A chicken squawked. Mattie slipped her hand in her pocket and grasped the butt of the Colt as she peered at Aunt Lou’s halfempty coop. She regretted leaving Justice up at the claim with the McKays. What had she been thinking? You were thinking you didn’t have time to housebreak a dog and run a store. Which was true. Still, as she tried to see into the darkness, she decided to retrieve Justice. As soon as you can convince Aron Gallagher to tear himself away from Kitty Underwood and watch the store while you climb the gulch.
Aunt Lou came to the back door. “Everything all right out there?”
“Everything’s fine,” Mattie said. “The hens were squawking. Seems all right now.” As she bid Aunt Lou good-night and made her way toward the store, Mattie began to hum.
Jonas sat back abruptly, wincing when his backside hit the earth and hoping against hope no one was on their way out here to check on their squawking chickens. Gasping for breath, he stumbled to the corner of the hotel. He moved along the edge of the building … looked around the corner … trying to see—there! There she was! Finally. There was no mistaking that hair or that voice. It was Mattie O’Keefe he was watching as she unlocked the door to some business. He sat down in the shadows of the building and waited. Eventually he saw what he needed to see. Lamplight appeared in an upper-story window.
He was as weak as a kitten. His legs trembled with the effort he’d made just to follow her this far. Forcing himself back to his feet, Jonas stumbled toward the hillside that rose behind the hotel. He crawled the last few feet to the hiding place he’d found behind an outcropping of rocks. After all he’d been through, and the minx had been right here in Deadwood all along. Obviously she’d learned some tricks from all the years working for him. Building a general merchandise store was a wise move for someone like her. Someone with money to spend and a past to hide. Who, he wondered, was the Garth of Garth and Company Merchandise?
Jonas’s mind raced even as his body reeled from hunger and exhaustion. Wonderings and imaginings wove together until, when he finally fell asleep, he dreamed of hideous smallpox-scarred women and platters of succulent food, of pest tents and gambling halls, of bags of gold dust and emerald rings, all of them part of the endless quest for Mattie O’Keefe.
Freddie was sick of yowling, spitting cats. He’d been helping his mor out on the trail for over a week and couldn’t wait to get back to Deadwood. The fuss the cats put up every time he fed them was almost scary. He sure hoped no one he knew in Deadwood ever found out that he’d gone hunting so he could feed a bunch of cats. People already made fun of him enough.
“Tom,” he said as they were riding together one day, “do you think those cats are a good idea? All the other freighters are laughing at Mor. Even Red Tallent thinks she’s crazy this time.”
Tom didn’t answer right away. Instead, he raised his rifle to his shoulder, took aim, and fired at a jackrabbit. Fired and missed. With a shake of his head, he lowered the rifle. They rode along for a few more minutes before he finally said, “Well, Freddie, it’s like this: Your mother isn’t like any other woman I’ve ever known. She’s strong. Determined. And smart. She was right about that ugly fabric. I didn’t think we’d sell any of it, but there isn’t so much as enough left to make a comfortable.” He smiled without looking over. “So if I was a betting man—which I am not—I would bet on Katerina Jannike every time.”
Freddie had almost forgotten Mor had a name besides Swede. Katerina was a nice name.
Tom chuckled. “Maybe she’ll trade in Swede for a new name.”
“What kind of name?”
“Kat,” Tom laughed. And with that, he nudged his horse into a lope.
“You got yourself a problem with them cats, Swede.” Red Tallent hitched his thumb toward the wagon he’d helped Swede transform into a cage.
“Vat kind of problem?” Wrinkling her brow, Swede got up from the campfire and walked over to inspect the load. For once the cats were quiet. Most were asleep. Others were grooming themselves.
“That one.” Red pointed at an undersized tabby. “Ain’t gittin’ enough to eat is what.”
“It vill be fine,” Swede said. “Ve are almost to Deadvood.”
Tallent fiddled with his long beard. Finally he muttered, “I could watch over it fer ya.”
Swede bit her lower lip to keep from smiling. “Yah, sure. Only mind you don’t lose five trying to get de one out.”
