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Once a Rebel
Debbi Rawlins


Time travel has done its uncanny work once again.Folks best be watchin' out for stuntmanturnedprivateeye Cord Braddocka tall, gorgeous fella with a touch of Navajo blood. He's spent his entire life shunning his ancestral beliefs and fighting his way into the worlduntil he finds a strange old camera in an attic. . .Now he's a sexy twentiethcentury hunk stuck in 1878 and Maggie Dawson can't get enough of the stranger. He's exciting. He's exotically dangerous. And he makes her want to do the most unladylike things! Is this about to be Maggie's last stand?









Maggie froze


Dare she turn her hand over, let his shaft rest against her palm? She wanted to, yet she wasn’t sure she had the courage.

“Do you want to touch me, Maggie?” Cord asked hoarsely.

She swallowed and nodded, but couldn’t seem to move.

He trailed his fingertips over her knuckles, his touch a light dusting. “Have you ever seen a man naked before?”

She widened her eyes at the outlandish notion, briefly met his gaze before hers flickered away. “No.”

He picked up her hand and turned it over, palm up. To her amazement, his hand wasn’t too steady. It made it easier to look at him, see the unexpected vulnerability in his face. See the slight tremble of his shoulders. He was actually trembling. Why? And then she met his eyes.

Without looking away from her, he lifted her hand to his lips and kissed her palm, and then he wrapped her fingers around his smooth, hot manhood. She jumped at the initial touch, as if he’d scorched her, and then watched in awe as the trembling in his shoulders spread through his chest.










Dear Reader,

It’s my hope that by now you’ve read about the fantastical journey of the two Winslow sisters, Reese and Ellie, in Once an Outlaw and Once a Gambler. The heroines and readers were transported to 1870s Deadwood. Now, in Once a Rebel, we return there with Cord Braddock, an ex-stuntman turned private detective who is searching for the two women. Since Cord is half Navajo Indian, the challenges he faces extend beyond traveling through time and falling for a virginal heroine.

Although I’m currently working on a contemporary story, I really hope there are more time-travel romances in my future. Hmm, I’m thinking logging in the Pacific Northwest or maybe even the early frontier of Alaska? Sometimes my mind is a dangerous place. Sure keeps me entertained, though. I hope this story does the same for you.

Happy reading!

Debbi Rawlins




Once A Rebel

DEBBI RAWLINS







TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON

AMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY • HAMBURG

STOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN • MADRID

PRAGUE • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND




ABOUT THE AUTHOR


Debbi Rawlins lives in central Utah, out in the country, surrounded by woods and deer and wild turkeys. It’s quite a change for a city girl, who didn’t even know where the state of Utah was until four years ago. Of course, unfamiliarity never stopped her. Between her junior and senior years of college she spontaneously left home in Hawaii and bummed around Europe for five weeks by herself. And much to her parents’ delight, she returned home with only a quarter in her wallet.




Books by Debbi Rawlins


HARLEQUIN BLAZE

13—IN HIS WILDEST DREAMS

36—EDUCATING GINA

60—HANDS ON

112—ANYTHING GOES…

143—HE’S ALL THAT* (#litres_trial_promo)

160—GOOD TO BE BAD

183—A GLIMPSE OF FIRE

220—HOT SPOT** (#litres_trial_promo)

250—THE HONEYMOON THAT WASN’T* (#litres_trial_promo)

312—SLOW HAND LUKE* (#litres_trial_promo)

351—IF HE ONLY KNEW…* (#litres_trial_promo)

368—WHAT SHE REALLY WANTS FOR CHRISTMAS† (#litres_trial_promo)

417—ALL OR NOTHING

455—ONCE AN OUTLAW†† (#litres_trial_promo)


I would like to acknowledge that Once a Rebel

is a work of fiction and meant solely to entertain.

While I have paid close attention to historical

detail, now and then I may have stretched the

facts for the sake of the story.




Contents


Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18




1


“MAD DOG MANSON still in the wind?” Cord Braddock asked casually as he pocketed the much-needed check he’d just received for his last job. Another messy divorce case. Yeah, the guy was cheating, and Cord had delivered the proof that would net the soon-to-be ex-wife a nice settlement. But if he had to spy on one more sleazy, lying dirtbag husband, he was gonna…

“No.”

“Who caught him?” His gaze shot to Leslie’s impassive face.

“No, you can’t have the job.” Slowly, she shook her head, her blue gaze firm and unwavering. Behind her on the beige office wall was a poster from one of her earliest movies.

“So no one else has bagged him yet.” Now, that was some serious money to be made. Enough for five months’ rent, five lease payments on Cord’s Porsche and next year’s gym membership.

“You’re a private detective, not a bounty hunter, and even if you were, I wouldn’t give you this one.” Leslie slid open her desk drawer and pulled out a strongbox where he knew she kept petty cash. “This is Manson’s third strike. He’s not coming in without taking down anything that moves.”

Yeah, Cord had his P.I. license now, even a gun and permit to carry it, but calling him a private detective was being too generous with the kind of jobs he’d been doing. “I’m not looking for easy.”

“You should be.” She gestured with a lift of her chin. “How’s the shoulder?”

“I want Mad Dog, Leslie.” Out of habit, or because she’d called attention to it, he flexed his injured shoulder. Today it didn’t hurt too much. “I’m dead serious about this.”

She leaned back in her creamy yellow leather chair and stared at him with a sympathy he found hard to stomach. Yet she wasn’t that unlike him. Chewed up and spit out by Hollywood when her use and youth had hit a wall. Still, she’d done okay for herself, invested well while she’d been making some dough, and then bought old man Barker’s detective and bail bonds agency.

Cord hadn’t been so smart. He’d spent the considerable money he’d made as a stuntman on cars and women as fast as he pulled in paychecks, too caught up in the good life to see that inevitably it would come to a crashing end. He pushed up from the too-small chair facing her and stretched out his legs. Nice office, but more chic than practical. Not that he knew anything about practicality. If he did, he’d give up the Porsche.

“Come on, Leslie,” he said smoothly, giving her his best pleading puppy-dog eyes.

Leslie sighed. “No.”

Cord exhaled sharply and looked out the window at the blue California sky, marred only by the persistent gray smog that hung over the Valley. Maybe it was time to move. L.A. was expensive and crowded and toxic. But where would he go? Not back to Arizona. Certainly not back to the reservation. The mere thought sent a shaft of dread down his spine. He’d go back to begging on the streets of L.A. before he’d end up there again.

“I need work, Les, but not this nickel-and-dime stuff.”

“Even the small stuff pays the bills.”

Cord drove a hand through his hair. It was long. Too long. Bad enough being six-three since his size made it hard to blend in when he did surveillance. Looking like the half-Indian he was didn’t help matters. “Don’t worry about my shoulder. I’m back to bench-pressing three times a week. I’m fine.”

“Right.” Her mouth twisted wryly. “That’s why the studios are pounding down your door to offer you work.”

He gritted his teeth, angry, but worse, a heartbeat away from panic. A year had passed since the accident and he still didn’t have full range of motion. One more injury, the doctor had said, and Cord’s arm would be totally useless. “It’s an insurance issue. It doesn’t mean squat.”

“Hell, Cord, make peace with it already,” she said, annoyance flashing in her eyes. “You’re out of the stunt business. For good. Got it? You’re thirty-three, which isn’t so bad, granted, but with your shoulder hanging on by a thread, there will be no more plum jobs. Not the kind that used to pay for your Porsche. For God’s sake, we don’t even know half the guys calling the shots anymore. You understand as well as I do how this town works, you’ve got to know somebody. You’ve already been replaced, my friend. Deal with it.”

She was right. That’s what stunk. It didn’t matter that he still worked out six days a week, that he was strong and fit and had a unique look that had once earned him top dollar when westerns had made a comeback. It meant nothing that he’d never balked at a single stunt they’d asked him to do. The more dangerous, the more willing he’d been to take on the challenge. The truth was, a year out of the business, coupled with an injury that made him a liability, and he was forgotten.

“All the more reason I need better gigs than chasing after scumbag husbands. I need some credibility if I want to make it as a private detective and attract worthwhile clients.”

