Read an Excerpt
1890
"Could this day possibly get any worse?"
Erica barely whispered the words as she slipped along the wall and to the edge of the building that housed the dry goods store, hoping she had shaken the deputy who tailed her. She peered around the corner and watched the sandy-haired young man who stood in the middle of the packed dirt street, his eyes darting back and forth in his search. Finally, he turned around the way he'd come, and she let out a relieved breath to see him leave.
With that goal met, Erica pushed onward, in search of a story that would prove her worthy to the The Chronicle's editor and lead him to welcome her into his establishment. She continued down the road and cornered Shamus, the blacksmith. He didn't look happy to see her, but she smiled, trying to put him at ease.
After a tedious, slow beginning, like pouring the thickest remnant of honey from a jar, she was only a few questions into learning about the theft of his tools when Shamus suddenly went silent. Curious, she opened her mouth to ask what the problem was, when she heard another man clear his throat from behind.
"Miss Chandler, there you are. I was wondering where you ran off to."
Groaning inwardly, she thanked Shamus for his time and turned to Ralph. "Really, deputy, you mustn't feel obligated to watch over me. I'm sure there are pursuits far worthier of your skills than to shadow me all over town." She managed a little laugh, though amusement was far from one of her chief emotions at present.
"I made a promise to your father when he put me in charge, that being to keep a watch over you, and I aim to keep my word. Besides, it's a pleasure."
She winced at his clear interest. "Thank you, but I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself."
"You can never be too careful."
Her answering smile came brittle. "Really, I'm fine." She walked away and heard him follow.
She fumed, barely keeping a pleasant expression on her face toward those she met in passing. She was twenty years of age now, as of last month, not some tot to be coddled. And she doubted that her father, who currently transported a wanted criminal to the state that issued the warrant, intended his request for his deputy to watch over Erica to be taken in the literal sense. That Ralph must play bodyguard, trailing her every move. Not only did his continual presence annoy her, but some people, like Shamus, were less prone to divulge information with a lawman in her wake. Shamus had been in her father's cell more than once for drunken behavior and clearly did not feel comfortable talking around the man who'd often put him there, even if Shamus was the victim this time.
The unproductive afternoon waned into a tenser evening. At last she found reprieve when some boys ran their way, excitedly telling the deputy he was needed where a fight had broken out. Ralph didn't hesitate. Neither did Erica.
As soon as he disappeared down the street with the boys, she hurried in the other direction—to the front of the jailhouse where she had tied her horse, Ginger. Loneliness was often her companion, but Erica needed a hefty dose of peace and solitude after spending an afternoon with Ralph the Watchdog.
The air was cool but not unpleasant, the sun warm—a perfect summer's evening. Once away from town, safe in the countryside, she slowed her horse to a walk and took a deep, relaxing breath of the crisp air laced with evergreens. She lived in what surely could claim to be one of the most beautiful areas of the country and felt delighted that Washington had recently claimed statehood, proud to be one of its citizens.
At the promise of another glorious sunset, she dismounted near a hill that overlooked a long stretch of land flanked on both sides by a forest of tall conifers. In the distance, the sun's dying rays gilded the river that wound throughout the area, lining it in gold, with the peak of a white-capped mountain, glowing pink, rising far beyond it. Walking to the edge of the hill, she gazed at the heavens just beginning to take on a brilliant rose and violet blend.
Perfect.
Her sole suddenly slipped on the ground, the earth breaking apart beneath her boot. She felt a sharp twist of her ankle and lost all balance.
With a shocked cry, she fell to her backside and slid downhill, her skirts riding up and exposing her bloomers. Small stones bit through her dress. Vainly she grabbed clumps of ground to stop her descent, the grains and grass sifting through her fingers. She landed at the bottom in a bedraggled heap, soiled and breathless. But except for the throb in her ankle and the sting of scraped palms, she seemed unharmed.
Looking up with a groan of dismay, she wiped away the hair sticking to her jaw, at least grateful the hill wasn't so steep that she couldn't crawl her way back upward. She hoped.
"Are you hurt?"
At the unexpected sound of a deep male voice in this wilderness, Erica acted on instinct, grabbing her Derringer from her boot and twisting around to aim.
A stranger stood close to the fringe of trees in the shadows. Tall and lean, broad of shoulder, his appearance suggested strength. He stepped forward into the dying light, and she saw with alarm that he wore a dark mask that covered his forehead and ended below his cheekbones. A gun belt was slung around his hips.
"Don't move or I'll shoot," she warned. "I haven't any money."
"I'm not here to rob you," he assured, lifting his hands in the air, as if in surrender. "I heard you scream when you fell. I only want to make sure you're all right."
"Yes, I'm fine," she clipped. "I don't need your help." The fiery twinge in her ankle told her otherwise. Embarrassed that he saw her fall, and in such an unladylike fashion, she realized her current state and hastily pulled down her skirts, ineffectively brushing the dirt away.
Wishing to keep an eye on his movements, she looked back…
…to see that he had gone.
