"Thanks, old man. Help me get that wheel back on, will you?" The boy grabbed the lone wheel and rolled it up to the porch. At sight of Janice and Betsy, he pulled at a hat that wasn't there, then made an awkward nod. "Afternoon, ma'am. Sorry for the inconvenience."
Sorry for the inconvenience. She thought she might be hysterical any moment now. They'd almost been killed, and it was an inconvenience. She was amazed that this dirty, half-grown boy even knew what the word meant.
This was the strangest place she'd ever been in. The telegraph operator appeared at her shoulder, and she wondered if he might transform into a pumpkin or a king.
"Could I persuade you to loan me the use of your conveyance to haul my luggage to my husband's place?" Janice asked in her best schoolteacher manner.
The boy stared at her as if she were the one to convert into a pumpkin. The cowboy elbowed him and removed the wheel from his grip. The boy jerked back to attention.
"Yes, ma'am. It'd be an honor, ma'am. Let me and Martin put this wheel back on and hitch up Bossie. We'll take you out in no time." He hesitated slightly, a frown forming on his forehead. "Uh, just exactly where is your husband at, ma'am?"
The cowboy came to her rescue. "I'll go," he said gruffly, lifting the wagon bed up from the porch. As an afterthought, he added to Janice, "You might want to get out here in the street, ma'am."
Janice had just about decided that for herself. Hurriedly she ran down the stairs and pulled Betsy farther into the road. The telegraph operator did the same. As the men pushed the wagon off the porch, the broken post creaked, sagged, and gave way entirely. The wooden overhead crashed to the ground in a puff of dirt, directly where they had been standing.
Janice sighed and pointed out the obvious. "That was my luggage under there, gentlemen."
It looked like the day could only get longer. While the men scratched their heads and drew a relatively small crowd, Janice took Betsy's hand and led her toward what she hoped was the general store. Betsy chattered excitedly the whole way about the stranger and gunslingers and "Uncle" Daniel's heroes. Janice thought she really could use a hero about now, but she didn't think the stranger called Martin was him.
Inside the general store she found a weary man in a red-checked gingham shirt leaning against the counter, staring out the dirty window. When she entered, he began to rub the wood counter.
"They'll be all day straightenin' that out," he advised her sorrowfully. "Best get you a sarsaparilla and set a spell."
That sounded an excellent idea even if the stranger's pessimistic outlook sounded familiar. Sure enough, as soon as she and Betsy settled on a crate with a bottle of sarsaparilla, a complaining voice called from the interior, "Henry, ain't you done that polishing yet?"—the voice of the fat woman from the stage.
Janice was familiar with Lewis Carroll's works and she wondered idly if she'd fallen through a rabbit hole or a looking glass. If Tweedle-dum and Tweedle-dee ran the general store, was the laconic stranger the Red King or the White Rabbit? She hid her giggles from Betsy and resolved to remain mature about this. Or at least she wouldn't give in to hysterics unless she saw a cat disappear without his grin.
"I got a customer, Gladys," Henry called back. "I'll be with you right shortly." Resting on his elbows and not appearing overly interested in selling her anything, he turned to Janice, "You just in on the stage?"
Perhaps she could use this opportunity to learn about Peter. Janice sedately adjusted her hat and smiled in her best imitation of what she thought a lady like Peter's wife ought to use. "Yes, sir. I've come to join my husband, Peter Mulloney. Do you know him?"
Henry idly swiped at his counter some more. "Mulloney," he snorted. "Fellow who bought a mountain. What's he goin' to do with a blamed empty mountain, now tell me? Ain't nothin' up there but buzzards and scrub."
Janice closed her eyes in brief prayer. He'd made it here in time. She hurriedly returned her attention to her informant. "I believe he means to ranch. He has a fondness for horses. Does he get to town much?"
Henry gave her a shrewd look. "Not that I know of. Ain't seen him since he came through here a month or more back. Horses, you say? Seems a mite strange to buy a mountain for horses."
