“Whoa, girl, slow down. From everything I know about Relámpago, he brought you here for a reason…” Jay paused. He had been wishing for a woman’s touch. Maybe Relámpago had brought her here for him. Probably best not to mention that. “As for how long you’ll be here…” He shrugged. “But if you need a place to stay, I reckon you’d best bed down here until Relámpago comes back.”

  “Here?” She stared at him. “I can’t stay here. I don’t even know you.”

  “Stay or go. I reckon that’s up to you.”

  Feeling like a deflated balloon, Rusty sank down on the couch again. He was right, she thought. She had wanted to live in the real West her whole life and now she was here. She had no idea how long this little adventure would last—couldn’t really believe it was happening. But if it was, why not make the best of it? Besides, what if she left here and the horse couldn’t find her again?

  “If you haven’t changed your mind, I accept your offer of hospitality, Mr…” She paused. “I don’t even know your name.”

  “Jay Soaring Hawk.” Seeing her eyes widen, he said, “That’s right, I’m Lakota on my mother’s side. Is that a problem?”

  Rusty felt her cheeks grow warm as she mumbled her name. How could she tell him she had always been fascinated by Indians, especially the Lakota Sioux?

  “Won’t hurt my feelings none if you change your mind,” he said flatly. “Lots of white folks, women especially, don’t want anything to do with me.”

  Rusty couldn’t imagine that. He was tall and broad-shouldered and amazingly handsome. But she was looking at him through a twenty-first century lens. The people of this time—accustomed to raids and massacres—viewed Indians in a far different light.

  Suddenly overwhelmed with the events of the last hour, she rested her head on the back of the couch and closed her eyes. “If this isn’t a dream, what do we do now?”

  Chapter 3

  What do we do now? It was, Jay thought, a helluva good question. A better one was, what in tarnation had possessed him to invite her to stay? Women needed their privacy. Fortunately, the house had two small bedrooms. She didn’t have any possibles, so that meant a trip into town to pick up whatever she might need.

  A woman in the house. Jay shook his head ruefully. He hadn’t lived with a female since he left his mother’s lodge twelve years ago. No more running around without his shirt, he thought ruefully. No more swimming in the nude in the waterhole behind the barn, or wearing nothing but his clout in the middle of summer.

  He was acutely aware that the woman was watching him, waiting for an answer.

  “I reckon we oughtta head into Cross Creek and buy whatever you think you’ll need while you’re here.”

  Rusty stared at him. She didn’t have any cash with her, and even if she did, it wouldn’t be any good. “I don’t have.…”

  He waved her off. “I’ll take care of it.”

  “That’s very generous of you.”

  He shrugged. It might be nice, having a woman in the place, he thought, as he grabbed his hat. Especially if she could cook.

  * * *

  Since Relámpago had apparently high-tailed it to greener pastures, Jay put Rusty up on a pretty little palomino mare. “She’s well-broke,” he said, patting the mare’s neck. “And trail-wise.” Was that the same as bomb-proof, Rusty wondered.

  “What’s her name?” Rusty asked.

  Jay shrugged. He’d bought the mare from an old prospector down on his luck. “Far as I know, she doesn’t have one, so I guess you can call her whatever you like.” After adjusting her stirrups, Jay swung aboard a big, raw-boned bay gelding and rode out of the yard.

  Trailing behind him, Rusty called, “How far is it to town?”

  “About an hour or so.”

  Another hour in the saddle. And another hour back. She groaned softly, then sighed. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. The mare had a gentle, rocking gait. The countryside was beautiful—green rolling hills with scattered stands of timber, mountains in the distance—and over all, a wide blue sky.

  Time and again, she found herself staring at the man riding beside her. Jay Soaring Hawk. He rode easy in the saddle, at one with his horse. Not surprising, she supposed, since he had probably learned to ride before he could walk. She wondered why he was living alone out in the middle of nowhere. And where the white stallion had gone. And when—if—it was coming back. And what on earth she would do if it didn’t.

  Lost in thought, she was surprised to look up and see a town ahead.

