The sleigh jolted at that moment as a runner hit another large hole or rut in the ground. Molly lurched against the person sitting next to her, Maybelle Anderson. The woman glared at her. The saying that beauty was only skin deep was certainly true for this one. She was uppity and spoiled, and liked to get her own way. She made no bones about it that she thought she was far better than anyone else.
Daniel stuck his head out at that moment and honked in protest. He must have been squeezed too tight when Molly collided against Maybelle, or maybe he’d inhaled too much of the woman’s heavy perfume.
“Keep that stupid thing away from me,” Maybelle shrieked, “or the first chance I get, I’ll wring its neck . . . as soon as I can feel my fingers again.”
On Molly’s other side, Avis Smith laughed. She leaned forward to glance at Maybelle.
“I wouldn’t be talking like that, Maybelle. I’m sure you’ve heard what Molly did to the man who tried to kill her goose.”
Maybelle shot the other woman a spiteful glare, then turned away as best she could in the cramped quarters of the wagon.
“Uppity ninny,” Avis grumbled. “Just ignore her.” She glanced up and smiled at Molly from underneath the hood of her cloak that concealed most of her pretty face. “That ought to teach her to keep her mouth shut.”
Molly smiled back to be polite. Avis was usually quiet. She was barely ever seen without wearing a hat of some sort that concealed her lovely facial features and her beautiful raven hair.
If anyone should be hiding her face, it was Molly. Avis certainly didn’t have anything to hide. She was more beautiful than Maybelle, who liked to flaunt her good looks. Molly swiped a self-conscious hand over her right eye. The scar wasn’t as noticeable as it had been weeks ago when it was still healing. No doubt it would fade even more, but it would always be visible.
Hopefully, the rumors wouldn’t follow her all the way to Noelle about why she had a scar that ran from her eye along the side of her nose all the way to the top of her lip. She had confided in Genevieve Walters, head of Denver’s Benevolent Society of Lost Lambs, and told her the reason why she’d left Virginia City and Montana Territory to come to Denver.
The woman hadn’t asked about Molly’s scar, but she’d been rather curious about the goose. Since the two stories were one and the same, she’d explained everything in confidence.
Mrs. Walters wouldn’t have passed the story along to the other women, but somehow, word had gotten out. Hopefully it hadn’t reached her intended groom, but he hadn’t said anything in the letter he’d written to her. Would he still want to marry her if he found out, or once he saw that his bride was disfigured?
“Who is Danica?”
Molly glanced up, looking into the expectant eyes of Avis Smith. She must have heard her whispers over the wind, after all. The woman had her own secrets, and Molly wasn’t about to pry. She smiled, thinking of Dani Jensen.
“Danica was a good friend of mine from when I lived in Virginia City in Montana Territory. She was a remarkable person.” Molly patted Daniel’s head. “I named Daniel after her.” She laughed. “He wasn’t always called Daniel. I named him Dani, but when it became apparent that he was a gander, I had to change it to Daniel.”
Avis cast a wary eye at the goose. Molly gently wrapped her hand around his neck, just enough to keep the bird from snapping at those nearby. As he’d matured, he’d become more and more protective of Molly, and anyone within striking distance was fair game for him to attack and bite. All the women had learned to stay away from the goose, but in the cramped quarters of this wagon, it was impossible.
“She must have been a remarkable woman if you named a goose after her.” Avis’ lips twitched at the corners as she suppressed a smile.
Molly laughed. “Yes, well, Dani was a survivor, just like Daniel here. I rescued him when he was in the process of hatching. A fox had already raided the nest and got all the other eggs. I got there just in time to chase it away. Next thing I knew, Daniel was hatching, and I was the first thing he saw, so he latched onto me.”
“I suppose there are worse things than being a mother to a goose,” Avis mumbled. “I thought you said Dani died in an Indian raid. How can she be a survivor?” she pressed.
