown stain at the corner of his lip. He scratched his angled shoulder. “I’m Reavis. This here’s my place.”
Hallie glanced at the two men by the stove. They appeared eager to listen to the conversation without a qualm about rudeness. She leaned a little closer to Reavis and spoke softly. “Mr. Reavis, I seem to have run into unfortunate circumstances. Until funds are delivered to me or I’m able to secure wages on my own, I’m in need of lodging.”
He worked over whatever was inside his cheek. “Huh?”
Hallie glanced from Reavis to the listening men and back again. “I need work and a place to stay.”
“Why didn’t ya say so? Somebody oughta told ya they ain’t no place to stay and they ain’t no work for womenfolk.”
“No one has a room?”
“Everbody got a room,” he said, and scratched between the buttons of his faded shirt. “Jest not one without a body in it already.”
Hallie glanced around, thinking quickly. “Where does the justice stay when he’s here?”
He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Throws down a roll in my back room.”
“Could I do that?” she asked, hoping the justice wasn’t staying long.
“Sure can.” He exchanged a knowing look with the others and one of them snickered. “If’n ya don’t mind my snorin’.”
Warmth crept up Hallie’s collar and heated her cheeks. “Oh.” She mustered her dignity and peered around hopefully. “Why don’t I clean the shop for you?”
He sized up the room defensively. “What fer? It’d jest get dirty agin.”
Hallie’s back ached and she’d never been so tired. She confronted the men eavesdropping. “And you, gentlemen? Would either of you have a job for me? I need to earn money to get home to Boston.”
“Ain’t no whores at the saloon,” one of the others replied. His unpleasant smile revealed a missing front tooth. “You be fixin’ to take that spot?”
She didn’t care for the leering way he ran his eyes over her body. Refusing to show her mortification, Hallie turned away without giving his crude suggestion a reply.
They snickered again.
“Coffee there,” Reavis said. “Or somethin’ stronger if you hanker. You could sit a spell.”
“Thank you,” she replied, anxious to get away. “But I’ve just eaten.” She ignored the men in the chairs and made a beeline out the door.
Just as well, she thought. From the appearance of the sales area and the vigor with which the man had scratched, she could only imagine what the back room and beds must be like. Hallie shuddered again.
Between the trading post and the next building, the wind covered her with as much dirt as she’d washed away at DeWitt’s. Curiously she studied a large square tent with a sagging canvas roof as she passed. It appeared to have been there for some time, because weeds grew up around the bottom and a dirt path had been worn beneath the flap-covered opening.
In the open doorway of the next wooden structure the bare-chested liveryman stood, watching her approach. Embarrassed, Hallie kept her eyes carefully focused on his soot-besmeared face. He stared at her as if she was an apparition the wind had blown in.
“How do you do?” she said.
A heavy-looking hammer fit like a child’s toy in his massive hand. He bobbed his head in a nervous acknowledgment.
“I need a job and a place to stay,” she said simply.
“Ain’t no jobs, ma’am,” he said. “Unless you build your own place, there ain’t no work. Same for a house.”
“I hadn’t thought of building my own house,” she said. “I’ll keep that in mind.” With little hope left, she asked, “Are you married?”
His eyes widened and the whites stood out in stark contrast to his dirty face. His attention dropped to the contours of her green traveling suit and the bag in her hand. “You askin’?”
Uneasily, she realized her mistake. “No. I—I’d hoped perhaps there’d be a woman.... Sorry to have bothered you.”
She kept her shoulders straight and her head up, and hurried away. With his eyes boring into her back, Hallie was torn between turning around to look and running full steam.
Farther along the road and to the right, the land sloped downward and several trees grew along the bank of a river. Hesitantly she glanced back. The liveryman was still watching her from in front of his building. Hallie turned away quickly. The shade appealed to her, so she walked down the slope, dropped her valise and sat beneath one of the trees.
“Hellfire!” she said aloud. What had she gotten herself into? She could just hear Charles and Turner now, berating her for being ten kinds of a fool. Providing she made it back home so that they could yell at her. If wild animals or hostile Indians killed her out here, they’d lament forever about what a foolish, headstrong girl she’d been.
She’d sent a telegram from Buffalo, telling them her plan, and another from a place on the shores of Lake Michigan. It was purely conceivable that the letter she’d written today would never reach them. She could die out here and they’d never know if she’d arrived or what had happened to her.
Hallie snorted in self-derision. It would be the first time she’d made headlines. Foolhardy Daughter Of Newspaper Owner Perishes In Wilderness! Evan would probably write the damned piece.
The wind tore through the branches overhead, but down here near the bank, the air was calmer. Hallie laid her head on her leather valise and watched the leaves whip against the bright blue sky. When ticking off the pathetically few businesses, DeWitt had listed the freight company, the trading post, the livery and the saloon.
She hadn’t seen the saloon, thank goodness. After that crude man’s comment, she knew there were no respectable jobs or places to sleep alone.
She turned on her side and closed her eyes. This dilemma was too much to deal with right now. Perhaps she’d have a clearer head after a few minutes’ rest.
Hallie opened her eyes to pitch-blackness. Her back hurt intolerably. Behind her, the gentle sound of lapping water blended with the exultant chirr of crickets and other, more unfamiliar night sounds. Occasionally, a loud croaking sound echoed across the river’s surface. Something stung her chin and she slapped it.
Disoriented, she sat up. Her predicament came back to her, and fear trembled in her aching limbs. She was alone and unprotected in the untamed badlands of the Dakotas. Her very existence was at the mercy of Indians, wild animals and uncouth frontier men. What in the blazing Sam Hill had she been thinking of?
Hallie reached up for her hat and realized she’d left it at DeWitt’s. She opened her valise. Once her eyes adjusted to the night, the moon provided enough light to see the contents and the nearby area. No wild animals lurked within eyesight. She withdrew her brush, unpinned her hair and brushed it out, securing the new braid with one of the ties from her reticule.
Gingerly, she picked her way down the bank and knelt near the water, scooping several handfuls and drinking deeply. A cool breeze blew across the water and she shivered. Her warmer jacket was in her trunk — in DeWitt’s barn.
Nearer the water, mosquitoes feasted on her tender skin. Tall weeds nearby provided a place to relieve herself, though she worried more about having her backside chewed alive than someone seeing her. Quickly she finished and hurried up the bank to her spot beneath the trees, where she sat scratching her neck and wrist.
What should she do? Wait the night out here? Walk up near the buildings where it might be safer from animals? Perhaps she could find a spot in DeWitt’s barn to hide for the rest of the night. Or did that Jack fellow sleep there?
Wings flapped overhead, and Hallie stifled a startled cry. She glanced around, searching the unfamiliar darkness. Just an owl. Or a bat.
An eerie hoot came from somewhere nearby.
Or Indians? Gooseflesh broke out on her arms. She’d devoured too many dime novels not to know that Indians signaled one another with animal sounds, and that an unsuspecting white wouldn’t know the difference. They moved with stealth and silence and often took white women as slaves.
Maybe she would be safer nearer DeWitt’s place. She stood again, picked up her case and hurried up the slope to the road. Men’s voices came from the tent structure she’d seen earlier. Light glowed from inside. A revival tent?
Hallie hurried closer and listened to the voices through the canvas wall.
“Stood there pretty as you please with her skirts hiked up and her prissy white drawers bared to all nature—whoo-ee!” A gleeful cackle followed. “And when that fella reached for her, she all-fired brung that skinny knee up and busted his nose! He couldn’t absquatulate fast enough!”
Men’s chuckles followed.
Hallie burned with embarrassment and aggravation. Why, that dirty, low-down coot! Mr. Tubbs had treated her with the utmost respect and dignity, only to turn around and make jest of her nearly disastrous episode with the bandits! She ought to go in there and give him a piece of her mind.
Glass sounded against glass and a belch erupted.
“Don’t get too corned, Ferlie. You gotta head that stage out in the mornin’.”
“Never was a mornin’ I couldn’t sit atop a horse or a stage, no matter how many jugs or women I polished off the night afore.”
Laughter erupted once again.
The saloon. She backed away. She’d been around enough men in her life to know not to draw attention to herself when they were drinking.
Hallie stole away from the tent and found her way in the moonlight. The livery was dark. Imagining the huge black-haired man watching her from a crack in the wall, she switched her valise from one hand to the other and continued on. A beckoning yellow glow burned from the window of DeWitt’s home, and she followed it easily.
She had no idea what time it was, her timepiece having been stolen, and wondered if he was asleep—she paused several feet away—or back at the saloon.
The barn wasn’t lighted, but she found it easily enough. A sliding barrier now covered the wide opening he’d pulled the wagon through. A regular door stood to the side. She rested her fingers on the latch.
Did they tie their horses up in here or would she be trampled? Was Jack in here somewhere? This no longer seemed like such a good idea.
“We hang horse thieves out here.”
Hallie gasped and dropped her valise, whirling to face the man who’d spoken at her ear. Beneath the palm she flattened against her breast, her heart beat wildly. A broad-shouldered, unmistakably masculine form was silhouetted against the moon. “Mr. DeWitt!” She dropped her hand and caught her breath. “You nearly frightened me to death!”
“Better than hanging.”
“I wasn’t going to steal a horse!”
“No? What are you doing sneaking into my barn, then?”
Hallie’s confidence had taken a beating. She struggled for poise. “I—” she didn’t want to admit this “— I was just going to spend the night.”
“And abandon your cozy spot by the river?”
She gaped at him in the darkness. “You were spying on me?”
“Spying?” he asked, and his head tilted uncertainly.
“Snooping? Watching without permission?”
“I was spying,” he agreed.
“Well!” She adjusted her jacket and stood straighter. Good heavens, had he even known when she’d hung her backside in the weeds? Hallie’s posture went slack. She scratched absently at the place she’d just thought of.
“Come.” He picked up the valise and reached for her arm.
Hallie pulled away. “What are you doing?”
He wrapped his fingers around her arm and hauled her forward. “You can’t stay outside all night, and you can’t stay in the barn.”
Through her jacket his touch was just firm and unyielding enough to not hurt. “Is Jack in there?”
“Yes.”
“Where are you taking me?”
“To my house. You’ll stay there, and then I’ll get some sleep.”
“I can’t stay with you! You’ve already said it’s highly improper.”
He stopped before his door and released his hold. “Proper doesn’t hold much water out here.”
She realized that. But she wasn’t from here. She was from the East, where propriety meant everything. She glanced back out at the unending expanse of darkness. But then, Bostonians didn’t have to deal with wild animals and Indians, did they? “Are there any bears near?”
He reached for the latch and opened the door. Welcoming light spilled across the threshold and revealed his muscled body in the buckskin clothing. “Grizzly.”
More afraid of bears than of him, Hallie hastily stepped past him into the room. “You’re right. Proper doesn’t even seem wise at this point.”
He carried her valise to the room where she’d washed earlier and returned with an enormous roll of furs.
“Go ahead,” he said, gesturing to the room. “I’ll sleep here.” He pointed to the floor by the fireplace.
Hallie glanced from the room to the furs. She hadn’t meant to put the man out of his bed.
“I’ll sleep in the barn if you want,” he said, as though he misunderstood her hesitation.
“No.” She scratched at her jaw. “I don’t want to impose on you. I could sleep here.”
“You’ll have the room to yourself. I’ve slept on the ground most of my life.”
She looked at him curiously. What kind of family and upbringing had he come from? “You have?”
He frowned and stepped closer.
Hallie felt herself shrink from his immense form.
Gently, he took her hand and inspected the bites, dropping it to tip her chin up and study her neck and jaw with a warm blue gaze. He released her, and her skin tingled where he’d touched her. He brought water from the stove. For such a large man, he moved gracefully, without a sound. She glanced down at his knee-high moccasins. “This is still warm,” he said. “Go wash. I have something for the itch.”
Hallie accepted the pan and closed the door behind her. She stared in surprise. Her trunk stood against the wall. Why had he brought it in? Grateful he had, she removed the broken lock and opened the lid, sorting through the jumbled contents. Her clothing was dusty and wrinkled, but cleaner than what she was wearing. She slipped out of her traveling suit, washed and dressed in a nightgown and modest robe.
She opened the door and peered out.
DeWitt waited near the table. “Sit.”
Approaching him made her feel small and at his mercy, a feeling she didn’t like. Hallie studied his well-carved, sun-burnished face. Tonight she was at his mercy. She sat. Her heart fluttered nervously in her chest.
He dipped a broad finger into a small earthenware pot and retracted it smeared with a shiny yellow substance. Dotting it on her wrists first, he then rubbed it into her skin with his second finger. His touch was surprisingly gentle. Instantly the sting disappeared. The backs of her hands received his attention next. The intimacy of the situation struck Hallie, and she grew uncomfortably warm. She was alone with a man—a strange man.
She couldn’t help studying his down-tilted face with its angled jaw and strong chin. Her attention wavered across his uncommonly long hair, still drawn back.
There was a perfectly good reason for the nearness they shared and the way she was dressed—or undressed. He couldn’t have reached her wrists in the long-sleeved jacket. And the caressing touch he administered to the backs of her hands was merely an act of human kindness.
He tipped her chin up, and Hallie became aware of his hard, callused finger. Although the position brought their faces close, he focused his attention on her neck. His finger seemed to caress beneath her ear, along her jaw, the corner of her eye. His warm breath stirred the hair at her temple and an unexpected tingle ran through Hallie’s body.
He dotted the end of her chin and their eyes met. He rubbed the spot absently, holding her gaze. “Anywhere else?”
Her gaze dropped to his lips.
“Miss?”
Hallie looked away. She shifted uncomfortably on the chair, the bites on her bottom driving her to distraction. In polite society one didn’t even refer to a leg. She couldn’t tell him where her worst bites were. “Uh...”
He handed her the pot, his callused palm grazing her skin. The corner of his mouth jerked, but immediately he flattened his lips. “Take it with you.”
She nodded.
He stepped away.
The earthenware container was warm from his hand. She stood, wanting to say more, wanting to ask why he’d decided to be kind to her. She debated the wisdom, and finally turned back. “Mr. DeWitt?”
He said nothing, but his eyes revealed his interest.
“Thank you for everything.”
“You’re welcome.”
Whatever his reason for seeing to her care, she appreciated it. “You really have no reason to believe who I say I am. I admit what I did was rash. I fully expected that when I explained the situation to you and gave you the money Tess left, you would understand and could send for another wife.” She studied his unchanging expression. “I knew it would be an inconvenience, but I guess I wasn’t thinking of what a disappointment you’d be in for.”
She walked to the bedroom door. A thought occurred to her and she turned back. “You never asked me anything about her.”
His deep voice came softly from across the room.
“What does it matter now?”
Her hand stilled on the latch. “You deserve better.”
With that, she hurried into the room.
Cooper stared at the closed door. What had she meant by that? He deserved better than Tess Cordell? Or he deserved better than being left at the altar, so to speak?
The lady was a fascinating blend of contradictions. On one hand, her poise and delicate beauty lent her an otherworldly air of sophistication and charm. Just the type of woman he’d expected—and dreaded On the other hand, her headstrong actions and bold speech rattled him even more because of their unfamilianty. She was educated. She was sharp and informed. She was born and bred to a life he had no capability of understanding.
The vivacious flare in her eyes and the stubborn tilt of her chin characterized an impetuous child. Her softly curved body belied that. And the more he saw of her nature, the more he didn’t believe she would lie to get out of a situation she’d changed her mind about. Her determination included a healthy dose of integrity.
She was the reporter she said she was.
What, then, was he going to do with her? It had been plain to him from the first that he was stuck with her for at least two weeks, unless he took her back to the Missouri River crossing himself. That was out of the question. He had a business to run. He had lumber coming tomorrow and supply wagons the following day.
Well, she would have to earn her keep. That’s why he’d sent for a woman in the first place. Wasn’t it?
Cooper glanced at the wooden bar across the cabin door, unrolled his fur pallet and blew out the lantern. No sliver of light beneath the bedroom door showed him she’d doused hers, too. He slid off his moccasins and placed his rifle beside him before he lay down.
He smiled, thinking of her reluctance at putting him out of his bed. He’d made the foreign piece of furniture only two weeks ago and had yet to sleep on it. The idea for it had come to him one night before he’d finished the log house. He’d lived in the soddy behind, his dead brother’s wife, Chumani, and son, Yellow Eagle, living in the soddy beside. Once he’d sent for a bride, he’d planned the cabin, but he hadn’t really considered all the added things that went with it—and her.
A little at a time, he’d filled the place with the trappings of civilization. A wife from the city would need a stove; he couldn’t expect her to cook over a fire. And a bed, he’d thought, much, much later. A lady would need a proper place to sleep. And so he’d built it, thinking, as he planed and fitted each piece of wood, of what Tess Cordell would be like.
