"It's a crude shanty with a dirt floor."
"I can live with a dirt floor." She shrugged, truly not minding. "Your cabin may be a little on the rough side, but you're mistaken if you think I'm used to luxuries. I've always just scraped by and made do and never had much of anything. I can take care of myself, but I can't protect us from dangerous men. I hate to ask you, but–" Her chin dipped, and lovely black ringlets fell across her brow. "Someone was in your stable the night you left."
"What?" He bolted forward, grabbing hold of her arm. "Who? Someone from town?"
"I don't know. I hit him in the head with one of your whiskey bottles."
"You what?" Wyatt couldn't believe it. "He threatened you? Tried to attack you?"
"No, but I figured he could, so I decided to act." She tilted her face up to his, and he could see the fear in her eyes, and the courage, too. "He got away before I could find out who he was or what he wanted. I was afraid I'd killed him, but I think I just cut his head pretty bad."
Wyatt thought about that. If Ben's killer saw him leave town to hunt down Eugene, then he might have thought the claim would be abandoned and he'd be free to keep searching for Ben's stash of gold. Hell, he could have stumbled on Garnet and hurt her.
He hauled her into his arms, driven by concern. "Are you all right? You can't trust the men in these parts, Garnet. They are a rough sort. Outlaws and criminals. Even murderers."
"That's why I would like to stay with you as long as it's necessary. I know you'll keep us safe, Wyatt, and that's all that matters."
Although she spoke like a prim spinster, there was something different in her voice, something changed in her eyes.
He'd seen that something before, and it shook him straight down to his heart. That sparkle of interest, that allure of attraction. It couldn't be true. Garnet Jones didn't like men like him.
He had to be imagining it.
Chapter Seven
When Wyatt ambled home for supper after searching the entire forest for signs of the man Garnet hurt, it was with a stiff back and aching joints. At least he had footprints this time. Sure evidence that the murderer wasn't a prospector. No cheap work boots made the few tracks left behind in the dust. They had to be fine expensive shoes, the kind the merchants and gambling hall owners wore. The footprints revealed that the shoes' owner had average-sized feet and was limping slightly, as if he'd been injured before his confrontation with Garnet. Perhaps on the road when she arrived.
Exhaustion hung about his head like fog, and the strong rays of the late day sun burned his eyes. He needed to go to town and check up on these leads while they were fresh, while the killer was still sporting his wounds.
As he neared his cabin, his brother Ben's cabin, he saw the light gray plume of smoke lifting from the stovepipe above the canvas roof. The women were probably cooking supper, he considered, and his empty stomach growled as loudly as a bear. His mouth watered at the memory of Garnet's pancakes. Fluffy and moist, spongy and light. Maple syrup sweetening the stack like spun sugar. Yes, it wouldn't be such a bad thing to have himself some of those pancakes right about now.
Instead of marching directly through the cabin's only door, he skirted the corner and headed toward the privy. Finding new clues that would lead him straight to the killer had put him in a great mood. But the minute he reached the back corner of his cabin and saw what Garnet had done, that good mood suffered a miserable death.
She'd strung perfectly good rope from the corner of the shack to the tree in the fashion of a clothesline. Dripping wet, lye-scented wool blankets were draped over the rope, neat end to neat end.
As far as Wyatt could tell, it was every blanket he owned.
A horrible anger began to boil like hot water through his veins. Something like a windstorm swept through his brain, and he marched back to the cabin, trying to gain control of his spiraling temper.
He threw open the door and froze at an even more upsetting sight. His only two buckets sat on the top of the stove, full of bubbling water. He could see the steam from where he stood. Young Lance Lowell's wash tub was in the middle of the room, full of lye soap. Garnet knelt before it, arms submerged up to her elbows.
Piles of something sat in the tub. He could see the wet lengths of fabric darkening the wash water.
Wyatt stepped forward. "
What in the hell are you doing
? "
She looked up from her work. "Clearly I am doing laundry."