“You’re absolutely right.” She looked pleased, obviously having bought his line of crap. “That’s why I have a proposition for you.”

“I’m listening.”

“The Winslow case. The sisters are still missing.”

“Not exactly a news flash.” The daughters of actors Brad and Linea Winslow, a Hollywood powerhouse couple, had bizarrely disappeared within six months of each other. Like vultures feasting on roadkill, the media had been all over the story. Until some upcoming young actor had shoved his male lover off the hill below the Hollywood sign.

“Other than the FBI and Malcolm Baxter, who I hear the Winslows have kept on retainer, I doubt many people are working the case at this point. It’s been too long and costly.”

Malcolm Baxter. The smug, condescending bastard. The guy’s name alone was enough to make Cord’s insides clench. Everything about the older man—from his Armani suits to his trademark tasseled Italian loafers—made Cord want to teach the guy a lesson. It wasn’t the man’s success Cord begrudged, but something in his penetrating soulless eyes that seemed to remind Cord of every humiliation he’d suffered since the day he’d left the reservation.

He forced away thoughts of Baxter. “What’s it been, a year and a half since they went missing?”

“Nineteen months, to be exact.” She reached behind and swung her black designer purse off the gleaming mahogany credenza that matched her desk. She set down the fancy bag and fished out a small key.

Yep, Leslie had grown to like nice things. Just like him. Difference was, she could afford them. “According to news reports, the trail went cold fast,” he said, watching her unlock the strongbox. “I don’t think the police picked up a single lead. Not even when the second sister went missing. Even the FBI turned up nothing.”

“That’s right. The mystery of the century some reporters were calling it.” She took out a wad of cash and looked up at him, her blue eyes sparkling with excitement. “Imagine the publicity when someone finally finds them. I mean, they couldn’t have both vanished into thin air. They have to be somewhere.” She gave a small shrug. “Even if it’s just their bodies that turn up.”

He waited for her to finish, and then finally got her meaning. “And you think—” He shook his head in disbelief. At the time, the best in the business had taken up the search. Private dicks and bounty hunters from all over the country had crawled out from under rocks and descended on the vacant house the women had inherited in Deadwood, South Dakota, and where each had last been seen, in hopes of claiming the reward. Even tabloid reporters had dived into the frenzy. Everyone had come up empty. “You’re nuts.”

“You wanted credibility. Not even considering the million bucks the Winslows are offering to locate their daughters, find them and you’d be able to write your own ticket. You’d be in so much demand, you wouldn’t even need me.”

“I can’t afford to go on a wild-goose chase. You know that. Not to mention the expense of traveling all the way to Deadwood. I need a paying job.”

“That’s why I’m willing to stake you.”

Cord briefly eyed the cash. Two stacks. Made up of hundreds. Temptation pulled at his gut. “Why?”

“For half the reward money, and publicity for my agency.”

“So why the sudden interest?” he asked, waiting for her to squirm. This was a bunch of crap. They both knew it.

She didn’t even blink. “Because the Deadwood house has been sold. The new owner is tearing part of it down and having some extensive renovation done to the rest of the building in order to turn it into a bed-and-breakfast. This may be the last chance to uncover any clues.”

He still didn’t buy her motive. “The Winslows sold the house when it’s their last link to their daughters? That doesn’t make sense.”

“I couldn’t agree more.” The corners of Leslie’s mouth quirked. “But I heard that the almighty Malcolm Baxter convinced them that the place was a dead end. Probably got a kickback from the Realtor for convincing them.”

Cord knew she’d never liked Baxter, either. Whatever her reasons, he wasn’t sure. Probably had more to do with professional rivalry since the guy was a shameless publicity whore and managed to snag the best clients. Cord’s dislike went deeper, and Leslie, the conniving little witch, was using Baxter to play Cord. “What makes you think I can do what no one else could?” Grudgingly, because the man did have an uncanny knack for closing a case, he added, “Including the almighty Baxter.”

“You’re good at tracking.”

Cord smiled in spite of himself. Coming from anyone else he would have found the remark a snide commentary on his being half-Navajo. Hell, too bad it hadn’t come from Baxter. It would’ve been Cord’s perfect excuse to pop the guy. Show everyone just how good his shoulder had healed, at the same time send the smug bastard halfway to hell. But someone like Baxter was far too slick and cunning to be an open bigot. Especially not here in good old liberal Hollywood.

Unlike some of the townspeople who lived near the reservation. When the economy was down, there were folks who accused the “dirty, rotten Indians” of taking their jobs, taking food out of the mouths of their children. Cord had been a blameless child himself when he’d crossed into their world. But they’d dragged him through the mud, spat in his face, shaved off his long black hair.

Had circumstances been different when they’d first met, Baxter could’ve been any one of those men. Cord knew the truth of that deep in his gut. He saw it in Baxter’s eyes. They reminded Cord of a past he wanted to forget, pure and simple.

But he wouldn’t let that distract him now. Leslie was right, he was damn good at tracking, but the idea that he could make headway on the high-profile case was ridiculous. He knew exactly what this was about. The sparkling eyes, the phony excitement in her voice, all a nice touch. But of course she’d been a decent enough actress at one time.

“If I’m so good at tracking, why can’t I go after Mad Dog,” he reminded her. “That could net us each a nice payoff.”

Leslie sighed with disgust. “Let it go, Braddock. I’m not helping you cripple yourself for life.” She flipped through the first stack of hundred-dollar bills, as if mentally counting, but he had a feeling she had something else on her mind. “You still seeing Brenda Carlisle?”

“Occasionally. Why?”

Leslie’s lips curved in a rueful smile. “This town isn’t good for you anymore, Cord. Some friendly advice? Get the hell out while you still can.”

He knew she meant well. Brenda was just like the rest of the women in his circle, a circle getting smaller by the day. She was a taker. And lately he had less to give. He shouldn’t resent Leslie’s concern. She was the closest person he had to a friend. He did, anyway.

Clutching the back of the leather guest chair, he watched her lay the two stacks of bills on her desk and then slowly push them toward him.

Hesitating, he tightened his grip. The late afternoon sun filtered through the tinted window and caught his watch. The gold gleamed under the beam of sunlight. Damn, he didn’t want to have to pawn it again.

Cord clenched his jaw, and reached for the money. Only a year ago he’d been sitting on top of the world, his phone ringing off the hook with job offers and A-list party invitations. Then one wrecked shoulder and it had all come to this. His pride was as fragile as the colored beads his grandmother had strung to keep food on their table. And here he was, accepting charity.




2


SHE WAS A SLY ONE, that Leslie. Cord shook his head as he sank to the edge of his bed, irrationally annoyed at the plushness of the burgundy comforter his interior decorator had insisted upon, and pulled off his boots. Not only had Leslie slipped him enough money to pay next month’s rent, but she’d also effectively stopped him from chasing down Mad Dog.

The guy was big and mean but dumb as they came. Wearily, his gaze went to the leather duffel bag sitting on the floor near his walk-in closet. He still hadn’t checked on flights to Deadwood. Going there would appease Leslie, but be a huge waste of his time. He laughed humorlessly. Time was about the only thing he had lately. No money. No prospects. Just a hoity-toity apartment he could no longer afford.

He could downsize, get a cheaper one bedroom in Culver City. Unload some of the furniture through one of those fancy consignment shops. Getting rid of some of this stuff wouldn’t kill him. But the Porsche…

Man, he loved that car.

Even after two years he got a kick out of how valet parkers rushed to the curb when he pulled up. Nah, the car was a deal breaker. He had to do whatever it took to keep her.

He kicked his boots in the direction of the armoire, and then lay back and closed his eyes. The air conditioner kicked on with a low hum and he knew he should get up and close the window. Better yet, turn off the air. Eighteen years he’d been away from the reservation and he still hadn’t acquired a taste for the indoors. He liked an actual breeze skimming his face.

Summers on the reservation had been hotter than hell itself. Burning wood to cook hadn’t helped. Come winter, the mountain of wood Cord kept chopped and the scratchy handmade wool blankets were the only things that kept them warm. His grandmother never complained. Not even when, at seven, Cord had been dropped at her doorstep because his mother had died in a car accident and his father didn’t want to be saddled with a kid.

