Buck grinned. “That’s the spirit, Shortcake.” He walked over to the bed, turning it back onto its legs. He grabbed hold of the mattress and pulled it to the door, then tossed it over the side of the steps to the ground. “We’ll punch it around, chase out the rats,” he told her. “Then we’ll slit it open, sew together some clean blankets, and stuff them with the feathers from this. That way you’ll have a clean mattress.”
For a fleeting moment he thought about lying on that mattress with her, but matters at hand helped alleviate his hunger for her. Their first few days would have to be spent getting the cabin into shape, and in teaching her to shoot. Then he must teach her to pan for gold, build a sluice, give her survival pointers. He followed her back inside, and she immediately began to put the stovepipe back together. Yes. Harmony Jones had spunk and determination. Maybe she could make this work at that.
For an hour or better, Buck did nothing but sit and wait for an unwanted guest to make an appearance. When it did, he shot it instantly. Harmony retrieved a broom and dustpan from one of the mules, swept up the worst of the soot, and then squished the broom into the sand outside to get the soot off it so she could use it to sweep the rest of the floor. Every time Buck fired a shot, she jumped, for she could not watch him all the time and she never knew when he might fire again. She went to the stream and wet a rag, and going inside, she washed the sooty spot behind the stove. Finally she rubbed it with a dry rag until most of the black soot was gone.
They both stacked the pieces of broken furniture in a corner, to be used as kindling, and then Harmony swept the room.
“This place might be quite cozy at that,” she commented. “I brought material along. If I get bored, I’ll make curtains for the window.” She glanced at the one and only window of the shack. “I brought two braided rugs. We’ll make a new mattress, and I have quilts. I’ll make a real home here, and it will be all mine. It’s so small, it won’t take much wood to heat it.”
“Well luckily there’s some left outside, but I’ll chop more for you. I’ll be back and forth till the snow sets in, and each time I come I’ll stack up more wood. You’ll need it this winter. You’ll use some at night even now. Just be careful how you use it. You don’t want to run out of wood in the middle of winter around here. The snow gets too deep to go find more, and there’s no way you’d be able to chop down a tree all by yourself. Besides, green wood doesn’t burn worth a damn. You want the good dry stuff. I’ll start picking up stray branches and cutting up fallen trees tomorrow. And you have to learn to shoot that rifle. Then we must get a sluice built, and I’ll show you how to pan for gold—”
“Oh, Buck, I’ll never learn it all!” she lamented.
He winked at her. “Sure you will. Let’s unpack the gear. I brought along some rat traps. We’ll set them around outside the shack and hopefully keep most of them from ever coming in.”
“I hope you’re right. I’d hate to wake up to find one crawling over my legs. I think I’d faint.”
He laughed lightly. “Not Harmony Jones. She doesn’t faint over anything.”
“How many did you kill?”
“Hard to say. Thirteen, I think.”
She curled her nose. “Oh, Buck, will they go away now?”
“Now that human life is around, they will for the most part. If we set those traps right, you’ll be rid of all of them eventually. The newcomers will smell the dead ones and take off. I’ll check around the outside for holes and places where they’ve come in.”
They went out together, and as they began unloading the mules, she kept glancing at him, grateful for his presence and know-how. How would she have done this without Buck Hanner? So far she had only succeeded in getting here. Staying was another matter.
Bringing in the food and gear took over two hours. All mining equipment was left outside. Personal belongings, utensils, food, and blankets were brought inside. The mules jumped around and bucked, obviously happy to be free of their load, and Harmony laughed at their antics. Again Buck was struck by the nice sound of her laughter. It triggered in him the awful ache he felt because he had to leave her here alone.
By nightfall cans of food lined the shelves on the wall, and they had set up a crude table made from split logs laid across flour and sugar barrels. Two thick round logs, cut slightly shorter than the height of the barrels and set on end, served as chairs. Harmony’s bedroll was laid out over the woven rawhide support of the bed, which served as springs. Buck would sleep on the floor near the stove. She didn’t have the heart to make him sleep outside, not after all he had done for her. Yet she felt odd sleeping in the same room with him. It seemed different from sleeping out under the stars. She wondered what people would think if they knew they had both slept inside. Yet who would know, and what difference did it make? If Buck Hanner meant her harm, it wouldn’t matter who slept where; he certainly would have done something about it by now.
She built a fire in the stove, while Buck curried down the horses and secured them for the night. Already he had managed to pile some wood outside, and had brought some inside for her. She began to hum. She was home! Home! This was her little house, crude as it was, rats and all. Perhaps she would whitewash it sometime, and she would certainly make curtains. She looked again at the braided rugs on the floor. Already the little shack looked cozy, like a place for humans, not rats. But what a far cry it was from the fancy house Brian had left in St. Louis. How odd that a man would leave such things behind and live this way, just for a dream. If she’d been sure everything back in St. Louis would be hers, she probably wouldn’t have left. Her reason for being here was different. It was difficult to understand why men like Brian left homes and families and businesses to come out here to search for gold. Yet she was glad that Brian O’Toole had left her something all her own.
Buck came inside then, taking off his hat and hanging it on a hook on the wall.
