Garnet's TreasureBN.html Page 2

  She was no fresh-faced maiden, not with those fine creases around her full mouth and lines in the corners of her closed eyes. But she was no hard-bitten woman either. Wyatt could see the softness of her skin, pearl-smooth even in this rough light.

  She wore a modest gray dress, a fabric without print or stripes or tiny flowers. The material stretching across her small breasts and tightly cinched waist was plain and unadorned. Her full skirt had ballooned up under her, perhaps as a result of her fall, to reveal white pantaloons and socks. A bright stain grew in the muslin covering her upper thigh. Blood. She'd been shot.

  He knelt down to study the rent fabric and skin. The small bullet hole revealed a raw tear and several layers of opened flesh. She'd only been nicked by the bullet, for it looked like a superficial wound. Wyatt shook his head, relieved. She was lucky and he was damn grateful, since there wasn't a doctor brave enough to set up practice in the notoriously rough mining camp of Stinking Creek.

  Now that he knew she wasn't dead or dying, great questions troubled him. Who was she? Where did she come from? And most importantly, why? He didn't recognize her face. She certainly wasn't one of the town's painted ladies.

  He eased the knife from his pocket and glanced around, watching the shiver of the shadowed trees in the slight wind. An owl glided by on outstretched wings. He heard no human sounds.

  He exposed the sharp knife's blade. Its steely edge caught the thin lantern light and flashed in the darkness. He was no doctor, but he would do what he could. Even if it wasn't safe here kneeling in the road. Listening for the return of the dark rider, he reached for a length of the woman's starched petticoats and sliced off a good bit of hem.

  The sound of fabric tearing blended with the other sounds of night. The chirp of insects, the hoot of an owl, the call of a wolf in the distance. A closer one answered. Wyatt considered the direction of the wind. Would the wolves smell blood and move in?

  He quickly tied the band of cloth tight about the wound. Immediately blood began to seep through the bandage. Wyatt studied that growing stain, bright crimson against snowy white muslin. He'd best get her to shelter. His cabin was the nearest place.

  Well, it looked like he was saddled with another patient to look after, whether he wanted her or not. He was no darn nurse. He had a murder to solve and a life of his own to get back to. Stinking Creek wasn't his idea of paradise.

  Another wolf's cry sliced through the night. They had no time to dally. Wyatt wondered where the second woman had disappeared to. She'd probably run to hide from him. There was no way she could know he wasn't a threat. He listened for the sound of her in the woods, but heard only the movement of animals scurrying for cover. The wolves were here.

  He tucked his left arm beneath the woman's knees and his right beneath her shoulders. He could feel the curve of her ribs and the rounding of her bottom. All female. Her head bobbed from side to side, then gently rolled to rest against his shoulder. Her lustrous dark hair felt like black silk against his chin. He tried not to pay attention, tried not to remember the last time he held a woman, his wife. His chest ached. Yes, best not to think of that.

  It wasn't a long walk back to his cabin, but the night wrapped silently around him. He sensed the dark, shadowy presence of the wolves. Wyatt walked faster, always aware of the woman in his arms.

  * * *

  Golda Jones bit back the hard cold ball of fear in her chest. She crouched behind a thick, dark patch of tree branches. She had been careful not to make even one sound. It was difficult. Small twigs littering the ground beneath her shoes threatened to snap beneath the slightest shift of her weight. Willowy branches caught in her hair and moved with each intake of breath.

  The moment she realized their lives were in peril, Golda had run for the cover of the forest. She'd been halfway there when she realized Garnet had fallen. Torn by indecision, she'd debated what to do. But when that gun-toting ruffian came dashing toward them, fear had overtaken loyalty and she'd hidden from the outlaw the best she could.

  She just happened to have hold of both reticules, and she clutched them tightly to her belly. Garnet would want her to safeguard them, for all of their savings were tucked inside. If that outlaw took their gold, how else would they afford safe passage back home?