"You washed my blankets. You washed every single one of my blankets. Wasn't my coffeepot enough for you?"
He marched over to the washtub and dared to reach into the sudsy, foul-smelling water. His fingers snagged a wet length of wool and he lifted it up. A sodden, dripping blanket.
Wyatt swore and dropped it back into the tub. Water splashed everywhere, wetting great patches of his trousers. Garnet hopped backward, having been splashed, too.
"I washed your stove, but you haven't noticed that yet. I'd never seen such a filthy stove." She stared up at him with angry eyes. "I wanted to do this for you since you're allowing us to stay here. I might not be able to pay rent, but I can make myself useful. I can't tell you how dirty everything is around here. You probably don't have the slightest idea because you've become accustomed to the filth."
"Did you ever stop and think that maybe I like my blankets this way?" Wyatt stormed across the room. The girl, Golda, gasped at his approach and shrank back into the corner, eyes round with terror.
"What about your clothes?" Garnet crooked an eyebrow at him. "I thought–"
"
What about my clothes
?" he growled.
She opened her mouth, but no more words came out.
Something else was wrong. He felt a tight tingle of wariness slip down his spine. "Tell me right now. What did you do with my clothes?"
"I washed them, too. They're soaking in the rinse water. They need a lot of soaking."
"Are all my clothes in there?" Hell, he didn't deserve this, this
civilized
need to clean everything that wasn't nailed down.
"All but your underthings," Garnet said in a quiet, embarrassed voice.
At least some of his possessions had escaped her lye soap. "Don't touch them, you hear?"
"I said they weren't in the rinse water. Your drawers are boiling in the bucket on the stove."
He closed his eyes, struggling not to lose his temper. "I'm going to fetch wood for the fire. I'm hungry."
Wyatt looked mad. Garnet left the shirt to soak and stood. "Let me cook for you."
"Fine." He stormed from the room, leaving them alone.
Well, she didn't like this arrangement either, but what choice did she have? When Wyatt had offered his help, she had to accept it. Did he think she relied on men all the time? Did he think she just took what she wanted every day from any man she met, even if it was an entire house?
No, and he ought to know that. It hurt her pride terribly that she was forced to depend on him now. She, the feared schoolmarm of Willow Hollow, had never failed to be self-reliant before now.
Pa had done this to her. That no-account man cared more about his own recreating than he ever would his daughters. And Wyatt was a miner too, just like Pa. He drank whiskey and panned for gold. She had to believe he was no different in nature.
Yet she knew he was different. Her chest constricted, and it was hard to breathe. She shouldn't group Wyatt in the same category of men as Pa. Wyatt helped others. He may not be perfectly tidy, but he had tended her wound, comforted her, and given her his bed when she had no other place to sleep.
And most of all, he had never lied to her about the kind of man he was.
Golda's footsteps tapped close across the wood floor, skirting the rinse barrel. "I've something to tell you, but first you have to promise not to get angry. You know you have a temper."
"A temper?" It was true, so Garnet couldn't argue. She braced herself for the worst. "What exactly have you done now that will set off my temper?"
"Oh, nothing I've done. Not exactly." Golda didn't seem so sure of herself. She looked helpless and muddled and pressed a nervous hand to her chest as if a guilty heart beat within. "I just want you to promise, first."
"Promise?" Garnet grabbed a towel to dry her hands. "I make no promises. Tell me what you've done."
"Oh, Garnet." Troubled, Golda hung her head. She fiddled around in her small reticule and produced a leather pouch.
Garnet recognized it at once. Drawstring pokes fashioned from tanned leather were notorious purses for prospector's silly dust. Shock rocked through her. "You've stolen Mr. Tanner's gold!"
Golda's head came up. "I did not. Really, Garnet, I would never steal. Mr. Lowell dropped by to visit and he gave this to me."
