by Jill Barnett
His hands dropped from her shoulders as if they'd been burned. "You oughta watch where you're going, Miss Pinky." Then he walked right past her and unlocked the room next to hers.
"Knee. Pink-ney." She tightened her fists. She would have flung her purse at him, except that might ruin her plan. So instead she turned and walked away. She had just reached the stairs when she heard him.
"Miss Pinky!"
She jerked to a stop.
"I'll see you in court." Then she heard the door close.
Addie stomped down the stairs and out through the back of the hotel. Custus still stood there, waiting for her.
She started to walk toward him, but heard a window open above her. She leaned back against the building and looked up. It could have been the toad's room. Turning back to Custus, Addie waved at him, while she stayed flush against the wall.
He was folding up the tarp.
"Psssst!" Good Lord, I sound like Hilary! "Mr. McGee," she whispered.
He looked up, and she gestured for him to come over. The man moved like a snail.
When he finally stood in front of her, she asked, "How much would you charge to take me to the Mitchell place?"
"Why?"
She counted to ten. "Because I own the place now." One little lie wouldn't hurt. Besides, she did have a claim to it. "Emily Mitchell was my aunt," she added, icing the fib with some truth.
He leaned against the building. "Ya don't look like 'er."
"I look like my father. Now how much?" She opened her purse.
"How much ya got?"
"Mr. McGee, here's two dollars. Will you or will you not take me there?"
He took the money and turned around. He spread one bill flat against the hotel wall and smoothed the wrinkles out of it. Then he held it up toward the west and scrutinized it.
"It's real." Addie crossed her arms.
"Sure is." He folded the bills up and put them in his shirt pocket. "Woulda done it fer one, though. Ya easterners sure throw yer money 'round." With that bit of western wisdom, he strolled back to the wagon and retied the tarp. He hopped up onto the seat and turned toward her.
Addie glanced up at the window and then made a dash for the wagon, making sure she didn't get too close to the horses. She grabbed onto the side of the wagon and tried to get her foot up to the running board. She was too short.
Looking around, she spied a crate by the hotel door. She flung her purse on the high freight wagon seat, turned and marched over to get the crate. Setting it down by the wagon, she stepped up and then pulled herself aboard. She dusted off her gloves and smiled at the old coot.
"Ya know, ya might be able ta farm that land after all." And Custus gave her a wink before he whipped the team into a full run.
Half an hour later Addie was sure she should have stayed at the hotel. Custus had yet to slow down, even on the curves and the ruts. At one point she had grabbed onto him to keep from being flung out.
He finally slowed and pointed up the road. "That's the Mitchell place."
Just as the sun was setting, Adelaide Amanda Pinkney had her first glimpse of the farm. Custus turned onto a dirt road that was scattered with gravel. As the wagon wheels crunched along, she looked at her land and smiled. It was lovely.
The fields were barren, recently plowed under, but the dirt was a rich sienna-brown. A big two-story barn stood at the end of the dirt road, and sitting back a bit was a tall white windmill. Between the barn and the house were a few empty pens and a small fenced chicken yard. A wide porch encircled the small white farmhouse, and Addie could see the remnants of a flowerbed that had once edged the porch rails. Wooden storm shutters, painted a deep green, framed the narrow windows, and a small red-brick chimney topped the shingled roof. But the best thing there was the tree. A giant, sprawling oak tree stood near the front of the house. Its wide, fingery branches clawed outward, and from the width of its leathery trunk, Addie knew it must have been there for decades. There were other trees, a grove of tall eucalyptus that sat behind the house, and a few rows of fruit trees could be seen behind the henhouse. But the massive beauty of the oak made it stand out.
She smiled, thinking of her aunt and remembering her letters about the tree. Aunt Emily had loved it, had made sure the house was built just behind it.
Custus stopped the wagon. "Well, here ya are, missy. This here's yer farm. The stock's done spread 'tween the Latimers and the Johnsons. I'm shor they'll be bringin' em back jus' a soon as they hear'd ya done moved in." He jumped down from the seat, untied the tarp and started to unload.
