***
“Sonofabitch.” Zac Goodman squinted his eyes against the swirling dust whipped up by a gusty wind. He pulled his hat further down over his face. Dang, it was cold. Black clouds hovering in the sky were full of menace. By tonight it would be snowing on the higher peaks. Only another couple of miles and he would be home.
He hunched deeper into his fur lined coat. He hated going into town, hated having to meet people. Everyone thought him an oddity, but he didn’t care. Nothing some of them would have liked more, than for him to be still rotting in jail. Damn them to hell.
His four or five visits a year were too many. He would never set foot in their rotten town if he had any choice about it. He wasn’t a greedy man, what he made from his cattle and as a gun for hire, when he needed extra cash, was enough.
He squinted when something in the distance caught his attention. Was that a wagon? What was it doing hanging over a cliff? Some stupid green-horn in trouble no doubt. Well, he wasn’t about to stop and help. Why should he? No-one had ever done anything for him except for Rafe and Flo.
As he drove up closer, he realized the wagon was deserted. He glanced to one side, and halfway down the slope, impaled on a shattered tree, was the body of a man. The wagon hung precariously. If the wind picked up it would topple off. He glanced around for the horses. He had no fondness for humans but he did like horses, and couldn’t bear to think of them being injured.
Pulling up his wagon, he climbed down. Striding to the edge of the slope, he peered down, and saw the dead horses, still harnessed together. Like the man, they were beyond earthly help.
Maybe there was something salvageable from the wagon. A shame to leave it to rot out here. This area was well off the road into town. No-one lived out here except him and the coyotes. Very few people even passed this way, it was just too rough and isolated.
The canvas was ripped in places, flapping like a demented bird in the wind. What was that? He stopped and listened. A groan came from the back of the wagon. His hand went to his gun. He was lightning fast on the draw. Years of practice had seen to that. His speed had saved his life on numerous occasions. He had lost count of the number of men he had killed over the years. Didn’t think about the hotheaded young cowboys who wanted to outdraw Zac Goodman, but he had never shot an unarmed man.
The sobbing moan came again. The hair stood up on the back of his neck. Cautiously he poked his head through the back flap. He let out a hissing breath as a pair of pain-racked blue eyes stared up at him.
It was a young woman. Her blonde curly hair was scattered about her shoulders. Fear etched the delicate contours of her face.
“I’m not going to hurt you.”
Her lips quivered, tears flowed down her cheeks.
“Are you hurt?”
“No,” she whispered in a voice husky with fatigue, and what he presumed was fear.
“The wagon is going topple down the slope at any minute. You need to get out.”
What was wrong with this foolish city woman? Didn’t she realize what danger she was in?
There was a loud crack, the wagon shuddered, but didn’t fall.
“Get out. Now.”
She didn’t move. He was glad he had sworn off women, except for the soiled doves at the saloons he visited when his need became too great to ignore.
“I…I can’t.”
“You said you weren’t hurt.” He spoke with grave deliberation. The dark stubble on his chin rasped as he rubbed irritably at it with one hand.
With much grunting and groaning, she dragged herself to her knees. Shock punched the air from his lungs. She was heavily pregnant, ready to drop her baby at any moment.
He cursed under his breath. “Here, I’ll help you. Get as near to the tail board as you can, then swing your legs over and I’ll lift you down. What in the name of hell was he going to do with her once he got her out of the wagon? He had no idea, but wasn’t so devoid of humanity that he would leave her out here to die. Rafe had saved him from dying in the wilderness on his own. He could do no less for this woman.
Instead of inching forward, she started going backward. “You’re going the wrong way,” he growled, wondering how she could be so unaware of the impending danger.
“I need to get my trunk.”
“Trunk!” He spat the word out. “You’d risk your life for a wretched trunk?”
“Yes, it has all the baby things in it.”
“All right, once you’re out, I’ll see if I can retrieve it.”
“Thank you.”
