Tumbleweed Letters Page 2

  Paper rustled when he untied the material. His heartbeat kicked up. See how lonely I am? I’m excited over the possibility of reading another note from a stranger. He dislodged the wind witch from Amanda’s grave marker, and it tumbled into darkness.

  Once he was inside, he raised the wick on the oil lamp on the wooden table. He slid dirty dishes to the side with a sweep of his arm and sat, unfolding the torn newspaper.

  To the four winds, life is so empty, so painful when you’re alone in this world. How I long for the kind touch of a loved one, but that is not to be. My parents are gone, as is my husband. Twenty-six is a young age to be alone. If only I had a child to hold to me, I might have a measure of happiness. What a foolhardy dream when I can barely take care of myself. But I’ll always have you, the four winds. Won’t I?

  Cam turned the paper over. There wasn’t any more to the note. He reread it and then tugged the first note from his shirt pocket. After reading them both again, he searched for clues as to her identity. She hadn’t signed either one. The woman was a widow and twenty-six. Both notes were written on part of a page torn from the Black Hills Pioneer. Did she live close by? In Deadwood, perhaps?

  Her handwriting was neat. Hadn’t she mentioned students? He quickly read over the two notes again and nodded. Yes, so she must be a teacher. Why wasn’t she still teaching? What brought her to Deadwood if she was from Pennsylvania?

  He yawned and stretched. Too many questions for this time of night. Refolding the notes, he stood and walked to the fireplace mantel, where he placed them under the tintype of Amanda and him on their wedding day.

  When he crawled under the quilts in his empty bed, he wondered where this woman slept. Was she living alone somewhere? Was she warm? Was she eating enough? I’m a fool for worrying about a complete stranger. Got enough of my own problems to worry about. Like how am I going to run this spread in the winter and still care for Eli?

  Chapter Three

  “Mine.” Eli spied the second piece of blue calico lying on the table. He’d slept clasping the first strip in his little hand.

  Cam handed it to the boy and set him at the table. “We’re getting low on supplies, Eli. I’m thinking we’ll make a trip to town. I’ll sell the pelts I’ve got stored in the barn and get you some shoes and a winter coat. I better lay in some winter supplies in case snows come early.”

  His son held up both strips of cloth. “Mine.”

  “Yes, yours.” He set a plate with burnt bacon and a fried egg in front of Eli. “Now eat.”

  Once the chores were done and the animal pelts loaded onto the back of the buckboard, Cam and Eli headed for town. He set the child on his lap and allowed him to hold the reins. The team of horses set off, plodding up the gentle hills leading them out of the little valley where his family had settled after leaving Georgia. Ponderosa pine, spruce, and lodgepole pine stood as sentinels on the ridge encircling the little hollow.

  After they’d filed a deed for the land, more than fifteen years ago, Cam found gold in the stream running through their property. He and his dad traveled to another town to cash in the nuggets and make a large bank deposit. “If word gets out we’ve found gold on our property, Cam, we’ll both be shot in the back and greedy miners will cover our land like crazed ants.” He understood his father’s secretive manner of handling their find. As his father so often said, “We Scots know the value of a coin.”

  The ranch was supposed to be a joint effort for him and his dad, but the smallpox epidemic that went through the area last year took both of his parents and his wife. Now all that remained of the McBrides were Eli and him. Unless you talk the lonely lady into marrying you.

  Whoa! Where did that insane thought come from?

  You’re lonely, Cam.

  Lonely, yes. Insane, no.

  Isn’t that why you took a bath before heading into town? You’re wearing that blue shirt I always said brought out the blue in your eyes.

  He gazed around frantically. Amanda? Is that you?

  You’ve grieved long enough. Eli needs a mother. You need help on the ranch. Why do you think I stopped that tumbleweed last night?

  Dear God, I’m losing my mind.

  Hunt for her, Cam. She needs you, and you need her.

  What I need is a drink. A strong one.

  ****

  “Sorry, it’s the best I kin give ya for these pelts, Cam.” Dillard Harris scratched his thick white beard. “I’d like to do better by ya, but times is hard.”

