Rapture's Gold

by Rosanne Bittner

  More laughter came up from the streets, and she rose to make sure her door was locked and to assure herself that the pistol still rested on the stand beside her bed. That was her biggest worry this night—her own safety. She went to a window and peeked through lace curtains to the muddy street below. Across the street a man stood looking up toward her window. He could not see her, for her room was not lighted. But she could see him. He wore a tanned buckskin jacket and a wide-brimmed hat. He kept looking from her window to the walk below it, then up and down the street.

  Buck Hanner. He was watching out for her, even through the night! But then, perhaps he was only standing there trying to decide just how to sneak up and rape and murder her. No. She could not believe that was the case. The man was determined to guard her, to make sure nothing happened to her. Did he never sleep? She felt warm, protected, much as she’d felt the night Brian O’Toole had taken her hand and led her away from the docks and from the men who had tried to hurt her.

  She turned away, going back to her bed and curling into the quilts. Suddenly feeling safe and unafraid, she began to float into much-needed sleep, wondering if it truly was possible for a woman to find pleasure with a man. Surely not. She could find friendship and protection, like what she had had from Brian O’Toole, but the other—the awful things Jimmie had told her—that could never be pleasurable, and no man would ever do those things to her.

  Harmony approached the supply store the next morning, surprised to see Buck already there, winding a rope around a flat-bed wagon full of crates. In the cool of morning, he still wore the fringed buckskin jacket. So, she had been right. It was Buck Hanner who had stood across the street the night before. Yet he looked rested, alert. He turned to see her approaching and flashed that disturbing smile, giving her a nod.

  “Morning, Miss Jones.”

  She swallowed. She was so sure of herself until she was near this man. Perhaps she should find someone else to do these things for her, but who would it be? Did she really have any choice now?

  “Good morning, Buck,” she replied, putting on a cool air.

  His eyes roved over her curving figure, which was accented by the wide sash at the waist of her blue dress. A white shawl graced her shoulders.

  “Where are your pants?”

  She reddened. “My what?”

  “You going to ride a horse in that dress?”

  She looked down at herself, then up at him. “I have riding clothes—a skirt split and seamed in the center. That is as far as I will go. I’ll not wear pants like a man!”

  He grinned. “Suit yourself. But you’d better know right now that when you get up to your claim, you’d best forget about dressing fancy. My advice is to buy yourself a couple of pairs of men’s pants.” His eyes moved over her again, making her redden more. “Better make that boys’ pants—small boys.”

  Why did she feel so beneath him? So stupid? “I’ll wear what I please!” she said angrily.

  He stepped closer, pushing back his hat. “You’re here to take my advice. You’ll be sitting on a log or a rock all day, Miss Jones, panning for gold from a cold creek. You’ll have a hell of a time keeping skirts out of the water and you’ll be wet half the time. If you wear pants, you can tuck them into high boots and not have to worry about it. Skirts will just get in the way, I guarantee. And pants would be a lot more comfortable for riding, but for that I’ll allow the riding skirt if you insist. When we’re through outfitting you this morning, you can go back and put one on. Then I’ll give you some pointers, and pick out a good horse for you.”

  He turned back and finished tying a knot. When he looked at her again, she was blinking back tears and nervously pulling her shawl tighter. He frowned and stepped closer again. “What’s wrong?”

  She looked away, her cheeks crimson. “I’ll not wear pants!”

  She did not see the gentle, understanding look in his blue eyes. He took out some tobacco and began rolling a cigarette. “Are you here to give a fashion show, or to prove to Wade Tillis—and yourself—that you can make a go of it on that claim?”

  He licked and sealed the cigarette as she turned her eyes back up to his. “You know why I’m here.”

  He nodded, lighting the cigarette and taking a light drag. “Then do what I say, and you’ll show them all.” His eyes dropped to her full bosom, then back to meet her eyes. “Besides, who the hell is going to see you up there?”

  She shrugged, breathing deeply to stop the silly tears. “You, for one.”