By sundown, Red was lying on his back by his campfire with a contented smile on his face. His brawny forearms were marked with scratches, but he didn’t seem to mind. As for the undersized tabby, it lay curled up on its new owner’s chest, Red’s thick beard serving as a pillow.
Tom leaned over and nudged Freddie. “You think those cats were a good idea?”
Freddie smiled. Red had insisted on paying Mor twelve dollars for the cat he was calling Schatz, which Tom said was German for “dear.” Freddie nodded. “Yes. The cats are going to work out just fine.” And maybe Tom and Mor would, too.
Aron Gallagher let himself in the back door of Garth and Company just as Mattie was sitting down to eat her breakfast.
“Have you eaten?” she asked. When Aron said he hadn’t, she pushed her plate at him and stood up. “Help yourself. I haven’t touched it yet. I’ll make myself some more.”
“How about you sit and eat, and I’ll make my own?”
Mattie sat back down. “There’s coffee, too.”
“I think the aroma of your coffee would have lured me here even if it wasn’t my day to play storekeeper while you turn into Matt the Miner.”
It hasn’t lured you over any time in the last nine days. Mattie shrugged. “I’m just glad you didn’t forget, what with your schedule lately.”
A plate of flapjacks in hand, Aron sat down. “I’m not the only one who’s been working long hours.” He nodded her way.
“Me?” Mattie shook her head. “I’ve been lazy compared to you. Nursing the sick, counseling folks, preaching, spending hours with the Underwoods—building.” She broke off. Did she sound … jealous? She shifted in her chair. “Aunt Lou thinks you aren’t eating right.”
Aron pointed at the tall stack of flapjacks in front of him. “You’re my witness that Aunt Lou has nothing to worry about.” He slathered butter between each of the cakes before smothering the tower with molasses. While he ate he talked. Tough times had started people asking questions and listening to some of the Bible’s answers. There was even talk of building a church in Deadwood. “And,” Aron concluded, “until that happens, Jack Langrishe has offered to let us use his theatre for church services.”
“That’s wonderful.”
“And when the Underwoods heard about it, Kitty volunteered to play for the service.”
Kitty. Not Miss Underwood. Kitty. Mattie forced a smile. “Even more good news.”
Someone was knocking at the front door. Aron jumped up. “That’ll be—” He looked toward the front of the store and smiled. “Right on time.” Coffee cup in hand, he went to open the door. Mattie got up and followed, pausing in the doorway just as Kitty Underwood placed a gloved hand on Aron’s forearm and smiled up at him.
“Thank you so much for opening early for us,” she said.
“Not a problem.” Aron gestured toward Mattie. “You’ve met Miss O’Keefe?”
“No,” Mattie spoke up. “We haven’t actually met. Not officially, anyway.” She crossed to where they were standing and said, “Nice to meet you.”
She was answered with a barely disguised look of disdain as Kitty looked Mattie over, staring pointedly at the work pants and boots.
“Miss O’Keefe works a claim up on Deadwood Gulch,” Aron said. “A rather successful claim.” He smiled at Mattie. “And Miss Underwood—”
“—plays the piano,” Mattie said. “And will grace the congregation with her talent this coming Sunday.”
The girl giggled. She blushed. She covered her mouth with her gloved hand and batted her eyelashes and gushed, “Oh, I’m not very goo
d. But Mama insisted I try. And I’m just so pleased to help out.”
I just bet you are.
Miss Underwood glanced Mattie’s way. “Do you play, Miss … O’Keefe?”
Mattie shook her head. “No. I prospect. And it’s time I got to it.” But then she just couldn’t resist. Looking at Aron, she said, “Aunt Lou’s expecting us for dinner tonight.”
“Oh … all right. That’ll be … fine. Great.”
Mattie made her escape, blushing furiously as she hurried up Main Street toward the gulch. Mattie O’Keefe, Aunt Lou said no such thing. You made it up. You LIED. What has gotten into you, anyway?! What, indeed, but an overwhelming desire to wipe the uppity expression off Kitty Underwood’s face. And it had worked.