Addie remembered her bicycle. She lowered herself to the running board, but the ground was still a long way for a short person. She had to get down, so she grabbed onto the side of the freight wagon and swung down. Her feet still didn't touch the ground and she slammed into the side of the wagon. The horses nickered in protest, which made Addie immediately let go. The high squat heel on her button-top, Goodyear welt shoes gave way. She hit the dirt, fanny first.
As soon as her teeth ceased to ring she turned to freeze Custus with her iciest look. He completely ignored her. Her clothing trunk hit the white wooden porch with a thud, and Custus began to pry off the boards that were nailed across the front door.
She stood up, dusted herself off, and went to get her bicycle out herself. She grabbed the front wheel and pulled it down, inspecting it for damage. Amazingly, there was none. She rolled it toward the house.
Ten minutes later everything was unloaded and in the house. Addie lit the kerosene lamps and watched old Custus the coot drive off. She unpacked a few things, fetched some water from the pump, and found some clean bed linen in her aunt's cedar chest. She washed, changed, and crawled into the bed. It was a feather bed, as soft and comfy as a sweet dream. Within minutes she was sound asleep.
The sun rose early, and as it crept over the eastern foothills, its first light cracked through the east window. Addie pulled the covers tighter around her and she grinned. She was here, on her land. Sneaking out here was the best idea she'd had. Surely the judge would be hesitant to throw her off the land where she lived, even if she only lived there for a couple of days. She'd heard that possession was nine points of the law, and she had possession, not Mr. Creed.
Throwing back the covers, she got up and slipped on her dressing gown. She went to the washstand, poured some water, and scrubbed her face and teeth. A couple of stretches and she felt wonderful. She walked outside and stood on the front porch, watching the sunrise. Against the foothills the sky was brilliant pink, and it melded upward from pale purple to a rich, rich blue—the blue she'd thought she'd never see again. She felt so good, listening to the peace, the quiet wonderful peace.
Then something clicked in the silence.
Addie turned toward the giant oak.
Montana Creed leaned against the tree, with a gun pointed right at her.
Chapter 3
What the hell do you think you're doing?" Montana pushed away from the tree trunk, with gun in hand, and slowly walked toward the Pinky woman. Her dark eyes, wide open and shocked, looked like coal chips against her white face. She was scared, which was exactly what he wanted. He would scare the living hell out of her if he had to, anything to get her off his land.
He stopped, no more than three feet from her. "I said, what are you doing here?"
She took a long, deep breath. He could see it condense into a white fog in the cold dawn air. Her hands gripped her robe lapels, pulling them together, and she masked her fear by sticking that noble little nose of hers high in the air.
"I'm living on my farm."
"Like hell."
"My my, but you have such a way with four-letter words."
He holstered the gun and made for the porch steps. She ran along the porch and stood directly in front of him. His boot hit the first stair.
"Move it!" he ordered.
"No." She put her arms out to her sides to try to block him from stepping around.
He took another step and n
ow stood on the stair just below her. Even though she stood on the higher step, he was a good head above her. He glowered down. She glared up.
She was something. He put his boot on the next step, right between her bare feet, and he paused, giving her the chance to move. All the while his eyes bored into hers, challenging, daring. She didn't budge, so he stepped up. The sheer size of his tall body against hers forced her back. So he kept at it, walking right into her while she shuffled backward with her head cocked back, returning him icy glare for icy glare. He marched her right back against the front door. The wooden screen door clattered against its frame when she hit it. She straightened and took a sharp breath.
"Move," he ordered.
Her arms went out again, trying to block his entrance, or shield the farmhouse, he wasn't quite sure which. He started to move left.
She grabbed the doorframe with her right hand, still trying to block him. "I was here first."
"It's my farm," he gritted.
"No it isn't."
"I have the real deed."