  He left the cigarette at the corner of his mouth. “So what? I’m just your guide, and I intend to give you the best advice I can. And seeing a little girl in a lousy pair of boys’ pants certainly wouldn’t be the most shocking thing I’ve ever seen. Besides, lots of girls who live and work on ranches wear them. It’s no big thing.”

  He turned and talked to a man who came out of the store to board the wagon. She wanted to ask him if he really thought of her that way—as a little girl. But it would be much too forward.

  Moments later he took her by the arm, sending unwanted shivers through her bones as he led her into the store and began taking down various items and explaining them: cooking pans, kerosene, boots, flannel shirts, a heavy, fleece-lined jacket, several pairs of gloves, a shovel and pick and sledge hammer, a coffee pot, three tin “gold pans,” which looked more like pie pans to Harmony; glass bottles which he would “explain later;” two knives, one large and one small; canvas bags for packing gear; a rifle and ammunition, another I’ll-teach-you item; a tin wash basin; blankets; kerosene lamps; lumber.

  “I’ll build you a sluice when we get up there. It’ll make your job easier,” he told her. “I have a suspicion Tillis’ men won’t leave things undamaged before leaving. If there was a sluice there, it won’t be in one piece.”

  “What’s a sluice?”

  He sighed and shook his head. “Don’t worry about it now. They’re also called rockers, or long toms. You’ll see.”

  And they bought food: beans, dried meat, flour, salt, sugar, a little candy—“for when it gets boring and you’re feeling sorry for yourself”—and some whiskey.

  “Why would I need whiskey?”

  He only shrugged. “You never can tell. Whiskey is good for more than getting drunk, ma’am, although that’s its most pleasant purpose.”

  “Well, I don’t drink!”

  He grinned and kept working. “I’m sure you don’t,” he muttered. “By the way, Mister O’Toole left a few things at the cabin—some crude furniture, a homemade bed, a table and a couple of chairs, and a big iron stove you can heat and cook with.”

  She watched him, the powerful shoulders, the tanned face. “Then there is a cabin?”

  “Sure there’s a cabin.”

  She frowned. “Did you know him well?”

  He stopped and watched her. “No. I only took him supplies now and then.”

  Her eyes widened with sudden realization. “You! Surely you’re the one who took him the message—brought him back to town after he collapsed!”

  He sobered. “I am. I got him here as quickly as I could, but it was hopeless.” He studied the enticing green eyes. “If it makes you feel any better, he muttered once, ‘Harmony. Poor Harmony.’ I didn’t know then who he meant. He never said anything to me about you, or about any of his personal matters. I just brought him here, and the doctor took care of the rest.”

  Now she knew she could trust him. Somehow this made all the difference. He had been the last person to see Brian O’Toole alive! Had talked to him! Knew him!

  “Why on earth didn’t you tell me this before!” she exclaimed.

  He shrugged. “I wanted you to trust me on sheer judgment and intuition, not just because I happened to be the one to take a message to your guardian.”

  She frowned and watched him as he continued to pile up supplies, briefly explaining as he went along, confusing her more with every item.

  “How on earth will we get all this up there?” she asked.


  “By mule. We’ll rent several, or rather you’ll rent them from this store. And you can either buy or rent a horse. But I’ll have to bring it back down with me. You can’t carry enough feed for a whole winter, and there’s not enough grass where you’re going to sustain a horse. Of course, if you like I can leave a horse up there and come up more often to bring feed for it, but that will cost you more money and probably isn’t necessary. Even if you got the idea to leave, you’d never find your way back to Cripple Creek. You’d only get lost and probably die. Your best bet is to stay put. I’ll come up now and again to check on you, bring you more food and whatever other supplies you might need. And if you need to come back, you can come back with me.”

  She felt a gnawing apprehension. “Will I be…totally alone? Won’t there be other miners nearby?”

  He set down some woolen socks. “Not close enough to call out to. The closest is a three-or four-hour ride away. O’Toole’s claim is pretty remote, mainly because most mines in that area are played out. My guess is his isn’t worth much either, but we’ll see. Now, about those pants.” He picked up a pair of heavy woolen pants and held them up, scrutinizing their size, and she blushed. “These look pretty good. Why don’t you try them on?”

