“So when do you figure we’ll be startin’ up again, Boss?” Garrity was a grizzled former army veteran who’d lost a leg fighting the Cheyenne. He lived on-site in a cozy cabin on the far side of the creek, which he shared with a big, shaggy mutt named Custer, who earned his keep as a watchdog.
“The logs should be on tomorrow’s train,” Blake answered, hoping he was right. The need for lumber was unending, but with most of the nearby timber long since harvested, finding a steady supply of straight, solid logs, thick enough for cutting into boards, was an ongoing challenge. With hauling distances getting longer and freight prices going up, he was always searching for ways to meet the demand. A big load of logs, hauled by rail on a flatcar and dumped next to the tracks, could keep the sawmill busy for several weeks. But getting the logs from there to the mill was an operation in itself.
“If you’ve got that supply list ready for me, I’ll stop by the store on my way back here,” Blake said to the old man.
“Got it right here.” Garrity pulled the half-crumpled paper out of his vest. “If they got any of them peppermint sticks, I sure would appreciate a couple of ’em.”
“I’ll see what I can do.” Blake swung onto the wagon seat and picked up the reins. Minutes later they were out of the gate and heading down the wagon road.
For a loaded wagon, moving over rough ground, the trip from the sawmill to the site of yesterday’s fire would take the better part of an hour. Blake took his time, enjoying the cool morning air that would turn hot by midday. Beyond the rolling grassland, the wheat fields spread patches of lush green carpet. Pretty as the growing wheat appeared, cattle ranchers like the Calders hated the sight. For every acre that was plowed up and planted in wheat, an acre of rich Montana grass was lost—grass that had taken years, if not centuries, to form a deep root bed in the perfect soil. Where the wheat grew, the grass would never return. And when the wheat crops failed—which was sure to happen in a dry year—there would be nothing left on the land but weeds and dust.
Blake understood. But he also understood change and progress. Blue Moon’s growth was providing jobs, goods, and services for people in search of a better life. Sooner or later, the cattle barons would have to accept that.
The warbling call of a meadowlark roused Blake from his musings. He expected to be getting close to the site of the fire. But when he scanned the horizon for the remains of the burned shack or maybe a sign of people who’d come to help, all he saw was a distant blue dot, moving away from him, at an angle. As he urged the team ahead, narrowing the distance between them, he could make out a woman on foot wearing a light blue dress and broad-brimmed straw hat. She was carrying what appeared to be a large basket over one arm and a bulky sack slung over her shoulder. She moved awkwardly, as if she might be injured or lame.
Whatever she was doing out here, the lady could probably use a ride. At least she might be able to point him in the direction of the burned-out property. But before he could get close enough to call out to her, she vanished from sight behind a grassy knoll.
* * *
Hanna had twisted her ankle stumbling into a badger hole. Every step she took shot pain up her leg, but resting would only waste time. She needed to get the basket of food and the bundle of clothes into the needy hands of the Gilberg family. Papa and Alvar would already be at the burned-out farm with the wagon. If she could make it that far, she’d be all right. She could wait and return home with them. But right now she had no choice except to keep walking, no matter how much it hurt.
Pausing a moment, she looked around her. If she had some kind of stick to use as a cane, it would ease the weight on her ankle and help her balance. But where could she find anything useful in this sea of grass?
Coming from the north, the direction of the Calder ranch, she spotted two riders. Hanna judged them to be a half mile off, but they appeared to have seen her. They were coming straight toward her, riding fast through the yellow grass.
She remembered what her father had said last night—that cowboys were the enemy. But she had nowhere to run or hide. She could only hope the pair would have decent intentions. Either way, she was injured, with a heavy load and no place to run. All she could do was keep moving, with a silent prayer on her lips.
As the riders came closer, she could hear them talking and laughing. She couldn’t make out words, but their raucous tone told her enough. She was in trouble.
Hanna was innocent in terms of experience. But she had helped deliver her mother’s last two babies, and she knew where babies came from. A friend of hers in the city had been gang-raped by some street boys. Hanna had held the girl afterward while she cried. She knew what could happen if these cowboys were the kind of men her parents had warned her about.
As they pulled their horses up in front of her, cutting off any chance of escape, she faced them, frozen with terror but determined not to show it.
The bigger of the two men, dark, with a dirty-looking beard, grinned. “Well, ain’t this my lucky day! It’s little Yellow Braids, out here all alone. I reckon I’m about to win that bet I made. Give me a hand with her, Lem. Then you can have a go.”
“I’ll hold ’er down, Sig. But you gotta promise me.” Lem, a weasel-faced little man, smiled, showing a gap where his front teeth had been.
Hanna’s knees quivered beneath her skirt. Her heart was pounding like a sledgehammer, but she glared up at the mounted men and spoke in a level voice.
“Touch me, and my father will kill you.”
The big man laughed. “Feisty little thing, ain’t ya? But I don’t see your father anywheres around here. And I don’t think he’s gonna come onto the Calder ranch lookin’ for us.”
He dropped the reins of his piebald horse and swung out of the saddle. “Take it easy, gal. My buddy and me, we’s just lookin’ for a little fun. We won’t hurt you none. Hell, you might even git to like it. Most women do.”
The small man had dismounted as well. As the two moved toward her, grinning, Hanna backed away, holding her burdens in front of her like a shield. But she had nowhere to go. And as hard as she might struggle, she couldn’t fight off two men. She could scream, but there was no one close enough to hear her. She was trapped.
CHAPTER FOUR
BLAKE WAS APPROACHING THE KNOLL WHERE THE WOMAN IN BLUE had disappeared. From the far side, he could hear the faint mutter of voices—men’s voices, punctuated by laughter. At this distance, he couldn’t make out words, but his instincts screamed trouble.
Maybe he was wrong. Maybe the woman had met some friendly neighbors or helpful cowboys. But after what he’d heard in the saloon, he couldn’t assume any woman was safe out here alone.
Urging the horses to a trot, he drove the team as fast as he dared. On rough ground, with the wagon full of loose wood, there was always a risk hitting a bump and losing his cargo or worse, breaking an axle. But that was a chance he’d have to take.
As always when he hauled cargo, he’d stowed his rifle under the wagon bench. Guiding the horses with one hand, he reached down, picked up the gun, and laid it across his knees. With luck, he wouldn’t need it. But his danger senses told him otherwise.
As he came around the low end of the rise, Blake could see what the landscape had blocked from his view—about thirty yards away, two men had the woman down on her back with her skirt and petticoat pulled up. One crouched at her head, pinning her hands and shoulders. The other was kneeling between her straddled legs, undoing his belt as she struggled and twisted.