  Cam knew better, but nodded. “I need all I can get from these to buy staples for the winter.” This was what his Amanda referred to as a dance between two penny-pinching men. “My boy needs shoes and clothes.” He crossed his arms over his chest, narrowed his eyes and waited.

  “Well, they is mighty fine pelts. Cleaned ’em right good.” Dillard made a show of fingering the fur. “Might could go a couple bits more.”

  “Can’t let them go for that. Normally I’d sooner do business with you than Stoney up the street.” Dillard’s pride won’t let me go to his rival.

  The grizzled man sighed and offered him a dollar more.

  Cam nodded. “Sounds fair to me. Say, any new people move into town? Seems busier than usual.” He hoped he sounded nonchalant, although the rapid heartbeat roaring in his ears was anything but relaxed. Was he crazy to try to find this letter-writing woman?

  Dillard scratched his beard again. “A few more miners came in on the stagecoach last week.” He made a face as if he’d sucked on a sour pickle. “City slickers, the lot of ’em.”

  Figuring he’d gotten as much out of the old man as he could, Cam unloaded the pelts, got back in the buckboard with Eli, and headed up Main Street. Inside the mercantile, he and the salesman struggled to get ankle-high shoes on his son. Eli tensed his foot, twisted in Cam’s arms, and screamed his displeasure.

  “What’s wrong here?” A buxom elderly woman patted Eli’s head. “Bet they pinch his feet. My bunions hate new shoes, too. How are you, Mr. McBride? I haven’t seen you in ages.” Her one eyebrow rose. “Missed you at church.”

  “Howdy, Mrs. Dunlap. How have you been?”

  “Fair to middlin’. Your boy sure is growing.”

  Eli slid from Cam’s lap to peer into the woman’s shopping basket. He fingered her piece of yellow flannel. He lost interest quickly when something else seized his attention. “Mine! Mine!” Suddenly he ran down the aisle, his arms outstretched to grab the skirt of a startled woman.

  Cam hurried after his son. “Eli, stop.”

  A determined Eli tugged one way, and the red-haired woman tugged the other. “Mine,” he screeched.

  “Let go of me.” Material ripped. A feminine gasp filled the quiet of the store.

  “Ma’am, I’m plumb sorry. I don’t know what got into him.” He stooped to pry Eli’s fingers from her calico skirt—its blue print was familiar. The hem was partially frayed. It couldn’t be. Slowly his gaze traveled up the gathers of the skirt to a narrow waist and gaping material where his son had torn it from the waistband.

  Or rather, was tearing it, for Eli now lay on the floor, his back arched, one booted foot and a bare one firmly planted on the wood plank floor and his chubby face a reddened mask of determination. “Mine,” he growled.

  Cam tried to pry his son’s fingers from this poor woman’s skirt. Eli held the material in his grasp, giving Cam a nice view of her ankles. Twine tied the thin soles of her shoes to the worn leather uppers.

  “Would you be looking up my skirt, then? Is this the behavior you’ve taught your son? Tear the clothes off the ladies so you can get a free gander at the merchandise?”

  By her brogue and red hair, she was Irish.

  “Humph!” Mrs. Dunlap exclaimed, her gray eyebrows arched. “Merchandise would be correct. If I were you, Mr. McBride, I’d keep my innocent son away from the likes of her.”

  For some reason, the older woman’s remarks irked Cam. Didn’t my Amanda refer to Mrs. Dunlap as a self-righteous busybody? />
  He glanced into the greenest pair of eyes he’d ever seen. “Ma’am, I don’t know what’s gotten into my son. Although I’ve got a good idea.” He struggled to pull her skirt from Eli’s grip, for as soon as he got one little hand pried off the calico, the other one took a firm grasp. “I’ll gladly buy you a new dress.”

  “I daresay Mr. Thatcher does not carry clothes for tarts in his fine establishment.” Mrs. Dunlap eyed where Cam held this woman’s skirt. “A fine man like yourself shouldn’t be concerned over a woman like her.”

  “Right is right, Mrs. Dunlap. I pay for any damages incurred by my son.” Finally he released all of Eli’s fingers from the blue calico, wrapped an arm around his squirming son and stood—and felt the full force of those fuming green eyes.