  Although the villain carried a small lantern, she could not see enough of the road to tell if Garnet still lived. Now the man stepped into a soft glow of light. A cold hand of fear reached right out and clutched her rapidly beating heart. The dark stranger scanned the forest as if he knew she was there, as if he sensed her watching him. She snapped her eyes shut and stood in absolute darkness, terror pumping through her veins.

  Golda opened her eyes. Far ahead in the oppressive night, she could see the man staggering under the weight of something he carried like a huge sack of grain. Garnet! She swallowed the scream in her too-dry throat. He was packing off her sister's body.

  Her grief hammered through her in one cold sweep. Golda leaned her forehead against the reassuring solidness of the tree trunk. The bark was hard and rough against her fair skin. She held her breath until every urge to scream had faded.

  Silence settled around her, as thick as fog. Funny, not even the wind seemed to blow.

  The tiny hairs on the back of her neck rose, and Golda didn't need to turn around. She saw the slow movement low on the ground, a dark liquid blackness that shrank to absolute stillness when she looked at it.

  Wolves.

  Losing all rational thought, she screamed. Her cry rose up in the night, rending the thick silence that had settled over the earth like a warm wool blanket. With her heart in her throat, she grabbed tight hold of her skirts and ran. The dark shadows followed her, then sprang to life.

  This time she didn't scream. She didn't have the chance.

  * * *

  Garnet knew she was dead. Yes, she was certain of it. First, there was the complete and utter weightlessness of her body. Second, there was the absolute blackness that met her eyes when she opened them.

  Heaven wasn't what she expected. Light, maybe. Angels, certainly. But not this sense of aloneness. Or pain. Sheets of it, sharp and biting, right in the middle of her thigh. Her entire body tightened against the torture. She clenched her jaw until her teeth hurt. She tried to draw air into her constricted lungs and realized that since she was breathing, she must not be dead after all.

  One thing was for certain. She wasn't lying in the dusty path where she last remembered being. There was no smell of that powder-dry earth, no sound of a wild breeze through leafy trees, no night animals moving in the shadows. She smelled day-old greasy cooking and coffee grounds. Oh, and something that smelled rather . . . well, bad.

  Garnet sniffed again. It was the scratchy blanket that covered her–an unwashed blanket. Realization skittered over her. She remembered walking along the worn path with Golda, heatedly discussing how tired they were, how afraid they would be of Mr. Wyatt Tanner when they found him, and how they feared Pa already dead.

  She remembered the shots ringing out like a thunderclap in the night. She hadn't realized she'd been hit, then her leg had buckled beneath her and she'd pitched face-forward into the dirt. There hadn't been pain then, only a cold wave of recognition that she'd been shot, washing over her with the fury of a prairie cyclone.

  She was in some cabin in Stinking Creek, Montana, that awful mining town, all of which could use a good washing.

  She summoned the strength to toss the odoriferous blanket off her. She wished she knew how she'd gotten into this bed and who had placed her here.

  "Golda?" she whispered into the darkness.

  A man's single snore answered.

  Well, Golda did not snore, so whoever it was sleeping over there in the darkness could not be her. That meant . . . yikes. She was alone in a cabin with a strange man. Was Golda missing? Or was she unconscious?

  Garnet feared for her baby sister, the girl she'd practically raised since their mother's illness and then death. Garnet was a woman
who took her responsibilities seriously. "Golda?"

  Another low nasal snore.

  She remembered a demon-man dashing out of a small grove of trees, but that was all. Panic pulsed through her chest. She had to calm herself. She had to think rationally. She'd learned in her twenty-six years of living that there was always a logical solution to any problem, great or small, if only one took the time to think about it.

  Well, if her captor was sleeping so soundly, there was only one thing to do. Escape.

  The bed ropes creaked when she shifted her weight. Garnet froze, waiting, but the snoring continued. Relief washed over her. She hadn't awakened her captor, so she dared to stand. A light-headed buzz fluttered through her head, but she fought it. A little dizziness wasn't going to stop her.

  White-hot pain speared through her thigh each time she put weight on it. Garnet drew in a slow, steady stream of air, refusing to give up. She hadn't failed at anything before this, and she hadn't come all this way to Montana Territory to lose her freedom and her sister all in one night. What was a little pain when compared with one's life?