Janice smiled brightly. "My husband is an eccentric man. Did he buy supplies when he came through? I might need to buy floor and sugar and such if he didn't."
That distracted him sufficiently. With a real live customer on his hands, Henry became all business, suggesting more impossible staples than Janice could ever want or need. While the men outside repaired the wagon and unburied her luggage, Janice set about showing the storekeeper that she wasn't entirely a greenhorn. A box of pepper that would last her into eternity and a barrel of pickles that had already grown soft were not high on her list of necessities.
But she was persuaded to buy a bolt of muslin and some dyes. She hadn't been able to bring her sewing machine, but she had the rest of her sewing kit with her. She had expected to be sewing baby clothes, but she could still make Betsy a few things. She also eyed some tanned deer hides and furs in one corner, but her supply of money was running low. She didn't want to be caught out here with no means of leaving. Perhaps if Peter found his gold, they could indulge in some warmer winter clothing.
The sun was sliding behind the hills by the time the wagon was finally loaded and ready to go. Henry suggested she and Betsy might want to overnight in the empty barber/physician's office, and the man called Martin agreed. It would be better to start off at first light. Peter's ranch was way up in the hills.
Reluctantly Janice agreed. She spent the night tossing and turning on blankets on a hard wooden floor, worrying about what she might find on the morrow. If Peter had arrived safely and bought his mountain, why hadn't he come down and wired for her by now?
She had sent her message to the Hardings, but she hadn't received any answering one telling her about any message from Peter. And no one in town seemed to have seen him recently. That meant something was wrong. She wouldn't believe that it meant he'd decided he didn't want her out here.
She refused to terrify herself with wild fears. Peter had never claimed to love her. He'd wanted a wife and had made a practical choice. She would rely on his practicality faster than she would something so ephemeral as love. He needed her. She knew it.
And she would show him what a good wife she could be by arriving when he needed her. She knew very well how to make herself useful. She couldn't believe anyone would want her for herself, dull old maid that she was, but she knew for a fact that people wanted her for her efficiency and organization. She would make Peter glad to see her.
And maybe he would be a little glad to see her in his bed too. It wasn't one of her talents, but he hadn't complained earlier. She would learn that part of married life soon enough, once given the chance.
Reassuring herself with that notion, Janice finally drifted into sleep, only to be woken by the kicking of a boot on the wooden door at dawn.
Groaning, she dragged out of the bedroll, straightened her sadly rumpled attire, pulled on her long mantle to conceal some of the wrinkles, and helped Betsy to dress. Today they would go home.
That thought cheered them as the wagon rocked and tilted up the rocky mountain path in the cool hours of morning. Betsy pointed out jackrabbits and bright birds flashing wings of blue. The stranger pointed out buzzards circling dead prey. Janice admired the cool clean air and the refreshing glimpses of green and gold after years of grays and browns. The stranger muttered ominously of early snow.
The whole town seemed to be made of cynics. Janice refused to fall prey to the same skepticism. The air was invigorating. The thin aspen woods teamed with wildlife. She had lived in towns all her life, but she wasn't immune to the beauty of nature. Having lived inside herself all these years, she wasn't concerned about the lack of neighbors. All she wanted was a roof over her head and food in her stomach. Surely Peter could manage that.
"Have we met before, Mr. Martin?" she asked at one point.<
br />
The man jerked his hat brim down. "Don't reckon."
She couldn't place him in Mineral Springs, but she finally traced him to Natchez—the man at the race. But that man had worn a beard. She didn't dare stare directly at him, but she studied him from the corner of her eye. Both men had worn their hats over their eyes, concealing their faces to a great extent. That didn't mean anything. It was something about the attitude, the way they carried themselves.
She frowned. "Do you have any cause to go to Natchez sometimes?"
"Maybe." He sent the whip cracking over the ox and pointed out a bright woodpecker to Betsy.
She might as well talk to the trees as try to get information out of the old goat. She ought to be grateful that he'd agreed to help her and leave him alone. She encouraged Betsy to sing a song while she unpacked the lunch Henry's malcontented wife had prepared. She would keep in good cheer until she knew better.