Cord never thought about his old man, but his grandmother, Masi, he still missed. Diabetes stole her from him two days after he’d turned fifteen. The image of his grandmother’s cold limp body came unbidden and he ruthlessly dismissed it. He’d been clutching her hand for over an hour before his friend Bobby Blackhawk had found him huddled next to her corpse.

The next day Cord had left the reservation. Hadn’t even waited for her burial. Even now, years later, he couldn’t figure out why and the thought still got to him. There was nothing in his useless life he’d regretted more than missing her funeral. Not even the fact that he hadn’t finished high school and hadn’t gotten his GED until he was twenty-two. And only then because he’d been badgered into it by Madeleine Sweeney. But he’d owed the woman. Big-time. Owed her his life, probably.

After three harsh years in L.A., she’d been the first person to really give a damn about him. Sure, he’d tackled the guy who tried ripping off her purse at the sidewalk bistro where she’d been lunching and Cord had been busing tables. But she’d had megabucks and an important producer husband, and she could’ve just as easily given Cord her thanks instead of the introduction that led to his lucrative job as a stuntman.

Sadly, he had attended her funeral last year. The emotional ceremony and church full of mourners had brought up a whole mess of shit he didn’t want to think about. He rolled over onto his stomach, a sudden image of his grandmother’s brown face wreathed in a smile so vivid his breath caught.

He opened his eyes, blinked and then squeezed them shut again, burying his face deeper into the soft comforter.

That had been happening a lot lately. Fleeting memories of her that unsettled him. Last month he’d even foolishly thought he’d caught a glimpse of her standing near a street vendor’s cart on Olvera Street. Madeleine’s untimely death had obviously kicked up a lot of guilt no matter how much he reasoned with himself that he hadn’t actually abandoned Masi. She’d been dead. Gone. Before he’d ever set foot off the reservation.

If anything, she’d abandoned him.

The crazy thought came out of nowhere. She hadn’t chosen to leave him. If she’d had it in her power to stay, she would’ve protected him from the hate and bigotry he encountered after he’d left the Dine. If she hadn’t died, he may never have left at all.

Funny, as a rebellious teen he’d ridiculed the language and customs of the Dine, but even today he thought of them in terms of the Navajo word they called themselves. Dine. The People. It came as naturally to him as breathing. Without resentment. Without judgment.

Besides, he’d never had any quarrel with the Dine. He had some fond memories of days spent swimming in the river and fishing with Bobby Blackhawk, sleeping outside under the stars and sitting around a campfire repeating old Navajo legends they’d heard from the elders.

But he didn’t kid himself that he would’ve been content to stay on the reservation even if his grandmother had lived longer. At fourteen, he’d started getting restless, curious about life outside of his sheltered existence. But at fifteen, he’d been ill-prepared to face adult realities.

On cold lonely nights, his only comfort had been the secret fantasy that he’d once again meet Masi. That maybe she’d traveled to California ahead of him and had been busy setting up a home for them.

He smiled at the memory, reached for one of the pillows propped up against the headboard. By her own belief, the Navajo belief, a spirit never truly died but went on to another life in another place. Naturally he thought that was a bunch of crap—when your time was up, everything went black. No more second chances. Dirt to dirt pretty much summed it up.

He flopped onto his back again and slipped the pillow under his head. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of the duffel bag. Damn it, he had to make up his mind about the Winslow business. Deadwood was a hell of a long way to go for nothing.



CORD OPENED HIS EYES and jackknifed off the bed, his heart hammering his chest. The room was almost black, except for the light from the pool’s reflection intermittently swirling in through the slanted blinds. He stared at the window, still open several inches, and listened. There was only silence now. And his own ragged breathing.

It was a dream. Just a crazy dream.

His pulse slowed as his eyes grew more accustomed to the darkness. How long had he slept? His gaze went to the alarm clock on the nightstand. The glowing red numbers told him it was just after midnight. He swung his feet to the floor, feeling shaky from the events of the dream. Not that he remembered much, only fractured bits of recollection filtered past the fog of sleep. No mistake, the dream had been about Masi.

Normally when he dreamt of his grandmother, he felt comforted. Not tonight. The edginess that crawled over his nerve endings wouldn’t cease. He closed his eyes again, trying desperately to recall more of the dream. He stretched his neck from side to side, trying to ease the tension, as if he could shake loose a memory.

They’d been sitting at their cook fire on the reservation, that much he remembered. Except they were outside and the sun was beginning to set. His age was fuzzy, and Masi looked like she always had—slightly stooped, leathery skin, old before her time. An eagle soared overhead and she’d pointed skyward…and then…

Cord exhaled sharply, and opened his eyes. That’s all he could remember. Frustrated, he pushed up from the bed. The wavering light from the pool caught on the outline of a dark lump sitting between the armoire and the closet. He strained to make out what it was. The black leather duffel.

That’s all it took. Memories of the dream washed over him. The eagle turning into a plane, golden sunlight gilding by the distant hills, the Black Hills, just like in the travel agency brochures. He knew suddenly, deep down in his gut. Masi had plainly told him to go to Deadwood.



TOO BAD, CORD THOUGHT as he stopped the car in front of the Deadwood property. The house was huge, two and a half, maybe three stories, with a big porch facing the west where you could sit and watch the sun go down. The main door was off center, a peculiarity he kind of liked. He wondered which part of the house they were tearing down.

The new owner, who was a developer, had had it with both freelance detectives and reporters, according to his secretary. She’d stopped short of giving Cord a key but she made sure he understood the place was currently deserted and, with a flashing dimple, subtly let him know that the kitchen door was likely to be unlocked. He’d promised the cute little blonde a quiet dinner.

Why not? How much time would it take to find out this case was a dead end? After waiting in crowded airports and then enduring two choppy flights, the whimsy of last night’s dream had worn thin. So had his patience. The blonde would prove a nice distraction tonight. What was her name…? Sue—slightly younger and shorter than he liked them, but she was eager.

He probed his aching shoulder and took a deep breath against the cramping pain. Flying coach was a bitch for someone as tall and broad as he was, but he had to make the cash Leslie had given him last as long as possible. He had every intention of paying her back the amount he’d siphoned off for rent, and whatever he spent on dinner tonight, but the rest was gonna be on her nickel for sending him on this fool’s errand.

After following the side of the house, he spied the kitchen through a bare bay window. With the toe of his black snakeskin boots, he carefully picked his way through some debris to the stoop.

Just like Sue had said, the door was unlocked. Good, they couldn’t get him on breaking, only entering. He smiled wryly, and unnecessarily touched the butt of his gun through his sport jacket. He didn’t need the piece. Transporting it had been more trouble than it was worth. But who knew? Maybe he could finish his business here and still pick up Mad Dog’s trail. General consensus was that the guy had left L.A. and headed east. Cord only needed to swing south to cross his path.

As soon as Cord stepped over the threshold, a cloud of particle-board dust assailed his nostrils. Coughing, he waved a hand to clear the air. The kitchen had been torn apart, the appliances ripped from the wall, half of it already gone, allowing him to see into what must have been a dining room. Only the chandelier and ripped wallpaper remained.

Shaking his head, he walked through the room into another and faced much of the same. No furniture, just big empty spaces, barely contained by walls left with gaping holes and framed by dull peeling paint. The scuffed wood floors didn’t look too bad, there were a few warped floorboards, but that was pretty much it. He shouldn’t be wasting his time here.

Then he noticed the stairs guided by a carved dark cherry banister that ended in two ornate scrolls, and wondered why the workmen hadn’t protected the wood. Surely they would try to salvage this piece. Although his tastes veered to the contemporary end of the spectrum, even he could appreciate the fine craftsmanship.

Without thinking, he ran his palm over the smooth wood and an odd sensation of familiarity washed over him. It called to mind the many times as a kid that he’d watched the elders carve figures of animals to be sold at souvenir shops. Samuel Wauneka had offered to teach him the dying art, and Cord had balked. He hadn’t thought about that in a long time, either.

Cord started up toward the landing, briefly considering if it was worth the risk of checking the second floor.