"Mr. Lowell? He came by to see you? When?" Garnet sighed. This was very bad news indeed. "I didn't hear his knock at the door."
"Well," Golda hesitated, as if she knew darn good and well the truth would only make matters worse. "He didn't exactly knock at the door. He was waiting in the bushes for me to come outside."
"Oh, a proper sort of gentleman."
"But he is!" Golda rose to an immediate defense. "He wanted me to have all of his gold even if it takes me away from him. Isn't he gallant? Isn't he noble?"
A horrible pounding beat through Garnet's head. "
Give it back to him at once
."
"What?" Innocent-eyed, Golda stared at her sister. "But–"
"Give it back, I said." Garnet saw only disaster. A disaster her younger sister did not understand, could not. She had been too young to remember Ma dying of a broken heart, pining for the one man who could never love her. "You will not be beholden to that man for whatever minuscule amount of dust he's actually managed to pan from that muddy creek."
"How can you be so ungrateful?" Golda cried out. "Lance is kind and noble and generous. He worked hard for this gold."
"It's highly improper to call such a man by his first name." This couldn't be happening, Garnet thought, beginning to panic. This was just the way Ma had always described how she fell in love with Pa. The bumbling miner, young and handsome, had a kindness that had lured poor unsuspecting Ma into a life of poverty and desperate unhappiness. "Come with me, we shall return that gold dust immediately and all will be set right."
"
No
." Golda planted her feet. Defiance shone in her eyes. "I won't be as hateful as you, Garnet. I won't. Lance–I mean Mr. Lowell–was wonderful to me and I–"
The door banged open. Wyatt filled the threshold, all flesh-and-blood man made of powerful muscle and iron will. Golda trembled at his presence, but Garnet felt her anger drain like water from a spigot. Her gaze met his and her heart drummed, her burdens felt lighter.
Good Lord, it wasn't the same, this admiration she felt for Wyatt Tanner. It wasn't at all the same mistake Ma had made in coming to like, then love, then marry Pa. And it certainly wasn't anything like the terrible judgment Golda was showing toward Lance Lowell.
Why, she didn't even like Wyatt Tanner. And as long as she refused to like him, then she didn't need to worry about falling victim to love.
* * *
The next day, Wyatt had agreed to walk her and Golda into town and serve as protection. Garnet's first goal was of course to make sure Mr. Lance Lowell received all of his gold dust. Then she would need money both for immediate needs like groceries and future needs like stage tickets. That meant she would have to secure a respectable job.
"Too bad there are no children here," she mused. "I am a fine schoolteacher."
"A few of the women in town have kids." Wyatt walked at her side, shortening his long stride, perhaps out of consideration for her shorter step and injured leg. Garnet tried not to think about what a thoughtful man he was.
"I did not know there were other women in this town."
"There are brothels, you know. Women live and work in those."
Garnet blushed. "I was unaware that soiled doves were referred to as women."
"Well, they are all the same to me." Wyatt shrugged. "When I was a sheriff, I never gave the molls a hard time. They were just working for their living, same as me.
"
You
were a sheriff?" That made her laugh. "I can't picture you with a tin badge on your chest."
"Why not?"
"Miners don't hold respectable jobs."
"I have my moments of responsibility."
When she thought about it, she could imagine him in lawman's garb. He would look strong and capable and so handsome, women had probably fallen at his feet. "When you were a sheriff, I hope you washed your things more often."
"What is your obsession with cleaning? I don't think it's healthy to be too clean."
"Stop teasing me. At least I am not as slothful as to allow my person to smell like a dead skunk from twenty yards away."
"I don't smell like a skunk."
"No, you don't." He smelled wonderful, fresh as the forest, and it was wrong of her to notice.
"Besides, this is uncivilized country. If word got around that I scrubbed house and ironed my sheets I'd be laughed right out of town."
Golda, apparently recovered sufficiently from her bit of the sulks, snorted in what sounded like disgust.