“Tomorrow I want to figure out what part of this place is really mine,” she told him. “Maybe after a while I can dig deeper, or into the side somehow, and find a whole vein of gold.”
“Now you sound like all those other dreamers who come out here.”
“Well, you never know.” She set a pan on the stove and put some grease in it, watching it melt. “I’ll cook that squirrel you shot,” she told him.
“Sounds good.” He stretched. It had been a very long, tiring day. He walked over and sat down on the bed, bracing his back against the wall. He watched her, envisioning what a fine wife she would make. She was strong and sturdy, yet beautiful. She was willing to learn, unafraid. She could cook. She was smart. The only thing she lacked was an understanding of men and a womanly attitude toward them.
“You ever cook squirrel before?” he asked.
“No. But it can’t be much different from chicken or anything else. I’ll roll it in a little flour first.”
The room was quiet for a few minutes; then it was filled with the crackle of frying meat as she laid the pieces of squirrel in the hot grease. It was a big squirrel, filling most of the pan, plenty for two people. When she wiped her hands and turned around, she caught his blue eyes watching her. She reddened slightly and tore her eyes from his, looking around the cabin.
“I think I’m going to like it here, Buck,” she told him. “It’s beautiful…peaceful. I have a lot of things to think about. It will be nice being all alone, without worrying about a supply store, or poor Becky, or men like Wade Tillis”—she turned back to the pan—“or Jimmie,” she finished.
He watched her turn the meat. “What happened with Jimmie?” he asked again carefully.
She did not reply right away. She poked at the meat, then took a deep breath and shrugged. “He attacked me one night, while I was sleeping,” she told him. “He tried to…do things. And he told me…about men and all…said he wanted to marry me. But the way he told me…the horrible way he touched me.” She shuddered. “It was ugly. I got away from him and got hold of a poker stick.”
She turne
d, her eyes afire with anger and humiliation. “I’d have killed him with it if he’d tried to touch me again! He knew it! He backed off, and he never bothered me again!”
His eyes were full of sympathy. She had half expected him to laugh, but he only frowned. “I’m sorry you had to be told such things that way. Don’t get mad, Harmony, at what I’m about to say. I only have your interest in mind, because I care about you. I’m not after anything. I just want you to know it’s true what I said—that it isn’t that way. Jimmie gave it to you all wrong.”
Her cheeks colored and she turned back around. “It doesn’t matter. It isn’t anything I care to find out about either way. Do you like salt?”
“What?”
“Salt—on your meat.”
He sighed. “A little.” He sat up straighter and rolled a cigarette. “Is that when he told you to give him what he wanted or get out?”
“Not exactly. Becky was still alive—and Brian. I told him I’d tell Brian and he’d come home. Then Becky died, and Brian died. That was when he knew he had a hold on me, because everything was his and I had nothing and no one.” She set down the fork and turned to face him. “You aren’t being fair, Buck. I’ve talked too much. I didn’t want to tell you that. So now it’s your turn. What is between you and Wade Tillis? And who was Mary Beth?”
His blue eyes looked up at her as he finished lighting his cigarette. They were cold again. “Not tonight, Shortcake. I said I’d pick the time.” He got up from the bed. “I’m going out to check on the horses.”
She scowled, putting her hands on her hips. “Do you always run away from your feelings, Buck Hanner, and from your past?”
His eyes ran over her tempting form. “No more than you do,” he answered. He turned and left, and she watched him go. She wished she could tell him more—about how afraid she really was sometimes inside, how mixed up her feelings for him were, how lonely she was. But to do that would be to admit she needed him, maybe even cared about him. Lately it seemed she kept straying from her vow. She chided herself, recalling her purpose and reminding herself that it was dangerous to trust anyone too much.
She turned the squirrel meat again, while outside Buck Hanner chopped wood with only the moonlight to guide him. He needed to do it, needed to vent his anger and frustration. He pretended the wood was Jimmie, although sometimes it was Wade Tillis. He could smell the squirrel cooking, and he repeated his vow that someday Harmony Jones would belong to him.
Chapter Nine
“Put on those boys’ pants you bought,” Buck ordered, rising from his log chair. “We’re going to do a little panning this morning, Shortcake.”
Her eyes widened, and she gulped down a swallow of coffee. “Now?”
“Why not? That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? Might as well get started learning.”
She set down the tin cup. “Yes, but—Well, I thought you were going to teach me how to shoot my rifle.”
“We’ll get around to that.” He frowned. “I thought you’d be excited.”
She stood up. “Oh, I am! I’m just kind of nervous.” She smiled, rubbing her hands together. “I’m really going to pan for gold?”
He chuckled and shook his head. “You really are. Now get into those pants. I’ll be outside.” He turned to leave.
“Buck?”
He glanced back at her anxious face. “What?”
“Do I have to put on the pants?”
He sighed. “We’ve been through this once, Harmony. Now put them on. I’ll get things ready outside. This afternoon you can practice shooting your rifle while I build a sluice. Tillis’ men destroyed the one Brian built. Now quit wasting time. I have to get back to Cripple Creek before winter sets in!”
“But it’s only the first of July!”
