by Jillian Hart
Garnet's Treasure
By
Jillian Hart
Copyright © 2011 by Jill Strickler
www.jillianhart.net
First Published 1999 by Zebra Kensington Publishing Corp.
This book may not be reproduced in any form or by any means without prior written permission from the author.
Cover Art © Kimberly Killion, Hot Damn Designs
E-Book Formatted by Jessica Lewis
www.AuthorsLifeSaver.com
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
The Rancher's Return
Also Available
About the Author
Chapter One
Montana Territory–1864
Night deepened as Garnet Jones climbed off the stagecoach and studied what she could see of the dark mining town. There wasn't much. Small campfires glowed like embers on a flat expanse of ground. On the other side of the street the many windows of saloons and brothels lit up the darkness.
Garnet heard a gunshot explode inside one of the buildings. A woman screamed. A man shouted.
"I'm scared," fifteen-year-old Golda whispered, clinging to the side of the stagecoach. "Maybe we shouldn't have come."
"We had no choice." Garnet thought of Pa and the letter she'd received. The man had fathered her and she had a duty to him, no matter how tempting turning back may be.
"Welcome to Stinking Creek, ma'am," the stagecoach driver announced. He threw down their few bags. The valises hit the ground with a muffled thunk, kicking up thick plumes of dust. "This here's the end of the line."
Well, they were in the right town, but it wasn't an impressive place. Or a particularly nice-smelling one. Garnet wrinkled her nose, staring briefly at a dirty, obviously drunk miner doing his personal business on the walkway between the brothel and the saloon. "Don't look, Golda."
Golda snapped her head so fast, she nearly lost her balance in order to stare in amazement and perhaps curiosity at the indecent sight.
"I said, don't look," Garnet instructed, her indignation growing with each shaky breath. The golden glow from the well-lit tavern glinted through the large window, illuminating him clearly. He had the audacity to tip his hat to her, his business now done, before striding back into the saloon to liquor himself up further.
"I know why they call it Stinking Creek." Garnet shook her head. This was just the sort of place she should have expected. Some derelict mining camp without a bit of civilization.
Perhaps Golda was right. Perhaps they shouldn't have come. Perhaps they should have sent a communication from Virginia City instead.
"Struck gold here last summer. Not a good strike, mind ya. And it ain't the safest camp around." The stooped, foul-smelling driver stepped closer and picked up their few bags. He wheezed when he spoke. "A man was murdered a while back. Are you sure you wanna stay, ma'am? Only the workin' kinda girls come to this town. I don't think we've had no quality ladies like yerselves here before. Unless you two, uh, are looking to, uh, find employment."
"We're staying, and not to find work." Garnet clucked her tongue as she gave the little man a hard look. Certainly he wasn't suggesting she was a soiled dove. Appalled by the mere thought of it, she snatched Golda's bags from his despicable grip and shoved them into her younger sister's arms.
"I ken take you girls back to Virginia City. This ain't no place for the likes of you." The driver spat a stream of foul brown juice into the dirt at his feet. He bent stiffly to lift up her valise, but Garnet was quicker.
She snatched the sturdy handles firmly before he could toss her belongings back aboard. She was staying, whether she liked it or not. "This is hardly my idea of paradise, but that can't be helped. I must find our pa. He's staying with a Mr. Tanner. Do you know him?"
The driver stood, thinking deeply. Using his brain was clearly an effort. The glow from the tavern's window brushed the driver's face with orange and black shadows while he ruminated. "Tanner? He lives just out that-a-way." He pointed an age-crooked finger away from town, where the dark shades and shadows of night beckoned.
"Do you know how far?"
"Not too far. Keeps to himself, though. Ain't the social type." The driver spat again. "I don't reckon a nice gal like you wants to see Wyatt Tanner."
"Why not?" Garnet felt a chill prickle at the nape of her neck.
"Folks say he's dangerous."
"Dangerous?"
"Deadly." The driver shivered as if he were afraid, too. "Well, I gotta get going, missy. You gals take care of yerselves."
Golda gasped, and her fingers gripped Garnet's arm with a panicked clench. "Did you hear what he said? A man was murdered. We're not safe here. Oh, we never should have come."
"You're the one who didn't want to leave Pa here by himself. And since we're here, we'd best not panic," Garnet replied, sensibly. "You know we can't up and abandon Pa now, not after we've traveled so far."
"I guess not." Golda sighed heavily. "But I'm still frightened."
Truth be told, so was Garnet.
The stagecoach rolled away, spewing up black clouds of dust into the air like fog. Garnet coughed, quickly covering her face with a handkerchief. The dust stuck in her throat so she could hardly breathe. But that wasn't the worst of her problems. Not by a long shot. They were alone in the middle of the night in a disreputable mining camp looking for a dangerous man. Another term of school teaching was a more inviting prospect than this.
"What do we do now?" Golda's voice wobbled.
"We find a hotel room for the night."
"Do you think they have a nice hotel in a place like this?" Golda choked on a little sob.
