The sheets were rough against her skin, and the blanket smelled faintly of mildew. The mattress was hard and lumpy compared to her Posture-Pedic. She shifted restlessly, trying to get comfortable. Her body ached from all the unaccustomed riding and she was very tired, but her mind kept racing. She didn't see how she was going to be able to sleep…
She woke to bright sunlight streaming through the window. For a long moment she was totally confused, wondering where she was, and then it all came rushing back. She sat up so quickly her head spun. It wasn’t a dream. She was in the past. In Canyon Creek. She wondered what time it was. It felt late.
The door connecting her room to Trey’s was open.
She padded barefoot to the door.
He was asleep in the next room, fully clothed, on top of the covers. At least he'd removed his gunbelt and boots. His room reeked of tobacco and stale beer—evidence of where he had spent much of the night. She wrinkled her nose, wondering if all the strong odors of this time period would eventually fade into the background.
He was sleeping peacefully, his strong features completely relaxed. She forgot the odors, thinking again how handsome he was, how dark his face and hands looked against his clothing and the dun-colored blankets.
Going back into her room, she closed the door. Undressing, she put on her underwear, dressed again, and then put on her socks and shoes. Looking in the cracked mirror, she grimaced at her reflection as she ran her fingers through her hair. She needed a lipstick, a comb, a brush. Toothpaste. She glanced at the chamber pot under the bed. Toilet paper.
A short time later, more appreciative than ever of flush toilets, she tiptoed into Trey’s room. His boots stood in front of the dresser in his room; his gunbelt was coiled on top, the holster empty. Knowing him as she was beginning to, she realized the revolver was probably under his pillow. There was a pile of crumpled greenbacks beside the gunbelt. He must have had a run of good luck, she thought. Moving on tiptoe, she approached the dresser and selected a twenty and a ten, and shoved them in the pocket of her jeans with the money he’d given her the night before. He didn't stir as she left the room, quietly closing the door behind her.
She was aware of the clerk staring at her as she walked across the hotel lobby to the front door. She definitely needed a change of clothes!
Outside, she glanced up and down the boardwalk, then turned left because it put the sun at her back.
Sounds and images imprinted themselves on her mind. The ringing of a blacksmith’s hammer, the dust-muffled clop of hooves, the rattle of horse harness and the creak of wagon wheels as a stage rumbled through town, the chiming of a distant clock.
The Old West. It was certainly different from what she had imagined. Noisier. Dustier. And it reeked to high heaven. Steam rose from fresh mounds of horse manure; the people on the boardwalks smelled as if a bath every Saturday was not something they truly believed in.
She paused when she came to Weston’s Dry Goods. Taking a deep breath, she pushed open the door and stepped inside. A bell tinkled to announce her arrival.
She nodded at the man behind the counter, hardly noticing his inquisitive stare. She walked up and down the aisles. There were shelves filled with bolts of cloth: muslin and linen, cotton and corduroy, gingham and serge. The odors of new cloth were a welcome contrast to the stench of the street. Even the clerk’s cigar smelled clean in comparison. Moving on, she saw spools of thread and packages of needles, buttons, yarn and knitting needles, tape measures and patterns. She saw a pile of blankets on a table in one corner. And in the back of the store, several racks of ready made dresses, petticoats, pantalets, and long cotton stockings.
She went through the dresses one by one. Most were plain cotton, with high necks and long sleeves. She paused when she came to a pretty blue gingham with a square neck and short puffy sleeves edged with lace. She picked out a petticoat from a pile on a shelf and carried the dress and petticoat to the front counter.
“Afternoon, Miss,” the clerk said, his gaze darting over her attire. “Will that be all?”
“Is there a place where I can try this on?”
“Try it on?” He gulped and looked around. “Ah, back there.” He waved to a doorway behind the counter.
“Thanks.” It wasn’t a dressing room, but a storage room. Closing the door, she slipped off her shirt, took off her shoes and jeans, and stepped into the dress. There was no mirror, but the dress seemed to fit well enough. Lifting the skirt, she pulled on the petticoat, then put her shoes on and laced them up.
After running a hand through her hair, she rolled her old clothes into a ball, tucked them under her arm, and left the storage room.
“I’ll take it,” she said.
“You want to wear the dress and the, uh…” He cleared his throat and blushed. “The petticoat?”
“Yes, thank you. How much do I owe you?”
“Three dollars for the dress,” he said, “and one dollar for the petticoat.”
“Four dollars!”
“I’m sorry,” he said quickly. “Prices have gone up a little.”
Amanda stifled the urge to laugh as she dug four dollars out of her balled-up jeans. The last dress she had bought cost a heck of a lot more than three dollars.
The man wrapped her old clothes in brown paper and tied it with string. “Thank you, Miss. Come again. Uh, say…” He paused, his color still high.
“Yes?”
“Are you the new one down at the Four Deuces?”
“The new one?” she asked. “The new what?”
His faced reddened even more. “Folks talk,” he said. “I hear tell you made quite an entrance down there last night. It’s all over town.”
“I see,” she said, her voice suddenly cool. “Well, ‘folks’ should mind their own business, shouldn’t they?”