He put his hat on. “Well then maybe you get my meaning.”
He walked out and she stared after him a moment before hurriedly removing her riding skirt. She picked up the pants, heavy, dark cotton ones, making a face at the sight of them. Deliberately she pulled them on, buttoning them and realizing she’d better get out a belt, for they were too big in the waist. There wasn’t one part of them that fit her right. They were baggy, and too long. She tightened the belt, then rolled up the legs and pulled on her boots.
She took a deep breath then. If he was going to see her in pants, it must simply be done. She marched to the door, feeling awkward and ridiculous. She felt her cheeks go crimson when she opened the door and stepped onto the wooden steps. Buck looked up from the edge of the creek where he stood, able to tell more now about the shape of her hips and legs even though the pants were too big. He suddenly ached to run his hands over the gentle curve of those hips, to touch places made more inviting by the pants. But he covered his desires with a smile, then a chuckle.
“You look absolutely ridiculous,” he told her. “Believe me, Shortcake, if you think wearing those baggy things is being too forward, think twice. You’d be more inviting in a gunny sack. Come on. Let’s get started.”
She slowly approached, her lips in a pout. “I look that terrible?”
He wanted to tell her she was beautiful. But he didn’t dare. “That terrible,” he answered. “But practical. You’ll see soon enough why you need those pants.” He looked closer into her green eyes. “Don’t tell me you care how you look to me,” he teased. “It’s not supposed to matter, remember?”
She reddened even more, and the now-familiar anger began to rise in her green eyes. “Buck Hanner, you know I don’t care how you think I look—not the way you mean!” She stuck up her chin. “I just like to wear nice clothes and look like a lady, that’s all. No lady dresses like this.”
He grinned. “That could be answered in a lot of ways. I think I’ll leave it alone. Just remember there’s not anyone here to see you except me, and I don’t care. Nor do the horses or the mules. Now get over here and sit down on this board. Put your feet up on the rocks.”
He led her to a place where he had laid a flat board over the stream. In order to sit down on the board one had to straddle the stream. She placed her feet on the rocks as he directed, and the pose was almost more than he could ignore. Never had he seen a prettier, more innocent, more tempting girl in such an inviting position, made more so by the pants rather than a skirt. He cleared his throat, averting his eyes as he took a gold pan and dug deep into the loose sand and gravel of the creek bed, scooping up a panful of dirt.
“Believe it or not, there is probably gold right here in this dirt,” he told her. He began swirling it, tipping the pan and spilling out a great deal of water, mud and small rocks.
“What are you doing?” she asked. “If there’s gold in there, you’re losing it.”
He shook his head. “Gold is very heavy, Shortcake. It settles to the bottom. All you do is keep swirling, gently spilling out all the dirt and rocks that come to the top. You keep doing that until you get down to what is called drag. Some men call it dregs. Whichever, it’s a heavy, black-looking sand, and if you look real hard, you’ll see some very obvious gold specks, and if you’re real lucky, some tiny nuggets. You’ll see a few red stones, also. Those are garnets. They’re worth keeping, although they’ll not bring you anything near what the gold will bring you.”
He kept swirling, spilling out, gently dipping the pan just enough to get a little more water into it, then swirling what was left, spilling out, and dipping for more water. For almost ten minutes he continued the procedure, until a small amount of black residue was left.
“There, see?” he told her, holding it up close to her. She looked hard, her face very close to his own, and he allowed himself the pleasure of looking more closely at her soft, peachlike cheek. He could smell her, a clean, soapy smell. He wanted to nuzzle her hair, kiss her soft cheek. She was so lost in looking at the drag that she didn’t even realize he was looking at her.
“I see some!” she said excitedly.
He tore his eyes from her face to look at the pan. “Yup. Touch the specks with
your finger, Shortcake. Just let one stick to your finger, then touch it to the water in the jars beside you there. It’s heavy. It will float right to the bottom of the jar. That’s how you capture it.”
Her face was bright with delight and excitement. She touched a flake, then put it in the jar of water, watching it float to the bottom. “It really does go down!” she exclaimed.
He washed the drag a little more, and she picked out more flecks of gold, and a few garnets.
“There’s even a little silver there,” he told her. “Pick that out, too. See it?” He pointed some out, putting it on the end of his own finger. She didn’t notice the strong hands, the powerful forearms that worked the pan, the handsome face that was watching her. She saw only the pan—the gold.
“Let me try it!” she said excitedly.
He grinned and handed her the pan. She dipped it, scooping soil from the bottom of the stream, and she began to swirl it, letting just a little run off before refilling the pan with water.
“You can get rid of more than that first round,” he told her. “And don’t put too much water back in. You need just enough to work it, make it swirl lightly. Dump out more dirt next time.”
“I feel like I’m throwing away gold when I do that.”
“You won’t be. Remember, it goes to the bottom. You won’t lose any.”
She smiled. “This is fun!” She swirled more, dumped, dipped, swirled. She did it clumsily, but he let that go. He’d learned to be diplomatic with Harmony Jones. He liked being on speaking terms. He’d let her find her own way a little, then gently point out what she was still doing wrong.
Rapture's Gold Page 15