Simple curiosity. It hadn’t mattered that she be young or attractive. A pleasant nature, capable hands and a quick mind would have been enough. Someone to help him with his work. Someone to teach Yellow Eagle to read so he’d have a running start on the future.
He truthfully hadn’t expected Tess Cordell—or Hallie Wainwright — to jump off that stage into his arms, eager to marry him. But after meeting the headstrong young woman who had arrived, the thought was appealing. What would he be doing tonight if the saucy beauty in the other room had been his intended bride? The thought unleashed the long-denied physical cravings of his body. Cooper couldn’t help wondering... wishing....
He turned over and adjusted his body in his nest of furs, banishing those dangerous thoughts. He’d see to her safety until the stage came to return her home. Until then, he’d be best off to keep his mind on business. If he didn’t, he’d be in for a whole pack of trouble.
But as he fell asleep, the last images in his mind were those of gold-flecked eyes arid hair as dark and shiny as a prime pelt.
Hallie awoke with a start. She sat up and blinked, orienting herself. Reassured at her surroundings, she relaxed against the warm, cozy mattress and pulled the soft blanket up to her chin. She’d slept the best she had in weeks. Her host had a comfortable bed and walls that blocked outside sounds. Anyone would be quite content here, no doubt.
Why had she thought that? Reluctantly she tossed back the covers and got out of bed. She washed her face and cleaned her teeth with the tepid water in the pan and dressed quickly, wondering if DeWitt was up.
Hesitantly she opened the door and peeked out. The man, along with his pile of furs, was gone. She wandered the scarcely furnished room and finally ventured out to use the necessary — the privy, he’d called it.
Finished, she opened the door and headed back. A whoop sounded beside her and she collided with a four-and-a-half-foot bundle of energy. Hallie caught her balance, but the boy sprawled in the grass. Immediately he jumped to his feet and stared at her.
Hallie stared back, heart pounding. An Indian boy!
She cast a wild glance about. Where had he come from? Were there more hiding nearby? Surely he wasn’t alone. Was he lost?
Seeing no one else, she inspected him from head to foot. He wore trousers, a fringed tunic shirt like DeWitt’s and moccasins. Jet black hair hung to his shoulders.
Perhaps it was a trick. Maybe the rest of his tribe was waiting to swoop down on them. Should she run for DeWitt? Or scream?
The boy, who appeared to be about ten, glared at her.
She raised her hand in what she hoped was a peaceful greeting. “Hello,” she said, and thought herself foolish. How was he supposed to understand?
“Who are you?” he asked in an annoyed tone, his black eyes scouring her face and hair.
“I’m Hallie Wainwright. Who are you?”
“Are you here to marry Cooper?” he asked without replying.
Startled at his speech, she overlooked his rudeness. “No. He’s letting me stay with him. Who are you?”
“I am Yellow Eagle of the Wajaje tiyospay, ” he said proudly.
“Where are you from?”
“What does it matter to you where I come from? It isn’t my home anymore because of your people.”
His hostility took her aback.
“Go back where you came from,” he said, and turned away.
Just then an Indian woman appeared in the doorway of one of the sod houses. She wore a slim, ankle-length dress made out of the same soft-looking leather as Mr. DeWitt’s clothing. Hallie stared in fascination. How many of them were there? They lived here? She’d thought the buildings and property all belonged to DeWitt.
The raven-haired woman walked toward them on silent moccasined feet. She said something to Yellow Eagle that Hallie couldn’t understand.
Annoyance laced Yellow Eagle’s tone and expression as he replied in their language.
The woman spoke sharply. He turned back reluctantly. “My mother says to tell you she is Chumani,” he translated. “She is honored to meet you and you must come eat.”
“Oh, no, I—I couldn’t possibly. Thank you, but—”
“Good, don’t eat.” He started to walk away.
The woman stopped him with a sharp command.
“She says Coop has already eaten and she has saved food for you.”
“This morning, you mean? Mr. DeWitt ate with you this morning?”
“He always eats with us.”
Confused, Hallie met the dark-skinned woman’s gaze. She had prominent cheekbones and wide-set, uncertain eyes. It seemed to Hallie as though she were waiting for either approval or rejection. She said something to Yellow Eagle.
“What did she say?” Hallie asked.
“She wants to know what you said.”
Hallie relaxed. If DeWitt ate with them regularly, it must be safe. “Tell her I’m grateful for her kind invitation.”
Yellow Eagle spoke to Chumani in a few hard syllables. She smiled and led the way into the sod house.
The small room was clean and orderly. Chairs on one side of the blackened fireplace were upholstered with hides. A solid table and benches sat on the other. Chumani gestured for Hallie to sit. She prepared a plate from the kettles over the fire and placed it before her. Hallie picked up a smooth bone utensil and tasted the gravylike mixture poured over biscuits.
“This is delicious.”
At a grunt from his mother, Yellow Eagle translated and Chumani gave her a cup of coffee. Hallie had never cared for coffee, but she took several sips so she wouldn’t offend her hostess. The woman sat across from her with a quill needle and sewed a sleeve into a leather shirt.
Hallie wondered for a moment why the woman and her son hadn’t made an appearance the night before and then realized they’d probably assumed Mr. DeWitt was bringing a wife home and they had given him privacy.
How curious that these Indians were living here among the motley bunch of inhabitants in Stone Creek. Now that she thought about it rationally, she realized that most news about the tribes in different areas relayed that they’d signed treaties and were living on land allotted by the government.
“How did you come to be here?” she asked, unable to quell her curiosity.
“We are Oglala,” the boy replied, as if that answered everything.
“Where is the rest of your family?”
“Most are at the reservation without enough to eat, treated like dogs.”
“Is that why you’re here?”
He looked at his mother before answering. “Here we have food and firewood.”
“You take care of yourselves?”
“My father was murdered.”
The bit of information shocked her. “How awful.”
“Cooper is my father now,” he said, raising his chin indignantly.
That took a few minutes to register. Hallie regarded the soft leather shirt in the Indian woman’s hands. It was identical to the one Mr. DeWitt had worn yesterday. She raised her eyes to her pleasant, dark-skinned face. Chumani made his shirts?
Chumani spoke softly with her son while Hallie stared into her coffee. “Te-wah-hay, ” she said.
“What did she say?” Hallie asked.
“We are Cooper’s family,” the boy said.
A spark of disappointment and anger flickered in her chest. The boy considered DeWitt his father, and the woman made him shirts. She’d heard of mountain men and trappers taking Indian wives. The idea wouldn’t be disturbing by itself. She stared into her tin cup.
What really sent a jolt of annoyance sparking through her blood was the fact that he’d advertised for a wife when he already had an Indian woman hidden away back here. What kind of man was Cooper DeWitt? And why had he wanted to bring a city woman out here?
She recalled the wording of his letter. He’d needed a woman to read and write. Someone to help him with his business. She remembered his words about not expecting the bride to fall at his feet. Hallie’s eyes wavered back to Chumani. Now she knew why nothing but education had been important. Cooper DeWitt already had a wife.
Chapter Four
Silently fuming, Hallie finished her breakfast and managed to drink the cup of strong black coffee with only the merest grimace. Did this Indian woman know Mr. DeWitt had sent for a bride? Everyone else knew. But she obviously didn’t speak English; it would be easy for him to hide it from her.
A bride wouldn’t be so easy to hide, however. Hallie watched Chumani intricately stitch a row of tiny beads across the front of the shirt. What did the poor woman think of Hallie spending the night in DeWitt’s cabin? Hallie knew nothing of Indian customs. Perhaps bigamy was acceptable. Perhaps, no matter how uncouth the man was, it was better having him take care of her than starving on a reservation, as Yellow Eagle had pointed out.
Whatever did the woman do to keep herself busy all day? Hallie would go crazy in this cramped space with only a little sewing to occupy herself.
“Thank you for the meal,” Hallie said.
Yellow Eagle translated.
Chumani gave her a soft smile.
Hallie had a hundred questions she’d like to ask. She turned to Yellow Eagle instead. “Do you know where Mr. DeWitt is now?”
He nodded.
“Can you tell me?”
“He’s working.”
“I only want a word with him.”
“He won’t like it.”
“I can deal with that, thank you.”
The boy snorted and stood.
Hallie nodded politely as a means of excusing herself from the table, and followed Yellow Eagle from the sod house and toward the freight building. Leading her around the side, where the sound of wood being stacked echoed, he stopped and pointed, a smirk on his youthful face.
Three bare-chested men were unloading the back of an enormous flatbed wagon. Hallie had never seen so much skin in her life! She stumbled over a clump of grass and caught her balance.
Two more wagons stood to the east of the building, bulging tarps evidence of similar loads. Two of the men, whom Hallie had never seen before, noticed her, and stopped their work to stare back, pushing their sweat-stained hats back on their heads.
The third, Cooper DeWitt, pulled a stack of lumber forward, the muscles in his broad back and shoulders flexing beneath the sun-burnished skin. When neither man picked up the other end, he became aware of their distraction and turned to the cause, studying her from beneath the brim of his hat.
A queer enchantment held Hallie motionless. It was impossible not to look. The morning sun gave his chest and shoulders a warm glow. The wind caught the thick blond rope of hair hanging down his back, and it fluttered like the tail of a wild horse.
He came to life, gave the others an aggravated glance and shoved the boards back into the stack. Speaking curtly to the men, he turned and walked toward her. Hallie made up her mind not to stare at his shocking display of flesh and muscle. He made a rapid series of gestures. Yellow Eagle replied, gave Hallie a smug grin and ran back toward the soddy.
Hallie watched his approach, appreciation and apprehension tumbling in her stomach. Determinedly, she thought of the kind Indian woman making him a shirt, and annoyance won out. “I need to speak with you.”
“Stay near the house,” he said, ignoring her request.
She kept her eyes on his face. “I am near the house.”
“I mean, you shouldn’t come here.”
“Why not?”
“The house is safer.”
His words managed to take off some of her cheekiness. She glanced around. “Do the grizzlies come around in the daytime?”
“Animals aren’t the only danger.”
Her attention wanted to flutter downward, but she steadfastly stared into his eyes. “What do you mean?”
He set his jaw, accenting his generous lips and square chin. “Men come and go here all the time.”
“I was raised around men, Mr. DeWitt. I’m not intimidated.” All the men she’d been raised around were gentlemen and kept their shirts on, but she wasn’t going to point that out.
“The men in these parts don’t see many women. Especially not young, pretty ones.”
She couldn’t help the flush that rose in her cheeks. He thought she was pretty? Hallie had to remind herself why she’d come out here. “I need to speak with you.”
“I’ll see you at mealtime.”
“This is important.”
“I have work to do. I’ll see you at noon.”
“What do you expect me to do until then?”
His assessing blue eyes flicked over her hair and face. “What did you plan to do when you came here?”
“I planned to get a story!”
“Then write a story.” He turned and walked away.
Hallie’s gaze dropped from his broad back to his narrow waist. She didn’t let herself take note of the muscles beneath his buff-colored, fringed trousers.
Frustrated, she turned back toward the house. Boston Girl Dies Of Boredom, she thought humorlessly. Chumani was working beside a fire pit, so Hallie sauntered back to watch her. The top of a good-sized cylinder of tree trunk had been hollowed into a bowl shape. Chumani placed damp kernels of corn in the well and pounded them with a wooden beater.
Before Hallie’s eyes, the corn was ground into meal. “That’s amazing!”
Chumani glanced up from her work and smiled.
“I’ve never seen anything like this before. At home we shop for meal and flour at the mercantile. It’s all sewn into bags when we get it.”
The black-haired woman nodded and pounded.
Hallie sat on a nearby stump and watched. She ignored the echoing sound of lumber being stacked. The Indian woman really was pretty. Her black hair caught highlights in the sun and black lashes and brows complemented her sleek brown skin. She moved and worked with grace and confidence.
Hallie could see how she would appeal to a man. Besides her unassuming beauty, she was hardworking and quiet. Was that the kind of woman Cooper thought he would get from the city, too? What kind of woman would submissively sit by and allow him to dally with another woman? The thought got her hackles up again.
Hallie glanced at the pot bubbling over the fire and the rustic tools gathered nearby. Chumani had been working on this earlier, and had apparently joined Hallie inside while she ate, as a courtesy.
Yellow Eagle brought firewood, stacked it a safe distance from the cookfire and disappeared.
Growing restless after an interminable length of time, Hallie asked, “Can I help?”
Chumani tilted her head.
Hallie pointed to herself. “Me. Help?”
She made a useless gesture of busy hands, but Chumani seemed to understand. She led her to the pot over the fire where corn bubbled in blackish water. Demonstrating, she carried a wooden scoopful of corn to a piece of burlap stretched between four sticks stuck in the ground, and poured the corn onto the fabric. Next, she took a dipper of fresh water from a bucket and poured it over the kernels. The water rinsed the corn and ran through the burlap.
She handed Hallie the scoop.
“I understand,” Hallie said, grateful for a task to keep her hands and mind busy. “Rinse the corn. I can do that.” Energetically, she set about the task. After several scoops of corn, she raised the bucket. “Water’s gone.”
Chumani nodded.
Hallie studied her.
The woman pointed at the pail, at another one nearby, then behind the soddies.
Finally comprehending, Hallie muttered, “Go get more.” She carried the buckets and headed in the direction indicated, discovering she was upstream on the river she’d washed in and drunk from the night before. She staggered back into the clearing. “These are a lot heavier on the way back.”
Chumani’s innocent smile gave her a moment’s wonder, but she shrugged it off. She’d made five more trips up and down the riverbank before the corn was rinsed. Chumani’s job was looking better and better all the time.
Hallie assisted her in moving the heavy kettle from the fire. Chumani ran green sticks through several sickly pale headless blobs of flesh with flopping appendages and hung them over the fire.
Hallie’s stomach turned. “What are those?”
“Gu-Que,” Chumani replied. At Hallie’s lack of comprehension, she tucked her arms in and flapped her elbows.
“Some kind of bird,” Hallie said with an uncharacteristic lack of appetite.
Yellow Eagle brought several pieces of bark and placed them beside the fire. Chumani stirred together a batter using the cornmeal and poured it into the concave bark strips. She placed them before the fire.
The birds turned a golden brown and the smells actually resembled an appealing dinner cooking. The batter in the bark bowls gradually turned into crusty cornbread.
Chumani spoke to Yellow Eagle and he ran toward the freight building. Several minutes later DeWitt and the two men—all properly clothed, thank heavens—appeared, and everyone traipsed into the sod house. DeWitt stood aside and allowed Hallie to enter ahead of him. Their eyes met briefly.
“Mr. Clark,” DeWitt said, indicating the middle-aged man with lank brown hair that hung to his shoulders. “And Mr. Gilman. They’re freighters from up north.”
The second man was younger, with shoulders as wide as DeWitt’s, and gray eyes that roamed her face and hair before she lowered her gaze, unwilling to witness the rest of his perusal.
None of them pulled out a chair for her; she did it herself, pretending she hadn’t noticed.
“Unusual to see a young gal like you in these parts,” Mr. Clark said. “How’d you come to be here?”
“Well, I—”
“She’s meeting her husband here,” DeWitt interrupted from the seat he’d taken beside Chumani. Hallie noticed he’d recently washed and the hair at his temples was damp. “They’ll be moving on to Colorado.”
Hallie glared at him, but he ate his food placidly. She kept silent through the rest of the meal, except to ask Yellow Eagle what kind of bird they were eating.
“Pheasant,” he replied curtly.
She’d eaten pheasant before, but their preparation gave the meal a whole new perspective.
The freighters thanked Chumani and headed out.
“Are you going to keep your word and speak with me?” Hallie asked DeWitt as he finished his coffee.
His blue gaze bored into her. “Go ahead.”
She glanced at Chumani. “May we go outside?”
He stood and ushered her ahead of him.
Hallie stopped behind his log house and turned. “First, why did you tell those men a he about me meeting a husband?”
“For your safety.”
“What do you think you’re protecting me from?”
“Men out here don’t live by the civilized rules you’re used to,” he said. “You should’ve learned that from your stage trip.”
The reminder of what could have happened to Olivia and the rest of them at the hands of those stage robbers squelched any other objections she may have had. Hallie rushed on to the real problem. “I’m disappointed in you.”
His expression didn’t change. He waited.
“I think it’s deplorable that you sent for a bride when you already have a wife!”
He frowned. “Chumani?” he asked.
“You know very well that I mean Chumani. Perhaps she doesn’t mind sharing a husband with another wife, but I can assure you that any wife you get from back East will have plenty of objections.”
His fair brows rose, wrinkling his forehead.
“What were you thinking of?” Hallie asked, waving her hand, inspired by her topic. “If the men out here expect women to endure the hardships of the travels and this land, then they’d better start living by more civilized rules.”