Not in the hope of finding a lead, but out of simple curiosity. Before he’d consciously made a decision, he tested the stability of the first step. Seemed solid enough for his weight. The workers had to get up there somehow, so he wasn’t too concerned.

The stairs turned out to be surprisingly solid, but not so the internal walls upstairs. On the left side of the house, half of them had already been demolished and lay in crumbled heaps of wood and plaster. Cord poked his head into each room, but there was nothing to see. When he came to another set of narrow stairs, he decided to leave.

He stiffened at the sudden feel of pressure against his lower back, as if someone were pushing him. He jerked around, but no one was there. Feeling foolish, he made a complete circle, anyway. He muttered a curse, and then eyed the stairway. Hell, he’d come this far.

The planks of wood creaked under his weight, although he felt confident that they’d hold him. When he got to the top, the door was stuck, but a firm shove with his good shoulder forced it open. Like the stairs, the entryway was narrow and he had to angle his body sideways to gain access. Ducking his head, he stepped into the small attic.

Enough light filtered in through a cloudy windowpane that he was able to find a string hanging from a bare bulb, which quickly lit the room. Unlike the rest of the house, the contents appeared to have been untouched. In the corner was a dress form next to a bolt of lacy fabric leaning against the wall. Across the room stood a full-length mirror, and behind it an old oak dresser with two missing knobs.

Dust coated everything as if untouched by human hands for some time, which didn’t make sense since the rest of the house had been cleared of furniture. He thought about opening the small window but there was no use staying in the stuffy room. Nothing of interest here…

He saw the chest.

Sitting by itself on the far side of the room, it appeared free of dust. Frowning, he moved closer, and saw that it was old but in good shape. He crouched down, hoping he wouldn’t have to break the lock, and discovered it unlatched. He lifted the lid and found a pair of vintage toys, hand-carved from the looks of the train pieces. There was a book, too, which he set aside, and a photo album, which he balanced on his knee and flipped open. He was curious because the album didn’t seem as worn as the other things in the attic, though the photos encased in brittle plastic sheets were old and faded, mostly featuring landscapes. When he came to the one of the blonde, he angled the photo toward the light, peering closer.

Had to be a Winslow. The woman was a dead ringer for one of the missing sisters, except she wore an old-fashioned dress and her hair was longer and pinned up. His gaze skimmed the next picture and his heart thudded. The same blond woman stood with her arm linked with another woman.

Who looked exactly like the other missing sister.

He dropped the album as if it had scorched him. The photos fell free of the plastic sleeve. He picked them up. On the back was written 1877. Was this some kind of joke? Puzzled, he tucked the photos into his breast pocket just as a flash of light came from the chest. He blinked and ducked his head to find the source. All he saw was an antique camera. He picked up the big, bulky contraption, which couldn’t possibly work….

Beneath his feet the floor shook violently. Shit. Nothing terrified him like an earthquake. He’d been through two of them in L.A. Hot white light flashed in his face, blinding him. With an unholy force, the earth shook again, and he flung the camera, panic clogging his throat. Trying to focus, he dropped to his knees. He had to get out. Find the door. He flailed blindly as the floor rumbled and threatened to swallow him whole.

The violence stopped as suddenly as it had begun. He stayed frozen, waiting for the aftershock. Nothing happened as his vision slowly cleared. He should have felt relief. Except he was no longer in the attic.




3


CORD SQUINTED UP at the clear blue sky. A pair of hawks circled overhead. Clouds hovered close to hills blanketed with fallen yellow and orange leaves.

He blinked blearily. Nothing changed.

He spun around. The Winslow house. It was gone. There were no buildings, only an endless dirt road and skeletal trees, their limbs forking the sky.

How was this possible? He’d been in the attic only a moment ago….

Sniffing the air, he knew he wasn’t imagining the aroma of smoked meat mingled with charred hickory. That meant he was still alive, right? He looked down at his jeans and the tops of his cowboy boots, and then touched his gun through his cashmere sport jacket. The .38 caliber sat snugly in his shoulder holster.

He suddenly remembered the earthquake. The flash. The blinding white light. A gunshot? He opened his jacket and checked his blue striped cotton shirt. No blood. Only nervous sweat coated his skin. Hell. That didn’t mean he wasn’t dead. What other reason was there for him unexpectedly standing in the middle of nowhere?

Shading his eyes, he strained to see down both sides of the dirt road. He saw nothing, though the scent of the roasting meat seemed to have grown stronger so he had to be close to some sort of civilization. Like icy fingers squeezing the lifeblood from him, a chill gripped him, and he turned up his blazer collar as he started in the direction of the tantalizing aroma. That was another thing—if he were dead, the smell wouldn’t be so appealing.

He swallowed hard, but had to work at gathering enough saliva in his parched mouth. The dust he kicked up as he trudged on didn’t help, so he crooked his arm over his mouth and nose. After about a quarter of a mile, he stopped and listened. He thought he heard voices. Children laughing? At least he was going in the right direction.

The thought had barely flitted through his mind when he saw the eagle. As if beckoning him, the majestic bird dipped lower in the sky before soaring back up and glided just ahead of Cord. A sure sign that he was going in the right direction.



MAGGIE DAWSON pressed a hand to her nervous belly and then gathered her long skirt in one hand and carefully climbed down off the wagon. She prayed with all her heart that today was the day she’d hear from her sister. Mary had never been the fastest letter writer but once she learned of Maggie’s predicament, surely she’d responded hastily.

“Afternoon, Maggie, fine fall day we’re having.”

Maggie forced a polite smile on her face as she turned toward Mrs. Weaver’s voice. “Yes, nice and cool. Good baking weather. I have a mind to bake a couple of apple pies for Pa. You know how he does so love his sweets.”

Mrs. Weaver stopped in the middle of the boardwalk and tilted her narrow face to the side. “Come to think of it, I haven’t seen him in a good long while. How’s he coming along?”

Gritting her teeth, Maggie turned back to tethering her horse so Mrs. Weaver wouldn’t see the bright red spots that heated Maggie’s cheeks. When was she going to learn? Mrs. Weaver would have kept on walking if Maggie hadn’t opened her big mouth and rambled, and then she wouldn’t have to tell a big fat lie. Which plainly she was very bad at doing, partly in thanks to her cursed fair skin and disgusting red hair.

“He’s still feeling poorly. That’s why I’ve been the one coming to town lately.” Maggie cinched the reins and forced herself to face Mrs. Weaver.

“Well, honey, I wouldn’t be making him apple pie if I were you. He needs a good brothy soup. Just this morning I told Harold we need to slaughter one of the chickens. I could bring some—”

“Oh, thank you, anyway, Mrs. Weaver. But I just made a pot myself this morning. Pa’s probably eating some of it right now. He—” Shut up, Maggie, she told herself sternly and stepped up onto the boardwalk. She’d been lying and evading so much lately she should be better at it by now. “Say hello to Mr. Weaver for me,” Maggie said as she rudely backed away from the older woman’s disapproving face.

Her stomach in a twisted knot, Maggie entered Arnold’s general store and went straight to the threads. She would have much rather run straight to the corner where Mr. Carlson sat at a wobbly scarred oak table and sorted and dispensed the mail, but she never wanted to appear too eager and always first bought a few yards of fabric or a new color thread that she didn’t need.

After making her selection and quickly paying for her purchase, she approached Mr. Carlson with a bright smile on her face.

He looked up and smiled back. “Lordy, Miss Maggie, I do believe you have an extra sense about when the mailbag arrives. You’re pert’ near my first customer each week.”

Her smile faltered, and she shrugged a shoulder. “Being as I’m in town, anyway…”

Over his wire-rimmed spectacles, he eyed her speculatively for a moment, and then bent his balding head to sift through a pile of letters. “Nope. Nothin’ this week. You got somethin’ goin’ out?”

She pressed her lips together to hide her disappointment, and shook her head. “Not this time, Mr. Carlson. Thank you.”

What was the use? She’d already sent Mary three letters just in case she hadn’t received the first two. Maggie just had to be patient was all. Not one of her finer qualities, as Pa had reminded her often enough. Not unkindly, but just as it was a father’s duty. At least he hadn’t blamed that particular defect of character on the fact that at twenty-five she was a hopeless spinster. No, there were plenty of other reasons for her lack of suitors.

