Caney gave up, but she wasn’t happy about it. “Well, you just better be back here afore noon, missy, or I’ll come lookin’ for you myself, you hear?”
“I hear,” Christy said with a laugh. After a cup of coffee and a slice of Bridget’s more than passable dried apple pie, she set out for town, following the rutted trail that passed for a road.
The countryside between the McQuarry land and the town itself was forested, though not densely so, and Christy walked with her shoulders back, her head up, and her arms swinging, lest some cougar or mama bear catch sight of her and mistake her for easy prey. She imagined a highwayman or a hostile native behind every tree trunk and boulder, but she reached the edge of town after an estimated three-quarters of an hour, and stood at the foot of the main thoroughfare, taking it all in.
There were tents everywhere, and the noise of steam-powered saws clawed at her eardrums. She counted four saloons and several rustic storefronts, but as far as she could make out, there wasn’t a single church or schoolhouse.
The road was rutted, though here and there an effort had been made to fill the potholes with small stones and sawdust, and she would have to be careful not to drag her hems through mud or step in a pile of horse manure. She lifted her chin and proceeded toward the mercantile, a two-story structure with a false facade and a distinct list to the lefthand side. The plank walls were chinked with a mixture of mud and plaster, and an enormous and exceedingly ugly black dog lay curled in front of the door.
Christy paused at the edge of the slanted board sidewalk and assessed the creature.
“He’s just for show,” a familiar voice put in from behind her. Marshal Zachary Shaw; she knew even before she turned to look at him. “Old Rufus there, he hasn’t got a tooth in his head, nor a mean thought, either.”
Skirts in hand, Christy schooled her expression to one of polite reserve. “Good morning, Marshal,” she said, noting that he was freshly shaven and sporting clean clothes. His badge gleamed on the well-worn buckskin of his vest. She glanced at the dog—she should have guessed it was harmless, since it hadn’t even troubled itself to bark at her—still snoozing on the doorstep. “How comforting to know you’re around to keep us all safe.”
He merely grinned at the mild jibe and hooked his thumbs in the front of his gun belt. It was just plain bad luck that he was so fine to look at, worse still that the pull she felt toward him was something as ancient as the stars. “You can count on me, ma’am.”
She remembered the brooch in her pocket and her morning’s mission. She had to get it over with, and quickly. Too much delay would only make matters worse. “If you’ll excuse me—”
He nodded, and when she turned to head into the general store, intent upon speaking with the merchant, she collided with a man roughly as tall and substantial as a tree trunk. Looking up, she saw a square, handsome face, a head of curly brown hair, and a pair of concerned hazel eyes. His hands, big as stove lids, clasped her shoulders lest she fall.
“Are you all right?” he demanded. “Did I hurt you?”
Christy blinked, still a bit stunned.
“I don’t reckon she’ll have any scars to show for meeting you, Jake,” Mr. Shaw put in. He had stepped onto the sidewalk now, and, disconcertingly, his pres ence had far more of an impact on Christy’s senses than the close proximity of the man he’d called Jake. “Christy McQuarry, meet Jake Vigil. He owns Vigil Timber and Mining. Jake, Miss McQuarry.”
“Mr. Vigil,” Christy said, somewhat shyly.
The lumberman finally realized that he was still holding on to her shoulders and dropped his hands to his sides. He was dressed all in buckskins, Christy noted, and burly as an ox. Color throbbed in his neck and along his jawline. “Miss McQuarry,” he said, and gulped.
“Jake here is a genuine timber baron,” Zachary said easily.
Mr. Vigil shook his head, still blushing. Christy thought it was charming that such a strong man could be so modest, even retiring. “I reckon I’d better be getting back to the mill,” he blurted, and, in his apparent confusion, he raised a hand to tip a nonexistent hat. Then, still red as a pepper, he fled, nearly stumbling over the dog, which had repositioned itself in the shade of the horse trough in front of the store.
Zachary watched his friend’s retreat with a look of sympathetic amusement. For his own part, he was completely at ease, his hat pushed to the back of his head, one arm braced almost negligently against the post supporting the small roof that served as an awning above the door of the mercantile. “Poor Jake,” he said. “He gets his feet tangled in his tongue whenever he runs across a pretty lady.”