  Chapter Four

  Sophie had never met a more determined urchin. Granted, during her years of teaching she’d tamed and taught a few obstinate students, but this child was out of control. Her work skirt needed major repair. Not that she hadn’t ruined the hem by tearing off strips to tie her notes to tumbleweeds. Still, for where she worked and for what she did, the raggedy frock served its purpose.

  The child’s father stood before her, clearly uncomfortable. His long dark hair was clean, which was more than could be said for most men in this town. Blue eyes bore a trace of shock in his serious face. She wondered what a smile would do to his austere features. What a fool you are for such fanciful thoughts.

  She folded the torn gathers into a bunch and held the material to cover her exposed petticoats. “Does your son always behave in this manner? Tearing clothes off people?”

  “No. Although, truth be told, he rarely sees anyone but me.”

  What about the child’s mother? Her gaze swept to the nosy, pinched-faced woman who clearly wanted to hear every word of their exchange. Well she’d not give Mrs. Dunlap the satisfaction. She turned to leave. Madam Dora would have to buy her own stockings.

  Fingers touched her arm. “My name is Cam McBride, ma’am. I’ll gladly buy you a new dress or pay for a bolt of calico.” His deep voice raised gooseflesh on her arms.

  She could not, would not, look up at him. He was so tall and broad shouldered, he was downright intimidating. “That really won’t be necessary, Mr. McBride. Good day.”

  “Will you at least accept my apology?”

  Sophie nodded and made a beeline for the door. For some reason, she wanted to get away from this man. He was too handsome, by far. Handsome and overpowering.

  “Ma’am?” Footsteps echoed behind her. “Your name?” His hand wrapped around her wrist, feather light yet firm.

  Her stomach fluttered and her mouth went dry.

  The child leaned forward in his father’s arms and grabbed her collar. “Mine.”

  Saints preserve me, this child will tear apart my clothes yet. “Sophie…Sophie Flannigan.”

  “Won’t you look at me when you talk?”

  She shook her head and tried to move away. If she gazed into those blue eyes again, she’d be lost in all his maleness—and he was very male.

  “Where do you live?” His grasp on her tightened.

  Goodness, but his voice was spellbinding. Something about it made her body react in strange ways that disturbed her. “I live where I work. Madam Dora’s brothel.”

  His hand fell away, and she hurried out.

  Behind her, the child wailed, “Mine. Mine, Daddy…mine.”

  Jethro Rhinehardt was leaning against the pillar when she stepped out onto the porch. Although she couldn’t see the man’s face, she recognized his build and mud-splattered canvas duster. If she hurried, she might sneak past without his noticing her. She’d have made it, too, if a nail poking out of the porch hadn’t snagged the twine on the bottom of one of her shoes and ripped it, causing her to stumble.

  “Well, well, little Miss Scrub Lady.” He turned and sidestepped, blocking her path. For a heavy man, he slithered quickly, just like the snake he was.

  Sophie tried going around him, and he stepped to the side, stopping her again. “Can’t you say good morning? Or are you too high and mighty?” He spit tobacco juice on the porch, and it splattered against her skirt.

  “Good morning, Jethro. Now please let me by. I have errands to run for Dora. I can’t afford to lose my job.” She stepped to her right this time.

  Once more he slid in front of her. To her surprise, he grabbed her around the waist and lifted her so they were eyeball to eyeball. Tobacco juice stained his scruffy beard that reeked of something foul. Her stomach lurched and she fought to swallow the bile. She still clutched the folds of material over her petticoat, determined this man would not see her undergarments.

  “How’s about a kiss for ol’ Jethro? Or do I have to pay first?”

  Her slap cracked in the morning air. “I’ll not be spoken to like that.”

  Jethro’s eyes darkened and his jaw clenched. The bear of a man shook her and then he had the audacity to slide his paw over her rump.

  In response, she fought like a barn cat—hissing, kicking, and scratching. She scratched his eye and tore a pocket off his shirt. “Get your filthy hands off me, you heathen.”

  Men—miscreants, really—circled them. They called out obscene suggestions for Jethro. There were hoots and hollers. A few men laughed and pounded Jethro on the back.

  She fisted her hand and punched him in the nose. Blood splattered onto her bodice.

  “How about you unhand the lady and put her down before she kills you?” A male’s command hung in the air like icicles on a roof’s edge.