“Yes ma’am,” he said, chastened. “Hope you like the dress.”
“Thank you,” she said, and taking the parcel, she swept out of the store.
She strolled down the boardwalk and then crossed the street. The dress swished around her ankles when she walked. Right away, she noticed that she was not drawing the same kind of critical attention she had earlier. Men passing by tipped their hats at her; the women smiled.
It was after noon when she returned to the hotel. Trey was awake, but still in bed. He lifted one brow when he saw her. “Nice dress.”
“Glad you like it, since you paid for it.” She frowned at him. “Are you okay?”
He grunted. “I think I’ve got a bit of a hangover.”
“Really? What time did you get in last night?”
“You mean this morning?” He sat up, groaning softly. “But it’s not so bad I can't appreciate a pretty new dress like that one. You look right nice.”
She smiled. “Like a proper lady now?”
His answering smile was pained. “‘Cept for them shoes.” He held his head in his hands. “I need some coffee. Maybe about a gallon of it. Let’s go get something to eat. Want to hand me my boots?”
“Anything for the lord and master.” She effected a small curtsey.
He muttered something under his breath as she handed him his boots.
“I think the dress is long enough to hide my shoes most of the time,” she remarked. “Don’t you?”
“I reckon. No point in causing unwanted attention.” He stamped his feet into his boots, stood and buckled on his gunbelt. And then he reached under his pillow and produced his Colt, checking that it was still loaded out of what she was sure was long-ingrained habit. She thought about teasing him about who would sneak in and unload it and put it back under his pillow, but decided he was in no mood for jokes.
“How’s your hand?” he asked.
She shrugged. “All right, I guess.”
“Let me have a look.”
Her heart skipped a beat as he took her hand in his and carefully lifted the large square Band-Aid that covered the cut. “It’s healing just fine,” he said, and dropped a kiss on her pa
lm. A kiss she felt clear down to her toes.
She jerked her hand away, flushed at his knowing grin. Darn him. He knew exactly what effect he had on her.
“You ready to go?” He shoved the wad of greenbacks in his jeans.
With a nod, she smoothed the Band-Aid back over the cut.
They went to the same restaurant they had eaten in the night before. Trey asked for a cup of coffee as soon as they were seated. Amanda ordered bacon and eggs. Trey decided all he wanted was coffee.
“I thought you were hungry?”
“I thought so, too.”
Amanda shook her head. “You must have had some night.”
“Yeah. Profitable, though.” He nodded his thanks as the waitress brought their coffee, sipped his gratefully. “I won about three hundred bucks, I think.” His gaze moved over her. “Did I tell you that you look right pretty in that dress?”
“Yes, thank you.”
The waitress brought Amanda’s breakfast a short time later, then refilled both their coffee cups. “Are you sure I can’t get you something to eat, sir?” she asked.
He started to shake his head, and thought better of it. “No. Thanks. Just keep the coffee coming.”
The waitress smiled sympathetically. “Yes, sir.”
He had finished five cups of coffee and was feeling a lot better by the time she finished breakfast. He had one last cup and then they left the restaurant.
Trey paused outside. “I need to go check on ‘Pago.” He dragged a hand over his jaw. “I think I’ll go get a shave, too. Why don’t you go have a look around, and I’ll meet you back at the hotel at say, six o’clock?”
“Six! How long does it take to get a shave?”
“I thought I’d add a few more dollars to our stake, as long as the cards are falling my way.”
“Oh.”
“Here.” He handed her two tens and a twenty. “We need some supplies for the trail.”
“Where are we going?”
“I’ve got some business to take care of.”
She waited for him to explain. Instead, he said, “We’ll need matches, some jerky, couple cans of beans, coffee and a coffee pot , a couple of canteens. Oh, and a couple boxes of .45 cartridges, and anything else you think you might need. Can you remember all that?”
“Not to worry,” she said with a smile. “Shopping is what I do best.”
She watched him walk down the street toward the livery, wondering what kind of business he mean. She supposed he’d tell her when he was ready. Turning, she strolled down the boardwalk. She crossed the street at the corner, drawn by a sign that read, “Green’s General Store.”
A small bell tinkled above the door when she opened it. A heady blend of coffee and fresh tobacco and kerosene and foodstuffs engulfed her. The stock seemed to be organized in sections. With lots of time to kill, she wandered through the store, looking at everything.
The left side of the building held grocery items and kegs and barrels filled with sugar and flour and coffee, beans and salt, pickles and sauerkraut. There were fifty-gallon barrels of vinegar and coal oil. There was a set of balance scales on the counter, and she watched as the clerk weighed two pounds of sugar and poured it into a brown paper bag, and then tied it with string.
Another clerk pulled a box of cigars from under the counter and opened it for a portly man in a battered straw hat who picked out several cigars. The clerk snipped the ends of one of them for him, and lit it with a large wooden kitchen match, scratched to light on a rough support beam. Amanda thought she remembered from somewhere that such matches were called Lucifers in frontier days.