Tears sprang to her eyes and pooled there, before trickling down her cheeks. His gut clenched. He didn’t know why. Women’s tears normally didn’t affect him, he knew females used them as a way to get a man to do what they wanted. Well, it hadn’t worked with him for years. There was something different about this woman though.
As she maneuvered herself to the edge of the wagon he scrutinized her. She was a dainty little thing. He put his hands under her arms and lifted her down. She was a light weight even in her advanced state of pregnancy. He lowered her to the ground and her legs collapsed. She would have fallen had he not been holding her. Her swollen belly pressed into him.
“I’m sorry.” She grasped his shoulders for support.
“Stand still for a moment, you’ve been lying down for too long. What’s your name?”
“Holly…Holly O’Leary.”
Zac suppressed a grin. Dang, a day before Christmas and he rescues a woman called Holly.
“What’s your name?” she whispered.
“Zac Goodman. There was not a flicker of awareness in her haunted blue eyes, so she had obviously not heard of him or his dastardly deeds. Her gaze did go to his gun belt and the twin colts worn low on his hips.
“I’m all right now, thank you. Could you reach into the wagon and get my trunk. There are two I would like, but the brown one is the most important.”
He led her over to his wagon, hoisted her into the back and unslung his water bottle and gave it to her. “Your husband?” He stared down the hill.
“Yes, he, he was thrown from the wagon.” She stared straight ahead.
“He would have died instantly,” Zac said. “The horses, too.”
“I know.”
“I can’t risk trying to bring him up on my own, and there’s no-one out here who can help me.”
“I understand. I wouldn’t expect you to risk your life.” Her tone was unemotional. Gasping, she clutched her stomach.
He recoiled in shock. “You aren’t ready to give birth are you?”
“No, it’s so heavy, I’m trying to support it. The weight is such a strain on my back.”
***
Zac Goodman’s brilliant blue eyes were slightly narrowed, his lips thinned. He swung around and strode off with a loose-limbed grace, she would have admired at any other time.
He was tall, six feet in height at least, slimly built, but strong. She had felt the muscles rippling in his upper arms. His jaw and chin were covered in dark stubble. His hair, what she could see of it, was black. Deep lines gouged either side of his mouth. Wrinkles fanning out from the sides of his eyes, and his tanned skin bore testament to him spending a lot of time out in the sun. Was this cowboy a gunslinger as well? What was he doing driving a supply wagon out here in the wilderness?
He must have thought her a callous type of woman, but it would have been sheer hypocrisy to shed tears over Denis after what he had done. She had never wished death on him, but now he was dead, she wasn’t going to shed fake tears for him. She needed to save all her energy and strength so she and her baby would survive the dire situation they were in.
Don’t worry my darling, I’ll make sure you don’t suffer, no matter what I have to do. She patted her swollen stomach.
Zac didn’t climb into the wagon, instead he used his height to reach inside and drag first the black trunk, then the brown one out, and deposited them on the ground. He cut the canvas with a lethal looking knife and unloaded blank
ets, pillows, tools, and a bag of cooking utensils.
Craaaack!…., the sound echoed loudly in the stillness. He jumped back as the tree gave way, and the wagon plummeted over the edge.
Holly closed her eyes, clamping a hand over her mouth to suppress a scream. If not for Zac, she could have been inside that wagon.
Zac hoisted the brown trunk on to one shoulder before striding toward her. He dumped it in the back of the wagon. It took him three trips to retrieve her possessions. She didn’t have much to show for twenty one years on this earth.
“Thank you. How long will it takes us to get to town?”
“We aren’t going into town.” He scowled. “There’s a storm brewing, we’ll have to go to my place.”
“Your place?”
“Yes. I’ve got a ranch about an hour away from here. It would take us over three hours to get into town with the wagon.
“Your, your wife might not be too happy if you bring a strange woman home.”
“I don’t have a wife, and believe me, I’m not happy having you at my place, but there’s no choice.”