Molly glanced at her lap. If there had even been the slightest chance for Dani to survive or escape from that Indian raid, she would have, but no one had seen or heard from her in months after it had happened, and the bodies that had been found had been mutilated beyond recognition. If only she was alive somewhere, but everyone, including her grief-stricken father, had given up hope.
Avis reached her hand out and placed it on top of Molly’s. Daniel tried to extend his neck, his beak open. He let out a quick hiss.
“Stop that, now,” Molly crooned, tightening her hold around Daniel’s neck. She smiled at Avis. “Don’t worry, I’ve got him.”
“I’m sorry if my question was upsetting.” Avis returned her smile, keeping a wary eye on the goose.
Molly shook her head. “It’s all right. I’ve come to terms with her death.” She laughed softly. “It’s rather ironic that Dani would die in an Indian raid.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because for years she fancied herself in love with one.” Molly glanced up at Avis. “Well, not exactly an Indian, but she fell head-over-heels in love with a man who was part Indian. She only confided in me and our other friend, Mathilda. Poor Maddie died in the same raid. She never did understand what Dani saw in a man of mixed blood.”
Avis removed her hand from atop Molly’s. Her smile vanished, and her features took on a hard look. Molly stroked Daniel’s head.
“To Dani, it didn’t matter. From the way she described him, he sounded wonderful.”
But that had been nearly five years ago, and they’d both been much younger and more innocent. Talk of being swept off their feet and falling in love with a handsome suitor had died along with Dani.
Molly smiled softly. “Dani saw a handsome, rugged man, and that’s all she cared about. It was love at first sight, after she literally ran into him. He apparently didn’t want anything to do with her.”
“Did they ever get together?” Avis’ voice, although curious, sounded a bit cold.
Molly shook her head. “I don’t think she ever saw him again after their one and only encounter. I don’t know how it would have ever worked out. Her father hated Indians. He didn’t like anyone who was at all different, especially when it came to the color of a person’s skin.”
She looked up to meet Avis’ eyes. “I don’t see how any of that would matter. I guess I’m a little bit of a romantic like my friend. If a person is decent and treats you right, why should blood or skin color be an issue?”
Avis didn’t respond. She simply nodded, an uneasy look in her eyes, then pulled the hood of her cloak more fully over her head.
The wagon lurched again, and Woody, the driver, glanced over his shoulder.
“You’ll be happy to hear we’ve arrived in Noelle, ladies.”
Not two seconds later, the wagon came to a stop. Everyone murmured, some with relief in their voices, others with apprehension. Molly tucked a squirming and protesting Daniel under her cloak.
She fumbled to wrap him back into the shawl, then secured her cloak around herself to conceal the bird. It would be best for him to stay out of the cold and it would keep him from biting anyone and making the wrong first impression.
“All right, ladies. We’ve finally arrived.” Mrs. Walters called to the women when they’d all gotten off the two wagons that had brought them up the mountain. She glanced around, even while the wind and snow whipped around them. Clearly, this was not what Genevieve Walters had envisioned for a town.
“Are we expected to go in there?” Maybelle pointed at the building in front of them. Golden Nugget Saloon. It’s where the drivers had gone. Mrs. Walters raised her chin.
“Yes, apparently it is. Let’s at least get inside and warm up, and find out where we�
��re supposed to go for accommodations.” She led the way, and everyone else filed in behind her.
Molly squinted her eyes into the wind and glanced around. There wasn’t much to see of the town, but one thing was quite obvious. By the looks of it, this was one of the roughest mining towns she’d ever been in. There were no sidewalks to speak of, and nothing about the buildings indicated any kind of refinement.
She smiled. She’d been in quite a few mining towns, traveling with her father while he prospected for gold in Montana Territory. How many of her traveling companions would last in a town such as this? It would be interesting to find out.
Chapter 3
Christmas Eve, December 24, 1876
Storm sat on the bar stool, tense and rigid, staring at the glass of whiskey in his hand. He’d emptied it twice already, and the bottle in front of him was still nearly full. He tossed the contents of the glass down his throat, then poured another. He hated the stuff. The fiery liquid seared his throat, but this was exactly what he needed today.