Pots and pans, straw hats, whole hams wrapped in muslin, bridles and bits for horses, hung from the rafters. The hams smelled wonderful, and so did the oiled leather of the tack.
She took a deep breath, her nostrils filling with the scent of and tobacco and leather and fresh ground coffee.
A huge cracker barrel stood near a cold pot-bellied stove. Two men stood there, helping themselves to the crackers.
She saw a handful of women sitting on benches near the door, talking and laughing. Others were bent over a mail order catalog.
Near the back of the store was the hardware department. She saw zinc tubs in three sizes, stacked one inside the other. Nearby she saw chamber pots and coffee pots, dish pans and coffee grinders, milk pails and flour sifters, dust pans and bread pans, wash boards and tea kettles.
There was a case filled with knives of all sizes. A rack of rifles and shotguns behind the counter, and a glass display case full of gleaming revolvers. Boxes of cartridges on a shelf. Remembering Rob’s comment about the modern value of Trey’s six-shooter, she realized she was looking at a fortune’s worth of firearms by twenty-first century values. For that matter, everything in the store would have commanded exorbitant prices as treasured antiques. She couldn't help smiling to herself. If Relámpago could just be hitched to a wagon full of this stuff… She shook off the thought as silly. If the big white horse could get her home again, that was all she cared about.
A large black and white cat slept on a pile of bedding.
She had spent a good hour wandering through the store when she went back to the front and approached the counter. A portly, balding clerk moved toward her. He had green garters on his shirt sleeves and wore a black vest whose buttons were threatened by his paunch. His smile was friendly. “Afternoon, ma’am. How can I help you?”
A half hour later, the counter was piled high with her purchases: a blue-speckled enamel coffee pot like the one she had seen in Trey’s saddlebags at her house, a pair of matching plates, knives and forks; a can opener, several boxes of what she would have called kitchen matches, the ammunition, canned beans, two canteens, and a package of jerky the clerk had sliced from a hanging slab with a sharp butcher knife. In addition to the items Trey had asked for, she’d added a hairbrush, a package of hairpins, and a bar of lavender-scented soap.
With the clerk’s help, she loaded everything into the new saddlebags she had purchased. She draped the two blanket wrapped canteens over her shoulder, and pocketed her change, amazed that there was still quite a bit of her forty dollars left.
Leaving the general store, she crossed the street gingerly, holding up the hem of her skirt out of the thick dust, and stepping carefully as she glanced up and down the street, wondering if Trey’s luck was holding. The chiming of a distant clock told her it was four. She still had two hours before she was supposed to meet him.
She was on her way back to the hotel to drop off their supplies when she saw the wanted poster nailed to a post supporting the boardwalk overhang. Printed on thick stock, it wasn’t very big, about the size of a sheet of stationery. She read it once, then read it again.
Wanted for Bank Robbery and Murder
Trey Long Walker
Hair: Black
Eyes: Brown
Reward $1,000
Anyone having information
Contact J. S. Hollinger
First National Bank
Wickenburg, Arizona
There was a crude sketch, which didn’t do Trey justice. She wondered how many other posters were plastered around town. No doubt bounty hunters were scouring the west for him, and who knew how many armed men with a need for ready cash had read this poster or one like it, and yet he was sitting in a saloon somewhere on this street, playing cards as if he didn’t have a care in the world.
* * * * *
Trey leaned back in his chair and regarded his cards. A pair of aces and three sixes. Face impassive, he laid his cards face down on the table and tossed five dollars into the pot. The other three men at the table met his raise. Two of the men were shrewd poker players, showing little emotion whether they won or lost. The third man, sitting to Trey’s left, managed to keep his face blank during the play, but wasn’t shy about letting his feelings show when a hand was over.
When the pot was right, Trey turned his cards over one by one.
“Full house,” excla
imed the man on his left. “Damn!”
With a shrug, Trey raked in the pot. He glanced out the window while the man to his right shuffled the cards. It was almost time to meet Amanda. He wondered how she had spent the day. Why the hell was he sitting here, when he could be with her? Overcome by a sudden urge to see her, he drained the one beer he had permitted himself. Damn it tasted good.
Gathering his winnings, he stood up. “Thanks, gents, but I think I’m gonna call it a day.”
“Good,” muttered the man on his left. “Maybe I’ll have a chance to win a hand for a change.”
Trey tossed a five-dollar gold piece back onto the table. “Drinks and dinner on me, boys. Thanks for the game.”
Outside, he took a deep breath. There was the smell of rain in the air. Settling his hat on his head, he struck out for the hotel. He shouldn’t have left her alone so long, not that there was anything to worry about. Canyon Creek was a law-abiding town. Still, she was a stranger here and had some outlandish notions about a woman’s place. It could have caused some difficulty.
He was approaching an alley when that sixth sense that had served him so well in the past caused the short hairs to prickle on the back of his neck.
He dropped his hand casually to the butt of his gun and paused, his gaze searching the long shadows on both sides of the street. The sun was well down, and the shadows between the buildings were deep and dark. He saw no movement, heard nothing, but the feeling of danger persisted. He backed up a few steps slowly, and turned into the last saloon he had passed. He walked straight to the bar.
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