His expression didn’t flicker.
“The first rule being one wife per man.”
“She’s my brother’s wife, not mine.”
“I really thought you were serious about wanting a wife, the way you fixed up the house and all, but—what?”
“It’s the duty of a dead warrior’s brother to take his wife as his own.”
Hallie frowned, mulling over his words. His brother was an Indian? How could that be when he was as white as she was? The possibilities intrigued her. There was a story here, somewhere, and a fascinating one at that!
“Chumani agrees I should have a white wife. I provide for her, but she’s not my wife. Not in the way that you’re thinking.”
Hallie’s neck and cheeks grew warm. “I see.”
“May I work now?” he asked.
She nodded and he walked away. She would have to break through his reticence to get to the story inside.
She helped Chumani wash the dishes in a tub outdoors, more at ease beside the woman now that she knew she and Cooper weren’t...involved.
Returning to the afternoon’s work, she felt a calm sense of relief seeping into her pores along with the afternoon sun. Cooper didn’t have an Indian wife after all. The odd reassurance puzzled her. Why should she care?
She made it clear that she’d like to try her hand at pounding the corn. Chumani cooked more kernels in the kettle, throwing ashes into the water to give it that black color. She cooked and rinsed and carried water, and Hallie’s arms and shoulders grew numb from the repetitive and painful task of grinding. By supper she could barely raise her arm to lift the bone eating utensil.
“Miss Wainwright?”
Hallie jerked her head up, realizing she’d been drifting off to sleep sitting at the table. “Yes.”
“You can start earning your way,” DeWitt said.
Irritation wailed from her tired muscles. “I thought I did that today.”
“Did you?” Across the table he regarded her. Firelight bounced off the golden glints in his hair and shadowed the chiseled planes of his face. His cheeks showed the barest growth of stubble, like fine-grained sandpaper, and Hallie had the surprising urge to rub her knuckles across his jaw to discover its roughness.
With concentration, she relaxed her fingers on the fork. “I helped Chumani grind the corn. I carried water and rinsed and even pounded.”
“Chumani’s done that alone for years.”
“Well, I—I...” Unexplainably, his words hurt her. She’d failed to win his approval even though she’d learned quickly and shared a good portion of Chumani’s work. Why was his approval or disapproval important?
She was trying too hard, as usual. “I thought I was helping,” she said, carefully hiding her disappointment.
“You owe me. Don’t forget that.”
How could she forget a mistake like that?
“One of the reasons I sent for a wife was so Yellow Eagle would have someone to teach him to read and write.”
She set down her fork and glanced at the boy. He stiffened immediately. The worried look he shot Cooper turned into a glare when he regarded her.
“And the other reasons?” she asked.
DeWitt took the last bite of his supper and washed it down with coffee. “My business has grown fast. I can’t keep track of orders and payments and shipments like I should.”
“You need a bookkeeper?”
“Yes.”
She regarded Yellow Eagle. He had pursed his lips and sat defiantly, staring at his plate. “I’ll need his cooperation if I’m going to teach him.”
“He’ll cooperate,” DeWitt assured her.
Yellow Eagle said something in a tone that told her he had no intention of cooperating. DeWitt spoke back and the boy’s face reddened. He refused to look at either of them.
“He will cooperate,” DeWitt said pointedly.
Hallie didn’t know which of them would be more difficult to work with; the contemptuous nephew or his obstinate uncle. But she’d gotten herself into this mess; she would get herself out of it. If earning her keep and being able to pay him back so that she could get home meant swallowing a little pride and adhering to his demands, she could do it.
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Cheryl St.John
Shooting a bandit was reporter Hallie Wainwright's introduction to the Wild West, where she'd traveled with a bevy of mail-order brides.But it was the more intimate "hello" in the arms of Cooper DeWitt that sent her heart racing - and made it all the more difficult for her to tell the brawny plainsman that she wasn't the woman he'd sent for… .When she jumped from the stage, shining with true grit and spewing tall tales, Cooper DeWitt thought he just might have struck gold. Raised with the Sioux, Cooper needed a wife who could brave the frontier and corral his restless heart. The problem was, his would-be bride had no intention of marrying him!
Hallie raised a brow in question. (#ud534ee6d-219e-5f1f-a465-f906edbe7be2)Letter to Reader (#u2fa8f103-425b-5df5-83da-25ff96ac83f3)Title Page (#ub0604930-0e78-56e3-9655-211dd09bd882)About the Author (#ud080f4c9-e581-5461-9f4f-dded1b86db5d)Dedication (#ubb9c772b-830a-5bce-b811-0ab86dc135f0)Chapter One (#u76149e71-0736-55ed-8a0f-cc4ef84a56bc)Chapter Two (#ua52cacec-55c4-5116-9e23-45e5b2cc18cf)Chapter Three (#u56ad87ad-ea79-5886-9761-49df2172e24b)Chapter Four (#ubcec70a7-6a19-590a-9b15-f2c48291c04a)Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
Hallie raised a brow in question.
“Come.” Cooper gestured and led her outside the door with one hand on her upper arm. “There are the other men, Hallie. Once they know you’re alone at night... ”
She saw the picture. Remembering the way they’d ogled her at the trading post with lecherous eyes, she didn’t need any more convincing. “I’ll take a few things and stay with Chumani.” The warmth of his hand burned through her sleeve. “Thank you,” she said. “You always think of my safety.”
His eyes dropped to her mouth, and she caught her breath at the heat she read in their depths. His other hand raised her face to his.
Hallie’s heart set up a flutter. “What—?”
“You could talk a man blind, Hallie.”
Her eyes widened and his face lowered.
“I don’t think—”
“I don’t care if you think or not. Just don’t talk....”
Dear Reader,
Since her outstanding debut in our 1994 March Madness promotion of brand-new authors, Cheryl StJohn has been delighting readers with her unique brand of historical romance. This month’s story, Badlands Bride, is about a newspaper reporter who goes west pretending to be a mail-order bride, only to find herself stranded in the Dakotas for one long cold winter. We hope you enjoy it.
Margaret Moore’s new medieval novel, The Baron’s Quest, is the captivating story of a rough-edged Saxon who falls in love with the refined gentlewoman whom he has inherited as part of his new holdings. Pearl, from Ruth Langan, is the next in her new Western series, THE JEWELS OF TEXAS, featuring four sisters who are brought together by their father’s murder.
Liz Ireland rounds out the list with Millie and the Fugitive, a lighthearted Western about a spoiled rich girl and an innocent man on the run.
We hope you’ll keep a lookout for all four titles wherever Harlequin Historicals are sold.
Sincerely,
Tracy Farrell
Senior Editor
Please address questions and book requests to:
Harlequin Reader Service
U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave., P.O. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269
Canadian: P.O. Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont. L2A 5X3
Badlands Bride
Cheryl St.John
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
CHERYL ST.JOHN
is the pseudonym for Nebraska author Cheryl Ludwigs. Cheryl’s first book, Rain Shadow, 1994, received award nominations from Romantic Times, Affaire de Coeur and Romance Writers of America for their RITA.
She has been program director and vice president of her Heartland RWA chapter, and is currently a liaison for Published Authors’ Network and a conference committee chairman.
Married mother of five, grandmother of three, Cheryl enjoys her family. In her “spare” time she corresponds with dozens of writer friends from Canada to Texas, and treasures their letters. She would love to hear from you.
Send a SASE to:
Cheryl St.John
P.O. Box 12142
Florence Station
Omaha, NE 68112-0142
This book is dedicated with appreciation and
recognition to the distributors and booksellers who
promote romance and romance authors, especially:
Nelson News, Omaha/read all about it! bookstores:
Kim Huebner, Terri Foster, Rosie Christensen,
everyone in the book room and all the drivers;
read all about it! bookstores, Nebraska and Iowa:
Karen Lafler, Jennie Mathisen, Clay Nottleman,
Robbi Pozzi, Matt Rohde, Laura Tadlock,
Linda Theile, Sue Turner, Kirk Utley, Pam Williamson
and the staff at each store.
Debi Jo Miner, 3 R’s, Omaha
Linda Mullet, Waldenbooks, Sioux City
Terry Showalter, Lee Books, Lincoln
Sherry Siwinski, Waldenbooks, Grand Island
Penny Spoerry, Waldenbooks, Des Moines
Kathy Uttecht, The Book Center, Norfolk
Jo Lent, Waldenbooks, Mall of the Bluffs
my friends at Baker Place, Omaha
Donita Lawrence, Bell, Book & Candle, Del City, OK
To all of you who order my books and recommend
them to the readers, keep my backlist in stock and host
signings, this doesn’t begin to cover it, but here it is:
Thank You
Chapter One
Ignoring the reflection of the businesses across the street behind her and the words The Daily meticulously painted in gold and black lettering on the glass, Hallie Claire Wainwright observed herself in the window of her father’s newspaper office. She adjusted the jacket of her carefully chosen two-piece fitted dress and smoothed a hand over her dark hair, fashioned into an uncharacteristically neat bun.
“I think I’ve earned the responsibility of reporting on the boxing matches,” she said to her reflection. The sporting event would make the front page every day for weeks, and Hallie could think of nothing more exciting than seeing her name beneath the headline.
“I’m sure I could get interviews with the participants,” she said convincingly. “Perhaps they’ll share insights with me they wouldn’t give the men.” Forest green curtains obscured the interior of the newspaper office, but she didn’t need to see in to picture her oldest brother, Turner, setting type and her father in the office beyond.
“I’ve been doing the menial jobs without complaint. It’s time you gave me a chance. I’ll do my best.” Hallie gave her likeness a last confident nod and opened the door.
The reassuring smells of ink, paper and grease, which she’d grown up with, boosted her confidence. Turner didn’t glance up as she strode pass the Franklin press to her father’s office. She rapped twice and opened the door.
Samuel Wainwright glanced up and immediately returned his attention to the papers on his desk top.
“Father, I —”
“No.”
Her mouth dropped open. “How do you even know what I was going to say?”
“You have that stubborn look on your face.”
“I want to cover the boxing matches.” She placed her fists on her hips. “Evan—” her lip curled around the name of the new apprentice “—gets all the good stories.”
Samuel shifted his smoking cigar stub from one side of his mouth to the other and leaned back in his creaky leather chair. “Now, Hallie,” he cajoled. “Don’t get in a huff. You know it wouldn’t be acceptable — or safe—for you to take up with that rowdy crowd in the Piedmont district. Any female in Boston with half a brain in her head wouldn’t set foot within a mile of the place.”
She rolled her eyes. “That’s all the brain you give any woman credit for having.”
He harrumphed, then shuffled through a stack of papers, finding one he wanted and ignoring her while he checked the list in his other hand against the sheet.
“Hello, Precious,” Turner said, entering.
Hallie winced inwardly.
He’d rolled his white shirtsleeves back, and his dark hair stood up on his head in finger-combed waves. He handled the office work, overseeing the typeset and presses. “I want to check this against your copy,” he said to their father.
Samuel extended a paper, and the two men concurred. Used to being ignored, Hallie sat on the corner of the ink-stained oak desk and crossed her arms over her chest, unwilling to acknowledge her father’s wisdom in this particular case. So what if he was right for once? Her father and brothers, Charles and Turner, always came up with some inane reason that she couldn’t handle a story, and ninety-nine out of a hundred times the real reason—the infuriating reason — was that she was a female.
Turner reached for a strand of Hallie’s hair that had fallen loose. “You’re a sight.”
She batted his hand away.
“What are you pouting about now?”
“I’m not pouting.”
He laughed. “You’re mad as a March bare. Still in a fix over Evan? He says he can’t sleep nights for the ringing in his ears. For the last week at supper, you’ve managed to discredit everything about the man, including his parentage.”
Hallie uncrossed her arms and shot a glance at her father. He wore a smile of bored amusement. “I keep hoping someone around here will notice that he’s not any more capable than I am.”
“And as we’ve told you a thousand times,” Turner said, raising a superior brow, “Father needed Evan.”
She tried her best to swallow her resentment. Her father did need help, and she’d worked so hard to prove herself. Samuel had hired the young man to assist Charles with the reporting, so he could devote himself to the book work and editing. It hurt immeasurably that none of them had considered her for the position. And it frustrated her beyond words that they refused to listen to her reasoning.
It was one thing to constantly defer to her brothers, but now an outsider had displaced her! “Perhaps if I put on a pair of trousers, the lot of you will notice I have a whole brain in this head.”
Turner scowled. “If you put on a pair of trousers, the men around here will notice more than that. And I’ll have to turn you over my knee and discipline the object of their attention.”
Hallie resisted the urge to stick her tongue out. Just because they treated her like a child didn’t mean she’d give in and behave like one.
“Did you turn in the piece on the quilting society?” Turner asked.
“Now that was an unequaled challenge,” she replied, tracing a worn scar on the desk top with an index finger. “Think it’ll make the headlines tomorrow?”
“Look,” her father said, interrupting. “Remember those classifieds we ran a while back? Here’s more of the same.”
Turner bent over the desk and read aloud. “‘Bride wanted.’ Another one—‘Wife wanted to cook, do laundry and care for children.’”
“What kind of self-respecting woman would answer an ad like that?” Hallie asked, frowning her distaste.
“A woman who wants a husband,” Turner replied, directing a pointed glance at his sister. “Unlike you.”
She ignored the familiar taunt. “It’s barbaric.”
“But newsworthy,” her father added. He caught his cigar between two fingers and squinted at her through curls of blue-gray smoke. “Some of the young ladies at Miss Abernathy’s Conservatory answered the last ads. Why don’t you do a story on them, Hallie?”
“Really?” she asked, jumping up.
“I haven’t seen anything in the other papers,” he continued. “Maybe, for a change, we can print a story before they get the idea.”
The assignment filled Hallie with a new sense of importance. The Daily was always trying to get the jump on the bigger papers, and even though the other newspapers always managed to edge them out, the Wainwrights had increased circulation over the past year. Any newsworthy story that first appeared in The Daily was a feather in their journalistic cap.
“I’ll work on it right away.” She kissed her father on the cheek and smugly tilted her chin on her way past Turner.
Samuel and Turner exchanged conspiratory grins. “How long do you think that will keep her out of our hair?” Turner asked.
Samuel ran a hand over his balding pate. “Let’s hope until Evan has a foot in the door. It’s hard enough being a cub, without having to deal with Hallie when she’s got her hackles up.”
“Well, then, we’ll just have to keep her busy.”
“Isn’t it just the most romantic thing you’ve ever heard?” The young woman with golden hair and ivory skin ignored the cake and tea on the tiny table and stared vacantly across the front of the lace-decorated establishment where the ladies of Boston came to socialize over afternoon tea.
Hallie thought traveling to God-only-knew-where to marry a man she’d never laid eyes on was the most asinine thing she’d ever heard, but she politely refrained from saying so.
“Where are the northern Dakotas, anyway?” Tess Cordell asked, coming out of her dreamy-eyed trance. “One of the girls said up by the North Pole.”
“I don’t think it’s quite that far.” Hallie tried to recall her geography lessons. “It’s far to the west and up north. Quite remote, I’m sure.”
Tess took an envelope from her reticule and carefully removed and unfolded a letter. “His name is Cooper DeWitt. He has a stage line and a freight company, so he must be very wealthy.” Her pale blue eyes took on that dreamy quality again. “The only thing he requested in a wife was that she be able to read and write. I think that’s good, don’t you? He doesn’t sound like a demanding sort of fellow.”
“Or discriminating,” Hallie added.
“Right,” Tess agreed, the comment apparently sailing over her head. “He’s not superficial like most young men who care only that a woman be from a good family.”
Hallie heard the resentment in her voice. Obviously Tess was not from a well-to-do family, or she wouldn’t have responded to an ad from a desperate frontier man. “Does he say how old he is?”
Tess frowned at the paper momentarily. “No.” Her expression brightened. “But he does mention that he’s never had a wife, so he must be young.”
Or uglier than a buck-too!hed mule, Hallie thought more realistically. What was this poor girl getting herself into? She almost wanted to offer her assistance if the girl needed someone to provide for her so badly she was willing to do this. But she held her tongue. Her family had told her often enough that her thinking was not that of a typical twenty-year-old woman. Tess was obviously delighted with her plan. “What else does he say?”
“Only that the country is beautiful and that I would have everything that I need.”
“How romantic.” Hallie made a few notes on her tablet. “Are you worried about being so far from anyone you know?”
“Well...” Tess chewed her lower lip. “I don’t have family, but a couple of the other girls have accepted positions in the same community, so we’ll be traveling together. I’m sure Mr. DeWitt will see that I can visit from time to time.”
Hallie noted the term accepted positions for later reference. “Are the other girls as excited as you?”
“Oh, yes!” Her pale eyes sparkled. “This is an adventure of a lifetime!”