Christy ducked her head to hide a blush of her own and was irritated with herself for succumbing even that much to Mr. Shaw’s rascally charms. “Unlike some men,” she replied, “who always seem to have a glib remark waiting on the tip of their tongue.”
He grinned, undaunted. “He’s a rich man, Jake is. You see that mansion on the other side of the mill? That’s his. Lives in it all by his lonesome.”
Christy’s heartbeat quickened, but at the same time, she felt a little sick to her stomach. Had she mentioned her plans to marry for security to Zachary Shaw at some point? She was certain she hadn’t.
“Is that so?” she replied, bluffing. “And what makes you think I’m interested in the state of Mr. Vigil’s bank account?”
He leaned close, spoke in a low voice meant to nettle. “Oh, I just guessed,” he drawled. The nerve. “A plain woman can do real well for herself out here, Miss McQuarry. A beautiful one—like you—can name her price.”
Christy wasn’t sure whether she’d just been complimented or insulted—a little of both, she suspected, but mainly the latter. And she was riled. Hard put, in fact, not to give Zachary a tongue-lashing he’d never forget. “I do hope, Mr. Shaw, that you are not insinuating—”
He tugged his hat brim forward again so it shadowed his eyes. “I’m not insinuating anything. I’m saying it straight out. You could have any man in this town, and Jake Vigil would probably suit you just fine. He’s got a big house and money, and he’ll let you do all the talking, like as not.” With that, the marshal of Primrose Creek thrust himself away from the sup port pole and strode away, leaving Christy to stare after him in frustration.
“I can help you, miss?”
Christy turned and saw a man as big as Mr. Vigil looming in the doorway. He was obviously the store’s proprietor, for he wore a white apron over his shirt and trousers, a visor, and an air of genial authority.
“I am Gus,” he said.
Christy had recovered enough to remember the reason for her errand by then, and she put out a hand, which Gus politely shook. She introduced herself and, at Gus’s invitation, followed him inside. The interior of the store was rustic but clean and fairly well supplied for a frontier enterprise. The good, earthy smells of coffee beans, wood smoke, fresh sawdust, and new leather greeted her, and she breathed them in appreciatively.
It would have been wrong, though, to pretend that she was in a position to purchase anything of substance, so Christy approached the counter, several boards stretched between two giant barrels, and laid her mother’s brooch in plain view.
“I have fallen upon difficult times, Mr.—er— Gus,” she said forthrightly, keeping her spine very straight and her chin high. “I was hoping you might—perhaps—sell this for me, on consignment?” In the end, she couldn’t bring herself to ask this kindly man to purchase the cameo outright.
Gus examined the piece carefully, frowning thoughtfully as he did so. “It is beautiful thing, no?”
“Yes,” Christy agreed, and blinked.
“Miners and lumbermen, they all the time ask me for pretty things to give their womens. Perhaps I make a present to my sister, Bertha, to make her smile.”
Tears burned behind Christy’s eyes. Her mother had treasured that brooch, a gift from Christy and Megan’s father on their wedding day, and she had worn it often. There were many, many memories attached to
that piece and all the others. “It is very old. And very valuable.”
Gus, still pondering the cameo, slapped down a meaty hand with such force that Christy jumped. “I buy,” he said. “Fifty dollars.”
Fifty dollars! It was a fortune, surely enough to put a real roof on the lodge, and maybe a door, too. “ Ththank you,” Christy said, and turned crimson. She was wildly relieved, and at the same time, she felt as though she’d sold a part of herself along with the trinket.
Gus dropped the cameo into the pocket of his apron, then carefully counted out the agreed sum in coins of gold and silver. Christy thanked him again, scooped up the small fortune, and turned to make for the door, just in case he was inclined to change his mind.
“Miss,” he called, just as she reached the threshold.
Christy’s stomach dropped, and it was all she could do to turn around and meet the storekeeper’s friendly gaze instead of running like a thief. “Yes?”
“You want Mama’s pin back again, you come to Gus. He’ll save it for you.”
“But your sister—”
Gus shrugged massive shoulders. “Bertha is simple woman. She like plain things best.”
