Rosanne Bittner (2 page)

Sage stretched his arms to relieve a slight ache from the repetition of shoveling dirt. He carried the shovel to Maggie Tucker’s wagon and set it into hooks at the side of the wagon bed, then made a fire from wood tied to his pack horse. As he unloaded the wood and a sack of coffee beans, his thoughts were on the young woman whose lovely green eyes betrayed her show of bravery when she pointed his own six-gun at him. He could see she’d been as frightened as a rabbit in a foxhole, and from her appearance, he had no doubt what had gone on here.

Now he wasn’t sure what the hell to do about Mrs. Maggie McPhee Tucker. Finding and helping her had already put quite a dent in his plans, and now, he was stuck with her. By the time he built a fire and made coffee, Sage detected movement near the wagon and glanced over to see Maggie climbing out. She still clung to a blanket. Her red hair was a tousled mess, her face and hands still filthy, her dress torn. As she approached him, he thought how her tiny frame made her appear more girl than woman, and he couldn’t help feeling sorry for her, nor could he control a deep anger at the men who’d abused her in the worst way. No woman deserved that.

He kept his cheroot at the corner of his mouth as she hesitated once she drew near. She studied him as though he were a crouched bobcat, ready to pounce.

“Come have some coffee,” he said. “You need it. And, ma’am, if you needed to be afraid of me, you’d know it by now.”

She kept the blanket closed to her neck. “I suppose.”

“I finished filling the grave. Was the man in it your pa or your husband?”

Maggie glanced at the grave. “My husband.” She looked back at Sage. “Outlaws shot him and looted our camp and…” She walked around the other side of the fire, her voice hardly audible. “…and they weren’t very kind to me.”

“No need to explain.” Sage removed the smoke from his lips and poured himself a cup of coffee, taking a sip. “I’m sorry for what happened, especially that it happened on my land. These are men I suspect once worked for me.”

Maggie sat on a log across the fire from him. “So, you’re pretty sure who they were?”

Sage nodded. “More than pretty sure. I’m damn sure.”

Maggie swallowed. “Well, then, I’d be obliged if you’d tell me their names, Mr. Lightfoot, as I intend to find them and kill them.”

Sage struggled to contain a snort of laughter at her matter-of-fact statement. Maggie Tucker looked to weigh maybe a hundred pounds at most. “Is that so?”

“Yes, sir. I’m good with my pa’s old Sharps, and I can’t let those men get away with what they did to me and my husband. I just need a horse. Perhaps you’d sell me one. I have some money hidden in the wagon that those men didn’t find. I can pay you.”

Sage couldn’t help admiring her. In spite of what she’d suffered, this woman was no shrinking violet. “Ma’am, I would never allow you to ride off with no idea where you’re going, or how you’ll find those men, or how in hell you expect to get the better of them if you do find them.” He poured another cup of coffee and handed it to her.

Maggie took the cup, still eyeing him warily. “What I do and how I do it is none of your concern, Mr. Lightfoot.”

Sage rolled his eyes in exasperation. “I just spent close to two hours filling in that grave for you. I cleaned up your camp a little and made you some coffee—and I let you sleep while I did it all because I figured you needed it. You owe me, so sit down, and tell me more about what happened here. Then we’ll decide what to do about it.”

Maggie looked at the grave again. “I guess I should thank you.”

“I guess you should.”

She took a sip of coffee. “You said this is your land. I don’t see a house anywhere.”

“That’s because my house is a three-day ride from here.”

Her eyes widened. “It takes three days to ride across your land?”

“Actually, about four, if you go beyond the house and to the other fence line. And that’s if the weather is good. In winter, it takes longer. Sometimes out here, you don’t go anywhere in winter. Snow’s too deep.” He swept his hand to point out the surrounding horizon. “All this is part of Paradise Valley Ranch.”

Sage stuck the cheroot between his lips again, while Maggie drank more coffee. He wondered why she didn’t appear to mourn her husband’s death, but that wasn’t his business. Besides, she was probably still in shock. She shifted restlessly, her demeanor reminding Sage of a nervous colt.

“Tell me more about yourself,” he said, “how you and your husband ended up way out here alone. And I still need to know what happened here and what the men looked like.”