“I want to speak with the others, too. Can you give me their names?” Hallie scribbled a list and thanked Tess for the interview.
Hallie met the other young women, then hurried home to write her article. The enormous, masculinely furnished house was quiet, as usual. She slipped into her father’s study and seated herself in his oversize chair, arranging paper, pen and ink on the desk top. She loved the room, did her best thinking among the familiar heavy pieces with the Seth Thomas mantel clock chiming on the half hour.
Nearly three hours passed before Hallie noticed the time. Double-checking the information, wording and neat printing, she blotted the pages. Her father would undoubtedly cut it in half, but, pleased with her work, she delivered it to his office.
He read the pages while she waited. “This is just what we wanted, Precious,” he commended her.
Gladdened at the acknowledgment, she ignored the patronizing nickname.
“Keep on this,” he said.
“You mean...?”
“I mean follow up. Go with them when they shop for the trip, watch them pack, all that. We’ll run a series on the brides, right up until you wave them off at the stage station.”
Surprised and more than a little pleased, Hallie nodded. “All right.” She patted the edge of the desk in satisfaction. “All right.”
Hallie read her articles in print each day, delighting in the fact that her father hadn’t cut more than a sentence or two. She was so delighted, she didn’t allow the fact that her father’s new apprentice was covering the boxing championships and making headlines nearly every other day upset her—too much.
The day before her subjects were due to leave, she stepped into the office early. On the other side of the partially open mahogany door her brothers’ voices rose.
“I’ll take this sentencing piece,” Charles said. “I’ll be at the courthouse this morning, anyway.”
“Right,” Samuel said. “Evan?”
“I still have the lawyer to interview and, of course, the matches tonight. I’ll try not to take a punch myself this time.”
Male laughter echoed.
“That’s some shiner!” Charles said.
“Great coverage, son.” Samuel added. “You’ll do anything to get an unusual angle. That’s the stuff good reporters are made of.” The aromatic scent of his morning cigar reached Hallie’s nostrils, and she paused, a hollow, jealous ache opening in her chest at her father’s casual praise of Evan Hunter. “How many more matches?”
“Another week,” Evan replied.
Hallie reached for the door.
“What’re we gonna do with Hallie?” Turner’s voice carried through the gap beside the door. “Her brides leave tomorrow.”
Hallie stopped and listened.
“That turned out to be an excellent piece,” Charles commented. “We’ve had good response.”
“Plus we got the jump on the Journal,” Samuel agreed.
“Who’d have thought that when you came up with something to keep her off Evan’s back during the matches, we’d actually get a good piece of journalism?” She recognized Turner’s voice.
They laughed again.
A heavy weight pressed upon Hallie’s chest. Hurt and self-doubt squeezed a bitter lump of disappointment into her throat. Of all the patronizing, condescending, imperious—
They’d handed her the story like presenting a cookie to a toddler they didn’t want underfoot! And now they gloated over their own superiority. Hallie had never felt so wretched...so cheated...so unimportant.
“Do we have any sources in the Dakotas?” Charles asked.
“Why?”
“The real story is on the other end of that stage line.”
A moment of silence followed Charles’s comment, wherein Hallie imagined them nodding piously at one another.
“Yes, when the men who sent for those gals set eyes on them,” Samuel agreed. “No. We don’t have anyone that far west.”
“Too bad,” Turner said.
“Too bad, indeed,” Charles said. “We could have had a real follow-up story there.”
“Let’s just hope the Journal doesn’t think of it.” Samuel added.
Heartbroken, Hallie gathered her skirts and trod stealthily back out the front door. She walked the brick street without direction. It never entered her mind to go home. Her mother would only tell her as she always did that her father and brothers did such things for her own good. Clarisse Wainwright had been born and bred to be a genteel wife and a mother to Samuel’s sons. The fact that Hallie had come along had been an inconvenience to all of them, or so Hallie saw it.
Hallie hadn’t been born the proper gender to take a prominent place at the newspaper, as much as she wished to, as much as she knew the same amount of ink flowed through her veins as her brothers’. They’d patted her on the head and sent her on her way since she’d been old enough to toddle after them.
The truth lay on her crushed heart like lead. They would never see her as good enough, as equal, as valuable or necessary. Even Clarisse had been necessary only to the point of bringing Charles and Turner into the world. Now her mother lived the life of a pampered society wife, spending her days with her gardening club, at the tearoom and playing the latest vogue card game, bridge.
Hallie would never accept an invalid life like that. Surely there was some way to prove herself to her father. If only he would give her a chance, he’d see she was as capable as Charles and Turner—and more so than Evan Hunter—because she’d been born to the life.
If only she’d been born a man.
Her mother had forced her into dresses and threatened her with Miss Abernathy’s if she didn’t take an interest in her hair and clothing. Hallie had conformed to their expectations—to the world’s expectations—and resigned herself to her unchangeable, unappreciated gender. But she could not accept the role they wanted her to play. Hallie wanted more.
Should she give up or go on printing the same outdated page of her life over and over? Neither of the choices appealed to her.
Finding herself across from the tearoom, Hallie stared dismally at the brownstone facade beside the hotel and recalled her interview with Tess Cordell. Charles had said the real story was where Tess was going. There must be some way Hallie could keep in touch with her. Perhaps, even though the mail took weeks, she could convince Tess to correspond with her for future articles. Maybe Tess would send information about the other young women, too. It wouldn’t be anywhere close to as in-depth reporting as she needed, but it was the only answer she had.
She set out for Miss Abernathy’s, realizing she’d answered her own question. She couldn’t give up. Not when the result meant settling for a superficial existence.
She found Tess Cordell hurriedly packing, arranging and rearranging, discarding items she couldn’t fit into the two small bags open on the bed. Hallie surveyed the disarray in the small room. “Whatever are you doing? Yesterday you were all packed except for your overnight valise.”
“I’ve changed plans, Miss Wainwright.” Cheeks flushed, her fair hair atumble, she tucked a cotton night rail into the battered valise and clasped her hands together. Her blue eyes sparkled with excitement. “I’m going to Philadelphia.”
“Philadelphia!” Disappointment sank in Hallie’s stomach. “What about the Dakotas?”
Tess managed to look a little sheepish. She busied herself stuffing items back into the trunk against the wall. “I was engaged until a few months ago. Eric—he’s my fiancé—well, his family put pressure on him to call the engagement off. He did, and I was devastated.”
The strength left Hallie’s legs and she wilted onto a wooden chair.
“Mr. DeWitt’s ad seemed the only thing for me to do at the time,” she explained. “But last night Eric came to see me. He’s taken a position in a Philadelphia law office, and he realized he couldn’t go without me. You know that expression ‘smart as a Philadelphia lawyer’? Well, that’s Eric. Rich, too. And he loves me. So you see there’s nothing else I could do but go with him.”
“But this DeWitt fellow...”
Tess reached toward the bureau and turned back, tossing two envelopes on the bed. “Eric gave me money to replace what I spent. Of course, it must be returned to Mr. DeWitt.... Will you be a dear and see to it for me?”
Hallie stared at the envelopes, her plans dashed.
Tess buckled two leather straps around the last case. “I’ve asked Miss Abernathy to store my trunk until Eric can send someone for it.” She tidied her hair and settled her bonnet on her head. “I hope I didn’t rum your story, Miss Wainwright, but this is the best opportunity I’m ever going to have. Please understand.”
In disbelief, Hallie watched her pick up her bags and hurry through the doorway. “Good luck,” she said to the empty room.
She sat in the silence, absorbing yet another wash of disillusionment. As far as she knew there were still three other women planning to leave on the stage the following day. Perhaps one of them would agree to help Hallie with her articles. None had been as young or as personable as Tess, but she would have to make do.
She moved from the chair to the rumpled bed and picked up the envelopes. One contained the letter she’d seen Tess with. Hallie unfolded it and read the scrawled handwriting.
Dear Miss Cordell,
My wife must be able to read and write. Enclosed is a cashier’s check to purchase whatever you will need. There are no women’s shops here. The Territory is far from the life you are used to, but the land is beautiful and you will have everything you need. I’ve never been married. I trapped for many winters and now operate a freight company and stage line. A justice will meet us at the Stone Creek Station next month.
Sincerely,
Cooper DeWitt
Hallie tucked the letter back into the envelope and picked up the other, pulling out a stage ticket and two hundred dollars. No wonder Tess had been impressed.
She fingered the ticket, took it out and turned it over a couple of times. The real story’s on the other end of that stage line.
With a little thrill of excitement, she realized what she was thinking. No. It was too dangerous! She slid the ticket back into the envelope. She would cash it in, buy a cashier’s check for the amount plus the cash and return it to DeWitt.
We could have had a real follow-up story there. The voices from the other side of her father’s door haunted her. Get Hallie off our backs...let’s hope the Journal doesn’t think of it... Turner’s condescending tone came to her. What are you pouting about now, Precious?
What if she did it? What if she used this ticket to get her to the Dakotas? She could interview the men who sent for wives. She could get the follow-up story on the other women—the real brides.
But what about this DeWitt person? He was expecting a wife. Hallie turned that question over a few times before a solution came to mind. She could simply explain the situation to him, give him his money back and call it square She could get her story, and he could send for another wife. He’d have to anyway, since Tess had backed out.
Enthusiastic now, she planned her departure. She couldn’t tell her family. They’d never allow it. Her mother would have a conniption fit. It would most likely take them a day to notice she was missing, and by then she’d be long gone. She’d write from the first station.
Satisfied with her plan, Hallie tucked the envelopes into her reticule and stood. She had packing to do if she was going to catch that stage tomorrow.
Cooper paced the dusty expanse of hard-packed earth surrounding the stage station and surveyed the broad horizon, temporarily forgetting its stark beauty. He saw only the barrenness of the land...the lack of people and buildings. He’d told her in the letter, but seeing was believing. And by now, wherever the coach was, she’d had time to see plenty.
Cooper frowned at the vista before him. The stage should have arrived sometime that morning. It was now early afternoon and there was still no sign of it. In his mind the delay signaled only one thing: trouble.
“Sky’s clear here,” Stuart Waring, another of the impatient grooms, said from behind him. “But that don’t mean they didn’t run into rain or mud.”
Cooper turned to the two farmers sitting on crates against the log wall. Stuart wore a faded shirt with a string tie cinched around his scrawny neck. His scarred boots had been polished and shined. The ever-present wind snatched at his hat, and he secured it quickly.
“Coulda had a horse go lame,” Vernon Forbes said. His jacket bore threadbare spots at the wrists and elbows, and he held a small, battered package. A gift for his bride? Cooper hadn’t thought of that.
Angus Hallstrom, the station operator who worked for Cooper, leaned against the doorframe and picked his teeth with a piece of straw. “Fact that the stage’s been robbed three times in as many months ain’t sittin’ well with me.”
Cooper had been thinking the same thing. He didn’t like the uncomfortable feeling that tiptoed up his spine and settled on his shoulders. Having money stolen or losing a month’s mail was one thing... harm coming to the woman he intended to marry was another.
George Gaston, the portly justice, sat in the only chair and sipped black coffee from a dented metal cup. Cooper observed the motley group of men and imagined what the city women would think of them.
A strange uncertainty rippled in his chest, and he glanced down at his clean buckskin pants and fringed shirt. What would Tess Cordell think of him?
Fifteen years ago, even ten years ago, content living, hunting and trapping with the Oglala, he’d never have imagined he would pair himself with a white woman. Time had changed that, as it had the existence of his people—rather, the people of his heart—and most of them were surviving on reservation land.
Buffalo no longer roamed the grasslands in great herds, like rippling black seas. The Oglala, Santee, Yankton and other Sioux had been forced to make treaties in order to receive food.
Cooper paced to his team of horses, waiting in the shade of a wind-bent tree. He ran a hand down the black’s hide and noticed his own skin, callused and rough, sun-darkened nearly to a shade like that of his Sioux family.
His white skin had given him an advantage over the men he called his brothers. He’d taken a land grant offered only to whites. He’d traded and sold years’ worth of furs for wagons and tools, caught his own horses and purchased everything else he’d needed to start his business.
For now, he could only take food and winter supplies to the reservation, but someday, and he hoped it would be soon, he would be in a position to really help his people. And Tess Cordell would help him do just that.
Hallie covered her mouth and nose with her damp handkerchief and tried not to choke on the thick dust gusting in around the drawn shade. The wheels hit another gully and her groan was drowned out by the other women’s cries.
Zinnia Blake held her wilted, green-feathered hat in place on her head with a dirty-gloved hand and Hallie tried not to laugh at the way the flesh beneath her chin jiggled. They hit another indentation and Zinnia flattened the hand over her enormous bouncing bosom. Even in the dim interior, her face glistened as red as a freshly washed tomato. “Isn’t it awfully hot for this late in the fall?”
“It can’t be much farther,” Olivia Mason predicted. She pounded on the roof with the heel of her hand and peeled back the shade. “Mr. Tubbs, is it much farther?”
The monotonous sounds of the creaking coach and the horses’ hooves were the only reply.
The wind stuck a coil of red hair to Olivia’s pale cheek and she dropped the shade back into place. “He promised we’d be there this morning.”
“Mr. Tubbs is doing the best he can,” Evelyn Reed said, coming to the driver’s defense. Hallie hadn’t heard her speak more than a dozen words the entire ten-day trip and figured she must be as tired of the other women’s complaints as she. Zinnia had been sick from the steamer’s constant chugging up the river. Olivia had insisted on changing clothes twice a day, and then complained about having no clean ones.
Once they’d crossed the Missouri and boarded Mr. Tubbs’s stage, things had grown progressively worse. Zinnia had a case of heat rash that drove her to tears. Olivia thought there should be a laundry at each rustic relay station. The meals were horrible, facilities for tending to nature’s call primitive to nonexistent, and Hallie had a crick in her neck from sleeping sitting up.
But she was having a glorious adventure. She took copious notes, describing the weather conditions, the vegetation, the stark but beautiful outcroppings of stratum eroded by time and nature. She would have a story to beat all stories when she got home. Maybe she would even write an article for a magazine... or perhaps a book!
The jarring motion of the coach slowed, and the women glanced expectantly at one another.
“Thank God!” Zinnia panted. “We must be there. And, good heavens, I no doubt look a fright.”
Olivia tucked stray red coils into her neat chignon.
The stage picked up speed again. Overhead, Mr. Tubbs shouted unintelligible orders to the horses. Inside the coach, the farers bounced and jostled. Hallie flipped up the shade and peered through the dust, gritting her teeth at the jarring of her backside against the poorly padded seat.
Appearing from a cloud of churning dust, horses and riders drew up with the stage. Shots were fired, and piercing screams erupted beside her. Heart pounding, she watched the riders gain on the stage. “Stage robbers!” she cried.
She’d stayed up many a night, thrilling to the excitement and action depicted in dime novels. Now, here was she, Hallie Claire Wainwright, participant in an adventure as exciting as those! Her heart pounded and terror shivered up her spine. She strained to see through the thick haze of dust, trying to impress each detail into memory for later.
Finally, after what seemed like hours, the stage slowed to a halt. The door was flung open and the barrel of a gun poked inside. Zinnia shrieked.
“Come out!”
Hallie glanced at the women’s panic-stricken faces. As long as they were being delayed, she might as well make the best of it. Her father would love the firsthand story of a stage holdup! Let Evan Hunter try to top this one.
“Let’s do as they say.” She gestured to the others, gathered her skirts and stepped out into the sunshine.
Chapter Two
Three bandanna-masked men in sweat-stained shirts and ill-fitting trousers pointed guns at the women exiting the coach. With their hats pulled low, the invisibility of faces and expressions was as threatening as the weapons. Two others in the same disguising attire sat atop horses. Another, this one barrel chested and short legged, held Mr. Tubbs at gunpoint on the ground.
The grizzled old driver squinted from the bandits to the women, one side of his unshaven cheek jerking in a nervous twitch.
“White women,” one of the three standing men said in awe. He wore a battered and wide-brimmed black hat.
The tallest, standing near Hallie, jerked his gun barrel toward the back of the stage. “The bags.”
The riders dismounted and lithely leapt onto the coach, unfastening the leather straps and tossing trunks and cases to the ground. Jumping back down, they opened the bags and trunks, pausing only seconds to shoot off resisting or locked latches.
The bullets frightened Zinnia to hysteria. She threw her hands toward the sun and wailed.
“Quiet!” The black-haired man moved forward and struck her with the back of his hand. Olivia couldn’t support her, and she wilted into an unconscious heap in the dirt.
“Take what you want and go,” Olivia objected. “There’s no call to hurt women.”
He yanked Olivia’s hair. She yelped, and her red mane tumbled across one shoulder. Grasping a strand in his leather-gloved fingers, he tugged her closer.
She slapped his hand away and stepped back.
