Garnet's TreasureBN.html

by Jillian Hart

  "You should have told me." With a heavy heart, Garnet knew she had been fooled–as she always was–by Pa's seeming innocence. When would she learn? When would she ever stop aching for him to love her, just once?

  "What are we going to do now?" Golda sniffled.

  She would be angry later, after she'd taken care of her sister. "I guess there's naught to be done but make some coffee and look at our options. The stage is still running today. I say we make plans to head east before snow flies. Maybe I can even be home for the start of the school term. All is not lost. Not yet, anyway."

  Yes, that was a bracing thought. She hobbled slowly toward the cabin. At least she had done her duty to her father and to herself and could return home with a clear conscience.

  Now, where did she put her reticule?

  "Garnet?" Golda scratched her head as she studied the contents of Wyatt's rather empty shelves next to the stove. Empty except for the whiskey bottles, that is.

  "Do you need help with the coffee grinder?" Garnet asked, wearily. Her injured thigh was paining her something fierce.

  In answer, Golda held up the cloth reticules ... the empty reticules. Tears trickled down her cheeks.

  "Oh, no!" Garnet bolted to her feet. "It can't be. Not again."

  Golda only cried harder.

  "Did he take our money?" It couldn't be true. It just couldn't.

  "All of it." Golda dipped her head.

  Garnet's knees wobbled. Every last penny? They needed to be on the stage in less than an hour. How were they going to buy their passage home? How could Pa have done this to them?

  "I suppose he needed the money," Golda sniffled. "Maybe he needed it real bad."

  "We need it worse." Garnet covered her face with her hands. "Don't you see what this means?"

  They were stuck in Stinking Creek, Montana.

  Chapter Five

  Wyatt returned home from his long day trying to track down the owner of that bloody rifle that had shot Garnet. He'd had no leads, but he'd spent time noticing who seemed short a weapon and who owned a dark horse. He'd been north of town when the stage came and went, and he was sorry about that. He ought to have at least seen Garnet Jones off, bid her farewell.

  Hell, he wasn't any good with good-byes. Or relationships. He just wanted to get back to his work, hunting down the murderer who'd robbed him of his brother, and move on. That was all he wanted.

  And yet his chest felt hollow. He'd admired Garnet in many ways. He would miss her. He wished her a safe journey home. As he strode down the tree-lined lane, he could almost picture the kind of town she came from– everything in its place, clean streets and well-tended shops and a house with fresh paint, not a speck of dust inside. She'd have all those doodads and gewgaws a woman liked to collect.

  And that's as far as he'd let his mind imagine. Soon he'd be wishing he had a woman to call his own, a real home again, possibilities for a family and a future. No, it was best to stick to the hard lessons life had taught him. He was alone in this world, for better or,worse.

  * * *

  Stuck in Stinking Creek. The truth was unpalatable every time she thought about it. And the more she thought on her problem, the more Garnet could find no solution. They were penniless in a town where the major sources of income came from gambling, prostituting, and prospecting.

  Goodness, she wasn't about to gamble . . . not that she had any money to gamble with. And she certainly wasn't going to go knocking on a brothel's door looking for work. That only left prospecting, and by heaven, if she ever met anyone who made a decent amount of money doing that, she'd fall over in a dead faint from surprise.

  And that left her good and truly stuck.

  "What are we going to do now?" Golda settled down on the only chair in the cabin, careful not to dirty her favorite dimity dress.

  "Well, you're going to stop sitting around and being so concerned about your looks. Go pack buckets of water from the creek." Garnet heard the anger in her voice, but she couldn't help it. She'd traveled all this way, spending a good portion of her life's savings in passage and coach fare just to be duped out of the rest of it by her own father. "Go on, get up. We've got work to do."

  "But, Garnet, I don't want to work."

  Had Golda always been this complaining? "You're nearly sixteen years old, and many women your age already have the responsibility of husbands and children."

  "Well, I don't. Can't we find someone to loan us the money?"

  "Golda! A proper woman doesn't accept money from a decent man, much less from the sort of wanderers who reside in a town like this." Really, Golda was too much like Pa for her own good. "If you want to get back home, you'll get off your fanny."