Maggie wrapped one end of the blanket around the still-hot coffee cup and drank a little more of the stiff brew, then set the cup on the ground and folded herself into the blanket. “The man you helped me bury is James Tucker, my husband for the last four years.”

Married for four years? Sage thought she looked barely fifteen or sixteen.

“We’re from Missouri—lived there our whole lives. My grandparents came to America from the Scottish Highlands and settled there.” She spoke quietly, staring at the crackling fire. “Last winter James decided we’d go to Oregon to farm in the Willamette Valley. He’d heard a lot about the place, what great land was there. The farm we had in Missouri was played out.” She pulled the blanket closer. “There were other reasons we left, but mainly, it was to start over someplace new. My pa died, and there was nobody left—”

She stopped mid-sentence and blinked back tears. Apparently, her loss was finally setting in. Sage waited for her to compose herself.

“James, he was a real independent sort,” she finally continued. “He was one to make up his mind quick-like—didn’t always think things out. We drove a wagon up to Omaha, then sold it for train fare to Cheyenne, where we bought that wagon over there and a team of mules.” She looked at the wagon, then met Sage’s gaze. “We left town and headed northeast, but we kind of lost our way. We got held up here because of a lame mule.” She paused and closed her eyes. “Three men came along. They weren’t very clean, but they seemed friendly enough. They wanted to know if they could use our fire for the night—said they’d been riding for quite a long time. My husband offered to let them eat with us, but after eating our food, those men started drinking. They got kind of wild—said things about me that alarmed my husband. He ordered them to leave our camp, but before he could get hold of his rifle to back up his words, one drew a gun and shot him.” She met Sage’s eyes again, her own showing utter devastation. “Just… shot him… just like that… point blank.”

She turned her gaze to the fire again. A piece of pinewood popped, sending golden cinders upward. She jumped. “I was so stunned that I… well, before I could react… they were on me. When they were through with me, they stole what they needed from the wagon and rode off with the mules. I heard a gunshot after a little while. I expect they shot the lame mule because it would have slowed them down.”

Sage wasn’t quite sure what to say. He puffed on what was left of his smoke then threw the stub into the fire. “I’m sorry for what happened.”

She nodded, then suddenly jerked her head up and looked straight at him. “I’ll have you know I’m a good woman. I was a good wife and true to my man. James had his faults, but he didn’t deserve to be shot down like a rabid dog. And what those men did—that doesn’t change who I am.”

Sage shook his head. “I’m not a man to judge, Mrs. Tucker. I’d never think less of a woman because of something like that, and a bit of a thing like you couldn’t have stopped it.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Can you describe the three men?”

“’Course I can. One was kind of fat, bald, maybe forty. Another was young, about my age, I guess. I’m twenty. The third man was older, like the first one. He had a beard and an ugly scar over one eye. All three wore buckskins, and they… smelled bad.” Without warning, she suddenly turned sideways and vomited.

Sage got up and walked over to take the saddle from his horse, figuring he’d better unload some of the weight from his packhorse too. He wanted to give Maggie Tucker time to compose herself. He realized the woman couldn’t possibly ride anywhere for now, and it was going to be dark in just another hour or so. They were stuck here for the night, and he had to decide what the heck to do with the woman come morning. His insides lurched with fury at what the three men had done, and by her description, he was sure they were the same men he was after. If only he’d caught up to them a little sooner…

“Is there any water nearby where I could wash off the filth of those men and change my clothes?” she asked.

Sage turned to see she was standing near him. She’d wiped away her tears, smearing the dirt on her cheeks. God, she was small, and she sure didn’t look twenty. “I can take you to a stream about a hundred yards from here.”

She turned away. “I’d best go alone.”

“Too dangerous. There are bears here about—and wolves—and sometimes, a renegade Indian.” He reached for a nearly empty canteen. “Besides, I need to fill this.” He faced her and read the doubt in her eyes. “Ma’am, like I said, if you couldn’t trust me, you’d already know it. I even left my guns with you. So get some clean clothes, and I’ll take you to the stream to wash. I’ll turn my back and wait. I happen to be a man of my word.”

Maggie slowly nodded. “All right. I see honesty in your eyes, Mr. Lightfoot, but something tells me you can be mean as an injured bear when you choose. Either way, I don’t have much choice but to trust you.”