CHAPTER 18
That ye might walk worthy of the Lord unto all pleasing,
being fruitful in every good work,
and increasing in the knowledge of God …
Colossians 1:10
Not being strong enough to do anything else, Jonas kept watch. The day after he left the pest tent, he saw Mattie leave town and head up into Deadwood Gulch. She was dressed like a man, and it wasn’t hard to figure out that she was going to meet up with her brother on his claim. Jonas wanted to follow her, but his legs wouldn’t even carry him the length of Main Street yet, let alone up the gulch. No, locating Mattie and Dillon O’Keefe on a gold claim would have to wait. He made a camp of sorts up behind the hotel where he’d first seen Mattie, resting during the day and coming out at night to scavenge. Hunger drove him, but weakness reduced him to picking through a bucket of slops set outside by the mammy who cooked for the hotel.
For a while Jonas thought maybe he’d been wrong about Mattie owning that store. She was at the hotel so often, he wondered if she lived there. Or maybe she just cooked for them. But she had the keys to the Garth and Company store and no one else seemed to be around over there. It was a puzzle that he was too tired to solve. He’d been a sniper in the war. He was good at hiding and good at observation. For now, he would be content with watching. He would heal and regain his strength and then—then it would be time to act.
Swede’s wagonload of cats caused no small stir in Deadwood. Long before the oxen halted in front of her store, folks had begun to follow alongside the lead wagon in her outfit. They pointed and chattered and opined, and a good-sized crowd had gathered before Swede so much as set her bullwhip down.
Her first customer was Slim Danvers, a shy typesetter who worked for the newspaper.
“I-I-I’ll g-give you t-twenty-five d-dollars for that one.” He was pointing to the prettiest cat of all, a soft gray one with china blue eyes and dark gray nose and paws. When Swede looked doubtful, Danvers reached for the leather bag around his neck. “I c-can p-pay,” he said.
“I do not doubt dat you can pay,” Swede said quickly. “I vas only surprised dat you vant one at all, much less de most expensive.”
The boy blushed. He nodded toward the north end of Main. “D-daisy will l-love it.” He swallowed. “Sh-she’ll t-take real g-good care of it.” He nodded and gulped.
And so began one of the more unusual exchanges of goods between freighters and the citizens of Deadwood. Now that the wagons had stopped moving and the cats had been fed, they’d calmed down considerably. It was no trouble getting hold of the soft gray cat Slim wanted.
Soon after he hurried off up the street with his purchase, the sporting girls of Deadwood descended upon Swede with a vengeance. She almost had to break up a fight when two of them insisted they must have the calico with green eyes. Long before the end of the day, thirty-nine cats had found homes, and Swede was trying not to be smug about it as she walked into the store with an enormous black-and-white female obviously ready to give birth any day.
Tom English looked up from where he’d spent most of the day weighing out payments for cats and going over Mattie’s figures in the store ledger and smiled. “Once again, you prove your brilliance,” he said.
“I am not brilliant.” Swede shook her head even as she cradled the purring cat in her arms. “I only hoped.”
“I beg to differ,” Tom said, stroking the black-and-white cat. “Keeping the one that guarantees a high return on your investment is brilliant.”
“Vell,” Swede said, and put the cat down on the counter, where it struck a regal pose, “it couldn’t hurt to have more dan one. Aren’t ve both sick of mouse droppings in de storeroom?” She reached for an empty box and, taking the last length of hideous cloth off the shelf, arranged it at the bottom before setting the box on the floor. The cat watched but didn’t move until Swede walked back to the storeroom and poured a half cup of precious milk into a bowl and set it down on the floor. Instantly the cat bounded after her and began to circle her, rubbing against her legs while it purred appreciation.
“I believe you have won her over,” Tom said.
“I vill believe dat ven she stays.”
“Why wouldn’t she stay?” Tom gestured around. “There’s a warm stove, a roof over her head, and a lovely woman pouring bowls of fresh cream.”
Swede blushed at the compliment. “Vell, lovely or not, I von’t be surprised if she jumps out de storeroom vindow tonight and ve never see her again.”
“Are you going to name her?”
“Perhaps it is vise to vait and see.”
“If she stays?”
Swede shook her head. “No. To vait and see vat she is like. So de name fits de personality.”
“Think I’ll call her Cat,” Tom said. “That definitely fits.”
Swede laughed. She looked around the store and sighed. “It is good to be back.”