  "But Mr. Tanner would pay to get rid of us, don't you think?"

  "I think you've been too pampered for your own good." Garnet clamped her jaw as she hobbled toward the rickety table. "We have to figure out a way to keep food in our bellies and a roof over our heads until the stage leaves next week. Without taking advantage of Mr. Tanner."

  Golda huffed from the room, and Garnet ached to sit down, but she worried more what Wyatt would say when he came home and found them here. They had no place to go, and there were no decent rooms for rent in all of Stinking Creek, even if they had the money.

  It was clear she had to figure out a way to make herself useful, to prove to Wyatt that she could improve his life in exchange for a roof over their heads. She had a week. A week to figure out how to raise enough money to see them home.

  Money it had taken her half a lifetime to earn.

  * * *

  As Wyatt neared his cabin, he heard blessed silence. No women's chatter punctuated the cool air. No scent of lye soap drifted on the evening's crisp breezes. Looked like they were truly gone. Was he sad? He didn't know, but his chest felt tight

  He had been a loner for so long, he couldn't remember any other way of life. Even as a small boy growing up in his family, he had been alone. Perhaps it was his father's drinking. Perhaps it was his mother's whining nature. Both parents had only been interested in themselves and satisfying their most pressing needs.

  So instead of a family, they were really four people sharing a house. Eating at the table. Sleeping in separate beds at night. Watching Pa drink himself to ruin. Listening to Ma whine and cajole and manipulate her way into having fabric for a new dress, a set of dishes, a fine bay mare when they were too poor to afford food enough for all of them.

  No, he had no need of a family or of any other human connection. He'd had his brother. Then fate had intervened.

  He kicked open the cabin door and stared into the darkness of the windowless structure. Finally. He might be lonely, but at least he had all the peace and quiet a man could desire.

  Then he saw a movement along the shadows of the back wall. An intruder. Was it the same man who'd killed his brother? Before his heart could beat again, he held his cocked revolver in hand.

  "Wyatt! No!"

  It was a woman's voice. Sweat popped out on the back of his neck. Adrenaline squirted into his blood. His knees shook, and he holstered the gun before his trembling fingers dropped it. Damn, he was glad he hadn't pulled the trigger. What in the blazes was wrong with the woman? He'd nearly shot her.

  "Garnet Jones. I thought you had left." His voice boomed through the quiet interior, echoing against the four scrubby walls. "I distinctly remember you promising to leave. Vowing to leave. Saying good-bye. Packing up your pa."

  "Well, yes, we did all those things."

  "Then what happened? Explain it to me."

  "Well, I meant to catch the stage."

  "Meant to? What happened? The horses ran away, an axle broke, the coach was robbed?" He heard a clink of glass and then saw the flare of a match.

  She lit the lantern and stood, bathed in its orange glow. "Pa abandoned us."

  "You mean he ran off?"

  A single nod. Tears stood in her eyes, stubbornly refusing to fall. Despite everything, she did love her father. Why, he
couldn't imagine. Eugene had been a weak complainer of a man, jabbering on about his dreams of gold and opulence and a life of wealth and ease. He was a man who hadn't an ounce of gold to his name or a penny in his pockets when he'd fallen ill in the road.

  "And that's not all. He stole all our money. Every last penny." A lone muscle jumped in her tightly clenched jaw. "We couldn't leave for home today because we couldn't buy the tickets."

  Fire flashed in Wyatt's eyes, dark and dangerous. "I will track him down for you. If he hasn't left the territory, I'll find him."

  "You would do that?" She clenched her hands into hard-knuckled fists. "Wyatt, it's far too much trouble. Let him go. I don't want to see that good-for-nothing coward. He's a lily-livered cheat who thinks he can take anything from us just because we're family. He's a damn bastard, that's what he is."

  Wyatt leaned against the doorjamb, biting his lower lip so it wouldn't tug into a grin. He'd never seen anything half so funny as prim and proper Garnet Jones cussing like a man.