  Jethro shook her again.

  “Maybe you didn’t hear me. I said put the lady down.”

  Sophie’s head whipped around to locate the man who’d spoken in her defense not once but twice. Cam’s face was a dark mask of fury. He slowly set his son on the porch and laid his purchases at the child’s feet, his gaze never once leaving Jethro’s face. When he straightened and stepped toward the dirty man, her captor set her down.

  “Since when did you become her protector?”

  “No gentleman enjoys seeing a lady mistreated.”

  Jethro snorted and wiped at the blood trickling from his nose with the back of his hand. “That hellcat ain’t no lady.”

  She drew a fist again. “I’m tired of your mealy-mouthed insults, you yellow-livered fool.”

  A muscled arm in a blue shirt banded around her waist, pulling her away from Jethro. “Would you mind taking care of my son while Jethro and I discuss this?” His voice, deep and sensual, sent ripples of awareness through her.

  She’d forgotten about her torn skirts and glanced down to where his hand rested against her petticoats. His hand splayed wide as if he had the right to touch her undergarments. Maybe I punched the wrong man.

  Someone tugged on her skirt. When she glanced down, the little boy—Eli, his father had called him—held up his arms in a silent request for her to pick him up. When she did, he burrowed his head in the crook of her neck and fingered the collar of her dress.

  “Mine.”

  She ran a hand up his narrow back and enjoyed the feel of the child in her embrace. Sensing the child’s father and Jethro were about to come to blows, she stepped back into the mercantile to shield him from the violence. “We’ll shop for a spell, Eli.” She hurried to the counter and asked Mr. Thatcher for Dora’s stockings. She set Eli on the counter while she withdrew her boss’s money from her reticule.

  She tried her best to ignore the loud cursing outside. The sound of flesh smacking flesh made her jump. “I abhor violence.”

  The store owner eyed her torn clothes, her blood-splattered bodice and swollen knuckles. His face reddened. Sophie gave him her schoolteacher glare, and he turned to wrap her purchase in brown paper.

  Cam’s presence made itself known before he spoke. The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. Heat stampeded through her body while chills raised gooseflesh on her arms. A warm hand went to the small of her back, and she inhaled a gasp. Her gaz
e swept to his reddened, swollen eye and split lip. “Oh, Mr. McBride, all because of me? That was so unnecessary.” She tsked and pulled a handkerchief from her reticule to dab blood from his lip.

  “Mine,” Eli stated to his father.

  “Yes, she is.”

  Her eyes widened as her gaze rose from his split lip to his blue eyes and determined expression. Her ears buzzed and her world tilted.

  Chapter Five

  She’d lost her mind.

  Why else would she be in this unthinkable predicament?

  Sophie cast a look out of the corner of her eye to the man sitting beside her on the buckboard jostling over the rutted roads. Correction: Make that her husband. He’d barely spoken a word to her since he’d choked out “I do” to the parson. Her stomach pitched and rolled along with the wagon. Saints preserve me, I’ve married a complete stranger.

  The child on her lap kept fingering the material of her discarded skirt and, from time to time, repeated the same word: “Mine.”

  I’ve married a complete stranger with an imbecile for a child. She kissed the boy’s blond curls and rubbed her cheek across the softness of his tresses. Maternal protectiveness sparked a gentle warmth within her heart. My child, now.

  By the shocked expression on Cam’s face, she wasn’t the only one astonished by their sudden union. Yet hadn’t he stated his case for the marriage quite well over a meal at the Pinewood Cafe? He would have someone to raise his boy and take care of the house. His son would have a mother. And she would have a home and a man to protect her. It all seemed so simple at the time. I lost my mind. One look into those earnest blue eyes of his, and I lost my mind.

  Her husband—she rolled her eyes heavenward at the thought—had talked to Madam Dora, explaining why he was taking away her scrub lady on such short notice. After which he hurried off to arrange the impromptu wedding with the parson.

  For the first time since Sophie arrived in Deadwood, someone drew a bath for her. Prostitutes’ hands soaped and scrubbed her skin and hair while she blushed so hotly she was afraid her cheeks would burst into flames. She wasn’t used to being touched in such an intimate way.