“That’s right, unless you don’t want that bath.”

Sighing with resignation, Maggie walked to the wagon and climbed inside. Sage followed, telling her to hand out his rifle and six-gun. “I’ll be needing them. Can’t very well guard you without my weapons.”

After a moment of what Sage figured was another doubt-filled hesitation, Maggie handed out his weapons, then climbed out of the wagon with an armful of clothes and a towel. “Let’s go.”

Sage pushed back his hat, realizing she had a few freckles across her cheeks and nose. “You really twenty?”

“I am.”

“You sure don’t look it.”

“Everybody says that.” She looked around. “Which way do we go?”

Sage shoved his six-gun into its holster then shouldered his rifle. “This way.” He turned and walked across rocky ground toward the stream.

“Thank you again for what you did—filling in the grave and all,” Maggie told him as she followed.

“No problem.” Sage scowled. Maggie Tucker’s situation irked him. He hadn’t been with a woman in a long, long time. Now this one was going to strip naked right behind his back. If circumstances were different…

Mind
your
business, Sage Lightfoot.

Maybe he should have left her sleeping and gone on without her.

Maggie’s need to wash overcame her uncertainty about Sage Lightfoot. He sat with his back to her, and she supposed any man who would fill in the grave of a stranger then calmly sit and wait for her to wake up must be trustworthy. She lowered her naked body into the shatteringly cold creek water and scrubbed with a bar of homemade lye soap that stung her still-raw palms. She didn’t care. Every bone in her body hurt, every muscle, every nerve ending. She imagined she was scrubbing away the ugly memories, ridding herself of real and imagined filth.

She bent over and washed the dirt from her hair, fighting an urge to scream at the memory of being shoved down hard to the ground and held there.

She stole frequent glances at Sage Lightfoot, making sure he stuck to his promise of not looking. He was certainly a handsome man, tall and well built, and he was clean. His stubble of a beard showed he was a man who got in a shave as often as he could. The hair that fell from under his wide-brimmed hat to the top of his shoulders was very dark, and she couldn’t help wondering if he might have Indian blood. His build and facial features were mostly those of a white man, but when one considered his name and his hair and those high cheekbones…

Back home there were a few Cherokee still around, and many of them looked more white than Indian, but she wasn’t going to ask this stranger strong enough to break her neck too many personal questions. She might say something to offend him. Something in those deep brown eyes sparked of danger, showed a man capable of pure violence if provoked. Yet there he sat, respectfully waiting for her to finish, understanding she needed to do this.

Still, respectful or not, she didn’t want to be so vulnerable any longer than necessary. She quickly grabbed her towel and dried off the best she could. She wrapped her hair in the towel and scrambled to put on clean drawers, slips, and a camisole. She stepped into her blue gingham dress and shoved her arms into the sleeves, then realized that in her haste and confused state of mind she’d picked a dress that buttoned up the back.

How
stupid!
Now she had to ask Sage Lightfoot to button it for her. She breathed deeply for courage. “I’m done, Mr. Lightfoot—but I’m afraid I need your help with something.”

Lightfoot rose and turned, walking closer. Maggie couldn’t help feeling intimidated by his towering presence. She figured he stood over six feet tall, and she doubted there was a soft spot anywhere on his body.

“What is it?” he asked.

Swallowing her embarrassment, Maggie explained. “I seem to have picked the wrong dress. This one buttons up the back. I’m sorry, but I have to ask you to button it for me. It’s only from the middle up.”

They stood there rather awkwardly, until Lightfoot cleared his throat and set his rifle against a rock. “Well, ma’am, I can be pretty clumsy at things like that, but turn around, and I’ll oblige you.”

Maggie turned, hugging the towel to her chest as he fumbled with the buttons. She shivered at the touch of his fingers, but his big hands were surprisingly gentle.

“There you go,” he said when he finished.

“Thank you, Mr. Lightfoot.” Maggie stiffened when he grasped her shoulders firmly and gave a gentle squeeze.

“Ma’am, you need to relax and stop shaking. You don’t need to be afraid of me. I don’t know how many ways to tell you.”

He ran his thumbs over her shoulders in a way that caused Maggie to feel comforted by his strength. The frightened woman in her, perhaps even the little girl in her, wanted to turn and let him hold her for a moment, just to luxuriate in a feeling of safety and protection. But she couldn’t risk this stranger taking such a bold act the wrong way.
Don’t trust him
, she reminded herself.