“Maggie?”

She’d made it to the display of mason jars next to the iron skillets, and turned back to Mr. Carlson.

“How’s your pa? Ain’t seen him in over two months,” Mr. Carlson asked, his kind ruddy face nearly her undoing.

Maggie pressed a hand to her waist and swallowed around the lump of grief in her throat. “He’s been feeling a mite poorly.”

“Again?” The man frowned. “Seems he’s been sick since September. Maybe you ought to have the new doc go out to your place and have a look—”

“No,” she said too abruptly and forced a brittle laugh. “He hasn’t been sick this whole time. He’s been busy prospecting the past month. Last night it seems he ate something that didn’t sit well in his belly, is all.”

“Ah.” Mr. Carlson smiled, clearly appeased. “Well, you take care driving that wagon home. You might tell him I noticed that left rear wheel might be wobbling some.”

“I’ll be sure to do that, Mr. Carlson. Thank you.” Maggie hurried out of the general store before anyone else could ask her about Pa. Lord, she didn’t need the wagon wheel to break now. Who’d fix the darn thing? Not Pa. Not buried twenty yards behind their cabin.

At the thought, her breath caught on a sob and she nearly stumbled off the boardwalk and into Bertha. The gray mare turned accusing eyes on Maggie, as if she knew that Maggie hadn’t even dug her father a proper grave. Rock-hard ground and trembling hands had allowed for a four-foot hole and she hadn’t dared wait longer to get him in the freezing ground.

God, please, please, don’t let anyone find out he’s gone before I hear from Mary.

How many times had she uttered the prayer but to no use? She supposed she could write her younger sister, but Clara lived with her husband and two children clear across the country somewhere outside of Boston. No, Mary was closer in San Francisco and still Maggie’s best choice. As soon as her older sister received her letter she and her husband would come for her. Mary was the smart one, the brave one. She’d know exactly what to do.

Maggie unhitched Bertha, gathered her skirt with one hand and climbed onto the wagon. Seeming unfriendly or not, she kept her face straight ahead, not wishing to engage in conversation with anyone as she slowly rode out of town. If anyone knew she was staying at the cabin alone, tongues would wag. And it might not matter that Maggie had regrettable curly red hair or was taller than most of the men in Deadwood, if the miners got wind that she was a woman living alone….

Well, she wasn’t precisely sure what might happen if they came sniffing around, she only knew it would be a bad thing because Pa had told her that some men simply didn’t know how to treat a lady. She knew about kissing, of course, because when she was fifteen and hadn’t yet sprung up that extra six inches, Clem Browning had kissed her on the mouth twice. She and Clem had been behind the rotting barn where the whole family had lived in Kansas before Pa took it in mind to come prospecting.

As soon as she passed the smokehouse and livery at the edge of town, she breathed a sigh of relief. She took a final look over her shoulder and then clucked her tongue, signaling Bertha to pick up the pace. The fat old mare barely minded but Maggie was so grateful to be out of sight that she didn’t care. A brisk wind had picked up and she pulled her wool shawl tighter around her shoulders.

Her mind was on the growing chill in the air and the dwindling woodpile behind the small two-room cabin she and Pa had shared when she saw movement in the trees to the right. She didn’t slow down but kept her gaze on the scrub oak. A white-tailed doe leaped into sight before scurrying deeper into the woods.

Maggie smiled at herself and then flicked the reins, anxious suddenly to be home, snug in her little cabin. She still had laundry to do and peaches to…

He jumped in front of the wagon from out of nowhere, blocking Bertha’s path with his big body. “Lady, don’t scream. I just need to talk to you.”

A strangled cry lodged in her throat. She yanked on the reins when she should have urged the mare to gallop. No need to panic, she told herself, not sure if her throat would work. She wasn’t too terribly far from town, and the stranger said he just wanted to talk. “Wh-what do you want?”

His hair was long and as black as a moonless night. Even before she shaded her eyes from the sun she saw that he had a strong face with high broad cheekbones, a long narrow nose and a stubbornly square jaw. She squinted at the stranger, and without thinking, leaned toward him for a closer look and met dark probing eyes. She jerked back.

The saints preserve her, he was part Indian. Fear threatening to choke her, she did something she never before thought of doing. She grabbed the whip and made to use it. “Giddyap, Bertha, giddyap!”

“That’s not necessary.” The man shot his arm in the air and grimaced when the whip snapped across his wrist instead of poor Bertha’s rump. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

“Step aside, mister. Or I’ll—I’ll—” She swallowed hard. “Step aside. Please.”

While holding on to the harness, he worked his way around Bertha and toward Maggie. “I just want to ask you a question,” he said in calm, perfect English. Of course he plainly wasn’t full-blooded Indian. Maybe one of those half-breeds she knew passed through Deadwood from time to time, but hadn’t actually seen. He dressed funny, too. Like he might come from back east.

“What do you want to know?” she asked, surprised her voice hadn’t cracked. She kept a firm grip on the whip, fervently hoping she wouldn’t have to use it on him. The next time she came into town she was bringing Pa’s shotgun, or even better the Spencer carbine, which she could handle easier. She was alone now, she had to consider such things.

“Where are we?” The man’s gaze stayed locked on hers, while his long lean fingers stroked Bertha’s flank.

She frowned at the odd question and made a motion with her chin toward town. “Deadwood.”

“Deadwood,” he repeated, confusion flickering in his eyes.

They weren’t as dark as she’d first thought, more hazel with gold and green flecks. “Where are the houses?”

“Mostly in town. There are a few cabins scattered closer to the river like—” She bit down hard on her lower lip. He didn’t need to know where she lived.

The faraway look in his eyes disappeared and he focused sharply on her. “Which way is the highway?”

“The what?”

“What about the old Winslow house? It should be right…” He shook his head and briefly closed his eyes, gripping the side of the wagon as if to steady himself. “There was an earthquake a few minutes ago.”

Maggie glanced over her shoulder toward town. Maybe the man was sick. Should she get help? “Sometimes when they blast at the mines the ground shakes a bit but not today. They haven’t been—”

He frowned at her. “The mines?”

“The gold mines.”

“They don’t still have working mines near here.”

She stared at him, wondering if he were a mite touched in the head. “That’s pretty much all there is, mister.”

He seemed confused, his gaze first meeting hers, and then narrowing on the rickety old wagon. When he finally looked back at her, their eyes met only briefly before his gaze wandered down the front of her plain blue cotton dress, lingering long enough on her breasts that she shrunk back.

“What day it is?” he asked suddenly, his voice strained and hoarse.

“Tuesday.”

“The date,” he said tersely enough to send a fresh frisson of fear up her spine.

“November tenth or eleventh, I’m not sure.”

“And the year?”

Maggie moistened her parched lips. The man was clearly loco. She should scream. If she did, loud enough, maybe, just maybe, someone in the livery could hear her. “Eighteen seventy-eight.”



CORD STARED NUMBLY at the woman. No teasing glint lit her green eyes. In fact, the emerald color had darkened with fear when he’d demanded to know the date. Her face was pale with alarm, except for the scattering of freckles across her nose, and her full lower lip quivered slightly. She looked as if she’d run if he let her. No, she wasn’t teasing him. This was no hoax.

Finally, she lifted her small pointed chin. “I’ll thank you to release my horse, sir. I best be on my way before my pa starts searching for me. He would not take kindly to me speaking with a stranger.”

Cord stared past her in the direction from where she’d come. He’d seen the old buildings, although he’d stopped short of getting too close, and still he hadn’t believed his own eyes. The place looked like any one of a dozen movie sets he’d worked on as a stuntman. But even from the outskirts, the stench of horse manure mixed with smoking meat and human waste was real. Brutally real. Goose bumps raised from his skin.

What did this mean? After the ridicule Masi and the elders indulged from him and Bobby, had they been right all along? Was this some kind of life after death he was experiencing? Had he been transported back one hundred and thirty years? But he didn’t recall dying. Wouldn’t he remember being shot or crushed by an earthquake?

“He always carries his shotgun with him. I should not like to see you hurt.”