  Her gaze darted right and left as they rode down the dusty street. It looked like a movie set from every Hollywood Western she had ever seen—general store, doctor’s office, dentist, sheriff’s office, a couple of false-fronted saloons, a hotel, blacksmith, morgue. A white-washed church rose at the far end of main street. A little red schoolhouse made a splash of color across from the church.

  The people strolling along the boardwalk could have been characters out of Shane—men in long-sleeved shirts, vests, and canvas pants, women in long skirts and floppy-brimmed hats. Horses tethered to wooden hitch racks lined both sides of the street. A wagon loaded with hay stirred a cloud of dun-colored dust.

  She couldn’t help noticing the unfriendly glances sent Jay’s way. Why did he stay here?

  He reined his horse to a stop in front of Mort’s Mercantile. The sign over the door read:

  Howard’s General Store

  Groceries, Dry Goods, Hardware

  “Buy anything you need and ask the clerk to put it on my account, Jay said. “I’m going down to see the blacksmith, and then over to Miller’s Feed Store. I’ll be back in about an hour. Is that enough time?”

  “I guess so.”

  “All right. I’ll meet you back here.”

  Rusty watched him ride off down the street, then, feeling a little nervous at being alone in a strange town, she dismounted and entered the store. A bell overhead announced her arrival. In spite of the large front window, the interior was dark and gloomy. There were boxes, barrels, and crates everywhere, as well as tables loaded with merchandise. The front counter held a number of display cases for smaller items, as well as a coffee grinder, scales, and a cash register.

  A tall man clad in a crisp white shirt, black string tie, and arm garters looked up from behind a tall, wooden counter.

  “Afternoon, miss,” he said, smiling. “I don’t recollect seeing you in here before.”

  “No, I’m…just visiting.”

  “Someone here in town?”

  “Jay Soaring Hawk.”

  The friendly smile vanished like the sun behind a storm cloud. “You staying out at the ranch with that redstick?”

  “Excuse me?”

  He took a deep breath and renewed his smile. “Sorry. Injuns raided some of the ranches hereabouts a week or so ago. Some folks lost loved ones. So, what can I help you with today, Miss…?”

  “Ryan. Rusty Ryan.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Miss Ryan. I’m Frank Howard. How can I help you?”

  “I need a comb and brush and a bottle of shampoo. And conditioner and hair spray. Oh. And a lipstick. A change of clothes and underwear.” She bit down on her lower lip. “A nightgown and robe.”

  The clerk frowned. “Shampoo? Conditioner? Lipstick?” He shook his head. “We don’t carry no eastern fripperies.”

  Rusty stared at him. What had women in the Old West used to wash their hair?

  “You’ll find dresses in the back corner,” he said. “Nightgowns and unmentionables, too. Combs and brushes are on a shelf near the back wall.”

  “Thank you.”

  Curious, Rusty wandered through the store. Grocery items took up one side. She saw sacks of coffee beans, flour and sugar, spices, tins of baking powder, hard candy, jars of honey and molasses, barrels of crackers and dill pickles and dried beans, wheels of cheese. She could only shake her head at the prices—ten dollars for a hundred pounds of flour; twenty-five cents for a pound of bacon, ten cents a yard for calico. A dozen eggs cost thirty-five cents.

  An apothecary section was located along the back wall. A large cast-iron stove stood in the far corner.

  She lingered in the dry goods department. Shelves of varying sizes held bolts of cloth, hats, shoes, needles and thread, ribbons and buttons, stiff white collars and assorted undergarments, shirts and pants, and a rack of ready-to-wear dresses. Another section held pots and pans, silverware and dishes.

  Horse harness hung from the rafters above saddles, blankets, and bridles.

  It took Rusty the better part of an hour to make her choices—a hair brush and comb, a bar of lavender-scented soap, two cotton shirts—one blue, one green, a tan skirt.

  Her choice of ready-made dresses was slim. There was only one in her size—a brown and green print, with long sleeves, a round neck, and a skirt that reached her ankles. There were a number of nightgowns—voluminous things that made size unimportant. All were white cotton with high necks. Some were trimmed with colorful ribbon or lace. She picked out a pink robe to match the ribbon on the gown.