The sun was setting by the time they rolled into the valley Martin said was their destination. Janice didn't think they had traveled fifty miles, and she glanced at him quizzically. "Are you sure?" We couldn't have gone much more than ten miles, could we?"
He shrugged. "About that."
She looked at the cabin, trying to picture Peter in such a remote and empty place. "My husband said he was fifty miles out of town."
"He ain't here," the man pointed out unnecessarily.
"Then where is he? We can't stay in someone else's home."
"He's up the mountain. This here is his." He stopped the wagon outside the narrow log porch.
Janice didn't know why she had assumed Peter would be living in a house instead of sleeping on a mountain. How foolish of her to think he would do anything so simple. She glared up at the pile of rocks and trees towering over this place. If it would do any good, she would shake her fist at the mountain—or him. She wasn't sure what or whom she was angriest at. She had come out here to find her husband only to be left admiring his empty house.
There was nothing for it. She had come all this way and she couldn't go back. With stoic resignation, she helped unload their numerous bundles and bags and supplies. At least the roof over their heads would be their own.
The minute Janice walked into the dim interior she had her doubts about this assumption also.
Cast carelessly over the room's one chair lay a woman's heavily embroidered and deeply ruffled petticoat.
Chapter 30
Betsy darted past Janice and grabbed up the offending article, holding the petticoat up to her with delight. "Look! Uncle Peter left you a present! Do you think he left anything for me?"
Since Peter knew full well that his wife wore fashionable bustles and shifts and not outdated crinolines, Janice didn't think this surprise had any relation to a gift, but she had no desire to disappoint Betsy. As Martin stepped up behind her with the first load from the wagon, Janice smiled and answered, "He's probably waiting for you to tell him what you want. He doesn't know much about girl's clothes, remember."
Betsy nodded happily and danced off to inspect the rest of the cabin. Behind her, Martin grunted and shoved his way past to drop a trunk on the floor. Janice stared at the offending petticoat a little while longer, trying to create some reasonable explanation, but her imagination had come to a halt. Silently she returned to the wagon to help with the unloading.
Martin shot some squirrels and skinned them. Janice set about preparing stew in the pot over the fireplace. She couldn't believe she was learning to cook over a fireplace. She had married a man for his wealth and was cooking in a backwoods cabin over a primitive fire. She must have done something terrible to deserve this, but she couldn't think of anything for which she hadn't been punished enough already.
The petticoat still made her temper boil. While Martin unloaded the wagon and the stew simmered, she inspected the bedroom. It contained one large feather bolster on leather-strung tree trunks. A colorful Indian blanket was the only cover. With a grim look, Janice hauled the mattress from the house, strung a rope between two trees, and hung it out to air. The idea of sleeping in the same bed another woman had shared with her husband ate at her insides, but she hadn't been able to bring her own bed, and she didn't intend to sleep on the floor another night.
Later, after they devoured the stew, and Martin announced he would sleep in the barn, Janice dragged the bedding back in and made it up with the sheets she had brought with her. They were good quality sheets with a fine linen weave and hand-embroidered edges. She had worked hard for them. She meant to enjoy what little luxuries she had left.
Betsy slept beside her that night. Despite the pleasant comfort of the bed and the quietness of the mountain night, Janice didn't sleep easily. Somewhere on that mountain out there she had a husband who entertained women who wore crinolines. She wasn't certain whether to kill him or worry that someone or something had already done it for her.
Instead, she made up lists of chores and finally drifted off to sleep.
In the morning Janice found a broom and a mop and began cleaning the cabin from the inside out. Martin took one look at the flurry of activity, lifted his hat in farewell, and promised to come back with some chickens and a goat that needed a good home. Janice barely noticed his parting.
She had a husband up on that mountain and no means of reaching him. But surely he would have to come down once the snow started falling, and from the feel of it, that would be any day now. She would have his home ready when he arrived.