“Open that pouch.” The man in front of Hallie, who appeared to be the leader, indicated her reticule.
He stood too close; his eyes were black and unyielding. The men’s aggressiveness frightened her. She’d never seen women treated disrespectfully. This was what the papers called the untamed West. There was no law. No one would even hear the shots. They could die out here and not be found for days or weeks.
Wisely, Hallie chose to open her bag and withdraw the contents. Three men darted forward, taking the other women’s possessions. At the same time, one climbed inside the coach.
The leader stuffed Hallie’s money into his pocket. She swallowed her objections. It was only money, after all, and her life was more important.
“You don’t cry.”
Hallie stared into his black eyes, her heart jumping into her throat.
“Do you talk?”
She raised her chin without reply. He circled her slowly, keeping the gun pointed at her. Halfway around, she had to turn her head and wait for him to approach from the other side. The way he looked at her body sickened her and made her feel naked.
“Lift your dress.”
She took a step back. “I beg your pardon.”
“You do talk.” He lowered the gun barrel to the front of her open jacket and nudged the material where her blouse buttoned. “Lift your dress, or I will.”
Nervously, Hallie glanced at the others. The bandits searched Olivia and Evelyn’s bodies roughly through their clothing, and the women screamed. Stoically, rather than have this man touch her the same way, Hallie raised her skirt and petticoats to her waist.
He squatted and patted her cotton-clad hips and legs with gloved hands. She clenched her teeth, nausea suffusing her insides.
Beside her, Olivia cried out and sprawled on the ground. The man wearing the black hat straddled her. Her red hair spilled across the dirt, and her skirts bunched beneath her.
“Wait just a gol-durned minute!” Mr. Tubbs cursed from his prone position.
The leader, still in front of Hallie, paused with a hand on her calf. She could see plainly that the bandit on top of Olivia had no intention of stopping. The others stood watching.
Hallie had a good idea of what that ruffian intended to do to Olivia, and it probably wouldn’t take long until the rest of them figured it was a fine idea and stopped being spectators. The leader, crouching before Hallie, bracketed one of her thighs with his gloved hands. With a strength born of terror, she kneed him in the face, knocking his hat off and releasing her skirts.
He yelped and dropped the gun, reaching for his nose and scrambling for balance.
Before he could stand, Hallie grabbed the gun and aimed it at him, securing both trembling index fingers on the trigger.
Since the bandanna was still tied across his face, only the top of his head, his black brows and obsidian eyes were visible. Hastily he grabbed his hat, jammed it over his black hair and stood, bright red blood soaking through the bandanna. He backed away.
“She won’t shoot,” said one of the others, now standing quietly.
If she didn’t, one of them would take the gun away from her and she’d be in an even bigger fix. Before she could think about it, Hallie turned the gun toward the man on Olivia and squeezed. The weapon jumped in her hands, jerked her shoulders and set her off balance. Acrid smoke curled from the barrel and Hallie steadied herself. The black hatted man clutched his arm and backed away. “Kill her!” he shouted to the others.
Hallie’s insides quaked and she waited for a bullet to impact with her skull. That shot had been a miracle. She could never shoot the rest before they killed her. A brief regret for the grief and shame she would cause her father and mother streaked through her head.
“No.” The man with the bleeding nose raised an arm, his gloved palm halting the action. Across the distance separating them, their eyes met, and his penetrating black stare sharpened her already soul-piercing fear.
He grunted a command. Hallie couldn’t tear her gaze away. If he’d told one of them to shoot her, she’d never see the bullet coming. Surprisingly however, the men gathered their stolen goods and mounted the horses.
With a final lingering perusal of Hallie, the leader leapt atop his horse and signaled. The gun trembled and her arms ached, but determinedly she kept it pointed at him. The bandits turned their horses and rode off, leaving a trail of dust on the horizon.
They were all still alive. Hallie shook so badly she finally dropped her arms, and the heavy gun barrel hit her knee.
A cackle rose on the air. “Whoo—ee!” Mr. Tubbs chortled, and spat a brown stream on the ground. “The fella what sent for you’s got a job cut out for him!”
She swung her attention back to Olivia. “You all right?”
The slender woman stood and brushed her clothing off without taking her eyes from Hallie. “Th-thanks t-to you,” she stammered, and promptly burst into tears.
Hallie groped behind her for the coach and sat on the step. “I figured we’d all be next.”
“I would rather have had them kill me,” Evelyn said softly.
A moan rose from the ground. Zinnia unfurled from her faint and sat. She blinked about like an owl, rolled to her hands and knees and stood, wobbling. “What happened? Where are they?”
“Miss Wainwright scared them away,” Olivia said, a look of amazement adding to her already bizarre appearance. Tears streaked her dust-caked cheeks and her bright hair stood out around her head like frazzled yarn.
“That she did!” Mr. Tubbs cackled and dusted himself off. “Whoo—ee! That she did!”
Zinnia’s ragged hiccuping breath jostled her ample breasts.
What had she done? Hallie regarded the baggage strewn across the ground and their clothing flapping in the wind. What could possibly happen to top this?
Her mouth curved into a relieved but jubilant grin. Boston Girl Foils Attack On Women. What a story!
Cooper glanced up at the sun. He’d just decided to unhitch the black and ride out to meet the stage when he spotted a cloud of dust on the horizon.
Anticipation rolled head over heels in his chest. He didn’t have to like her. It didn’t matter what she looked like. He didn’t care how old she was or if she was a widow ten times over. All that mattered was that she could read and write, and she’d promised him that in her letter.
It would probably be easier if he didn’t like her, since she was, after all, a white woman, and she would not like him. She didn’t have to like him. City women were vain and shallow. Her reasons for coming out here probably bore as much desperation as his for needing her.
The small dot appeared on the horizon, and his gaze followed it. What would prompt a city woman to come to the Dakotas? Love for a man? Not in this case. Lack of funds? Probably. No other prospects for marriage? Miserable thought.
“They’re comin’!” Stu shouted.
Slowly, Cooper strode to where the others stood watching the approaching Concord. He could make out the driver, Ferlie Tubbs, now, and sighed with relief.
Hooves pounded the earth, the jingle of harnesses and rings loud in the expanse of clear air. The stage drew near, distressed wood and leather creaking to a stop.
Ferlie squinted down at Cooper.
“Trouble?” Cooper asked.
The toothless ribbon sawer spit a thick stream of tobacco on the dusty ground and nodded. “Sonsa-bitches ran us down back at Big Stone Lake.”
“Everyone all right?”
“Alive,” Ferlie said.
“Hurt?” Cooper asked in alarm.
“Nah. Skeered the bejesus out o’ the fat one, and the orange-haired crybaby bawled the whole damned way.”
Cooper wondered whether he was marrying the fat one or the orange-haired crybaby.
“The hellcat’s just madder’n a bear with a sore ass,” Ferlie continued.
The door was flung open and, without waiting for assistance, a young woman in a dusty green dress with a matching hat askew on her head raised her skirts nearly to her knees and jumped to the ground. She wasn’t fat and her hair, beneath the ridiculous hat and dust, was nearly as black as a Sioux’s. The hellcat.
Her eyes, dark from this distance, surveyed the windswept vista and weathered log building and finally regarded the four men. Cooper met her stare. She was young, strikingly beautiful, with winged brows and a full mouth—definitely not a woman without better prospects in the city.
A sniffling sound came from inside the coach. She cast a significant glance over her shoulder and quickly stepped away saying, “One more mile in there and I’d have forgotten I was a lady.”
The whining came from a short young woman whose drab dress resembled a sausage casing. She appeared in the doorway, another girl with wild hair the color of a stewed carrot holding her elbow. Tearstains streaked the dust on both their faces.
Ferlie jumped down.
“What happened?” Vernon asked, Stu and Angus at his side.
“Six of ‘em,” Ferlie said. “Rode us down at Big Stone. Robbed the womenfolk. Skeered ’em good. Woulda done worse.”
Vernon clenched his fists.
“This brave young woman took a gun away from one of those border ruffians and saved us,” the redhead explained, pointing to the hellcat. Beside her the fat lady sputtered into a fresh bout of tears.
The men cast one another skeptical looks.
Finally Vernon took the initiative and spoke. “Which of you is Miss Blake?”
The fat one sniffed. “I am.”
Vernon reached for her gloved hand. “Pleased to meet you. Would it be all right if I called you Zinnia?”
A smile bloomed on her round face. She ogled Vernon as though he were rain for her parched soul. “Mr. Forbes?”
The hellcat stepped closer to Cooper—or maybe just farther away from the woman with the red and swollen eyes.
Vernon tucked his package beneath his arm and awkwardly assisted Zinnia from the coach. “You’re safe now,” he said. “You need a good hot meal and a night’s rest.”
“Miss Mason?” Stu asked, approaching the redhead.
She nodded. “Olivia.”
The hellcat stepped back to the doorway of the coach and peered in. “Coming, Evelyn?”
Cooper stepped beside her and took the blushing young woman’s gloved hand while she held her skirts and managed the step to the ground. She was painfully plain-faced and shy.
“Evelyn? Evelyn Reed?” Angus took her hand from Cooper’s. He wore a nervous grin on his awestruck face. “I’m Angus Hallstrom. You musta been scared sh—” He stopped a second. “Real scared.” The two stepped aside and the woman kept her head down as he spoke.
Amused at the station manager’s enamored reaction to the plain-faced Evelyn, Cooper remembered the woman beside him—the only bride left. He turned and contemplated her.
“Someone must be notified,” she said, looking up. “We were robbed.”
Up close her sparkling eyes were three distinct colors. Gray ringed the outside, blending into green with rich golden brown at the centers. Her lashes were thick and black, and her brows arched delicately, heightening her refined beauty. “You’re safe,” he said, not knowing how to reply.
“She bloodied the big ‘un’s nose, grabbed his gun and shot the one jumpin’ Miss Mason,” Ferlie said. “You shoulda seen it, Coop. Hot damn!” He laughed again.
Cooper stared at her. This dainty creature had done all that?
“I may be safe,” she went on, as if Ferlie hadn’t interrupted, “but I’m poorer than Job’s turkey! Those rowdies stole every bit of my money. They even took my jewelry. Someone will have to get it back!”
“I’m sorry.” Again his words were woefully inadequate.
She positioned her full lips in an exasperated line.
Tess Cordell. And she was already unhappy.
“Mr. DeWitt?”
He nodded. “Miss Cordell?”
Her ivory complexion pinkened more deeply than the original flush of irritation. “Mr. DeWitt.” She straightened her posture and lifted her chin. “I’m afraid Tess didn’t come.”
“What do you mean, Tess didn’t come?”
“Apparently her fiance had broken off with her sometime before she answered your ad. He returned just as she was preparing to come.” She glanced over his shoulder and back. “She went to Philadelphia with him.”
He regarded her. Four women had been expected, and four women had arrived. Confusion gave way to a sensation of rejection he didn’t care for. “If you’re not Tess Cordell, who are you?”
“I’m Hallie Wainwright.”
He couldn’t control the brow that rose in doubt. “And?”
“And...” Her glance skitted from his face to the driver who now made his way into the station. Angus left Evelyn Reed standing in the shade near the others, unhitched two of the six lathered horses and led them to the corral. “I’m a reporter.”
He waited, taking stock of what he might read in her expression and movements.
“I’d been working on a story about the brides for The Daily. I wanted to follow up after the women got out here, and I’d hoped that Tess would be my contact. When she changed her mind, I didn’t know what I was going to do. So, I took the ticket and the money and came in her place.”
The Oglala didn’t have a word for lie. Whites were the only ones Cooper had known to practice deception, and his lack of experience evoked an unfamiliar vulnerability. What purpose would a lie serve here?
Cooper didn’t know which would be more disappointing : if she really wasn’t his intended wife, or if she was and had come up with this plausible story to get out of an impulsive agreement she now regretted. In either case, he had no bride.
“You came in her place?” he asked.
“Well, I—” Her face grew a deeper shade of rose and she stammered. “I, uh, did use the ticket, yes. And I intended to pay you back for that as well as return the money that you sent Tess.” Her gold-flecked eyes widened. “No! I did not come in her stead!”
Her horror at the thought of being his substitute bride didn’t lend him any confidence. He took note that the other couples were already speaking with the justice. Stu glanced toward them expectantly. Cooper turned back to her. “All right. Where is it?”
“What?”
“My money.”
Her mouth fell open. “They stole it! Those men who robbed us took everything of value they could carry on their horses.”
“So you can’t pay me back?”
She blinked. “No.”
“Fair try, Miss Cordell.”
Speechless for once, Hallie stared at the man. Beneath a fawn-colored hat, his blue eyes matched the endless sky overhead. He had a straight, stern nose and a shapely mouth with a tiny line at each corner. The deep dimple in his chin and the matching indentation beneath his nose lent authority to his serious expression.
“What are you saying, DeWitt?”
He scrutinized her face, and finally his expression changed. Drawing a breath, he said, “I understand why you don’t want to stay.”
“All right, why don’t I want to stay?”
“You’re a city woman. You’ve had a good hard look at this country...at the men...at me. And you’re ready to go back to your comfortable home.”
“It’s not that at all. You can’t presume to read my mind. I never intended to stay here. I never intended to marry you.”
His gaze didn’t flicker.
“Nothing personal, mind you. I am not Tess Cordell. I have a position at the paper back in Boston, and I’m not inclined to marry someone I don’t know—or anyone, for that matter.”
He shrugged a broad shoulder indifferently, the soft fringe around his shoulders and his sleeve swaying with his movement, then turned and walked away.
His action surprised her, as did the thick, dark blond tail that hung down his back to his waist. She’d never seen a man with hair longer than her own.
The closer he got to the crude building, the more realization sank in. If she didn’t intend to marry him, he didn’t plan to waste time listening to her explanations. He hadn’t exactly seemed the chatty, sympathetic sort.
Hallie sized up the situation. Here she stood in the middle of nowhere. The station and this handful of people were the only sign of civilization for who knew how far. She had a trunk full of dirty wrinkled clothes, a heavy satchel full of books and writing supplies, and exactly no money. He had every reason to think what he did.
“Wait!”
He paused and turned. “Yes?”
Hallie caught up with him. “I—uh, I have nowhere to stay and no way to get back.”
“Looks that way.”
“Perhaps you could loan me money for a room and a ticket home.” His unyielding expression didn’t give her much hope.
“There aren’t any rooms, Miss...”
“Wainwright.”
“Wainwright. And I have better things to do with my money than give it to strangers without being sure of getting paid back.”
“My word is good,” she replied indignantly.
“That’s not the case with most whites.”
Hallie gave him a curious frown.
Once again he scrutinized her face and hair, ran his blue eyes over her clothing. “How do I know you’re not really Tess Cordell?”
Impetuously, she placed a hand on his arm. She thought he’d pull away, but her gentle touch held him even though the hard muscle beneath her fingers assured her no physical attempt on her part could stop this man if his mind was made up. He stared down at her fingers, and Hallie snatched her hand back.
She’d never met such a callous man. Her brothers may have been unsympathetic to her career plans, but they’d always been concerned with her safety and well-being. “So you’re just going to leave me out here in God-knows-where, without a penny, to fend for myself?”
“I’m sure a capable reporter like you will come up with something. You got this far, didn’t you?”
Yes, she had. Mustering her pride, Hallie stared at the dismal little station building and caught at her hat as another gale threatened to send it back to Boston without her. “Is there a storm coming?”
He glanced at the clear sky overhead and frowned. “There’s not a cloud in sight.”
“I just thought...” she mumbled. “The wind.”
His attention wavered to her clothing flattened against her body, outlining her breasts and legs. She turned aside.
“The wind is always like this,” he said.
“Oh.” Hallie had never seen so much horizon. Land stretched in every direction. She’d never seen so much sky or dust or known so many insects existed. She’d never met an unyielding man like this one. Who knew? Maybe Tess Cordell would have made it this far only to change her mind.
She glanced at the others, still waiting near the building. “I’m sorry Tess didn’t come.”
He made no reply.
“Why don’t you just take me to town? I’m sure I can make arrangements there.” Perhaps she could sell something she had left, or make a trade for a ticket.
“There is no town.”
“What?”
“Stone Creek isn’t a town—yet. Besides my freight company, there’s a livery, a trading post and a saloon.”
She brought her attention back to his sun-burnished face. “And a post office?”
“Mail leaves from here.” He nodded toward the station.
Hallie avoided his piercing eyes for several seconds. She ran through her dilemma in her head. No telegraph. No rooms. A fine fix. “How long until the stage goes out?”
“This one goes north tomorrow. It’ll be two weeks before another heads back east.”
“Is that mail, too?”
He nodded.
She stared at the tips of her dirty shoes. She could get a story in two weeks. But where would she stay? How would she eat? She was already starving. “Could you hire me? I’ll help you with your business until I earn enough to get home, or until I hear from my father.”