“And call me Sage,” he added, letting go of her. “Hardly anybody calls me Mr. Lightfoot.”

“If you prefer.” Maggie picked up her dirty clothes and her blanket. “And you may call me Maggie.” She turned to face him. “I’d like to burn these clothes. I never want to wear them again.”

Sage nodded. “I don’t blame you.” He shouldered his rifle again and led her back to the campfire, where one by one Maggie held a piece of clothing over the fire until it burned. As each piece disintegrated, she started the next, fearful that if she threw the whole heap on the fire at once she’d snuff it out. Her dress took the longest to burn. She held it over the flames until they nearly consumed it. She jumped back and dropped the dress when the flames reached one of her fingers.

“You all right?” Sage walked over to look at her finger then noticed the deep red blisters on her palms. “From the shoveling?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’ll put some bear grease on your hands.”

“Bear grease?”

“An old Indian remedy. Smells bad, but it will feel good on those blisters and help them heal. Sit down.”

An
old
Indian
remedy?
Maggie sat down on her blanket as he walked over to his gear and rummaged in one of his saddlebags, taking out a small, flat tin with a screw-top lid. “You hungry?” he asked.

“Just a little.”

He fished a biscuit out of a gunnysack and brought it to her. “My cook back at the ranch house made these three days ago. I don’t know how he does it, but his biscuits stay pretty decent for about five days. Might be a bit of a chew, but it’s fresh enough that it won’t have any worms in it.”

“Thank you.” Maggie bit into the biscuit, then laid it in her lap and held her hands out when Sage ordered it. He gently applied a light coating of smelly bear grease onto her palms. She noticed his own hands were those of a hardworking man—stained in the creases—the kind of stains that don’t come clean with plain washing. He’d need a wire brush to get rid of them. He closed the tin and put it back in his saddlebag, then sat on a rock near the fire. He sighed as he pulled a cheroot from his shirt pocket. “We need to discuss what to do with you,” he told her before lighting the smoke.

“Do with me? Mr. Lightfoot—I mean, Sage—you don’t need to feel responsible to do anything with me.”

He poured both of them another cup of coffee. “I found you, I helped you, and you’re on my land. I can’t just leave you here alone.”

He studied her with those disturbing eyes, and it struck Maggie that part Indian or not, he was more handsome than she’d first realized. Given what she’d been through, she was surprised she’d noticed.

“Are you really twenty?” he asked again.

“That’s the second time you’ve asked me.”

“Well, now that you’re all scrubbed up, you look even younger than I thought.”

Maggie shrugged. “Think what you want. I’ve been through a lot in these twenty years—worked a farm back in Missouri, married James, lost a child to pneumonia… lost my heart when I put her in the ground… came halfway across the country, and then suffered something no woman should suffer—buried my husband…” Her eyes teared. “I guess that about sums up my life. I’ve worked like a man most of it. I reckon my pa wished I was a boy because I was the only child him and my ma ever had, so there you are.” She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and looked at Sage, who was studying her intently.

“You’re going back to my ranch house with me,” he told her. “I’ll send a couple of men back here to put a marker on your husband’s grave. They can bring extra horses and drive your wagon to the ranch.”

“I’m grateful. But as far as going to your house, if you intend to leave me there while you—”

“That’s exactly what I intend,” he interrupted. “I have some men to find. Taking you to the ranch is going to cost me about a week, but I have a pretty good idea where the culprits who did this are. Once you’re ready, one of my ranch hands can take you to the closest town, and—”

“I, too, have some men to find,” Maggie interrupted. “I do not intend to go on with my life as though this never happened, not yet anyway. You said the filth who did this sounded like the same men you are after. I want to go with you to find them.”

Sage shook his head. “Hell, no.”

“I’d be no burden. You can count on that. I can ride. I can shoot. And I’m a good cook. I can keep up with any man.”

Sage stared at her for a long, silent moment. “What happened to you last night is an example of why I can’t take you along.”

She held his gaze with determination. “I didn’t have a gun on me. I won’t make that mistake again.” She stared boldly at him, warning him with her eyes he wouldn’t get near her either, if he had such a notion.