The woman’s words barely penetrated the fog of disbelief and panic that shrouded him. “A shotgun?” He glanced down at his shirt again. Still no blood. “What shotgun?”

“My pa.” She shoved away a stubborn curl of auburn hair that corkscrewed over one eye, and peered warily at him. “He carries a shotgun,” she murmured, gesturing pointedly at his restraining hand. “I should like to leave now before he comes to fetch me.”

He started to release the harness, but then again checked the direction in which she was traveling. Better he take his chances of finding out what the hell was going on from her folks than from a town full of nosy people who’d have more questions than he could answer. “Is that where you’re headed? Away from town?”

Her pink lips parted for a long silent moment, the pulse at the side of her slender neck leaping wildly. “Pardon me?”

“Your home…is it that way?”

“Why?”

“I’d like a word with your father.”

“My—? No. You can’t.” She shook her head, her lips drawing into a thin line. “No. You can’t.”

Cord growled in frustration. “Look, lady. I don’t have much of a choice.” Anger laced with fear flashed in her eyes. Even the mare sensed the tension and whinnied. Made him realize that because of his own panic, he was going about this all wrong. “My name is Cord,” he said, and soothingly stroked the side of the mare’s neck. “Cord Braddock. What’s your name?”

She hesitated. “Maggie.” Her throat worked as she swallowed. “Maggie Dawson.” Her gaze darted to the hand he’d slowly moved toward the reins. When she sensed what he was about to do, she jerked the reins to the side and used them to slap the mare’s broad rump.

“Giddyap, Bertha!” she cried desperately but the old mare barely moved. “Giddyap.”

“Can’t let you do that, Maggie Dawson,” he said as he jumped up on the seat beside her, causing the whole wagon to list heavily to one side.

She fell against him, blushing furiously, and then quickly righted herself. “What are you doing?”

“I’m not going to hurt you. I just need some answers.”

“You have to get off. Right now.” She edged over as far away from him as possible. “Go.”

Cord sighed wearily. “How far is it?”

“I’m not taking you anywhere.”

“Yes, you are.”

“I’ll scream. I swear I will.”

“I’m sorry about this, Maggie,” Cord said as he reached under his jacket for the .38. “I truly am. But you will take me home.”




4


MAGGIE’S EYES widened at the small gun he showed her, her fascination with its diminutive size and the contraption holding it inside his jacket momentarily replacing her fear. The brown leather straps were some kind of holster, except that she’d never seen one fit over a man’s shoulder before. That didn’t seem terribly practical. Not for speed, anyway. Irrationally the idea helped calm her.

“I really don’t want to hurt you,” the man repeated, reaching for the gun. “But I will if you scream.”

The fear rushed back. She tamped down the desire to jump off the wagon and run toward town. But what chance would she have if he truly meant to do her harm? Instead, she raised her gaze to his. “What do you want?”

“I’m a detective. I’m looking for two missing women.” He withdrew his hand, leaving the gun inside his jacket, his eyes sharp and alert as he assessed her face.

“Are you a Pinkerton?”

He hesitated, not a reassuring sign. “Something like that.”

“I didn’t know they hired Indians,” Maggie murmured thoughtlessly, immediately regretting her words. His face darkened, and she averted her gaze, her heart starting to pound harder. The truth was, she didn’t know much about the private security agency at all, except for gossip she’d heard about some of their agents having proved untrustworthy. “You should talk to the sheriff.”

“I’m not ready to do that yet.” The stranger surprised her by releasing the reins to her. “Let’s go.”

She took a deep breath and tried not to focus where his coat gapped, allowing for a glimpse of the odd-looking gun. There was little to do but comply with his demand and pray he didn’t hurt her. If she gave Bertha her head, the lazy mare would lumber at a snail’s pace and Maggie might get lucky and someone would happen by before they reached the fork that would take them to her cabin. Once they got there, she had no idea what she would do when he found out she lived alone.

The thought made her shudder violently and she nearly lost control of the reins. The man turned toward her but she kept facing forward, then she straightened her spine. As soon as they got to the cabin, she had to get to the rifle leaning on the wall behind the door before he saw it. She’d have the upper hand then. She’d simply make him go away. Threaten to put a hole in him the size of Texas.

God help her, could she actually kill a man? She shuddered again.

“Maggie?”

She jumped. Not just at his familiarity, but at the warm breath that danced across her cheek and stirred the stubborn curls that had escaped the bun at her nape. She moved her shoulder because his were so broad that he kept brushing against her arm.

Drawing her shawl tighter, she moistened her dry lips. “Yes?”

He gently, briefly touched the back of her wrist. “You should be wearing gloves.”

She blinked at him, and then at the patch of skin where he’d pressed the tips of his long lean fingers. Her flesh burned—no, tingled was more like it—where he’d touched her. She wanted to rub away the odd sensation, but she only stared at the unsightly red gash that wound around her pale knuckles. There were calluses, too, on the pads of her thumbs and on the one finger where she’d once dreamed a ring would’ve been placed years ago.

How scratched and ugly her hands were from tending the garden and carrying wood to the stove, from scrubbing clothes and the cabin’s wood floors. Not at all like a proper lady’s hands ought to look. Even when Pa had been alive, he’d sometimes be out prospecting for days on end and the chores had to get done somehow. She’d always worked hard and she wasn’t ashamed of that.

Fisting her hands, she wanted to hide them suddenly, away from his prying eyes. Instead, she lifted her chin and said nothing. Whether she wore gloves or not was none of his concern. He’d be better off worrying how he’d get back to town once she got her hands on Pa’s Spencer carbine rifle.

Her rifle now.

The words echoed tauntingly in her head. She bit down on her lower lip until the coppery taste of blood touched her tongue. It was only her now. Only her.

Without thinking, she glanced over her shoulder. The barren dirt road wound back toward Deadwood. They were nearing the fork that would take them along the creek and to her cabin.

He followed her gaze, his eyes coming gravely back to meet hers. “Let’s step it up.”

He talked funny, dressed funny and smelled too good for a man. Pretty fancy, in fact, for an Indian. Was he really a Pinkerton? Could it be that he simply was looking for two missing women? But why not contact the sheriff?

She cleared her throat. “Who are they? The women you’re looking for?”

“Two sisters. Reese and Ellie Winslow. One blonde, one brunette,” he said absently, his apparent preoccupation worrying her.

She squinted against the setting sun filtering through the trees and wondered why he wasn’t more interested if he really had been hired to find them. “And you think they’re in Deadwood?”

“I don’t know.”

At his impatient tone, she slid him a sidelong glance. His gaze scanned the tall prairie grass and scrub brush close to the road and then darted out to where the ponderosa pines started their climb uphill.

She tried not to think about what was sure to happen once they reached the cabin in the next twenty minutes. And then she realized that a plan was exactly what she should be thinking about. She’d have to act fast to get to the gun first and bring it up high enough to do any good. If they tussled over it, she’d lose. That simple. He was too tall and broad, and…

She slid another look his way. His left shoulder stood a good six inches above hers, and to her utter amazement, a thrill coursed through her. Even Pa had been shorter than she was, and both Mary and Clara certainly, by nearly a foot. Her gaze went to his big hands and long lean fingers. How easily he could choke the life out of her. The sobering thought made her recall what had to be done and it didn’t seem long before the small cabin came into view.

They’d had almost no money with them when they’d come west so the place wasn’t much. But her pa had been good with a hammer so the cabin’s roof no longer leaked, and one side of the sagging red barn where they kept their milk cow, a few chickens and Bertha stayed dry most of the time.

On the left, closer to the creek, sat Maggie’s pride and joy. The square of garden not only helped keep them fed for a good part of the year, but she’d also lovingly planted an assortment of colorful flowers that she sometimes snipped and brought into the house to sit in a canning jar in the kitchen. The air had been too cold lately and the flowers were gone now. Just like Pa.

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

“This is it?” the man asked slowly.

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

“Who else besides you and your father?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Apparently not,” she said crisply.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He looked surprised at first, then suspicious.

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

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

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

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



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

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

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

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

“Don’t play that game with me.”

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

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

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

“Sorry, but I had to defend myself.”