Christy couldn’t speak; it had been a long time since she had encountered such generosity. She nodded once, quickly, and dashed out the door, lest she break down and blather like a ninny. The black dog sat on its haunches on the sidewalk and gave a low, sorrowful whimper as she passed.
Five minutes later, she was standing in front of Jake Vigil’s house, gaping. The white-clapboard structure was twice the size of the farmhouse back home, and it had gabled windows, each one boasting dark blue shutters, and a veranda that surrounded it like the deck railing of a Mississippi riverboat. A white picket fence enclosed it all, and there were fledgling rosebushes planted on either side of the stone steps.
After admiring the place as long as she dared, Christy turned and headed for the sawmill, where she had legitimate business. She intended to buy materials for a roof, and nobody, not even Zachary Shaw, could find fault with that. Not that she intended to give him the opportunity.
Jake Vigil greeted her with surprised pleasure. On his own ground, in the office of his thriving lumber business, he was far more at ease. He invited Christy to sit down and even offered her coffee, which she politely refused.
“I’m here to place an order,” she announced. She had hated parting with her mother’s brooch, even temporarily, but there was a certain exhilaration in achieving the purpose she had set for herself. “For a roof. I’ll take tar paper, too, if you can get it.”
Mr. Vigil perched on a corner of his large and cluttered desk, regarding her thoughtfully. “A roof?” No doubt, if he had recognized the name McQuarry, he’d assumed she was staying with Bridget and Trace.
“For the Indian lodge, out by Primrose Creek,” she said, and squirmed only a little under his pensive gaze.
“The Indian lodge?”
Christy suppressed a sigh. Did the man echo everything that was said to him? Perhaps he was stupid—but how could that be? He’d built an empire, apparently under his own power. “My sister, Megan, and I are cousins to Mrs. Qualtrough and her sister, Skye. We inherited half the tract, specifically twelve hundred and fifty acres on this side of the stream. As Trace and Bridget already have a houseful, well, it seemed more prudent to restore the lodge as best we can and live there until other arrangements can be made.”
She had to look away briefly when she uttered the last part.
“Jupiter’s ghost,” he marveled in a voice that would have shaken Mount Olympus itself. “You can’t live in that—that hut!”
She leaned forward in her chair. She clasped her pride like a lifeline. “I assure you, Mr. Vigil, we can. And we shall, for the time being, at least.”
He shook his head in frank amazement. “I’ll be deuced,” he said. “What does Trace have to say about this plan of yours?”
“A great deal, I’m sure,” Christy replied, gathering her skirts and rising from her chair with as much grace and dignity as she could manage. “However, he is Bridget’s husband, not mine, and I am under no constraints to obey him. Now, Mr. Vigil, will you or will you not sell me the materials I require for a roof?”
He muttered something, then nodded. “I’ll have the things you need delivered first thing tomorrow morning.”
“Thank you,” Christy said with a brisk note in her voice. They agreed upon a price—one that fortunately left her with a few dollars to spare—and then she took her leave.
As she’d promised Caney, she was home before noon. Megan was down by the creek, fishing for supper, and from the looks of the mess of trout she held up for Christy to see, it would be a feast. Caney was a few yards downstream, beating laundry against a large, flat rock. Seeing Christy, they both smiled, and though Megan went right on fishing, Caney wrung out the petticoat she’d been washing, draped it over a bush, and plodded up the bank.
“Well?” she asked, without preamble.
“I got fifty dollars for it,” Christy whispered. “And we’ll have all the necessary supplies for our roof by tomorrow.”
Caney narrowed her eyes and let her hands rest on her wide hips. “There’s somethin’ you ain’t tellin’ me, missy. Now, just what would that be?”
Christy drew a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Today I met the man I’m going to marry,” she said, and tried very hard to smile.
Two wagons, one loaded with timber and one with great rolls of tar paper, each rig drawn by four sturdy mules, rolled up to the lodge the next day around eight, when Christy, Caney, and Megan were all busy clearing ground for a garden. Although Trace had lent them the use of a plow and even harnessed one of the work horses to it, the labor was hard, and all three women were sweating and covered in dirt from head to foot.