  A gray light crept through the cracks around the door, guiding her way, and luckily the door was unlatched. It whispered open on leather straps, opening to the sounds of the night. Crickets and owls and wind. Freedom beckoned to her and, grateful her captor was a heavy sleeper, she took a step. The wood creaked beneath her feet as she limped across the threshold.

  Stars peeked between scattering clouds, casting some light upon the earth. She could make out the line of majestic trees and the thin ribbon of the road. The snoring behind her continued, and, assured of her chances, she hobbled down the worn path.

  "Going somewhere?" A man's mocking voice cut through the night.

  Garnet's heart pounded with the fury of a chugging steam engine. It couldn't be. Her captor was snoring up a storm back in the cabin. She twisted around when she heard footsteps, just a couple, light and nearly weightless upon the earth.

  Sweet heavens! The man stalking toward her was the same one who'd dashed out of the woods with a gun. Now she remembered there had been two men, one mounted on a big dark horse, another dashing out of the woods with a blazing gun.

  "Where's my sister? What have you done with her?"

  His silence infuriated her. "She's a mere child. Not even sixteen years old. If you've harmed her, I swear I'll . . . I'll . . . well, I don't know what I'll do, but I will make you pay."

  He strode closer with the physical prowess of a hunting wolf. "A bullet might stop most men, but not you, I see."

  "I'm tougher than I look," Garnet challenged, but the fine hairs at the base of her neck prickled. She heard nothing, no soft footfalls in the inches-thick dust, no whisper of clothing . . . but he advanced on her anyway. Powerful. Dangerous. Captivating.

  She'd never seen a man with such broad shoulders. Not that she made it a habit to look at different anatomical parts of men's bodies. Heavens, she was a proper sort of woman and a schoolteacher to boot, but this man . . . why, he made her stomach flutter.

  Ah, don't go dreaming again, Garnet reminded herself. No man thought she was worth a second look. She knew she was no beauty; certainly she'd heard that often enough back home, where all the broad-shouldered men crossed the street to avoid her and even the pasty, greasy-haired men ran in the opposite direction.

  Their indifference hurt, but she'd gotten used to it. Men liked females who were pretty and simpering, things she could never be, no matter how hard she tried.

  But Golda was and she needed protecting. And no fine pair of male shoulders should distract Garnet from her responsibilities. "Answer me. What did you do with my sister?"

  "She ran for cover when you were shot. I haven't seen her."

  "You just left her alone in the–"

  "You were injured. You still are." His words whispered along the back of her neck. "I did go back to look for her."

  "Did you find–"

  "Just tracks." Low and deep, that voice. He towered over her, a powerful flesh-and-blood man, his shoulders wide and his feet planted firmly. "I went through your valises. I wanted to know who I was dealing with, what kind of woman would be wandering around in this town at night."

  "You violated my privacy? You–"

  "You were trespassing on my land." He had a rude habit of interrupting. With his hands braced on his narrow hips, he strolled around her and into the sweep of starlight. He was dressed simply, like all miners. He wore Levi's and a cotton shirt stretched over a muscle-hewn chest. "For all I knew, you were a danger to me with a loaded gun hidden in your satchel."

  "Sorry," she breathed, "but I was–"

  "Looking for Eugene, I know." He no longer looked threatening, but that dangerous handsome quality cloaked him like the night shadows. "You're the old maid who's come to fetch him home."

  Garnet had never met this kind of man before, so powerful he took her breath away. He looked like the sort of man a sensible woman should never trust. Besides, he was far too busy looking at the sky, the trees, the grounds, the cabin. At everything but her. A common habit with men, for she wasn't pretty.

  Even a low-life, devastatingly handsome outlaw didn't find her attractive.

  Heart aching, she stared hard at the ground. "Do you know where my pa is? We've been so long in responding to Mr. Tanner's letter, he could be dead by now or–"

  "I'm still taking care of him."

  Garnet shivered, her gaze drifting upward. She couldn't help it. There was no mistaking the steel strength of the man. It rang in his voice and burned in his dark eyes. "Then where is Mr. Tanner?"