"The judge will decide that."
"You can't win." He moved right.
"I can't lose." Her hands gripped both sides of the doorjamb.
"Let me by, Miss Pinky."
Her chin jutted out. "Knee… Pink-ney!"
He smiled, knowing that got her every time.
"It's my house. My aunt and uncle built it. You can't go in!"
"I can go any damn place I want." He grabbed her by the waist and picked her up. She screeched. He had caught her off guard, and satisfaction swelled through him. He plopped her down behind him, turned around and opened the screen door.
An instant later she grabbed a hold of his shirt—he could feel her little claws—and she pulled back. His shirt buttons flew through the air like buckshot, bouncing off the weathered doorjamb. Cold air hit his chest and Montana looked down; his bare chest stared back. He let go of the screen door and turned around, slowly, counting to that long, long number ten.
She dropped his shirt and panic flashed in her black eyes. Just as he reached for her, she shot under his arm and through the door, quicker than a cut cat. The screen door banged against the frame, and before he could open it, the front door slammed shut, then the lockbolt. And Montana saw red.
Addie used the wall for support while she tried to catch a full breath. Her heart pounded and the throb of it beat drumlike in her ears. Her breath slowed. She'd done it! She'd locked him out. For a few moments there she'd thought he'd had her. She blew out a cleansing breath and pushed her tangled hair back from her face. Sweat beads dotted her hairline; it was nervous sweat from trying to mask her fear.
All was quiet, too quiet. She wondered if he was still there. She edged toward the narrow window on her left, inching along with her back pressed against the front wall. She turned slightly and pinched the floral trim of the kettle-cloth curtain. Pulling it back, she peeked around the window frame just enough to try to see the porch.
The door splintered once…
She panicked.
Twice…
Addie pushed away from the rattling front walls and grabbed the nearest chair to barricade the door. But it was too late.
The wood cracked; the hinges broke; the door wobbled and crashed to the floor. Montana Creed was inside, glowering, all six feet four of him. It was not a pretty sight.
"Like I said… I go any damn place I want."
Addie clamped her gaping mouth shut. He started toward her, and she could feel his anger. It shot toward her like Apache arrows. She was going to die. Right here and now. She knew it. He looked mad enough to kill her, and he wouldn't use his gun. He'd use his bare hands—the ones that were clenched so tightly in front of him that his knuckles were white.
She stepped back and felt the edge of a table behind her. Her hand reached back and grabbed the first thing it touched. It was hard metal, tin of some sort, and it was tall. Her fingers gripped the wooden stem and she lifted it. The wooden base was heavy. A perfect weapon.
He closed in from her left. She flung the thing at him and ran to the right, behind a fringed sofa, heading straight for the kitchen door.
Three bullets hit the door before she took four steps. Addie dropped to the floor, instinctively covering her head with her arms. She was wrong. He would use the gun!
The shots stopped and she lay there, eyes squeezed shut while she waited, waited for him to round the sofa and finish her off. This was it, she thought. She'd pushed this long-haired madman too far. She'd die in the parlor of her aunt's farmhouse, with no one to mourn her, except Mr. Hamilton, her lawyer. All her schooling was for nothing, wasted on someone who wouldn't live past twenty-four short years. No new life out west. No dream come true. Just death. She'd traveled all this way to die. But maybe they'd bury her under the giant oak with a marble marker, etched with the words: Adelaide Amanda Pinkney died fighting for her land.
Well, at least the murdering toad wouldn't get it. They'd hang him for this. Then Addie realized that she hadn't heard him move. Slowly, she removed her arms and opened her eyes, half expecting him to be standing over her, ready to shoot. All she saw was the deep brown velvet of the sofa back and a few months' worth of dust balls that covered the bare wooden floor. She looked up, expecting to see those mad, gold eyes laced with the need to kill.