Garnet gazed about the sorry excuse for a town. The moonless sky left the faces of the buildings in shadows as she stood, eyes adjusting to the darkness. Fear shivered down her spine, but she shrugged it away. She hadn't traveled all this way to be frightened. She had a job to do, and, by golly, nothing would stop her.
"Come." She took hold of Golda's gloved hand. "Maybe there's a better place down the block."
"But it's so dark."
It was dark, but the buildings lining the streets were lighted and, from the look of it, filled to capacity. She could hear the shouts of men in the saloons, the jeering argument over a card game, and the tinny piano music filtering out into the street like lamplight.
This was not a decent town.
Perhaps she had best rethink her plan. She had not expected the West to be quite so . . . rough.
"I see you're just off the stage," a woman's friendly voice called out. "You girls looking for work?"
"What kind of work?" Oh. Garnet remembered the stage driver's words. "No, I guess we aren't working girls."
"Too bad. We could use more help. It's real busy this time of year."
Garnet stared at the woman, who posed in a lighted doorway of what could only be a brothel. Goodness, she'd never held a conversation with a prostitute before. Then again, ever since she'd left Willow Hollow, nothing had been the same.
"Are you girls lost?" the soiled dove asked, ever helpful. "Speak up, so's I can help you out. This ain't no town where a body should be standing around on the street."
Before Garnet could answer, a gunshot exploded from somewhere inside one of the saloons. A horrible, hairsplitting whiz buzzed past Garnet's head and a bullet lodged into the wooden wall of a trough
not two feet away. Water spilled through the bullet hole, running out onto the dry, dusty earth.
Garnet stared at the stream of water winking in the small bit of light from the open brothel door. Her knees knocked. She didn't like this town. Not one little bit. "We're, ah, looking for a hotel."
"A hotel? There ain't anything like that here." The woman chuckled. "Did you girls take the wrong stage?"
"I wish we had." Garnet glanced up and down the street, wondering when the next bullet might split the air. Or knock them both to the ground dead. "Maybe you could help us. I'm looking for Mr. Wyatt Tanner. He has been kind enough to look after my ill father, and I've come to retrieve him."
"Ah." The soiled dove nodded. "Wyatt is a . . ."
"A dangerous man?" Garnet supplied.
"Yes." The woman shrugged, a simple gesture. "Wyatt doesn't like people. It might be best if you girls waited until morning to hunt him down. Perhaps we could find you a room for the night. Maybe something . . ." she hesitated.
"Respectable?" Garnet offered.
"I'll try."
"I'd rather just find Pa," Golda said quietly. Her voice quaked in fear. "I worry he's dead by now. That we've arrived too late."
Garnet closed her eyes. She was tired, afraid, and did not want to stand out on this street any longer. She feared more than bullets. Who knew what type of men frequented that saloon, gambled and . . . recreated in those buildings? If she breathed deeply she could smell the horrible condition of the town–the result of too many men living on their own without a woman's firm guidance and good judgment. Dear Lord, didn't men have enough sense in their big heads to know how to sweep and wash and bathe?
"Well, if you would rather, Wyatt's cabin is the last at the end of town." The woman said Mr. Tanner's given name as if she knew him well. As if she . . . Garnet didn't complete that thought.
"The last cabin, you say?"
"Yes. Just walk that-a-way toward the mountains, and you can't miss it."
"Thank you," Garnet said cordially and turned. Hitching her skirts high, she carefully stepped over several tobacco juice stains left by the stagecoach driver and the round, telltale wet patch beside the saloon.
"Suppose it isn't safe to be walking down these streets," Golda whispered, standing frozen with fear in the dusty road. "Especially in the dark."
Several gunshots rang out inside one of the buildings, and Garnet winced. No bullets buzzed past her, but she didn't feel safe. Through an uncovered window, she could see the inside of one of the many saloons. A woman dressed in red with her bosom showing danced on the top of a table. The men's hoots and jeers resounded in the cool night air.
This was simply not a surprise. Leave it to their pa, weak in morals, to end up in a despicable camp such as this. She doubted if there was even a church in town. Well, there was simply no alternative. They could not stand about on the street all night waiting for the next whizzing bullet. Garnet grabbed her sister by the arm and tugged. They started down the street.
"What if we can't find Pa after all?" Golda whispered. "What if he's already gone? What if we've come all this way for nothing?"
"Pa had better still be alive," Garnet bit out harshly enough so she didn't sound quite so afraid. "The hardship that man has placed upon this family is a disgrace. If he isn't dead, then he had better start praying. When I catch up to him, I'll–"
"Garnet," Golda hissed. "Look. Someone's coming toward us."
A shadow moved up ahead on the darker part of the street where no buildings stood. There was little light to make out what moved there, but from the sound of the footfalls, Garnet didn't need to wonder. She knew. Another irresponsible man who would rather cause trouble, break the law, or play with his guns and his patch of dirt than hold a respectable job. The town was probably packed with vile men just like him.
"Howdy girls," he called out, rough and deep, and he changed his direction just to intercept them. "Are ya havin' a slow night?"