  "I'm Wyatt Tanner."

  "You?" This dangerous loner who looked more powerful than a bear? This was the man caring for Pa?

  She was doomed.

  "Surprised, huh?" Wyatt struck a match to light a cigar. A small tongue of flame chased away the dark then faded. He watched her step back from his presence hiding her mouth behind one hand. So prim and proper. Just the sort of woman he'd never understood, never felt comfortable around.

  He puffed on his cigar, breathed deep, savored the smoke. Women. He'd never developed a good opinion of the creatures during his lifetime. The West wasn't populated by all that many civilized women, but the few he'd seen over the years were enough to give him indigestion Or break his heart.

  Truth was, he hadn't expected old Eugene's daughter to show up at all. No sensible woman would make such a dangerous journey across uncivilized land just to rescue an old cheater of a father who didn't seem to miss his family one bit.

  Still, it spoke well for the woman. Garnet Jones had more courage and loyalty than most he'd met.

  "There's a stage leaving tomorrow. There will be another one in a week, if we're lucky."

  "What do you mean?"

  "The first snows could hit these mountains at any time. You could be stranded here." She was shot, and the old man wasn't strong enough to travel. But they had to leave tomorrow, no matter what.

  The last thing he needed was more bodies crowding his cabin, crowding his life. He had a job to do. And a past he didn't want to face.

  "I'm not about to spend the winter in a tiny cabin with an old man and his maiden daughters." He tried to sound kind. "You won't like it. I won't like it. I want you on tomorrow's stage, you understand?"

  "Yes, but–"

  Her set chin was perfectly visible, hoisted up a notch so that her face tipped up toward the sky. He could see the trembling of that chin, as if she clenched her teeth to still the shaking, but couldn't quite control it.

  She was afraid. She was injured. She said she was Eugene's daughter. Heaven help him. "No buts. No arguments. You can't stay here after tomorrow."

  "I have to." How stubborn she was. "I must find my sister."

  "I tried. Likely as not she'll show up come morning safe and sound."

  "What if she doesn't? Please, you have to help me. She's my littlest sister."

  Wyatt tapped the ashes from the tip of his cigar. He tried
not to look at the woman, but he couldn't help it. There was a vulnerability in her that called to him. She was helpless and injured, hurt because he hadn't been fast enough to stop the man following her, to keep him from firing. Unlike some women he knew, she was loyal to family. She'd come here to care for her father.

  Family loyalty. It was a concept he hadn't known much of in his life. He'd only had his brother, and now . . . He stared down at his empty hands, unable fix all that had gone wrong. Ben was gone.

  Wyatt Tanner, whether he liked it or not, was alone. Meant to be that way. Meant to stay that way.

  Chapter Three

  Garnet turned toward the cabin and her courage ebbed. The structure wasn't far, but it felt like a thousand miles away. The thought of forcing her leg to carry her that far left her weak. Fear had driven her from the cabin, but now she didn't have quite enough to make up for the teeth-gnashing pain streaking through her thigh. She knew she might as well fly to the moon as hobble a few yards to that dark, stuffy cabin.

  Well, Pa was in there, and the thought steadied her. Perhaps that was why she hadn't felt exactly alone in the cabin. He had been sleeping there, quiet and ill, in the dark where she couldn't have spotted him. "If I can't find Golda, then please let me see my pa."

  His voice rose out of the darkness, blending with the shadows. "Your beloved father is sacked out in my cabin. I hate to say it, but I'm glad you're here. Now I can finally get rid of that"–he paused in the middle of criticizing her father–"of that gol darned–"

  She couldn't believe her ears. Why didn't Mr. Tanner disparage her father? Could it be this tough man hid a polite nature?

  She almost smiled. "You can call him whatever you want. I know Pa is–"

  "A whining complainer of a man."

  "You're being awfully polite. I would have used harsher words."

  "What? I thought–"

  "What? That I'm devoted to my pa?" Her good leg buckled and she slipped to her knees in the dust. The chalky smell of earth rose up to itch her nose, and she cried out as her injured leg slammed hard into the ground.