“The fact remains you’re no match if a man gets the better of you,” Sage answered with a scowl.

Maggie looked at the biscuit in her lap. “If you ride off without me, then I’ll just follow.”

Sage rose and walked a few feet away, staring at the sun sinking behind the western mountains. He turned to face her then.

“The first thing we do is stay here for the night because it’s too late. Come morning, we’ll head back, and you’ll rest for another day or two after we get to the ranch house. If you’re still determined to go with me, I’ll give you a horse and a packhorse to use, but you’d better keep up, or I’ll leave you at the nearest town with enough money to get back on your feet, and maybe go home, or do whatever you think is best. Agreed?”

Maggie gave his offer some thought, then nodded. “That’s fair enough, I suppose.” Was she crazy to agree to ride off for days, maybe weeks, with a man she knew nothing about? “How sure are you that the men who killed my husband are the same men you’re after?”

He closed his eyes, his jaw twitching in an obvious tussle with anger. “Your description fits them perfectly.”

“Why are you hunting them?”

“We’ll talk about that tomorrow. It’s almost dark, and we have a lot of traveling to do, so for now, you’d better rest. I’ll keep watch.”

Maggie frowned. “Why are you doing all this? You don’t even know me.”

He removed his hat and smoothed back his thick hair. “Like I said, it’s my land this happened on, and it was men who’d worked for me who killed your husband, so I feel responsible. Besides that, I can’t very well just ride off and leave you stranded here like a newborn calf without its ma.”

She picked up her towel and rubbed her wet hair, trying to dry it out faster. “I’d find my way if I had to.” She shook out the tangled red tresses and met his gaze, trying to appear bold and determined, so he wouldn’t change his mind.

Sage put his hands on his hips. “I expect you’d do your best to find those men on your own, but I’m not taking that chance and then feel guilty when I find you dead in the mountains. Speaking of which, what do you even know about survival in this land?”

Maggie looked around. Dark shadows stretched toward them as night came on. She remembered that yesterday she’d been contemplating how big this land was—beautiful and wild. “I guess I didn’t need to give it a whole lot of thought when I was with James. We were pretty awestruck though—not sure how to get over those mountains.”

Sage walked over and sat down again, drawing on his smoke before answering. “There are passes out here that will take you through the mountains, if you know the land, and you don’t know it. I guarantee that if you set out after those men alone, you won’t survive. It’s real easy to get lost in the foothills, let alone in the mountains themselves. Then the elements would do you in… or maybe the wolves, or a grizzly, or a slide down a rocky slope, or a fall over the side of a cliff, or a boulder falling on you, or a renegade Indian finding you, or—”

Maggie held up her hand. “I get it. You’re saying I need to be with somebody who knows his way—which would be you.”

He took the cheroot from his lips and rolled the thin cigar between his fingers. “I’m not guaranteeing I’ll take you along, but I fear you mean it when you say you’d go anyway.”

“We could go on from here.”

He shook his head. “You need your rest worse than you think. Besides, we need to get you a horse, and I need to tell my men what happened and send a couple of them back here.”

Maggie sipped her coffee. “I hope you’re not angry with me for messing up your plans.”

Sage took another draw on the cheroot. “You didn’t mess up my plans. Those men did.” He rose and stepped out his smoke, then took a sheepskin-lined leather jacket from his gear and pulled it on. He grabbed his rifle and a couple blankets, then propped the rifle next to his saddle and spread one of the blankets on the ground. He stretched out on it, resting his head on his saddle. “Finish that biscuit, and get inside the wagon where it’s warmer. Get some sleep.” Maggie picked up her blanket, shook it out, then walked to the wagon. She took a last glance at Sage Lightfoot to see he’d pulled his hat down over his face. She had a feeling that the man knew exactly what to listen for—that if a wolf came prowling too close… or an unwanted human… Lightfoot would know it, no matter how hard he slept. She suspected part of him belonged to this land as much as the animals that roamed beyond the foothills. It gave her mixed feelings of safety and danger.

She had no choice for now but to succumb to an aching weariness that far overwhelmed any distrust. She climbed into the wagon and collapsed into a pile of quilts, pulling one of them over herself. She fell asleep wondering if Sage Lightfoot ever smiled.