Christy was alarmed when she recognized one of the drivers, for he was none other than Marshal Shaw. He looked her over, from tousled hair to muddy hem, and grinned. Driving the wagon beside his was a tall, powerfully built black man, a stranger who probably worked for Mr. Vigil. Several men on horseback rode in behind them.
“What are you doing here?” she demanded, swiping at a persistent fly. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Caney and Megan exchange a glance.
“Just lending a hand wherever I can,” Shaw answered smoothly. “This is Malcolm Hicks,” he said, indicating his silent companion, who jumped down from the wagon seat, nodded once, and started pulling on a pair of heavy leather gloves. “He’s the foreman over at the mill. I figured he could use some help unloading the wagons.” The riders got down from their horses and left them to graze in the deep grass.
“Why don’t you git down and help me, then,”
Hicks grumbled to Zachary, rounding the rig, lowering the tailgate, and grasping a stack of planks. “ ’Stead of just settin’ up there yammerin’.”
Shaw grinned, secured the brake lever and the reins, and did as he was told. “Don’t mind Malcolm,” he whispered to Christy moments later as he passed too close, balancing three heavy boards on one shoulder. The four other men were busy, too. “He’s not the sociable sort.”
Christy said nothing. She wasn’t going to give Zachary the pleasure of knowing he’d succeeded in throwing her off balance again. And she would have died before letting him so much as guess that just being near him made her heartbeat quicken and her breath turn shallow.
“You reckon he’s married?” Caney inquired much later, when all the lumber was neatly stacked beside the lodge. A third wagon had arrived, filled with tools and kegs of nails and other bits and pieces, and the riders unloaded those things, too. Hicks and the marshal were supervising.
“Do you mean Mr. Hicks?” Christy asked distractedly, wiping the back of her neck with a wadded sunbonnet. She was tired, hot, and almost desperate enough to swallow her pride and ask Bridget if she could make use of her bathtub, just this once.
“Yes, I mean Mr. Hicks,” Caney retorted impatiently. “It’s a cinch I
ain’t sweet on the marshal, fetchin’ though he is. I’m old enough to be his mama. ’Sides, I like my men dark-skinned and serious.”
Christy sighed. Mr. Hicks certainly met Caney’s requirements on both counts. Except for the remark he’d made to Zachary about helping to unload the lumber, he hadn’t said a single word the whole time he was there, nor had he spared so much as a smile for any of them. “For heaven’s sake,” she said. “You don’t even know the man. He could be a fiend.”
Caney was still watching Mr. Hicks in a most frank and forward fashion. “I know all I needs to, ’cept for one thing—if ’n he’s got him a wife—and I mean to find that out right quick.”
“How?”
“I’m goin’ over the creek and ask Bridget, that’s how,” Caney replied. Then she brushed her hands against her skirts, adjusted the old floppy brimmed hat she wore to keep the sun off her head, and set herself for the Qualtrough place.
Megan had gone back to picking rocks out of the garden plot and carrying them to the growing pile beside the lodge’s southern wall, and Skye and Noah had come to help. At the rate the three of them were going, they’d have enough stones for a fireplace every bit as grand as Bridget’s before sunset, even if they were prattling the whole time.
Megan had always had exceptional hearing, and she was something of an eavesdropper, too, despite all her sterling qualities. Straightening, hands resting on her slender hips, she smiled. “Wouldn’t that be something,” she said, “if our Caney got herself another husband!”
Christy blew out a long breath, causing tendrils of sweat-dampened hair to dance against her forehead. Then, without answering, she marched over, took up the reins again, and urged the plow horse back into motion.
By nightfall, she was so dirty that she feared her skin would never be the same, her feet and legs were aching, and her palms were covered with raw blisters. She’d barely touched her supper—a batch of fried chicken Bridget had kindly sent over in Skye’s keeping—and she wanted nothing so much as to fold her arms, drop her head, and sob. She was too tired to bother with a bath, and too miserable not to, and when it came right down to it, she just couldn’t bring herself to ask her cousin for anything more. It was galling enough that Bridget felt she had to provide meals for her indigent relations. She was probably over there in that warm, tidy house of hers, shaking her head and clucking her tongue. That Christy, she would be saying to Trace. She’s as stubborn as ever.
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