“You won’t work off two hundred dollars plus the ticket in two weeks.”
“I know that.” She shook her head in frustration. “I’m not holding you responsible, even though my things were in the care of DeWitt Stage Company, am I? Why don’t you give me the same courtesy?”
Hallie didn’t know what other choice she had left. Unless she begged one of the newlyweds to take her home, and besides the embarrassing imposition, she wouldn’t feel safe being too far from the stage station. It was her only link to home.
He studied her. “I don’t claim to know much about city ways or what’s proper and what’s not, but you can’t stay with me, even sleeping separately, without getting married.”
He was right. No one would probably ever know, but even with the remote possibility that they would, Hallie couldn’t risk the shame that would be placed upon her family, on her society-entrenched mother. “That is a problem. I don’t suppose you have two residences?” she asked.
He shook his head and glanced away.
She couldn’t help noticing his broad-shouldered frame in the soft leather clothing. Over six feet tall, the man was solid muscle. She couldn’t allow his size or his gender to intimidate her. She was used to dealing with stubborn men.
He returned his attention and caught her observation.
“Marriage is out of the question. I don’t want a husband.”
Something flickered behind his blue eyes.
“You’re insulted that I won’t marry you,” she guessed. She’d had enough experience with the male ego to know what she was dealing with.
“I need help. I don’t expect a woman to fall at my feet.” He took in her appearance again, from her hat flapping like a lid in the wind, to her clothing, and down to her feet.
Why should she feel inadequate beneath his stare? Hallie had never given in to the detriment of being a woman before, and she wasn’t about to start. “I’m sure you’ll find someone to help you, Mr. DeWitt. Just like I will find a way to get my story and go home.”
She hurried back to the coach for her satchel, pulled out a tablet and pencil, and marched toward the small gathering in front of the building.
DeWitt followed.
“George Gaston, miss.” The justice introduced himself nodded politely. “The ladies said Coop’s bride changed her mind.”
“I’m afraid that’s so,” she said.
“Well, let’s go in, and the couples gettin’ hitched should line up,” he ordered.
Hallie joined the gathering inside the station. The rough log walls looked like the inside of every other stopover she’d been in since crossing the Missouri, but at least she was out of the wind and sun for a few blissful moments. The three couples took their places and the justice quickly performed the ceremony. Hallie’s pencil scratched across the paper as she tried to take note of every last detail.
“You’re the witnesses,” the justice said, indicating Hallie and DeWitt. She signed three papers and handed the quill to DeWitt. He accepted it, carefully avoiding contact with her fingers, and turned his broad back to her.
Hallie stared at it only briefly before turning to George Gaston. “Would you be so kind as to give me a ride into town?”
He gave her a puzzled glance. “There ain’t no town.”
“To the trading post, then,” she clarified.
“I only have the one horse, miss. Don’t seem it would be proper.” He glanced behind her. “Coop’s the one with the rig.”
Her body ached from the ride, and she was so tired she could have curled up right here and gone to sleep. She sighed in frustration.
“I’ll give you a ride,” DeWitt offered from beside her.
She slanted a glance up in surprise.
“Come.”
“I need to post a letter to my father first.” She scribbled on a piece of paper. “Do you have an envelope?” she asked the station manager.
“Nope.”
Hallie looked at her letter in consternation.
“Just fold it and write the name and address on the back,” he told her.
She followed his direction and handed the letter over.
“That’s three bits, miss,” Mr. Hallstrom informed her.
Distressed, she glanced over her shoulder.
DeWitt drew the change from a leather pouch and laid it on the wooden counter.
“I’ll pay you back,” she promised.
Hallie congratulated the women, promising to see them soon, and followed DeWitt outdoors.
“I’ll pull the team over,” he suggested. “You show me which bag is yours.”
Though newly married, Angus jumped to the boot and performed his job, unbuckling the trunks and cases. DeWitt raised a brow at the sight of her trunk, but lifted it to the back of the wagon effortlessly, situating her valise beside it. She accepted his assistance and climbed up onto the seat.
Back aching, eyelids drooping, she rode beside him, desperately wanting to be able to eat and fall asleep. The man next to her made her feel even more helpless than her brothers did. If he believed her to be Tess, then he thought her a liar. If he took her word for who she was, he thought her a fool. Both assumptions got under her skin. “I’m a good reporter,” she said at last.
From beneath the brim of his hat he cast her a sideways glance. She read neither skepticism nor belief.
“There have been plenty of women writers, you know,” she said. “Mary Wollstonecraft wrote before the turn of the century. And there was Fanny Wright.”
His expression didn’t change.
“Anne Royall, too, but then she’s not a very good example, with all that Washington gossip. And of course there’s Lydia Maria Child’s antislavery book. So you see it’s not all that unheard of.”
Hallie reached into her satchel and pulled out her clippings about the brides. “Here’s one of my articles.”
She unfolded a column and held it up for him to look at.
His attention flicked over the scrap of newspaper dismissively.
The wind caught it and tugged it from her fingers. Her only copy disappeared into the vast countryside. Quickly, Hallie tucked the others safely back into her bag. “Those articles prove who I am, don’t they?”
“Anyone could have cut them from a paper.”
“You should have asked one of the other women who came. They could have backed up my story.” She frowned thoughtfully. “I could have shown you my silver bracelet with my initials engraved on it, but by now some thief has probably given it to his... Do thieves have wives?”
He only glanced at her in silence.
“Well, he’s melted it down for bullets, then,” she said.
He turned his face away and watched the horses’ rumps and the rutted dirt road.
Finally a few buildings came into sight, and the animals picked up their pace, heading for a long log structure with grass blowing atop the slanted roof. Hallie had never seen anything so strange.
“Is that your house?” she asked.
“The freight building. You can’t see the house yet.”
“You’ve planted grass on top!”
He cast her a cunous look. “It’s a sod roof.”
An enormous barn sat beside it. Sectioned corrals holding horses and mules bordered the east side and the back.
He led the team through an opening wide enough to accommodate the horses and wagon, and stopped. Inside were rows of wagons, a wall of tools and the permeating smell of dung and hay. DeWitt unhitched his horses and whacked each on the rump. Placidly, they made their way through a doorway, where a short man wearing suspenders over his shirt met them.
“Hey, Coop! That the bride?”
Cooper hung tack on the wall. “No, Jack. She didn’t come. This is Miss Wainwright. A reporter from Boston.”
“Oh? Looks like this ’un would do.” He tottered off behind the horses.
Hallie lowered her eyes and stretched her legs. Cooper had called her by her name and identified her as a reporter. Did he believe her now? Her stomach growled, loud in the open room. “Why didn’t you introduce me properly?”
His brows lowered. “Don’t expect parlor manners out here, lady.” He beckoned with an arm that sent fringe swaying.
Hallie followed. He led her across an open space near the big log building to a smaller one a short distance away. The logs were freshly stripped of bark. Behind it, two windowless sod houses stood, smoke curling from the chimney of one.
He opened a new door and ushered her inside, hanging his hat on a mounted set of antlers. The scents of wood and wax met her nostrils. The room they stood in had a glass window at each end. One side was for cooking, with a stove and table and chairs, the other a sitting area, which included a wide fireplace and a stone hearth. Overhead, a loft could be reached by a sturdy ladder made of saplings.
The stripped logs couldn’t be seen from the inside. The walls had been plastered and whitewashed. Everywhere was evidence of recent construction and meticulous care. With new eyes Hallie took stock of the simple room and regarded the man who poked sticks into the stove and started a fire.
He’d built a home for Tess Cordell.
Did he feel cheated that she hadn’t come? Resentful? An ache like that he must know sapped even more of her energy. Sight unseen, he’d provided the best his stark country had to offer. His preparations revealed there was more to the man than met the eye. He wanted a wife to share this home with. Hallie couldn’t identify the lonely and disturbing feeling the thought wove into her empty stomach.
He’d only needed help, he’d said. He hadn’t expected a woman to fall at his feet.
But he’d done all this in anticipation.
Somehow, perhaps unfairly, Hallie thought it was only right that Tess hadn’t come. She hadn’t cared if Cooper DeWitt was old or young, hadn’t thought of anything but herself and the fact that he obviously had a little money. She wouldn’t have been happy here.
Would she?
He clanged a heavy black skillet on the stove and cut chunks of ham into it, his movements deft and sure. He looked different without the hat, less intimidating, more... approachable. His blond hair hung down the center of his back in a thick tail. He had a narrow waist and muscular buttocks and thighs.
Perhaps Tess had made a big mistake.
He glanced up and caught her looking.
Hallie met his eyes and willed herself not to think him handsome.
He dropped a heavy lid on the skillet. “I’ll get you some water and you can wash before we eat. There’s a privy out back.”
“A what?”
He stood motionless, staring at the table. “A place to relieve yourself.”
Embarrassment buzzed up Hallie’s neck to her ears. “Oh—uh, a necessary,” she said.
He brought water from outdoors and heated it on the stove. Carrying the metal pan through the doorway, he showed her into one of the two separate rooms. After placing the pan on a low stand, he left her alone.
Hallie surveyed the room. It held a wide rope bed covered with a rough blanket, a chest of drawers and an armoire, all new. There was no covering at the window, but wood pegs had been placed in an even row along the wall. All were empty. Waiting for a woman’s clothing.
She loosened her hair, ran her fingers through it and repinned it as best she could, leaving her hat on the end of the mattress.
The water was a blessing. Even though it was warm, she scooped a palmful and drank it before she removed her jacket and unbuttoned her blouse, washing her face, neck, arms and hands. The rough toweling he’d provided exhilarated her skin, and, once finished, she felt refreshed, although she would’ve given anything for a bath.
Hallie replaced her clothing and carried the pan out, tossing the water on the ground.
“Next time water the vegetables with it,” he said. Her nose nearly bumped his chest.
Next time? He took the pan and pointed to the table. Hallie sat obediently. Beside the plate lay a smooth white spoon and two-pronged fork. “These are lovely What are they made of?”
“Bone.”
She stared at the object in her fingers. “What kind of bone?”
“Buffalo.”
“Oh.”
He sat across from her and ate. She followed his example. The ham was a trifle salty, but the bread and eggs were filling. Hallie cleaned her plate, and didn’t object when he gave her more from the skillet on the stove.
“I didn’t see a chicken coop,” she commented.
“Turkeys.”
“Turkeys?”
“Wild turkeys. They lay eggs in the brush. I have some chickens coming this afternoon.”
She swallowed her last bite. “Well, thank you for your hospitality. I’d best be on my way.”
She stood.
He picked up the plates.
A thought occurred to her. “About my trunk...”
He looked up.
“May I leave it with you until I know where I’ll be staying?”
He nodded and moved away from the table.
“Very well, then. Thank you again.”
He turned back. “You know where to find me.”
She nodded, picked up her valise and let herself out his door. Immediately the wind snatched at her skirts and blew dust in her face. Hallie drew her gloves from her reticule and pulled them on. The bag’s weight brought an ache to her shoulder, but she made her way through the foot-deep dried ruts that formed a street of sorts, praying for success in finding somewhere to stay. Even an adventuress needed a rest now and then.
Chapter Three
The nearest building was a healthy walk, and exhaustion set in to Hallie’s body and mind. She crossed the distance, thinking of her letter to her father sitting at the station for another two weeks until a stage came through to take it east.
She could probably walk faster.
Well, not unless she got a night’s rest. And if she found her way. And if she could carry food and water to last weeks. And if she didn’t run into those godaw-ful robbers or others like them.
A shudder ran through her frame. She really was vulnerable. She’d never experienced the reality of it before. All of her father’s and brothers’ monotonous warnings came to mind. They’d known. But she’d led such a pampered, protected life, she hadn’t thought any harm could actually befall her.
What an eye-opening day this had been.
The trading post was like nothing Hallie had ever seen. The building itself had been constructed of blocks of sod, and the cracks were chinked with mud. The thatched ceiling was suspended by a rough frame, weeds and cobwebs dangling over furs and tools and foodstuffs, everything covered with thick layers of dust. Besides dirt, the overpowering stench of tobacco and gunpowder and unwashed bodies hung in the cramped space.
Three men glanced up from their seats around a black stove in the center of the room. “Look, Reavis, it’s one o’ them brides. A purdy one, too!”
An unshaven man got up with stiff-jointed unease and took his post behind a laden counter. Obviously baffled with her presence, he scratched his head with bony fingers. Hallie stepped closer, so her words wouldn’t be heard by the others. “Are you the proprietor?” she asked.
He chewed something that made a lump in his cheek and his whiskered upper lip puckered. His gray beard held a brown stain at the corner of his lip. He scratched his angled shoulder. “I’m Reavis. This here’s my place.”
Hallie glanced at the two men by the stove. They appeared eager to listen to the conversation without a qualm about rudeness. She leaned a little closer to Reavis and spoke softly. “Mr. Reavis, I seem to have run into unfortunate circumstances. Until funds are delivered to me or I’m able to secure wages on my own, I’m in need of lodging.”
He worked over whatever was inside his cheek. “Huh?”
Hallie glanced from Reavis to the listening men and back again. “I need work and a place to stay.”
“Why didn’t ya say so? Somebody oughta told ya they ain’t no place to stay and they ain’t no work for womenfolk.”
“No one has a room?”
“Everbody got a room,” he said, and scratched between the buttons of his faded shirt. “Jest not one without a body in it already.”
Hallie glanced around, thinking quickly. “Where does the justice stay when he’s here?”
He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Throws down a roll in my back room.”
“Could I do that?” she asked, hoping the justice wasn’t staying long.
“Sure can.” He exchanged a knowing look with the others and one of them snickered. “If’n ya don’t mind my snorin’.”
Warmth crept up Hallie’s collar and heated her cheeks. “Oh.” She mustered her dignity and peered around hopefully. “Why don’t I clean the shop for you?”
He sized up the room defensively. “What fer? It’d jest get dirty agin.”
Hallie’s back ached and she’d never been so tired. She confronted the men eavesdropping. “And you, gentlemen? Would either of you have a job for me? I need to earn money to get home to Boston.”
“Ain’t no whores at the saloon,” one of the others replied. His unpleasant smile revealed a missing front tooth. “You be fixin’ to take that spot?”
She didn’t care for the leering way he ran his eyes over her body. Refusing to show her mortification, Hallie turned away without giving his crude suggestion a reply.
They snickered again.
“Coffee there,” Reavis said. “Or somethin’ stronger if you hanker. You could sit a spell.”
“Thank you,” she replied, anxious to get away. “But I’ve just eaten.” She ignored the men in the chairs and made a beeline out the door.
Just as well, she thought. From the appearance of the sales area and the vigor with which the man had scratched, she could only imagine what the back room and beds must be like. Hallie shuddered again.
Between the trading post and the next building, the wind covered her with as much dirt as she’d washed away at DeWitt’s. Curiously she studied a large square tent with a sagging canvas roof as she passed. It appeared to have been there for some time, because weeds grew up around the bottom and a dirt path had been worn beneath the flap-covered opening.
In the open doorway of the next wooden structure the bare-chested liveryman stood, watching her approach. Embarrassed, Hallie kept her eyes carefully focused on his soot-besmeared face. He stared at her as if she was an apparition the wind had blown in.
“How do you do?” she said.
A heavy-looking hammer fit like a child’s toy in his massive hand. He bobbed his head in a nervous acknowledgment.
“I need a job and a place to stay,” she said simply.
“Ain’t no jobs, ma’am,” he said. “Unless you build your own place, there ain’t no work. Same for a house.”
“I hadn’t thought of building my own house,” she said. “I’ll keep that in mind.” With little hope left, she asked, “Are you married?”
His eyes widened and the whites stood out in stark contrast to his dirty face. His attention dropped to the contours of her green traveling suit and the bag in her hand. “You askin’?”
Uneasily, she realized her mistake. “No. I—I’d hoped perhaps there’d be a woman.... Sorry to have bothered you.”
She kept her shoulders straight and her head up, and hurried away. With his eyes boring into her back, Hallie was torn between turning around to look and running full steam.
Farther along the road and to the right, the land sloped downward and several trees grew along the bank of a river. Hesitantly she glanced back. The liveryman was still watching her from in front of his building. Hallie turned away quickly. The shade appealed to her, so she walked down the slope, dropped her valise and sat beneath one of the trees.
“Hellfire!” she said aloud. What had she gotten herself into? She could just hear Charles and Turner now, berating her for being ten kinds of a fool. Providing she made it back home so that they could yell at her. If wild animals or hostile Indians killed her out here, they’d lament forever about what a foolish, headstrong girl she’d been.
She’d sent a telegram from Buffalo, telling them her plan, and another from a place on the shores of Lake Michigan. It was purely conceivable that the letter she’d written today would never reach them. She could die out here and they’d never know if she’d arrived or what had happened to her.