He’d already lost track of time, and shut out the commotion going on around him. Good thing Kunu had wisely decided to look for his friend, Gus Peregrine, after Storm’s outburst when his grandfather had given him the news that there was a mail-order bride coming for him, expecting him to marry her.
“What the hell were you thinking, Kunu?” he’d yelled, regretting his angry outburst immediately.
His grandfather had stood his ground, though, even if a pained look had entered his eyes. “I’m thinking about you, Storm. I’m thinking about your future. It’s not right for a man to be moping around alone all the time. I had a wonderful marriage with my wife, and not a day goes by that I don’t miss her.”
Kunu had stepped closer and stuck a finger in Storm’s chest. “Your mother loved your father, and although they weren’t married in the traditional sense sanctioned by the church, they were married according to the traditions of the Shoshone. Your father wanted you to grow up as a white man, and that’s how I’ve raised you. It’s about time you acted like one, and mingled with the people of this town. A good woman by your side is a step in that direction.”
“I tried that once, remember? And it didn’t turn out so well then.”
They’d glared at each other for several seconds before Kunu had broken eye contact, shaking his head.
“I’m going to find Gus, and you’d better think long and hard about what I said.”
With that, Kunu had turned on his heels faster than someone his age should, and marched off in the direction of the Post and Freight. Storm had stood rooted to the spot, staring after his grandfather. Too many thoughts had swirled in his mind to make sense of any of them. When laughter had come from the saloon, he’d glanced toward it. Fine. If Kunu wanted him to act more like a white man, that’s exactly what he would do.
Snapping his fingers at his dog and pointing at the wagon, he’d waited for Wolf to get in the back of the rig.
“Stay.”
The dog obediently lay down in the wagon, and Storm had marched across the street to the saloon. Without looking at anyone, he’d found a place at the bar.
“Bring me a bottle and a glass.”
Seamus, the bartender, had stared at him with wide eyes, but when Storm had stared back, the little Irishman had quickly complied.
What the hell had his grandfather been thinking? If it had been anyone else, Storm would have punched him. Even now, the anger building inside him was ready to explode like the dynamite used in Charlie Hardt’s mine. What right did Kunu have to make decisions about his life without even telling him?
Doc Deane had come up to him in the saloon and asked about borrowing an ax. Storm scoffed. At the time, he hadn’t known whether to laugh or hit the man. The good doctor had told him that the men needed an ax to cut a Christmas tree to bring into the saloon to make the brides feel welcome.
When he’d agreed to check in the back of his buckboard, he should have driven home instead of coming back into the saloon with the requested tool. Once again, however, duty to his grandfather kept him in town.
He hadn’t been in the mood to find the old coot to take him home, and he’d definitely not been in the mood to confront him and old Gus at the same time. So, he’d handed over the ax to the doctor and returned to his seat at the bar. A few shots of whiskey were exactly what he needed at the moment to sort out what his grandfather had done.
Draven, the sheriff in Noelle, joined him after a while, glancing around the saloon with a disgusted look on his face. He pointed at Seamus, the bartender, to bring him a glass, then poured himself a whiskey from the bottle sitting in front of Storm.
Neither of them spoke for several minutes. Draven watched the commotion in the room, and Storm listened to the men of this town make fools of themselves over an evergreen they’d brought into the saloon. Now they were arguing about where to put the thing. Who’d ever heard of a Christmas tree in a saloon? This town had gone completely mad.
“What’s got you looking so sour today?” Draven finally asked.
Storm studied the light playing off the whiskey in the glass he held in his hand. Draven pushed his limits a bit further. “On second thought, you always look sour, but today you’ve got an especially glum look on your face.”
Without moving his head, Storm glanced at the sheriff out of the corner of his eye. Draven grinned, which only made him look more dangerous with his one eye and facial scars.