“That’s what I was going to say.”

Cord smiled. “Touché.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I reckon that might be a fine idea,” she murmured, her terrified gaze glued to the end of the barrel.

He stared down at the stock, hoping he could figure out how to unload it since the prop guys usually took care of that kind of thing. And then the thought hit. He looked up at her. “It’s not loaded.”

“Oh.” Slowly she inched back up the wall. “You still have that small gun. Is it loaded?”

“Yes.”

“Maybe you should—”

“No.” He leaned the rifle back against the rough wood wall. No way would he unload the sucker and leave himself that vulnerable. He still had no idea where the hell he was.

1878 Deadwood.

How was that possible? His gaze took in the woman’s plain long-sleeve blue dress, buttons down the entire bodice, clunky black shoes, the gray wool shawl that had fallen to the plank floor. All of it straight out of a Hollywood studio’s costume closet. Even the way she wore her hair, pulled back in a tight bun at her nape, made her look the part of an old-fashioned spinster. Or would have if her unruly auburn hair had cooperated. Instead, tendrils curled around her face and clung to the side of her neck, giving her the kind of sexy tousled look that hairstylists on movie sets spent hours trying to create.

She visibly swallowed, pressing a hand to her midsection, and he guessed he’d stared too long. The last thing he wanted to do was frighten her further.

“I thought I’d put a couple of logs on the fire and make some coffee,” she said in a small voice. “If that’s all right.”

“Sure.” He waved a hand, and she hurried toward the pile of wood stacked next to the stove. The door was still open and it was cool in the cabin. He thought about closing the door, since he’d figured out the reason for leaving it open was to hide the rifle, but then again, if she felt more comfortable with it open until her father returned, that was okay with Cord.

He made sure she was out of striking distance and then peered through the window framed by blue checked curtains. He could see the sagging barn and the corral next to it where a chestnut grazed. Probably her father’s horse. The animal was in much better shape than the mare she used to pull the wagon.

“How many horses do you have?” he asked over his shoulder.

“Well, there’s Bertha, of course. She pulls the wagon. And then there’s Red, a chestnut we bought from a driver last year. Red’s Pa’s horse.” Her voice caught, and she quickly turned away to light a lamp.

Cord continued to stare out the window. If the chestnut was here, her father had to be nearby. Apparently she’d just worked that out for herself and didn’t want to alert Cord. He spotted a well halfway between the cabin and what appeared to be a shed. The small structure was barely big enough to hold a…

“Shit.” An outhouse?

He looked over just as her lips thinned into a disapproving line. He didn’t bother to apologize this time, although he would try to watch himself. But given the circumstances, if she’d suddenly been dropped into his world, the prim Ms. Dawson would probably be cussing, too.

After a final glance around the outside perimeter, he turned back to watch her measure out coffee grounds. Everything seemed surreal. The heavy iron kettle, the potbellied stove, even the plain oak kitchen table that no one had bothered to finish properly. Yet there were small decorative touches like the blue-and-white runner that ran down the middle of the table and the braided rug near the door that matched the blue gingham curtains. A glass jar of dried flowers sat near a metal washbasin.

Cord frowned. Near the same basin sat one cup and one plate and one fork. Odd, or was he reading too much into it? Her father could have left them behind after he’d finished his lunch. Or there was no father. Around here, a man wouldn’t leave an unloaded rifle at the ready. His gaze drew to the semi-open door to the only other room in the cabin. A bedroom?

He turned toward Maggie and found her nervously watching him. She looked away and dragged her palms down a beige apron she’d tied around her waist.

“I need to get some water,” she said, reaching for a metal bucket. “Then I’ll make the coffee.”

“Where do you get the water from?”

She wrinkled her nose at him as if she thought him dimwitted. “The well.”

“Ah, of course.” Not dimwitted, just freakin’ nuts. He needed time to sort this out. Review the events of the day. Maybe this whole thing had something to do with the camera flash. But what? Had Masi had a hand in this? God, he hated that his mind kept going back to the old Navajo legends. They were just stories told by the Dine. Just silly stories.

“So I’ll be right back.” She’d made it to the door before he registered she’d even moved.

“I’ll get it.”

“That’s not necessary,” she said hastily.

“Better yet, we’ll go together.”

Her face fell. “You really should think about going to town. It’ll be dark before long.”

“Don’t worry about me, Maggie.” He smiled and took the bucket from her. “I figure I’ll be spending the night.”




5


MAGGIE JERKED so hard, the bucket flung wildly toward her. “You can’t stay here.”

Cord smiled and again took the bucket from her. “That’s not very hospitable being as I’m your guest.”

“My guest?” She stared at the way his mouth quirked at the corners. Was he teasing her? She used the back of her wrist to push the hair away from her face. “You’ve forced yourself in here, Mr. Braddock. That hardly qualifies you as a welcome guest.”

“Let’s see what your father says, shall we?” He stepped aside and gestured her out the front door.

With a brusque swirl of her skirt, she passed him. “He’s going to be angry, I can assure you of that right now. And he has a temper, a very, very bad temper. Especially if he’s been drinking, which is what he might be doing at this very minute.”

“Thanks for the warning.”

“He’s good with a gun, too. Fast with perfect aim.”

“Even when he’s drinking, huh?”

She sniffed when she heard the smile in his voice, as if he knew she was lying her head off. “Sometimes if he gets too drunk, the sheriff or the deputy escorts him home. They come inside for coffee before they head back to town.”

“Good to know. That would save me a trip.”

Maggie gritted her teeth and said no more until they got to the well. With false bravery, she said, “I’ll make beans for supper. There’s some leftover cornbread. After you eat, you can bed down in the barn.”

When he didn’t respond, she snuck a peek at him as she reached for the pulley rope above the well. He was looking around, his eyes alert to the dusky shadows beginning to fall over the tall grass beyond the clearing. At this time of year sunset seemed like a circus magic act. Bright one moment and then sinking fast at the end, leaving behind pink wispy clouds against a gray sky.

In the distance, a coyote howled and, hating the eerie sound, Maggie quickly hauled up the bucket of water. The rope cut into her work-roughened hands and it riled her that she suddenly cared about the scars and calluses that marred her palms.

“Here.” With one hand, Cord lifted the heavy bucket from her and dumped the water into the pail.

She saw him wince and then briefly probe his right shoulder, before returning the bucket to its place above the well and then picking up the full pail with his other hand. She turned back toward the cabin, and they walked in silence until they got near the front door. “After I put the beans on I have chores to do out here,” she said, and then added quickly, “Pa usually does them but if he’s not back before sundown I take care of the horses and the chickens.”

“What’s he riding?” Cord gestured toward Red. “If the chestnut is his.”

“A mustang he recently broke and means to sell at auction.” Her quickness surprised even her. She was going straight to hell for all the easy lies. If Mary didn’t get here soon there would be no hope for her eternal soul.

The corners of his mouth lifted slightly. “Okay, when you’re done in the kitchen, I’ll help you out here.”

Maggie’s heart fell. “That isn’t necessary,” she muttered, going ahead of him through the front door. “I know your shoulder is hurt.”

She wasn’t prepared for the firm grip on her arm before he roughly spun her around to face him. Water sloshed out of the pail onto the floor and on her boots.

“How do you know that?” he asked tersely, setting down the pail and taking a step toward her.

She shrunk back, her heel catching on a loose plank she’d meant to fix. He was big and broad, his face dark and threatening, and her mouth went so dry it felt as if her tongue had swelled. “I saw you favor it,” she managed to say in a voice she almost didn’t recognize.

Dark brows knitted together as if she were speaking some strange language that he needed to interpret, and then something passed through his eyes that looked like relief. His features relaxed and he stooped to reclaim the pail. “You want this in the kitchen?”

She nodded, not trusting herself to speak. After waiting until the way was clear, she moved widely around him to get to the sideboard, where she kept her best cast-iron pot. Quickly she got the coffee started and then the beans on, thought briefly about adding some bacon, and decided she didn’t want to feed him that well. In fact, she hoped the cornbread had dried out since last night’s supper. But she’d wrapped it well in a clean cloth and had churned fresh butter this morning because that’s all she’d planned on fixing for herself tonight.