Hallie snorted in self-derision. It would be the first time she’d made headlines. Foolhardy Daughter Of Newspaper Owner Perishes In Wilderness! Evan would probably write the damned piece.
The wind tore through the branches overhead, but down here near the bank, the air was calmer. Hallie laid her head on her leather valise and watched the leaves whip against the bright blue sky. When ticking off the pathetically few businesses, DeWitt had listed the freight company, the trading post, the livery and the saloon.
She hadn’t seen the saloon, thank goodness. After that crude man’s comment, she knew there were no respectable jobs or places to sleep alone.
She turned on her side and closed her eyes. This dilemma was too much to deal with right now. Perhaps she’d have a clearer head after a few minutes’ rest.
Hallie opened her eyes to pitch-blackness. Her back hurt intolerably. Behind her, the gentle sound of lapping water blended with the exultant chirr of crickets and other, more unfamiliar night sounds. Occasionally, a loud croaking sound echoed across the river’s surface. Something stung her chin and she slapped it.
Disoriented, she sat up. Her predicament came back to her, and fear trembled in her aching limbs. She was alone and unprotected in the untamed badlands of the Dakotas. Her very existence was at the mercy of Indians, wild animals and uncouth frontier men. What in the blazing Sam Hill had she been thinking of?
Hallie reached up for her hat and realized she’d left it at DeWitt’s. She opened her valise. Once her eyes adjusted to the night, the moon provided enough light to see the contents and the nearby area. No wild animals lurked within eyesight. She withdrew her brush, unpinned her hair and brushed it out, securing the new braid with one of the ties from her reticule.
Gingerly, she picked her way down the bank and knelt near the water, scooping several handfuls and drinking deeply. A cool breeze blew across the water and she shivered. Her warmer jacket was in her trunk — in DeWitt’s barn.
Nearer the water, mosquitoes feasted on her tender skin. Tall weeds nearby provided a place to relieve herself, though she worried more about having her backside chewed alive than someone seeing her. Quickly she finished and hurried up the bank to her spot beneath the trees, where she sat scratching her neck and wrist.
What should she do? Wait the night out here? Walk up near the buildings where it might be safer from animals? Perhaps she could find a spot in DeWitt’s barn to hide for the rest of the night. Or did that Jack fellow sleep there?
Wings flapped overhead, and Hallie stifled a startled cry. She glanced around, searching the unfamiliar darkness. Just an owl. Or a bat.
An eerie hoot came from somewhere nearby.
Or Indians? Gooseflesh broke out on her arms. She’d devoured too many dime novels not to know that Indians signaled one another with animal sounds, and that an unsuspecting white wouldn’t know the difference. They moved with stealth and silence and often took white women as slaves.
Maybe she would be safer nearer DeWitt’s place. She stood again, picked up her case and hurried up the slope to the road. Men’s voices came from the tent structure she’d seen earlier. Light glowed from inside. A revival tent?
Hallie hurried closer and listened to the voices through the canvas wall.
“Stood there pretty as you please with her skirts hiked up and her prissy white drawers bared to all nature—whoo-ee!” A gleeful cackle followed. “And when that fella reached for her, she all-fired brung that skinny knee up and busted his nose! He couldn’t absquatulate fast enough!”
Men’s chuckles followed.
Hallie burned with embarrassment and aggravation. Why, that dirty, low-down coot! Mr. Tubbs had treated her with the utmost respect and dignity, only to turn around and make jest of her nearly disastrous episode with the bandits! She ought to go in there and give him a piece of her mind.
Glass sounded against glass and a belch erupted.
“Don’t get too corned, Ferlie. You gotta head that stage out in the mornin’.”
“Never was a mornin’ I couldn’t sit atop a horse or a stage, no matter how many jugs or women I polished off the night afore.”
Laughter erupted once again.
The saloon. She backed away. She’d been around enough men in her life to know not to draw attention to herself when they were drinking.
Hallie stole away from the tent and found her way in the moonlight. The livery was dark. Imagining the huge black-haired man watching her from a crack in the wall, she switched her valise from one hand to the other and continued on. A beckoning yellow glow burned from the window of DeWitt’s home, and she followed it easily.
She had no idea what time it was, her timepiece having been stolen, and wondered if he was asleep—she paused several feet away—or back at the saloon.
The barn wasn’t lighted, but she found it easily enough. A sliding barrier now covered the wide opening he’d pulled the wagon through. A regular door stood to the side. She rested her fingers on the latch.
Did they tie their horses up in here or would she be trampled? Was Jack in here somewhere? This no longer seemed like such a good idea.
“We hang horse thieves out here.”
Hallie gasped and dropped her valise, whirling to face the man who’d spoken at her ear. Beneath the palm she flattened against her breast, her heart beat wildly. A broad-shouldered, unmistakably masculine form was silhouetted against the moon. “Mr. DeWitt!” She dropped her hand and caught her breath. “You nearly frightened me to death!”
“Better than hanging.”
“I wasn’t going to steal a horse!”
“No? What are you doing sneaking into my barn, then?”
Hallie’s confidence had taken a beating. She struggled for poise. “I—” she didn’t want to admit this “— I was just going to spend the night.”
“And abandon your cozy spot by the river?”
She gaped at him in the darkness. “You were spying on me?”
“Spying?” he asked, and his head tilted uncertainly.
“Snooping? Watching without permission?”
“I was spying,” he agreed.
“Well!” She adjusted her jacket and stood straighter. Good heavens, had he even known when she’d hung her backside in the weeds? Hallie’s posture went slack. She scratched absently at the place she’d just thought of.
“Come.” He picked up the valise and reached for her arm.
Hallie pulled away. “What are you doing?”
He wrapped his fingers around her arm and hauled her forward. “You can’t stay outside all night, and you can’t stay in the barn.”
Through her jacket his touch was just firm and unyielding enough to not hurt. “Is Jack in there?”
“Yes.”
“Where are you taking me?”
“To my house. You’ll stay there, and then I’ll get some sleep.”
“I can’t stay with you! You’ve already said it’s highly improper.”
He stopped before his door and released his hold. “Proper doesn’t hold much water out here.”
She realized that. But she wasn’t from here. She was from the East, where propriety meant everything. She glanced back out at the unending expanse of darkness. But then, Bostonians didn’t have to deal with wild animals and Indians, did they? “Are there any bears near?”
He reached for the latch and opened the door. Welcoming light spilled across the threshold and revealed his muscled body in the buckskin clothing. “Grizzly.”
More afraid of bears than of him, Hallie hastily stepped past him into the room. “You’re right. Proper doesn’t even seem wise at this point.”
He carried her valise to the room where she’d washed earlier and returned with an enormous roll of furs.
“Go ahead,” he said, gesturing to the room. “I’ll sleep here.” He pointed to the floor by the fireplace.
Hallie glanced from the room to the furs. She hadn’t meant to put the man out of his bed.
“I’ll sleep in the barn if you want,” he said, as though he misunderstood her hesitation.
“No.” She scratched at her jaw. “I don’t want to impose on you. I could sleep here.”
“You’ll have the room to yourself. I’ve slept on the ground most of my life.”
She looked at him curiously. What kind of family and upbringing had he come from? “You have?”
He frowned and stepped closer.
Hallie felt herself shrink from his immense form.
Gently, he took her hand and inspected the bites, dropping it to tip her chin up and study her neck and jaw with a warm blue gaze. He released her, and her skin tingled where he’d touched her. He brought water from the stove. For such a large man, he moved gracefully, without a sound. She glanced down at his knee-high moccasins. “This is still warm,” he said. “Go wash. I have something for the itch.”
Hallie accepted the pan and closed the door behind her. She stared in surprise. Her trunk stood against the wall. Why had he brought it in? Grateful he had, she removed the broken lock and opened the lid, sorting through the jumbled contents. Her clothing was dusty and wrinkled, but cleaner than what she was wearing. She slipped out of her traveling suit, washed and dressed in a nightgown and modest robe.
She opened the door and peered out.
DeWitt waited near the table. “Sit.”
Approaching him made her feel small and at his mercy, a feeling she didn’t like. Hallie studied his well-carved, sun-burnished face. Tonight she was at his mercy. She sat. Her heart fluttered nervously in her chest.
He dipped a broad finger into a small earthenware pot and retracted it smeared with a shiny yellow substance. Dotting it on her wrists first, he then rubbed it into her skin with his second finger. His touch was surprisingly gentle. Instantly the sting disappeared. The backs of her hands received his attention next. The intimacy of the situation struck Hallie, and she grew uncomfortably warm. She was alone with a man—a strange man.
She couldn’t help studying his down-tilted face with its angled jaw and strong chin. Her attention wavered across his uncommonly long hair, still drawn back.
There was a perfectly good reason for the nearness they shared and the way she was dressed—or undressed. He couldn’t have reached her wrists in the long-sleeved jacket. And the caressing touch he administered to the backs of her hands was merely an act of human kindness.
He tipped her chin up, and Hallie became aware of his hard, callused finger. Although the position brought their faces close, he focused his attention on her neck. His finger seemed to caress beneath her ear, along her jaw, the corner of her eye. His warm breath stirred the hair at her temple and an unexpected tingle ran through Hallie’s body.
He dotted the end of her chin and their eyes met. He rubbed the spot absently, holding her gaze. “Anywhere else?”
Her gaze dropped to his lips.
“Miss?”
Hallie looked away. She shifted uncomfortably on the chair, the bites on her bottom driving her to distraction. In polite society one didn’t even refer to a leg. She couldn’t tell him where her worst bites were. “Uh...”
He handed her the pot, his callused palm grazing her skin. The corner of his mouth jerked, but immediately he flattened his lips. “Take it with you.”
She nodded.
He stepped away.
The earthenware container was warm from his hand. She stood, wanting to say more, wanting to ask why he’d decided to be kind to her. She debated the wisdom, and finally turned back. “Mr. DeWitt?”
He said nothing, but his eyes revealed his interest.
“Thank you for everything.”
“You’re welcome.”
Whatever his reason for seeing to her care, she appreciated it. “You really have no reason to believe who I say I am. I admit what I did was rash. I fully expected that when I explained the situation to you and gave you the money Tess left, you would understand and could send for another wife.” She studied his unchanging expression. “I knew it would be an inconvenience, but I guess I wasn’t thinking of what a disappointment you’d be in for.”
She walked to the bedroom door. A thought occurred to her and she turned back. “You never asked me anything about her.”
His deep voice came softly from across the room.
“What does it matter now?”
Her hand stilled on the latch. “You deserve better.”
With that, she hurried into the room.
Cooper stared at the closed door. What had she meant by that? He deserved better than Tess Cordell? Or he deserved better than being left at the altar, so to speak?
The lady was a fascinating blend of contradictions. On one hand, her poise and delicate beauty lent her an otherworldly air of sophistication and charm. Just the type of woman he’d expected—and dreaded On the other hand, her headstrong actions and bold speech rattled him even more because of their unfamilianty. She was educated. She was sharp and informed. She was born and bred to a life he had no capability of understanding.
The vivacious flare in her eyes and the stubborn tilt of her chin characterized an impetuous child. Her softly curved body belied that. And the more he saw of her nature, the more he didn’t believe she would lie to get out of a situation she’d changed her mind about. Her determination included a healthy dose of integrity.
She was the reporter she said she was.
What, then, was he going to do with her? It had been plain to him from the first that he was stuck with her for at least two weeks, unless he took her back to the Missouri River crossing himself. That was out of the question. He had a business to run. He had lumber coming tomorrow and supply wagons the following day.
Well, she would have to earn her keep. That’s why he’d sent for a woman in the first place. Wasn’t it?
Cooper glanced at the wooden bar across the cabin door, unrolled his fur pallet and blew out the lantern. No sliver of light beneath the bedroom door showed him she’d doused hers, too. He slid off his moccasins and placed his rifle beside him before he lay down.
He smiled, thinking of her reluctance at putting him out of his bed. He’d made the foreign piece of furniture only two weeks ago and had yet to sleep on it. The idea for it had come to him one night before he’d finished the log house. He’d lived in the soddy behind, his dead brother’s wife, Chumani, and son, Yellow Eagle, living in the soddy beside. Once he’d sent for a bride, he’d planned the cabin, but he hadn’t really considered all the added things that went with it—and her.
A little at a time, he’d filled the place with the trappings of civilization. A wife from the city would need a stove; he couldn’t expect her to cook over a fire. And a bed, he’d thought, much, much later. A lady would need a proper place to sleep. And so he’d built it, thinking, as he planed and fitted each piece of wood, of what Tess Cordell would be like.
Simple curiosity. It hadn’t mattered that she be young or attractive. A pleasant nature, capable hands and a quick mind would have been enough. Someone to help him with his work. Someone to teach Yellow Eagle to read so he’d have a running start on the future.
He truthfully hadn’t expected Tess Cordell—or Hallie Wainwright — to jump off that stage into his arms, eager to marry him. But after meeting the headstrong young woman who had arrived, the thought was appealing. What would he be doing tonight if the saucy beauty in the other room had been his intended bride? The thought unleashed the long-denied physical cravings of his body. Cooper couldn’t help wondering... wishing....
He turned over and adjusted his body in his nest of furs, banishing those dangerous thoughts. He’d see to her safety until the stage came to return her home. Until then, he’d be best off to keep his mind on business. If he didn’t, he’d be in for a whole pack of trouble.
But as he fell asleep, the last images in his mind were those of gold-flecked eyes arid hair as dark and shiny as a prime pelt.
Hallie awoke with a start. She sat up and blinked, orienting herself. Reassured at her surroundings, she relaxed against the warm, cozy mattress and pulled the soft blanket up to her chin. She’d slept the best she had in weeks. Her host had a comfortable bed and walls that blocked outside sounds. Anyone would be quite content here, no doubt.
Why had she thought that? Reluctantly she tossed back the covers and got out of bed. She washed her face and cleaned her teeth with the tepid water in the pan and dressed quickly, wondering if DeWitt was up.
Hesitantly she opened the door and peeked out. The man, along with his pile of furs, was gone. She wandered the scarcely furnished room and finally ventured out to use the necessary — the privy, he’d called it.
Finished, she opened the door and headed back. A whoop sounded beside her and she collided with a four-and-a-half-foot bundle of energy. Hallie caught her balance, but the boy sprawled in the grass. Immediately he jumped to his feet and stared at her.
Hallie stared back, heart pounding. An Indian boy!
She cast a wild glance about. Where had he come from? Were there more hiding nearby? Surely he wasn’t alone. Was he lost?
Seeing no one else, she inspected him from head to foot. He wore trousers, a fringed tunic shirt like DeWitt’s and moccasins. Jet black hair hung to his shoulders.
Perhaps it was a trick. Maybe the rest of his tribe was waiting to swoop down on them. Should she run for DeWitt? Or scream?
The boy, who appeared to be about ten, glared at her.
She raised her hand in what she hoped was a peaceful greeting. “Hello,” she said, and thought herself foolish. How was he supposed to understand?
“Who are you?” he asked in an annoyed tone, his black eyes scouring her face and hair.
“I’m Hallie Wainwright. Who are you?”
“Are you here to marry Cooper?” he asked without replying.
Startled at his speech, she overlooked his rudeness. “No. He’s letting me stay with him. Who are you?”
“I am Yellow Eagle of the Wajaje tiyospay, ” he said proudly.
“Where are you from?”
“What does it matter to you where I come from? It isn’t my home anymore because of your people.”
His hostility took her aback.
“Go back where you came from,” he said, and turned away.
Just then an Indian woman appeared in the doorway of one of the sod houses. She wore a slim, ankle-length dress made out of the same soft-looking leather as Mr. DeWitt’s clothing. Hallie stared in fascination. How many of them were there? They lived here? She’d thought the buildings and property all belonged to DeWitt.
The raven-haired woman walked toward them on silent moccasined feet. She said something to Yellow Eagle that Hallie couldn’t understand.
Annoyance laced Yellow Eagle’s tone and expression as he replied in their language.
The woman spoke sharply. He turned back reluctantly. “My mother says to tell you she is Chumani,” he translated. “She is honored to meet you and you must come eat.”
“Oh, no, I—I couldn’t possibly. Thank you, but—”
“Good, don’t eat.” He started to walk away.
The woman stopped him with a sharp command.
“She says Coop has already eaten and she has saved food for you.”
“This morning, you mean? Mr. DeWitt ate with you this morning?”
“He always eats with us.”
Confused, Hallie met the dark-skinned woman’s gaze. She had prominent cheekbones and wide-set, uncertain eyes. It seemed to Hallie as though she were waiting for either approval or rejection. She said something to Yellow Eagle.
“What did she say?” Hallie asked.
“She wants to know what you said.”