  "I see your smirk," she accused, finger pointing. "Don't you dare find amusement in this. That damn man has betrayed me again, played me for a fool, and you've been drinking entirely too much whiskey if you think this is anything close to being funny. Get your horse. You need to go after him."

  "You just said you didn't want your pa back."

  "No, but if you think you can track him, then bring me back my money. Do you know how to track? That moonstruck Lance couldn't find any sign in your yard at all, and frankly, I'm not going to be stuck here all winter with a person like you."

  "Like me?"

  "A worthless miner who can't take responsibilities, that's who." Tears filled her eyes, and it wasn't anger that burned there, but hurt, honest and clear and unmistakable.

  Wyatt knew she was speaking about her father, not about him. How deep her heart went, if she could love a man who'd hurt her so much.

  "A horrible, worthless miner," she sobbed.

  Geez, he had no clue what to do with a crying woman. "Now, I'm not that irresponsible. And I'm no slouch when it comes to tracking, so I can head out right now and see if I can't bring back your money. What your pa hasn't spent, that is. You can count on me, Garnet."

  He caught himself reaching out. What did he think he was going to do? Hold her? Comfort her? He didn't have the right. She was pretty and proper, and she didn't want a man like him. No woman did. All she saw was a penniless miner with no valuable property and no assets to satisfy her wants and needs.

  Even Garnet, though sensible and tough, felt this way.

  Why was he disappointed? He stepped out in the dark, his heart heavy.

  "Wyatt?" She called him back. "This is dangerous country. Be careful."

  Sincerity shimmered in eyes as deep as a mountain lake, and his heart caught. "Don't worry. I know this land like the back of my hand. I can take care of myself well enough."

  With an image of her posed in the threshold, her skirts hugging her slim body, he slipped off into the night, to become part of it. Determination fueled him, and he headed to the stable where his horse waited. Wyatt was intent upon tracking down the lowlife who'd run off on his family and stolen from a woman as hardworking as Garnet.

  If Eugene Jones was anywhere in Montana Territory, he was going to pay.

  * * *

  Garnet tucked the end of the fresh bandage tight and released a long breath. Her thigh hurt like the dickens, but it was healing, thank heavens. She'd developed no fever and the wound itself was not red and festering. Whatever type of man Wyatt Tanner may be, he'd redeemed himself in her eyes yet again.

  But her problems remained. There had to be some decent sort of work she could do somewhere in godforsaken Stinking Creek. There had to be a respectable business somewhere. A mercantile or a laundry.

  Night was already falling, without signs of Wyatt's return. She thought of the man alone in this wilderness. Remembering his words, she did not doubt his strength or his cunning. A man as rugged and dangerous as Mr. Tanner could certainly hold his own in this uncivilized territory.

  Golda stumbled into the cabin, dropping sticks of wood as she went, grumbling.

  Weary from scrubbing all day, Garnet climbed to her feet and retrieved the fallen pieces of cedar. The rich fragrance tickled her nose and reminded her of her room at home, of the cedar chest that sat at the foot of her bed and held her treasures–Ma's best sweater, her own knitted dreams of baby afghans and baby clothes that she would probably never have use of. After all, no man had ever wanted to marry her. But the knitted things were nice to hold, nice to think of what-might-have-been if Pa had not been so irresponsible, if Ma had not died.

  A bittersweet warmth tugged at Garnet's heart. She missed home so much.

  "Garnet, I tore my hem on the stove!" Golda complained.

  That must have been the two hundredth complaint today. Garnet took a sustaining breath, uttered a prayer for patience, of which she was running in short supply, and hobbled toward the stove. "We have needle and thread. It's mendable, Golda."

  "But it's ruined. It will have to be patched." Golda looked so vulnerable. "Ask Mr. Tanner for some money so we can get out of this awful place."

  "I doubt Mr. Tanner has that kind of money to spare." Garnet knelt to stock the fire with dry kindling, then built the cedar in a tent above it. "Fetch me the match tin from the shelf."

  Golda moved away to comply, still pouting. Garnet remembered that age well, but had to bite her tongue to keep from upbraiding the girl. They had to work together if they hoped to ever return to Willow Hollow. Wyatt had said that if the snows came, then the stages could not run. What if they were stranded here all winter? The thought was too terrible to contemplate.