Garnet stared at the man, deeply repulsed at his friendliness. Goodness, they were decent women. He was dressed so darkly she could hardly make him out except for the flash of guns strapped to both thighs. The sight made her heart quake.
He strolled closer, his chuckle deep as he called out, "How much'll it cost me fer both of ya?"
Golda whimpered, and Garnet skidded to a halt. Cost him? For what? Indignation rolled over her, stealing away some of her fear. He thought they were selling their charms on the street. Why, she'd simply never been mistaken for a . . . heavens, she had never been so insulted.
"I said, how much?"
"How much?" Garnet hissed. "A decent woman is worth more than you can pay."
"Is that so?" The man cocked one eyebrow, interested now. "I got me a lot of gold."
"A lot of gold?" Oh, she was mad. "Is that all?"
"Ain't that enough?"
Garnet thought of how Pa had left them over the years. "A woman wants much more than a bit of silly dust. She requires substance of character and steadfast integrity. Both of which you obviously lack."
She glared at the sorry excuse for a man. It was evident he had no moral fiber. He'd probably abandoned a wife and half a dozen children just to hunt for gold in the wilderness.
Just like her pa had.
Deplorable. Simply deplorable. She had no notion what the world was coming to.
The man blushed furiously and ran off in the night.
A lot of gold indeed! Garnet huffed. No wonder Pa had found his way here. He was among his kind–shiftless men who dreamed of achieving fortunes without an honest day's labor. She was greatly displeased to see for herself the depth to which civilization would sink without a woman's firm hand. Surely they could locate Pa, board him on the next stage out of town, and be away from this foul camp.
If she could survive the smell.
Chapter Two
Wyatt Tanner had a headache that drilled through his left temple at an angle behind his eye and bored right through the back of his head. Then it ricocheted like a bullet in a barrel. Darn cheap whiskey. It did this to him every time.
He should have skipped the poker tables tonight. It was Saturday, almost Sunday morning. A time when all thoughts turned to home. Some drank to forget, while others drank to console themselves, missing the womenfolk they'd left behind. It was all they moaned about as they made their bets and played their hands.
In all, it was a grim night and not good for his kind of business, listening to the talk that came when liquor loosened tongues. He wasn't going to find out any more information, not by playing poker with men who would think of nothing else but the women they left on purpose.
Yep, good thing he was heading home for a good night's sleep. He'd have better luck tomorrow. Wyatt pulled the brim of his hat low over his eyes and kept walking.
The slightest noise crackled behind him on the dark, desolate road.
He froze, his senses alert. His heart pounded triple time. He thought of the killer he'd come here to find and of the substantial gold he'd won at the tables tonight. Both made him a target for a murderer. Taking no chances, his fingers inched toward his holsters.
There it was again. Sounded like a double pair of footsteps coming from town. He squinted into the darkness, but he hadn't been outside long enough for his eyesight to adjust to the moonless night.
The entire population of Stinking Creek was in town gambling and drinking. These men, they had to be following him. Until he solved the murders in this town, Wyatt would take no chances. He headed for cover and drew his revolver.
The two figures moved closer. He squatted down beside a skinny tree trunk. Two short men. He could see the movements of their hats against the background of leaves and branches. They moved closer, slow and cautious, oblivious to the target they made. Then he heard it, the sound of voices high and quarreling.
Those were no men. Not with those swishing petticoats. Why in the devil's clutches were two women squawking like a flock of hens on his road? Worse, they were
paying no attention to their surroundings. They did not notice the dark figure looming behind them in the pitch-black night.
Wyatt watched as the man drew a rifle. The barrel shone black as the midnight rider aimed at one of the women. Wyatt didn't hesitate. He pulled the trigger, his pistol fired, and a woman screamed.
Heart pounding, he broke out of the underbrush and into a run down the path, his gaze trained on the last movement of the horse and rider. But there was only shadows and forest.
Where did he go? Wyatt knew he'd hit the man; he had no doubt. Maybe it was a thief. Or maybe it was the killer he was hunting.
Wyatt drew up short when he spotted something up ahead. It was a rifle, left on the road. He knelt down to examine it, his senses alert to any danger he couldn't see. The stock felt wet. He examined it. Wet with blood.
He wanted to chase down the shooter, but his conscience reminded him of the women in the road, defenseless and probably terrified. They needed his help, whoever they were. Beneath the plain miner's garb beat the heart of a deputy marshal. His first concern was to make certain the women were unharmed and helped to safety.
Then he would get back to the job of hunting down his brother's killer.
He retrieved his lantern from the side of the road and lit it. Orange flames licked to life as he approached the fallen women. His heart stammered at the sight of the single female form sprawled on the ground. Light flickered across her still body.
"Where did the other girl go?" He lifted the lantern and light spilled across the road. He could easily see the bent stalks of bunchgrass and shivering leaves.
"You don't have to be afraid," he called. "I won't hurt you."
No answer. Well, he would worry about the one who couldn't run off, the one unconscious at his feet. He shifted the lantern, shadows dancing over her still form.