Instead, the plastered ceiling stared back, complete with a few cobwebs hanging from a bronze lamp. She pushed up onto her hands and knees and listened. There wasn't a sound. Maybe he was waiting for her to stand up, then he could drill her full of bullets, just like the door.
She looked around for an escape, someplace she could crawl to, but the sofa was the only protection between her and the kitchen door, the bullet-ridden door. Then she heard the creak of leather, and a few seconds later the sound of metal. Oh Lord! He must be reloading. Suddenly, in vivid color, she could picture him pulling the deadly, metal bullets from his gun belt, sliding them into the chambers of his cold, cold gun.
Our Father, who art—
Glass clinked and Addie stopped praying. She heard the glass again, scraping. Now what was he doing? Not more than a second or two later she heard it again, plain as day. It was glass scraping metal. A moment later she heard it again. No matter what, she couldn't make sense of those sounds. She thought for a second, fought an inner battle of good sense versus her curiosity.
Her curiosity won. She was going to die anyway, so she might as well see what sort of torture he was readying. With her shoulder against the sofa back, Addie crawled on all fours over to the end of the couch. She sat back on her knees and very slowly peered over the top edge of the sofa.
The toad stood, gun in holster, completely entranced by a stereoscope. It must have been the weapon she'd thrown at him. His hand gripped the oak spindle of the tin viewer just above its wooden base, and he slid the glass picture slides around as if he had never seen a magic lantern before.
Addie eased upward and began to back toward the door.
"What is this thing?" His voice stopped her dead in her tracks. It was still deep as thunder, but for the first time calm threaded through its sound instead of rage, and for some reason she felt no need to run.
"A stereoscope. Some people call them magic lanterns." She cautiously stepped forward. "Don't tell me you've never seen one?"
He shook his head and grabbed another slide, turning the viewer to focus on the new slides.
Addie walked around the sofa and stood there, watching him. Where had he been? Hiding in the hills for thirty years? Stereoscopes had been around when her mother was a child. A vast number of slides were available throughout Chicago. The Mason Street Library alone had box after box of lantern slides that showed almost every major city in the world.
Curiosity piqued, Addie watched him, this man who was so tall, so intimidating with his gun and those yellow eyes that seemed to burn holes right through a person. And now those same scorching eyes were fascinated with a toy. A toy, for heaven's sakes. She shook her
head and wondered what kind of life the man led, where he had been raised, and by whom. For a brief moment she asked herself what it would have been like to have been raised without toys. Did the land mean so much to him because he'd never had anything? Maybe, but that wasn't her problem, and there was no way on God's green earth that she would give him her land.
It was bad enough that he held the legal deed. The judge could easily decide in Mr. Creed's favor. Chances were better for her if she could stay on the property, of that she was sure. So, she needed to fight him at every turn because she couldn't lose, not now, not when she had nothing left and no one in her court except her aunt's lawyer. She had to stand up to him.
He finished with the viewer and set it down by the slide box. Now he was glaring at her again. The toad was back.
"Please leave." Addie purposely stuck her nose up, so she'd feel taller, and grasping her robe she swished by him in a starched, regal manner that was the exact opposite of what she felt inside. Inside, she felt like soggy bread.
"I'm not going to leave. It's my land, legally."
Addie spun around, ready to start again, but he was leaning against the wall, as if he owned the place.
"In fact, Miss Pinky…"
He paused, and she knew he was waiting for her to correct him. She gave him a sugary smile.
He shrugged, suddenly calm as a toad in the sun, and he looked around the room. Pushing away from the wall with his boot, he strolled around the parlor, stopping here and there to scrutinize a particular item.
"What are you doing?" she asked, puzzled and worried because she couldn't figure out what he had planned.
He walked over to the mantel and ran his finger over the bronze top of a cupid's wreath clock. "I'm just looking at my property."
"It's not yours!"
He ignored her. "I'm going to like living here. It's all… homey." He picked up a thick, leather-bound book that Addie had noticed last night. It was a copy of Nutall's Standard Dictionary of the English Language.