“Yes,” Tom agreed. “It is.”
“It vas good to be rescued.”
“You didn’t really need to be rescued.”
“But if I had, you and Freddie vere dere to do it.”
“Yes,” he agreed. “I hope we always will be.”
When Tom didn’t look away, Swede didn’t know what to do. So she looked back, and her heart thumped even as she scolded herself about her impossible dreams.
Tom finally broke the mood. “Well,” he said, and closed the ledger, “if it’s all right with you, I’ll leave the rest of the ciphering for tomorrow. As expected, Matt the Miner has done a fine job in our absence.”
Swede nodded. She pointed toward the upper level. “Eva fell to sleep de instant I laid her down. Ve are all tired.” Tom locked the front door. He turned down the lamps. Together they walked toward the back of the store. And just when she was about to say good-night, he kissed her. On the cheek.
“Sleep well, Swede,” he murmured, “and welcome home.”
Swede stood transfixed while he let himself out. And then she mounted the stairs. But she did not sleep. Not for a very long time.
The minx was back at the hotel on Saturday. With a dog. Ah well. He could handle a dog. He’d just have to be careful about leaving his scent. And he knew some tricks that would throw a dog off the trail. Jonas watched for most of a day, content to see the comings and goings, aware that his strength was returning, albeit much more slowly than he would have liked.
It made him laugh to think of Mattie O’Keefe cooking. The little snip who’d never lifted a hand in any kitchen in all her life was helping a black mammy. And liked it. She sang while she worked, the sound floating through the back screen door and up to where he lurked.
For all his weakness, his hearing and his sight were still good. And his appetite was back. Too bad he wasn’t strong enough for hunting yet. But moments later, when a Chinaman delivered the carcass of a pig to the kitchen door, inspiration struck.
Jonas waited until sundown to pick his way slowly toward Chinatown, passing first behind the hovels in the Badlands. Folks were used to vagrants and drunks hunched against buildings or sleeping it off there, and no one bothered him when he stopped to rest. As for Chinatown, it was the usual collection of laundries and cheap eateries, opium dens and whorehouses. Jonas skulked down one n
arrow alley after another, shuffling along, keeping his pockmarked hand hidden and his head bowed. It was dark by then and no one noticed that smallpox was among them.
Finally he found the perfect opportunity with two white-haired ancients seated just inside an open doorway at a low table. Each one was picking at a bowl of rice and some other dish Jonas didn’t recognize. Once he was certain they were alone, he walked in and, in two quick moves, used his hook to dispatch them. Death was swift and silent, if a little messy. Fortified by a quick handful of rice, he inverted one bowl over the other and took it with him as he made his getaway. So efficient was the attack, so silently did he move, that no one followed.
He barely made it back to camp before collapsing. He slept for a while, but when hunger pangs woke him, Jonas ate rice and whatever it was until he was stuffed. In the morning he congratulated himself on finding a way to survive. Just as he’d learned during the war. Survival was the supreme motivator. He might use the same ploy a few more times. Deadwood had no law, no sheriff … and who cared about a couple more or less inhabitants in Chinatown anyway.
He looked down at his arms. Some lesions were dried, but not all. How long, he wondered … how long would it be until he could exact his revenge and shake off the dust of Deadwood and reclaim his life?
He savored the thought of finding the O’Keefes, of forcing Dillon to watch while he taught Mattie the real cost of running out on Jonas Flynn. The money she’d taken was almost unimportant now. Oh, it had been the initial reason he’d followed her, but the money paled in comparison to what Mattie had done to him now, what he had become because of her. The money was only a very small part of what she owed him now.
Jonas returned to Chinatown and stole food for three nights in a row, each night carefully choosing his elderly victims, before he had to stop. Who would have expected a powerful young buck with a queue trailing down his back to emerge from the dark with a meat cleaver in his hand?
Jonas had to kill him, too. The shrieks that went up before he’d dispatched all three victims threatened to bring the entire lot of Chinamen down on him. He managed to get away, but barely, and he had to settle for the food he’d stuffed in his pockets before the hulk intervened. There would be no more dining in Chinatown.
A Claim of Her Own Page 22