“I can pay you.”
A spasm of irritation crossed his face. “I don’t want your money.”
Chapter Two
“Giddup.” Zac slapped the horses’ backsides with the reins.
He didn’t speak again so she leaned up against one of her trunks and closed her eyes. The dull ache in her back had now become a stabbing pain every time they passed over a bump. She shoved a fist into her mouth to stop the moans and groans escaping.
Zac sat tall and straight in the seat, his rigid back emphasizing his annoyance. No. It was simmering anger. He had rescued her under sufferance that was patently obvious. He was a strong man, handsome in a rugged kind of way. A groan escaped her.
“You all right?” he asked gruffly.
“Yes.” Only she wasn’t, the pains were getting worse, now spreading from her back to her stomach. She concentrated on her surroundings, trying to take her mind off her discomfort.
The further they journeyed, the rougher the terrain became. The trees had thinned out, the grass becoming sparse on the stony ground. Lonely, isolated. What if Zac was a killer? He could murder her, bury her body and no-one would ever know. There was a hardness about him, accentuated by the grim set of his lips, and the cold remoteness in his piercing blue eyes.
“You don’t talk much for a woman,” he suddenly said, turning his head slightly.
“What can I say?”
He grunted something incomprehensible and lapsed into silence. She didn’t know what to say to him, so it was better to say nothing. She had never been one for idle chit-chat. Never had the time for it, too busy trying to survive.
The wind whipped up swirls of dust from the track making her cough. She shivered. Now they were away from the heavily treed country, there was nothing much to block the gusty wind blasts. A few spots of rain soon turned into a downpour.
“Sonofabitch. I thought we’d beat the rain home. Cover yourself with one of those blankets, it’s not much further. Giddup.” He slapped the horses’ rumps several times in quick succession to get them moving.
The wagon lurched from side to side. She grabbed up a blanket and sheltered under it. As she clung to one side of the wagon, the wood bit into her hands, but she dared not let go in case she was flung out of the wagon. He probably wouldn’t bother stopping to pick her up.
Finally, when she thought she couldn’t stand it a moment longer, they rounded a bend. She spied a stone chimney poking up through a clump of trees.
Zac pulled the wagon up in front of a log cabin partially built into a hill. There was no garden, but half a dozen chickens pecked at the grass. The barn looked to be in good condition, and there were a couple of fenced paddocks, with a black horse grazing in the nearest one to the cabin. She waited for him to climb down from his seat. He frowned as he lifted her down. “You all right?”
“I think so.”
“Don’t go swooning on me.”
“I’ll try not to.”
He picked her up, and strode over to the porch before setting her down. “I’ll bring your stuff and my stores inside, then see to the horses. Can you light a fire?”
“Yes.” As the eldest daughter of a sod buster on a small farm, she had lit numerous fires in her time. Had worked in the fields planting, then picking their small corn crop. When she was about twelve years old they were driven off their farm. She snuffed out the bitter flame that had once almost consumed her. I’m an expert at lighting fires.
“Good, put the coffee pot on. I bought bread in town, we can eat that.”
He pushed the door open, let her enter, and without a word strode back outside.
Bone weary, and with every muscle in her body aching, she stared around. It wasn’t as primitive or as small as she had thought it would be. She knew all about primitive and small. She had spent the first years of her life in a shack about half the size of this place.
The floor was wooden, the walls and roof unlined. There was a large loft. The back wall was made from stone blocks, with a large fire place incorporated in it. A wooden shelf ran across the length of the fireplace. It contained several tins and a mirror. Faded, threadbare curtains hung over the two windows. A double bed was pushed up against the side wall. A small wooden table, two chairs, and an old sofa with the stuffing hanging out, was the only furniture. A steel pipe with a lever on it, poked through the wall above a chest of drawers with a bucket standing on it.