By the end of September she had the cabin spotless, a garden plot hoed ready for spring, a goat and chickens in the barn, but still no husband.
The stranger Martin occasionally arrived bearing fresh game that she cooked and shared with him, but he was as taciturn and uncooperative as ever when she asked him about Peter. She knew the perverse man could find Peter if he wanted, but for some reason, he wouldn't do it. The frustration left her less than gracious about his offerings for her larder.
Nailing a newly dyed curtain to the window one crisp day, remembering the night Peter made curtain rods for her, Janice was too lost in thought to pay attention to the dust cloud coming up the hill. The night of the curtains had been a turning point in her feelings for Peter. She hadn't believed an heir to the Mulloney fortune would actually sit in her humble living room and carve cheap curtain rods. He had suddenly become more human that night. She wondered if it might not have been better if he'd remained a cardboard cutout she could hate.
Betsy sat in the sun, attempting to imitate the brilliant color of the aspens on her canvas. Janice kept one eye on her as she nailed the final curtain panel, which was how she noticed the rider. He dismounted and stared at Betsy.
She couldn't swallow. She stared out the window and tried to keep calm. No more panicking. It couldn't really be him. Anyone could have blond hair. He was smaller than she remembered. She closed her eyes, remembering. Even after all these years, she couldn't forget. He could have lost his hair and gained a hundred pounds, and she would remember. She couldn't fool herself. Stephen had found them.
Hiding her shaking hands in her apron, Janice climbed down from the chair and went to the door. She didn't want to see him. She didn't want to talk to him. She didn't know why in hell he had come all the way out here or how he had even known to come. She didn't want to know. She just wanted him gone.
But he was approaching Betsy, and she had to stop him. She had to do anything to keep him from her child. Betsy was her daughter, not his. Other than that one miserable night's coupling, Stephen had nothing whatsoever to do with that innocent child sitting in the meadow. And now that she knew what lovemaking could really be like, she knew he hadn't even made love to her that night. He'd just taken his pleasure on her body and left her.
She loathed him. But she let none of that show in her face as she walked into the yard, deliberately drawing his attention away from her daughter. Once Stephen saw her, he led his horse toward the house and away from Betsy. The child didn't even seem to notice.
&nbs
p; "Good morning, Janice." His eyes were the deceptive gray-blue she remembered. They looked her over with the same appreciation as they had then.
She didn't think her dusty gingham work dress was anything to brag about, but then, he wasn't really looking at her dress. She used to blush when he looked at her like that. Now, she just wanted to smack his face.
"What are you doing here, Stephen?" she forced herself to ask calmly. There was no point in denying him. She knew who he was, even after ten years. He had grown from a handsome boy into a handsome man, but years of hard living appeared in the weathered lines around his eyes. He hadn't found a life of ease since he'd left her.
"I came looking for you," he replied. His gaze focused on her face. "You haven't changed much, Janice. You're lovelier than ever."
"Hog spittle. Name your business and go." Janice untied her apron and began folding it over her arm. Past his shoulder, she could see Betsy looking up from her absorption with the painting. She prayed the child would have the sense to stay put.
"Janice, I've come a long way to find you. Won't you even hear me out?" Stephen stepped closer.
Janice held her place. She refused to let him back her into the house. "You haven't got anything to say that I want to hear, Stephen. It's far too late for that. I can only figure you're here now to cause trouble. I've got a shotgun back in the house. Don't make me fetch it."
His lips tightened slightly. "Janice, you didn't used to be this disagreeable." He glanced over his shoulder to the golden-haired child watching them. "She's mine, isn't she? They told me back home that you had her, but some said she was sickly and wouldn't live. She looks fine to me."
"She's not yours, Stephen, so get that notion right out of your head. You never gave me anything but misery. I'm expecting my husband home anytime now. I'd advise you to get out of here before he does." The words didn't sound very brave when she said them, but at least she didn't grovel and plead with him to leave. He was scaring the wits out of her. She couldn't think of any good reason for him to be here.
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