  Twilight came quickly, draining the last of the light from the room. Garnet thanked Golda for the tin. When she lit the match, the tiny flame chased away some of the darkness. She lit the fire and watched over it to make sure it thrived.

  "What was that?" Golda hissed, spinning around to stare at the door.

  "I didn't hear anything." The crackle and pop of the kindling was loud. "Maybe it's Wyatt returning home."

  "Oh, I hope he found Pa."

  "I hope he found my money." Garnet's throat tightened. Her stomach clamped into an unsettled ball. She didn't think of herself as a materialistic woman, but she'd been a schoolteacher for ten long years, and worked hard to stretch every dollar and save every penny. Without it, she wasn't just stuck in Montana Territory. She was broke.

  A sharp snapping sound riveted her. "Why, that sounded like the stable door. Wyatt's home."

  But another sound, like wood cracking, had her wondering. Wyatt was as quiet as the night, like a ghost who could drift soundlessly. Garnet ordered Golda to keep an eye on the fledgling fire and peered through a crack where the twilight crept between the wallboards.

  She didn't see a horse. Wyatt had ridden off on his, so he would have returned with it. A crackle of alarm bolted down her spine. Then a light leaped to life in the stable, a soft orange glow. A lantern's light.

  Another warning crackle speared her. Wyatt had left the only lantern behind in the cabin.

  That was not Wyatt out there in that stable. In a flash Garnet remembered the out-of-control, dangerous men she'd glimpsed through the windows of the saloons when she'd first arrived in town. Any number of outlaws and killers must inhabit a place like this–with no law, no sheriff, no one to keep the peace.

  What if he decided to break into the cabin next? Garnet rushed through the dark, despite her injury, and bolted the door.

  "Garnet? What's wrong?" Golda whimpered, spinning from the fire, the yellow light from the meager flames brushing over her, showing her stark fear. "Is it Mr. Tanner? Maybe he's decided to show his true colors. I haven't wanted to tell you, but I do not think he could possibly be a safe or proper protector for a girl like me."

  "Hush up and let me think, or there won't be anything left of either one of us for Mr. Tanner to come home to." Garnet wrun
g her hands.

  What if that intruder didn't stop at a barred door? She had no weapon, not that she would use a gun if Wyatt had left her one. She did not approve of violence . . . but then she'd never been alone and afraid in a dangerous place like Montana Territory before.

  She may have to amend some of her long-standing, firmly held beliefs.

  "Garnet!" Golda stood, the blaze in the stove's belly forgotten. "You didn't tell me what's wrong. I'm a grown woman now. You said so yourself. I can help."

  "Hand me a whiskey bottle."

  "You can't possibly think to take up drinking at a time like this!" Golda almost wailed.

  "Hand it to me." Garnet nodded when Golda obeyed, her face twisted in disapproval of the bottled spirits. "Now, bolt the door after me, and take a bottle for yourself. If anyone threatens you, hit him in the head as he comes through the door."

  "You're going to leave me alone?"

  "Yes. Quiet, now. Maybe the intruder doesn't know we're here, or he would have sneaked up on us first." Garnet took strength from that thought.

  She stumbled out into the black night. No wind rustled the trees, no moon shone above to illuminate the forest. Garnet kept to the shadows, fear growing with every beat of her pounding heart, but anger, too. How dare that man, whoever he was, trespass. How dare he frighten her like this by sneaking around in Wyatt's stable!

  By the time she'd reached the nearest corner of the stable, the man inside had doused his lantern. She'd been careful, but maybe he'd heard her approach. Garnet froze and held her breath. No sound came from within, no footstep, nothing.

  He had heard her. Oh, maybe this was a harebrained notion, coming out like this. But she wasn't about to sit around in the dark cabin waiting to get attacked. She tightened her hold on the bottle, preparing herself for what was to come.

  The quietest footstep whispered against the earth. The leather hinges on the door whooshed open, just the tiniest sound. The hair on the back of Garnet's neck rose. She lifted the bottle over her head, ready to strike, pulse pounding.