  Undergarments were a mystery and she passed them by, thinking she would just wash out her bra and panties every night. She selected a petticoat with a drawstring waist, also white cotton. Apparently colored underwear hadn’t yet made its way to the Old West.

  Rusty paused at a shelf that held an array of hats, some plain, some adorned with colorful ribbons and flowers. She tried one on, then put it back, thinking she’d already spent more than she should have.

  The women she passed seemed friendly enough. They all smiled tentatively or nodded in her direction. All wore long dresses, hats or bonnets, with their hair pinned up. Some wore gloves; some carried parasols.

  Her hour was nearly up when Rusty returned to the front of the store and piled her choices on the counter top. “Excuse me,” she asked, as Mr. Howard began to ring up her purchases, “but what do women use to wash their hair?”

  The clerk shrugged. “Soap, what else? Some ladies rinse their hair with vinegar or mineral water.”

  Rusty lifted a hand to her hair. No lemon-scented shampoo, she thought glumly. No conditioner. No hair spray or mousse.

  The clerk rang up the total, then looked at her askance.

  “Jay said for you to put it on his account.”

  The clerk looked dubious a moment, then reached under the counter and pulled out a large black ledger and laboriously entered each item she had bought. When he finished, he wrapped her things in neat brown paper parcels tied with string. “Good day, Miss Ryan. I hope to see you again.”

  “Good day, Mr. Howard.”

  Jay was waiting for her when she stepped out onto the boardwalk. “Ready to go?”

  “Yes.”

  He took her packages and stowed them in his saddlebags. “Did you find everything you needed?”

  “Yes, I think so, although I probably shouldn’t have bought so much.”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  She nodded, but she couldn’t help feeling guilty for spending his money. She had no idea if he could afford it. Still, she didn’t know how long she was going to here, and he’d told her to buy whatever she needed.

  It wasn’t until they were miles from town that she remembered she hadn’t bought a toothbrush or toothpaste. Had such things even been invented yet?

  Rusty sent several curious glances at Jay as they rode home. Several times she started to ask questions about his background, but the set of his jaw, the look in his eyes, kept her silent. Who was this man who lived where no one liked him? Where were his parents? Was his tribe nearby? What did he expect of her?

  She flushed from her toes to her cheeks when he caught her staring.

  “Might as well get all your questions out of the way,” he said flatly.

  “I…I don’t…um…I don’t know what you mean.”

  “I’ll answer them for you. I live here because the ranch belonged to my old man. He’s dead, killed by a Crow war party twelve years ago. When he died, my mother returned to her own people. The folks in town don’t trust me because they’re not sure whose side I’m on.”

  “Whose side?”

  He nodded. “I’m too white to be Indian and too Indian to be white. It’s only a matter of time before war breaks out on the plains and I’ll have to choose sides.”

  War! “Mr. Howard said some ranches had been attacked hereabouts not long ago. People were killed.”

  “Yeah. I don’t suppose he told you that a rancher lynched a twelve-year-old Cheyenne boy for killing a cow. The Cheyenne wanted revenged and they got it.”

  Wars had started over lesser things, Rusty thought.

  She couldn’t think of anything else to say during the rest of the ride back to Jay’s ranch. She tried to recall what she knew about the Plains at this point in time. Some bands of the Lakota and the Cheyenne still roamed the territory. They had attacked homesteads, tortured settlers, carried women and children away captive, never to be seen or heard from again.

  She swallowed hard. Surely she would be safe on Jay’s ranch. He was Lakota, after all, and the Cheyenne and Lakota were allies. But the Crow, long-time enemies of the Lakota, were also in this area.

  With a shake of her head, she thrust her fears away. She wouldn’t let her imagination run wild, wouldn’t envision the worst. Not when she had real problems to worry about. Jay would likely expect her to earn her keep while she was there. He might expect her to cook his meals, clean the house. She had no idea how to cook on a wood stove. She rarely even cooked a full meal at home. It was easier to order in, or eat out. Women in the Old West scrubbed their clothes outside, in big wooden washtubs, hung the wash on a line. Made their own bread. She had never made bread—or anything else -from scratch in her whole life. Why had she ever thought this era was romantic?