  He held them out to her, and she was angry again, jerking them from his hands. “I’ll do no such thing! I’ll not wear these until absolutely necessary!” She held them up to her waist and judged the length and size. “They seem to be close enough. Just throw them in with everything else.”

  He laughed lightly, finishing his cigarette and stepping it out. He added a washtub and scrub board to the pile. “You’re going to use up most of that four hundred dollars you conned out of Tillis yesterday,” he commented.

  “I did not con him out of anything. The money was rightfully mine.”

  He grinned, taking out a tablet and writing figures on it. “I know that,” he replied.

  She watched him writing down prices. Apparently he had some education. She hadn’t thought drifters had any at all.

  “I know all about running supply stores, so you’d better not try to cheat me,” she announced.

  He looked at her with raised eyebrows. “Oh, heaven forbid I should do that. And how is it you know all about supply stores?” He kept writing.

  “I helped run Mister O’Toole’s for years. He owned a big supply store in St. Louis, and a warehouse too. I kept his books for him, and his brother and I ran the store all by ourselves after Mister O’Toole came out here.”

  Buck frowned and looked at her again. “Why didn’t you just stay there? Sounds like a good, solid business to me. It’s certainly safer and more secure than coming out to a place like this to pan for gold.”

  She dropped her eyes. “There was no will. I couldn’t prove I had any right to any of it, and Jimmie—Mister O’Toole’s brother—he left me no alternative. It was either leave or…”

  She did not finish but bent down to inspect the fleece-lined jacket. Buck watched her, suspecting what the alternative was: submit or be thrown penniless into the streets. His pity for her was growing, and he didn’t like the other feeling that was growing with it. This poor girl who was trying to act so grown-up was afraid on the inside. She had been through hell.

  “At least I have the claim,” she was saying. “It’s all mine. It represents security. I intend to work it and make money off it, and someday I’ll open a supply store of my own. I’ll be a successful business woman and will depend on no one. I’ll never depend on a soul again, not for the rest of my life!”

  “Well, Miss Independence, how about paying for all this then? You ready to fork up four hundred and ten dollars?”

  She frowned. “I suppose I have to trust that you added everything correctly.”

  He handed her the pad. “See for yourself, Miss Jones. You say you ran a supply store once. You should know what this stuff costs.”

  She glanced at the figures quickly, then slapped the pad back into his hand and dug into her handbag, pulling out some bills. “I thought you were going to call me Harmony,” she muttered.

  “Gladly. I just wasn’t sure you’d feel the same today as you did yesterday. And since you get your dander up so easily, I thought I’d be careful.”

  She handed him the money and smiled a little. “I do seem short, Buck. I’m sorry. It’s just that I want this to work. I have to be very careful.”

  He took the bills, his fingers lightly touching her own when he did so, his blue eyes holding her green ones. “So do I, Harmony. You know, I could possibly get my boss to grubstake you.”

  “Grubstake?”

  “Yeah. Put up the supplies and food in return for a share of your findings.”

  She thought for a moment, eying all the merchandise. “No. I wouldn’t want to do it that way. Whatever I find will be all mine and no one else’s.”

  He shrugged. “Whatever you say. I just hate to take this much money from you.”

  “I worked hard back in St. Louis, and I made sure I got what was coming to me before I left. I have enough.”

  He glanced at her as he walked behind the counter, little doubting she’d been very bold in demanding what was rightfully hers back in St. Louis. She had spunk and strength and a willingness to learn. He couldn’t help but think what a fine rancher’s wife she’d make. He began conversing then with another man who came out from a back room. He introduced the man to Harmony as Jack Leads, the owner of the store. Harmony struck up a conversation with Leads about supply stores while Buck carried her goods into a back room. When he returned, he took her arm and led her outside.

  “Go get that riding skirt on, Shortcake, and I’ll give you your first lesson.”

  She looked up at him and blinked. “What about my things?”