Trembling with cold and fatigue, she traipsed over to the fireplace. Fortunately, the fire was already set and she only had to light it. Even this simple task sapped her strength. A square steel plate was pushed to one side and a coffee pot stood on it. As she leaned over to pick it up she realized that the plate was movable, and could be swung over the flames. What an ingenious idea. It would easily hold a pot or a pan.
The fire crackled and the flames lit up the dreary room. She heard Zac dumping their stuff on the porch, then the wagon wheels crunching over stones.
She slumped on the sofa before her trembling legs collapsed under her. Fear washed over her. What would happen if she went into labor before she got to town?
Her dream had been to have the baby on Christmas Day, now she desperately prayed that it wouldn’t come. She had to get into town. Zac would surely know someone there who could help her. The church maybe, if all else failed?
The door banged open, followed by an icy blast, then Zac. Rain dripped off his coat and hat as he dragged her two trunks into the room. He returned to the porch and carried in a couple of bulging sacks, and dumped them on the floor. He went out twice more, obviously he didn’t go into town often.
“Coffee ready?” He shrugged out of his coat and hung it on a hook near the door. His hat he tossed on to the table. Unbuckling his gun belt, he took it off, hanging it next to his coat.
“I don’t know.”
He came over and peered into her face. “You look terrible. Don’t go getting sick on me. I can’t look after you.”
She tried to get up.
“Stay there, I’ll do it. I don’t have cream. Got sugar though.” He stepped over to the fire, immediately stretching his hands out to the warmth. “It’s pouring with rain and blowing a gale outside.”
“Did you build this place?”
“No, Rafe did.”
“Who’s Rafe?”
He hesitated, fixing her with a level stare as a spasm of irritation crossed his face. “The man who brought me up. He found me wandering around, the only survivor of a wagon train that had been attacked by Indians. I was about three or four years old he said. I knew my name was Zac, and that’s about all. He gave me his surname, Goodman. Satisfied?”
“You didn’t have to tell me that.”
“No, and I don’t know why I did. Coffee’s nearly ready.” He grabbed a large knife from the mantel. “I’ve got two mugs and three plates, that’s about it except for a few pieces of cutlery. I never hav
e visitors.”
She watched as he opened one of the sacks and produced a loaf of bread and a square of butter. The cupboard on which a bucket stood contained his eating utensils. Tin plates and mugs.
He cut the bread in thick slabs. “How many?”
“One, thank you.” If they’re that size, she almost blurted.
He hacked off three slices and spread them with butter. “Here.” He handed her the plate with one slice on it, he had already started eating his. He chewed with his mouth closed, so he wasn’t completely without manners.
The room was beginning to warm up, but Holly still felt cold. The moment he took the coffee pot off his makeshift stove, he tossed two large logs of wood on to the flames.
Her head throbbed now. The ache in her back increased until she didn’t know how much longer she would be able to bear it. She wasn’t hungry, but forced herself to eat the fresh bread. At any other time she would have enjoyed it; now she felt too weary and was in too much pain.
“I put a drop of whiskey in the coffee. Should help warm you up.”
“Thank you. I’m so cold my blood feels like it’s frozen.”
“Yeah well, like I said before, don’t get sick on me.” His gaze raked her.
They ate in silence. He sat on one of the chairs, his long legs stretched out in front of him, his booted feet resting on the hearth.
“I’ll take you into Forked Creek tomorrow.”
“Forked Creek? I thought we were near Deadwood.”
“Forked Creek is much closer.”
“B…but it’s Christmas Day.”
“Makes no difference to me. You can’t stay here.”
“Where will I go?”
“I know a woman in town who runs a boarding house, she’ll have a room for you.”
“What will I do when my money runs out? I can’t work in this condition or with a new born baby.”
He scowled. “It’s not my problem. Listen, Holly. You’re lucky I even stopped. I was nearly not going to, but I was worried about your horses being injured.”
She drained her mug and swallowed the last of the bread. “Would you mind if I lie down for a while?”
Silver Belles and Stetsons Page 71