Storm’s muscles bunched, ready to hit someone. Draven would be a good opponent in a fight, and if the ex-bounty-hunter-turned-sheriff of Noelle wasn’t careful, that’s exactly what might happen. Draven would understand, and when it was all over, they’d shake hands and buy each other a round of drinks.
“Are you waiting for those women to arrive, too, like the rest of them?” Storm nudged his chin at several of the men huddled around Preacher Hammond, talking in excited voices.
Draven chuckled. “Yeah, it’s my job to be here, make sure no one gets hurt tripping over themselves when the ladies arrive.” His one eye narrowed, then widened.
“What are you doing in town today, of all days? Don’t tell me you’re –”
Storm clenched his jaw. If he gripped his whiskey glass any tighter, it would shatter in his fist. He might as well tell his friend. News would travel through town soon enough.
“My grandfather informed me today that he picked a winning straw on my behalf, and I’m about to meet my future wife.”
Draven wisely looked away. Storm’s body tensed even more, his muscles coiled and ready to pounce. If there was even a twitch on the other man’s lips, he’d make sure the sheriff wouldn’t be able to see out of his only eye for at least a week.
“Fools,” Draven said, glancing around the room.
Storm grunted. Draven understood him. He knew not to press, and no doubt had sensed that Storm was in no mood for idle chatter or further elaboration. Together they observed the men making a fuss over the silly Christmas tree, until Draven was brave enough to goad Storm into joining them to get ready for the women.
Storm took the bait. “Don’t make me hit you, Draven.” He didn’t bother looking up, but added, “Not on Christmas Eve,” for good measure.
He reached for the bottle to refill his glass when Draven nudged his barstool with his boot. “Knock that off. Here they come.”
Storm cursed under his breath as whiskey spilled onto the counter. He glanced up. The men who’d stood around the Christmas tree scurried and shuffled for position, eager looks on their faces as a group of women filed into the saloon. Coupled with the evergreen in the corner, the sight of women entering this establishment was definitely strange.
A frigid gust of wind and snow followed the women into the room. Curiosity got the better of him, and Storm glanced up from beneath his hat just far enough to see, his eyes narrowed as he assessed the group of women without being obvious. They were a sorry bunch, looking cold and scared, and huddling together. Next to him, Draven snorted,
and asked the question on Storm’s mind.
“Which one do you think is yours?”
“Don’t know. Don’t care,” he grunted.
He didn’t raise his head any further, even when one of the women and Reverend Hammond got into a heated discussion. The woman laid into him for apparently misrepresenting the town. Clearly, the ladies weren’t happy about their arrangements.
Storm raised his head more fully when Hammond and Charlie Hardt started fighting. He smiled and glanced at Draven. The sheriff didn’t make a move to stop the altercation. No doubt he was enjoying the show. Finally, Draven loudly set his glass down next to his, then headed toward the preacher, who’d cocked a finger at him to come see him. Storm smiled beneath the brim of his hat. Draven could handle himself, even surrounded by a passel of angry men . . . and women.
“Good luck, friend,” he goaded, but didn’t get a response.
Storm turned in his seat and directed his attention back to the bottle in front of him. With Draven gone, he could pour that drink he’d spilled a few minutes ago. He filled his glass and tossed it down his throat. Two more followed in quick succession. Heat spread through his gut and a relaxing warmth flowed through his veins. Even his mind started to relax somewhat, and the tension left his muscles for the first time since coming to Noelle today.
His head snapped up when a strange sight caught his eye. His grandfather had asked about a roasted goose for supper tomorrow. He hadn’t indulged in whiskey in quite some time. Was he so drunk that he was seeing things?
Storm squeezed his eyes shut for a second to focus, then blinked again. A woman with long, chestnut-colored hair was talking to one of the other women, and was that a . . . the head of a goose poking out from beneath her cloak?
The woman hastily shoved the bird’s head back under the dark fabric. She clearly didn’t want anyone to see it. Storm’s brows rose. He shook his head, then glanced at the half-empty bottle sitting in front of him. Maybe he was hallucinating and seeing things that weren’t there.
The Goose_The Sixth Day Page 3