  She was a modern woman, born and bred, accustomed to quick microwave meals, instant coffee, washers and dryers, hot running water. Cell phones. Flush toilets. And toilet paper.

  She was totally unprepared for life on a ranch in the Old West.

  Chapter 4

  Rusty was heartily sick of horseback riding by the time they returned to the ranch. She groaned softly as she dismounted.

  “Here,” Jay said, thrusting the packages into her hand. “Take these inside. You can bed down in the bedroom on the left. Just, you know, make yourself at home. I’ll look after the horses while you get settled.”

  Nodding her thanks, she went into the house. The bedroom held a twin bed covered with a patchwork quilt, a scarred, three-drawer chest, and a small wardrobe. A plain porcelain bowl and pitcher sat atop the chest. A white cloth covered the single window. She grimaced when she spied a chamber pot under the bed. If she’d had any doubts about where she was, the earthenware pot eliminated them.

  Rusty unwrapped her purchases, hung the nightgown and robe on the hook on the back of the door, put the dress and petticoat in the wardrobe, the comb, brush and package of hair pins on the dresser. She stood in the center of the room for a moment, totally at a loss as to what to do next.

  Biting down on her lower lip, she glanced at the bedroom across the narrow hallway.

  His room.

  What was it like? She was sorely tempted to open the door and peek inside, even though it would be a horrible breach of his privacy. Instead, she went into the kitchen.

  A big old wood-burning stove dominated the room. Open-faced shelves held mismatched plates and cups, a blue-speckled coffee pot, a couple of pans, an assortment of canned goods, a sack of flour and another of sugar, a tin of baking powder, a can of lard.

  A pair of ladder-back chairs faced each other across a scarred wooden table. She was relieved to see a pump at the sink. At least she wouldn’t have to haul water when she wanted a bath, although she hadn’t seen a bathroom or a tub.

  Rusty was wondering what to do next when Jay came through the back door, a hen, freshly plucked, swinging from one hand. She had never seen a recently killed chicken and she couldn’t help grimacing when Jay dropped it on the counter.

  “Dinner,” he said, succinctly.

  She glanced at the chicken, at the iron stove, then at Jay. “I’m sorry, I…” She shrugged. “I’ve never cooked on a stove like that before.”

  He grunted softly.

  “I’m sorry,” she said again.

  “Do you know how to make coffee?”

  She slid a glance at the big, blue speckled pot, then shook her head. “But I learn quick.”

  “Okay.”

  She sat at the table, her chin resting on her folded hands and watched as he filled the pot with water and set it on the stove.

  While waiting for the water to boil, he rinsed the chicken, inside and out, and placed it in a roasting pan. He used a wooden match to light the oven. Next, he pulled a couple of unpeeled potatoes and carrots from a burlap bag, dropped them in the pot, and slid it into the oven.

  Rusty bit down on her lower lip. At home, she liked to make a rub from paprika, onion powder, thyme, white pepper, black pepper and garlic powder, but she didn’t know if they even had those things in the Old West. Other than that, she could have prepared the chicken. She just hadn’t been sure how to light the oven.

  When the water in the coffee pot boiled, he pulled a sack labeled Arbuckle’s Ariosa Coffee from one of the cupboards and added what looked like three-quarters of a cup. He let it boil for another minute or so, then removed it from the fire.

  “Are all those cattle on the hills yours?” she asked, hoping to break the awkward silence between them.

  “More or less.”

  She lifted a brow in question.

  “I sell a few head in town, which gives me enough to pay my debt at the mercantile at the end of the year. I butcher one or two. In a week or so, I’ll round up half a dozen or so and deliver then to my people.”

  His people? Did he mean the Lakota?

  He must have seen the question in her eyes, because he said, “The buffalo are getting scarce. Too many white hunters are killing them for their hides and tongues and leaving tons of meat to rot on the plains.”

  “That’s terrible.” She had seen such things depicted in old movies about western legends like Buffalo Bill Cody and Wild Bill Hickok and in Dances With Wolves, which was one of her favorites. She had read somewhere that a good hunter could kill as many as two-hundred-and-fifty buffalo a day.

 

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