  “They’ll keep. You’ve got to learn to ride before we can head out. I’ll take care of packing everything for you when it’s time to leave. But you’ll need a couple of days of riding lessons, and after that you might be too sore to go anyplace for a few more days.”

  “Sore? Why?”

  He laughed and gave her a shove. “You’ll find out. Now go change. I’ll be right here.”

  She smiled and left, walking toward the hotel. She turned back once to see him kneeling by a hitching post, smoking, watching her. She liked him, more than she cared to admit. It upset her, yet it was good to feel she had at least one friend. And what had he called her? Shortcake? That was a funny name. It made her feel good…warm. It had come out of his mouth so naturally, as though that was just what he was supposed to call her. No one had ever given her a nickname, and even though his touch and his eyes gave her those odd feelings, she was not afraid of him. Somehow she knew Buck Hanner would never hurt her or force her or be rude to her. Why, he’d never touch her at all…unless she wanted him to.

  She scowled then, and marched on to the hotel. How stupid to have such thoughts! She had no time for such things, no desire for them. Besides, he was a drifter. He had probably charmed many a girl with that smile and those eyes and that way of his. She’d better be on guard! She’d not be taken advantage of by any man, especially not a drifter like Buck Hanner! She had higher goals in mind—independence, freedom, riches, success! A man like Buck Hanner didn’t fit any of those plans!

  Buck had been right. Harmony spent the next few days in embarrassing pain, unable to walk quite properly. She doubted she would ever ease into a saddle with the grace and naturalness that Buck showed. With him a horse seemed just another limb. To Harmony a horse was a giant, awkward, frightening beast, even the gentle mare Buck put her on. The mare seemed to sense her ignorance and fear, and it displayed gentle obedience and utmost patience. Harmony actually grew fond of the dapple gray horse with the white mane, Pepper. Buck was riding a reddish stallion called Indian.

  In spite of blisters in unmentionable places and the flush that came to her face at Buck’s teasing, Harmony insisted on riding every day, wanting to learn as much as she could as fast as she could, insisting tha
t the soreness would go away more quickly if she rode every day.

  Buck set an easy pace. He realized she was hiding a lot of the pain and he admired her courage and determination. Harmony enjoyed the rides, for they took her away from Cripple Creek and the stares and the fear of attack by Wade Tillis’ men. That fear lessened every day, for just as Buck had explained, Tillis didn’t dare make a move against her right now. It was against the code. But would he do it once she was alone in the mountains? Surely not there either. People would still know. Besides, it would be easier for Tillis to wait her out, sure she’d never succeed. That only made her more determined. She’d die before she’d go crawling to Wade Tillis to sell her claim.

  The surrounding country was beautiful, and Harmony grew to love it more every day. It was so big that she felt a freedom here she’d never experienced in St. Louis. Social codes were not so strict here. People were more relaxed, more uncaring. The country—big, sprawling, free and easy—fit men like Buck Hanner well. Harmony realized that she liked Buck more each day, but she still didn’t know much about him. Every time she tried to talk to him about his past, he changed the subject. She knew him well, yet didn’t know him at all, and her feelings for him were mixed, confused. She wasn’t certain just how a woman was supposed to feel about a man. Could a man and woman be friends without being intimate? Of course! That was the only way it could be anyway. At first, she had not even wanted to be friends, but how could it be any other way when they were forced to spend so much time together?

  All her fears of being rudely attacked by him were gone. He’d had plenty of chances. Yet he’d never approached her wrongly, never voiced such desires, never treated her as anything but a young girl he was teaching to ride and was preparing to guide to a mining claim. She supposed that was all she was to a man like Buck Hanner. She now knew that he was twenty-seven, a full ten years older than she was, and he had been on his own since the age of twelve, fending for himself completely. He had not said why, only that he’d been on his own since that age. One thing she did know was that he surely thought of her as only a little girl, and his nickname of Shortcake had stuck, as though she were a little sister of sorts. That was fine with her, she reasoned. It made everything a lot easier, for when they went to the claim, they would be traveling alone, after which she would be left behind to do what must be done and that would be the end of Buck Hanner.