For over two months now she’d lived in dread that someone would come to the cabin and find out her pa was dead. Only Lester, the deputy, had come knocking and both times he’d shown up she’d managed to convince him that Pa was out prospecting. Now, what she wouldn’t give for the deputy—or anyone—to come calling, even that nosy Mrs. Weaver.

She angled a brief peek at him sitting at the table, where he’d hunkered down after throwing another log on the fire. He stared out the window a lot but he still seemed to follow her every move. Clara had once claimed that she read that Indians had special tracking powers, almost like having eyes in the back of their heads. But Clara was often prone to whimsy, lived with her head in the clouds most of the time, Pa liked to say.

Maggie blinked away a tear. She missed her family. Although she couldn’t dwell on them right now; she had to keep her mind clear. Swallowing a lump of emotion, she took a deep breath as she stirred the beans.

Goodness, it just occurred to her that if anyone did happen by, and they found her alone with a man—not just a man but an Indian—she’d be ruined. Her reputation would never survive the scandal. She’d even heard of white women who had killed themselves rather than be taken by a savage. What was the term? Blessed release? Shuddering, Maggie studied him discretely. He wasn’t exactly a savage. A half-breed who dressed better and was cleaner than most men in Deadwood, for sure. But that wouldn’t matter to the menfolk around here. She’d be branded for life.

As if he’d felt the weight of her stare, he turned to meet her eyes. It frightened her that she couldn’t read his impassive face. He’d claimed he didn’t mean to harm her. Did he have any idea of the predicament he’d placed her in? Did he care? The real question she needed to ask herself was…was it better to be ruined or dead?



SMELLING THE beans simmer, Cord’s stomach rumbled. That he could think about food at all was laughable. That is, if he weren’t so damned confused. And angry. And, worst, fear had left a bitter taste on his tongue.

He didn’t understand any of this, which meant he didn’t know how to solve the problem. Overwhelming helplessness pressed heavily against his chest, making it hard to even breathe. It had been eighteen years since he’d last felt so powerless, the day he’d left the reservation.

Another whiff of beans teased his nostrils and the reason hit him why he could be relaxed enough to feel hunger. Beans and rice and fried bread had been staples for him and Masi. When the tourist season died down, or her beadwork hadn’t sold well and money was low, they’d lived on nothing else for weeks. He’d sworn when he left the reservation he’d never touch the stuff again. And he hadn’t. At least not after he’d started making some serious money. But now, the savory smell comforted him, lulled him into remembering simpler times spent with Masi.

Until he looked into the auburn-haired woman’s accusing eyes. He wasn’t just a man keeping her trapped, but he was an Indian. For her, for so many others, that was crime enough. Not that her racist attitude excused him for one second. He knew he was scum and he wished he had thought beyond taking this coward’s way to buy some time, but it was too late. He was in too deep. She could finger him, and the best he could hope for would be a cot in the local jail, and at worst, a noose around his neck.

Especially if this really was 1878.

The more he looked around the small room, at the primitive stove, the cookware, the lack of plumbing, at the woman herself wearing a homemade dress worn at the cuffs and elbows, the more convinced he was becoming that he’d somehow slipped through a time warp. Crazy, yeah, but even though he wasn’t the sharpest P.I. in Hollywood, he knew evidence when he saw it.

His gaze snagged on what looked like a pamphlet sitting under some sewing supplies, and he swept the pincushion and a spool of thread aside so he could read the top. It was an 1877 Montgomery Ward catalog.

Stunned, he muttered something out loud, not sure what, but it got Maggie’s attention. She hurried to the table in a swirl of fabric and snatched the paper out of his hand.

“Don’t touch that. It’s my only copy.” She folded it in fourths and stuck it in a pocket secreted by the folds of her voluminous dress.

“I was just looking at the…darn thing.”

“I suppose you think it’s silly, too.”

“What?”

Her cheeks flushed. “That I would want a decent stove or one of those brand-new washing machines.”

“Not me,” he said.

“Well, Pa thinks—” She faltered and turned away to stir the pot again. “I happen to know that Montgomery Ward has a very good reputation, even though the goods come all the way from Chicago, and that people order through the mail from them all the time.”

Cord shook his head and cast his gaze back to the window. If she was lying about having a father, she was doing a good job. Half the time he was convinced it was a ruse to chase him off, and then…Come to think of it, at this point in time, a woman simply wouldn’t be living by herself out here.

She turned back around and eyed him curiously. “Wouldn’t surprise me none if you got your duds from a catalog. I haven’t seen cloth that fine around here.”

“L.A.,” he said absently.

“Pardon me?”

“California.”

Her eyes lit up. “San Francisco?”

He smiled. Close enough. “Yep.”

She abandoned the beans, a wistful look on her face as she brought out a crock of butter and a pan wrapped in a white cloth. “I’ll be going there soon. I bet they have all kinds of nice shops. A person wouldn’t even need a catalog. They could go right downtown and pick out anything they wanted.”

“You going there with your father?”

Her face pinched into a brief frown before she turned away again. “My sister Mary lives there.”

“They have more than nice shops. You ever seen the ocean, Maggie?”

She shook her head and slowly looked at him.

“So big and blue, stretches as far as the eye can see. Makes you think anything is possible.” He recalled suddenly how Masi used to utter that same phrase as they sat and watched an unusually beautiful sunset together, or had happened upon a spotted fawn being born in the tall grass.

A smile tugged at Maggie’s lips. “I’ve seen pictures. But I’d like very much to see the ocean for myself.” Once she gave in to the smile, her face transformed. Her eyes sparkled and the pink tinge of excitement in her cheeks caught him off guard. She was actually very pretty.

Pictures.

Immediately the word echoed in his brain like a sound bouncing off canyon walls.

How could he have forgotten? His gaze ran down Maggie’s old-fashioned dress to her high-top shoes, and he drew back his jacket and reached into the pocket. What if the same thing that happened to him had happened to the Winslow sisters? It was a long shot, or maybe not, considering how they were dressed in the photos.

“I want to show you something,” he said, getting to his feet.

Maggie scurried backward until she was stopped by the shelving where she kept her pots. The smile was gone from her face, her skin suddenly so pale her freckles stood out. Her gaze was leveled on his chest.

Bewildered, he slowly withdrew the photographs and looked to see what had suddenly frightened her. The gun. He sighed. As much as he hated her jumping every time she caught a glimpse of it, he wasn’t disarming himself.

“I just want to show you these pictures,” he said quietly. “They’re of the two missing women.”

She put a shaky hand to her throat, briefly closed her eyes and nodded. They each took a couple of tentative steps toward the other. She stopped first and held out her hand for the photos. He passed them to her, and noticed what great pain she took trying to keep from brushing his fingers. Maybe she thought touching an Indian would somehow be infectious.

He swiftly pushed aside the unbidden thought. Being sensitive over old wounds wasn’t going to get him anywhere.

“You recognize either of them?”

She stared hard at the grainy photo of the two women with their arms linked. “I think this one,” she said slowly, pointing to Reese Winslow. “But it’s hard to tell.”

Cord’s pulse leaped. “Look at the second picture. The one of her alone.”

She went to the next photo. “Yes, the likeness is strong. She’s a healer, isn’t she?”

This time his heart did everything but explode from his chest. He nodded. “In her time, she’s a doctor.”

Maggie’s puzzled gaze shot up to his. “Her time?”

God, was he seriously starting to believe that…Masi’s voice cut into his thoughts. Anything is possible. He couldn’t go there. Not now. “Was it in town where you saw her? When?”

“She was in town for a while, but I didn’t actually see her with my own eyes.” Maggie concentrated on the photo, worrying her lower lip. “I saw a sketch of her on Wanted posters outside the jail and the general store.”

“A Wanted poster?”

She shrugged a slim shoulder and tried to return the photo. “Maybe I’m wrong.”

“Take another look. Why was the woman wanted?”

She studied Reese’s photo again. “She’s beautiful,” she said with the same wistfulness he’d seen earlier. “People said that about her, too. The ones who’d seen her…they said that she was too pretty and refined to be a—” Maggie cut herself short, her eyes as big as dinner plates when she looked up at him.




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