Hallie relaxed. If DeWitt ate with them regularly, it must be safe. “Tell her I’m grateful for her kind invitation.”
Yellow Eagle spoke to Chumani in a few hard syllables. She smiled and led the way into the sod house.
The small room was clean and orderly. Chairs on one side of the blackened fireplace were upholstered with hides. A solid table and benches sat on the other. Chumani gestured for Hallie to sit. She prepared a plate from the kettles over the fire and placed it before her. Hallie picked up a smooth bone utensil and tasted the gravylike mixture poured over biscuits.
“This is delicious.”
At a grunt from his mother, Yellow Eagle translated and Chumani gave her a cup of coffee. Hallie had never cared for coffee, but she took several sips so she wouldn’t offend her hostess. The woman sat across from her with a quill needle and sewed a sleeve into a leather shirt.
Hallie wondered for a moment why the woman and her son hadn’t made an appearance the night before and then realized they’d probably assumed Mr. DeWitt was bringing a wife home and they had given him privacy.
How curious that these Indians were living here among the motley bunch of inhabitants in Stone Creek. Now that she thought about it rationally, she realized that most news about the tribes in different areas relayed that they’d signed treaties and were living on land allotted by the government.
“How did you come to be here?” she asked, unable to quell her curiosity.
“We are Oglala,” the boy replied, as if that answered everything.
“Where is the rest of your family?”
“Most are at the reservation without enough to eat, treated like dogs.”
“Is that why you’re here?”
He looked at his mother before answering. “Here we have food and firewood.”
“You take care of yourselves?”
“My father was murdered.”
The bit of information shocked her. “How awful.”
“Cooper is my father now,” he said, raising his chin indignantly.
That took a few minutes to register. Hallie regarded the soft leather shirt in the Indian woman’s hands. It was identical to the one Mr. DeWitt had worn yesterday. She raised her eyes to her pleasant, dark-skinned face. Chumani made his shirts?
Chumani spoke softly with her son while Hallie stared into her coffee. “Te-wah-hay, ” she said.
“What did she say?” Hallie asked.
“We are Cooper’s family,” the boy said.
A spark of disappointment and anger flickered in her chest. The boy considered DeWitt his father, and the woman made him shirts. She’d heard of mountain men and trappers taking Indian wives. The idea wouldn’t be disturbing by itself. She stared into her tin cup.
What really sent a jolt of annoyance sparking through her blood was the fact that he’d advertised for a wife when he already had an Indian woman hidden away back here. What kind of man was Cooper DeWitt? And why had he wanted to bring a city woman out here?
She recalled the wording of his letter. He’d needed a woman to read and write. Someone to help him with his business. She remembered his words about not expecting the bride to fall at his feet. Hallie’s eyes wavered back to Chumani. Now she knew why nothing but education had been important. Cooper DeWitt already had a wife.
Chapter Four
Silently fuming, Hallie finished her breakfast and managed to drink the cup of strong black coffee with only the merest grimace. Did this Indian woman know Mr. DeWitt had sent for a bride? Everyone else knew. But she obviously didn’t speak English; it would be easy for him to hide it from her.
A bride wouldn’t be so easy to hide, however. Hallie watched Chumani intricately stitch a row of tiny beads across the front of the shirt. What did the poor woman think of Hallie spending the night in DeWitt’s cabin? Hallie knew nothing of Indian customs. Perhaps bigamy was acceptable. Perhaps, no matter how uncouth the man was, it was better having him take care of her than starving on a reservation, as Yellow Eagle had pointed out.
Whatever did the woman do to keep herself busy all day? Hallie would go crazy in this cramped space with only a little sewing to occupy herself.
“Thank you for the meal,” Hallie said.
Yellow Eagle translated.
Chumani gave her a soft smile.
Hallie had a hundred questions she’d like to ask. She turned to Yellow Eagle instead. “Do you know where Mr. DeWitt is now?”
He nodded.
“Can you tell me?”
“He’s working.”
“I only want a word with him.”
“He won’t like it.”
“I can deal with that, thank you.”
The boy snorted and stood.
Hallie nodded politely as a means of excusing herself from the table, and followed Yellow Eagle from the sod house and toward the freight building. Leading her around the side, where the sound of wood being stacked echoed, he stopped and pointed, a smirk on his youthful face.
Three bare-chested men were unloading the back of an enormous flatbed wagon. Hallie had never seen so much skin in her life! She stumbled over a clump of grass and caught her balance.
Two more wagons stood to the east of the building, bulging tarps evidence of similar loads. Two of the men, whom Hallie had never seen before, noticed her, and stopped their work to stare back, pushing their sweat-stained hats back on their heads.
The third, Cooper DeWitt, pulled a stack of lumber forward, the muscles in his broad back and shoulders flexing beneath the sun-burnished skin. When neither man picked up the other end, he became aware of their distraction and turned to the cause, studying her from beneath the brim of his hat.
A queer enchantment held Hallie motionless. It was impossible not to look. The morning sun gave his chest and shoulders a warm glow. The wind caught the thick blond rope of hair hanging down his back, and it fluttered like the tail of a wild horse.
He came to life, gave the others an aggravated glance and shoved the boards back into the stack. Speaking curtly to the men, he turned and walked toward her. Hallie made up her mind not to stare at his shocking display of flesh and muscle. He made a rapid series of gestures. Yellow Eagle replied, gave Hallie a smug grin and ran back toward the soddy.
Hallie watched his approach, appreciation and apprehension tumbling in her stomach. Determinedly, she thought of the kind Indian woman making him a shirt, and annoyance won out. “I need to speak with you.”
“Stay near the house,” he said, ignoring her request.
She kept her eyes on his face. “I am near the house.”
“I mean, you shouldn’t come here.”
“Why not?”
“The house is safer.”
His words managed to take off some of her cheekiness. She glanced around. “Do the grizzlies come around in the daytime?”
“Animals aren’t the only danger.”
Her attention wanted to flutter downward, but she steadfastly stared into his eyes. “What do you mean?”
He set his jaw, accenting his generous lips and square chin. “Men come and go here all the time.”
“I was raised around men, Mr. DeWitt. I’m not intimidated.” All the men she’d been raised around were gentlemen and kept their shirts on, but she wasn’t going to point that out.
“The men in these parts don’t see many women. Especially not young, pretty ones.”
She couldn’t help the flush that rose in her cheeks. He thought she was pretty? Hallie had to remind herself why she’d come out here. “I need to speak with you.”
“I’ll see you at mealtime.”
“This is important.”
“I have work to do. I’ll see you at noon.”
“What do you expect me to do until then?”
His assessing blue eyes flicked over her hair and face. “What did you plan to do when you came here?”
“I planned to get a story!”
“Then write a story.” He turned and walked away.
Hallie’s gaze dropped from his broad back to his narrow waist. She didn’t let herself take note of the muscles beneath his buff-colored, fringed trousers.
Frustrated, she turned back toward the house. Boston Girl Dies Of Boredom, she thought humorlessly. Chumani was working beside a fire pit, so Hallie sauntered back to watch her. The top of a good-sized cylinder of tree trunk had been hollowed into a bowl shape. Chumani placed damp kernels of corn in the well and pounded them with a wooden beater.
Before Hallie’s eyes, the corn was ground into meal. “That’s amazing!”
Chumani glanced up from her work and smiled.
“I’ve never seen anything like this before. At home we shop for meal and flour at the mercantile. It’s all sewn into bags when we get it.”
The black-haired woman nodded and pounded.
Hallie sat on a nearby stump and watched. She ignored the echoing sound of lumber being stacked. The Indian woman really was pretty. Her black hair caught highlights in the sun and black lashes and brows complemented her sleek brown skin. She moved and worked with grace and confidence.
Hallie could see how she would appeal to a man. Besides her unassuming beauty, she was hardworking and quiet. Was that the kind of woman Cooper thought he would get from the city, too? What kind of woman would submissively sit by and allow him to dally with another woman? The thought got her hackles up again.
Hallie glanced at the pot bubbling over the fire and the rustic tools gathered nearby. Chumani had been working on this earlier, and had apparently joined Hallie inside while she ate, as a courtesy.
Yellow Eagle brought firewood, stacked it a safe distance from the cookfire and disappeared.
Growing restless after an interminable length of time, Hallie asked, “Can I help?”
Chumani tilted her head.
Hallie pointed to herself. “Me. Help?”
She made a useless gesture of busy hands, but Chumani seemed to understand. She led her to the pot over the fire where corn bubbled in blackish water. Demonstrating, she carried a wooden scoopful of corn to a piece of burlap stretched between four sticks stuck in the ground, and poured the corn onto the fabric. Next, she took a dipper of fresh water from a bucket and poured it over the kernels. The water rinsed the corn and ran through the burlap.
She handed Hallie the scoop.
“I understand,” Hallie said, grateful for a task to keep her hands and mind busy. “Rinse the corn. I can do that.” Energetically, she set about the task. After several scoops of corn, she raised the bucket. “Water’s gone.”
Chumani nodded.
Hallie studied her.
The woman pointed at the pail, at another one nearby, then behind the soddies.
Finally comprehending, Hallie muttered, “Go get more.” She carried the buckets and headed in the direction indicated, discovering she was upstream on the river she’d washed in and drunk from the night before. She staggered back into the clearing. “These are a lot heavier on the way back.”
Chumani’s innocent smile gave her a moment’s wonder, but she shrugged it off. She’d made five more trips up and down the riverbank before the corn was rinsed. Chumani’s job was looking better and better all the time.
Hallie assisted her in moving the heavy kettle from the fire. Chumani ran green sticks through several sickly pale headless blobs of flesh with flopping appendages and hung them over the fire.
Hallie’s stomach turned. “What are those?”
“Gu-Que,” Chumani replied. At Hallie’s lack of comprehension, she tucked her arms in and flapped her elbows.
“Some kind of bird,” Hallie said with an uncharacteristic lack of appetite.
Yellow Eagle brought several pieces of bark and placed them beside the fire. Chumani stirred together a batter using the cornmeal and poured it into the concave bark strips. She placed them before the fire.
The birds turned a golden brown and the smells actually resembled an appealing dinner cooking. The batter in the bark bowls gradually turned into crusty cornbread.
Chumani spoke to Yellow Eagle and he ran toward the freight building. Several minutes later DeWitt and the two men—all properly clothed, thank heavens—appeared, and everyone traipsed into the sod house. DeWitt stood aside and allowed Hallie to enter ahead of him. Their eyes met briefly.
“Mr. Clark,” DeWitt said, indicating the middle-aged man with lank brown hair that hung to his shoulders. “And Mr. Gilman. They’re freighters from up north.”
The second man was younger, with shoulders as wide as DeWitt’s, and gray eyes that roamed her face and hair before she lowered her gaze, unwilling to witness the rest of his perusal.
None of them pulled out a chair for her; she did it herself, pretending she hadn’t noticed.
“Unusual to see a young gal like you in these parts,” Mr. Clark said. “How’d you come to be here?”
“Well, I—”
“She’s meeting her husband here,” DeWitt interrupted from the seat he’d taken beside Chumani. Hallie noticed he’d recently washed and the hair at his temples was damp. “They’ll be moving on to Colorado.”
Hallie glared at him, but he ate his food placidly. She kept silent through the rest of the meal, except to ask Yellow Eagle what kind of bird they were eating.
“Pheasant,” he replied curtly.
She’d eaten pheasant before, but their preparation gave the meal a whole new perspective.
The freighters thanked Chumani and headed out.
“Are you going to keep your word and speak with me?” Hallie asked DeWitt as he finished his coffee.
His blue gaze bored into her. “Go ahead.”
She glanced at Chumani. “May we go outside?”
He stood and ushered her ahead of him.
Hallie stopped behind his log house and turned. “First, why did you tell those men a he about me meeting a husband?”
“For your safety.”
“What do you think you’re protecting me from?”
“Men out here don’t live by the civilized rules you’re used to,” he said. “You should’ve learned that from your stage trip.”
The reminder of what could have happened to Olivia and the rest of them at the hands of those stage robbers squelched any other objections she may have had. Hallie rushed on to the real problem. “I’m disappointed in you.”
His expression didn’t change. He waited.
“I think it’s deplorable that you sent for a bride when you already have a wife!”
He frowned. “Chumani?” he asked.
“You know very well that I mean Chumani. Perhaps she doesn’t mind sharing a husband with another wife, but I can assure you that any wife you get from back East will have plenty of objections.”
His fair brows rose, wrinkling his forehead.
“What were you thinking of?” Hallie asked, waving her hand, inspired by her topic. “If the men out here expect women to endure the hardships of the travels and this land, then they’d better start living by more civilized rules.”
His expression didn’t flicker.
“The first rule being one wife per man.”
“She’s my brother’s wife, not mine.”
“I really thought you were serious about wanting a wife, the way you fixed up the house and all, but—what?”
“It’s the duty of a dead warrior’s brother to take his wife as his own.”
Hallie frowned, mulling over his words. His brother was an Indian? How could that be when he was as white as she was? The possibilities intrigued her. There was a story here, somewhere, and a fascinating one at that!
“Chumani agrees I should have a white wife. I provide for her, but she’s not my wife. Not in the way that you’re thinking.”
Hallie’s neck and cheeks grew warm. “I see.”
“May I work now?” he asked.
She nodded and he walked away. She would have to break through his reticence to get to the story inside.
She helped Chumani wash the dishes in a tub outdoors, more at ease beside the woman now that she knew she and Cooper weren’t...involved.
Returning to the afternoon’s work, she felt a calm sense of relief seeping into her pores along with the afternoon sun. Cooper didn’t have an Indian wife after all. The odd reassurance puzzled her. Why should she care?
She made it clear that she’d like to try her hand at pounding the corn. Chumani cooked more kernels in the kettle, throwing ashes into the water to give it that black color. She cooked and rinsed and carried water, and Hallie’s arms and shoulders grew numb from the repetitive and painful task of grinding. By supper she could barely raise her arm to lift the bone eating utensil.
“Miss Wainwright?”
Hallie jerked her head up, realizing she’d been drifting off to sleep sitting at the table. “Yes.”
“You can start earning your way,” DeWitt said.
Irritation wailed from her tired muscles. “I thought I did that today.”
“Did you?” Across the table he regarded her. Firelight bounced off the golden glints in his hair and shadowed the chiseled planes of his face. His cheeks showed the barest growth of stubble, like fine-grained sandpaper, and Hallie had the surprising urge to rub her knuckles across his jaw to discover its roughness.
With concentration, she relaxed her fingers on the fork. “I helped Chumani grind the corn. I carried water and rinsed and even pounded.”
“Chumani’s done that alone for years.”
“Well, I—I...” Unexplainably, his words hurt her. She’d failed to win his approval even though she’d learned quickly and shared a good portion of Chumani’s work. Why was his approval or disapproval important?
She was trying too hard, as usual. “I thought I was helping,” she said, carefully hiding her disappointment.
“You owe me. Don’t forget that.”
How could she forget a mistake like that?
“One of the reasons I sent for a wife was so Yellow Eagle would have someone to teach him to read and write.”
She set down her fork and glanced at the boy. He stiffened immediately. The worried look he shot Cooper turned into a glare when he regarded her.
“And the other reasons?” she asked.
DeWitt took the last bite of his supper and washed it down with coffee. “My business has grown fast. I can’t keep track of orders and payments and shipments like I should.”
“You need a bookkeeper?”
“Yes.”
She regarded Yellow Eagle. He had pursed his lips and sat defiantly, staring at his plate. “I’ll need his cooperation if I’m going to teach him.”
“He’ll cooperate,” DeWitt assured her.
Yellow Eagle said something in a tone that told her he had no intention of cooperating. DeWitt spoke back and the boy’s face reddened. He refused to look at either of them.
“He will cooperate,” DeWitt said pointedly.
Hallie didn’t know which of them would be more difficult to work with; the contemptuous nephew or his obstinate uncle. But she’d gotten herself into this mess; she would get herself out of it. If earning her keep and being able to pay him back so that she could get home meant swallowing a little pride and adhering to his demands, she could do it.
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Cheryl St.John
Тип: электронная книга
Жанр: Современная зарубежная литература
Язык: на английском языке
Издательство: HarperCollins
Дата публикации: 16.04.2024
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О книге: Shooting a bandit was reporter Hallie Wainwright′s introduction to the Wild West, where she′d traveled with a bevy of mail-order brides.But it was the more intimate «hello» in the arms of Cooper DeWitt that sent her heart racing – and made it all the more difficult for her to tell the brawny plainsman that she wasn′t the woman he′d sent for… .When she jumped from the stage, shining with true grit and spewing tall tales, Cooper DeWitt thought he just might have struck gold. Raised with the Sioux, Cooper needed a wife who could brave the frontier and corral his restless heart. The problem was, his would-be bride had no intention of marrying him!