A Claim of Her Own (3 page)

Like Garth, Freddie was tall, with shoulder-length blond hair and eyes the color of the indigo sky just when the sun had set and the last of the golden light was slipping away. He was handsome, too, in a way that made women sometimes stop and stare—until they noticed the different way Freddie carried himself, the slight shuffle in his gait, the slowness of speech. He hadn’t been born that way. A high fever had done this to him, destroying not only Katerina’s dreams for her child but also her first marriage. Freddie’s father had left both the “damaged” child and his seventeen-year-old bride soon after the sickness passed.

But God was good. He had brought Garth Jannike into their lives when Freddie was only two years old, and with Garth came love and a future and a hope—just as the Bible promised.

Sometimes when it was late at night and Swede could not sleep because of worry or sadness, she would think on how God had brought Garth into her life just when she was most desperate. And she would tell herself to be strong, for desperation was for those who had no God. If she could last through another season of bullwhacking and freighting, good families might come to Deadwood. And if they did not come and there was no plan for a church and school, then Katerina Jannike would take her Freddie and little Eva and leave this place and they would find a home somewhere else.

As she lifted a pair of men’s rubber boots out of the open box before her, Swede reached up to touch the bag of gold dust around her neck. She smiled.
Ven you sell all of dis freight you vill have even
more gold. Even now you can take care of your children, vich is more
dan many do.
Swede sighed as she looked around her. So much work yet to do. Oxen to tend, boxes to open, merchandise to arrange . . . Ah, but she felt old. So much older than her thirty-three years.

Freddie ducked into the tent with another box. “Three more stores opened while you were gone, Mor,” he said, and set the box down in the far corner.

“Tree?”

Freddie nodded.

Swede clucked her tongue and shook her head. Three freighting contracts she had missed by being gone. So much business lost to someone else. She could almost feel the hot breath of doubt whispering in her ear.
You’ll never have a real store. You’ll never save enough
to have a real home again.
She distracted herself from her doubt by bustling outside and yelling at a lanky passerby, “You dere! Get your hook-handed self avay from my oxen—unless you like being stepped on or kicked or vorse!”

“Mor.” Freddie hissed it into her ear from where he stood just behind her. “Mor, you don’t want to be talking like that to that man.”

“An’ vy not?” Swede put her hands on her hips and whirled around. “You know Lars and Leif do not like strangers. Vat if dey should decide to cause trouble right here in de middle of Deadvood? I need no trouble from some newcomer who does not have sense to keep avay from a voman’s oxen. Do I not have de right to de street de same as anyone else?”

“Of course you have the right, Mor. But—” he nodded toward the man retreating up the street—“that’s Mr. English.”

“And vat do I care if his name is English or Danish?”

“He’s one of those three I told you about opening stores.”

“Den I assume he is already contracted vit an outfit to bring in goods.”

“Yes’m. He is. With you, Mor. He’s contracted with you.”

Swede frowned. She looked up at Freddie. “Vit me?”

Freddie’s smile revealed dimples on both cheeks. “I was bringing some rabbits I trapped to sell to Aunt Lou and I saw Grover Bannister up there talking to Mr. English and I just thought Grover shouldn’t get that contract. He doesn’t need it as much as we do. So I quick took the rabbits in to Aunt Lou and then I hurried to Mr. English’s lot and I told him that everybody knows that Grover Bannister is a cheat and marks his goods up way past what is reasonable and I told him Swede is my Mor and everybody knows she’s the best freighter in the Hills and honest to boot.”

“And vat did Mr. Bannister do ven you called him a cheat?”

“He called me a low-down, soft-bellied snake in the grass.” Freddie glanced toward Mattie and lowered his voice. “And some other things I can’t rightly say.” He swallowed. “And he got real loud and doubled up his fists and came up to me, so I just helped him see he shouldn’t oughta call me names and I helped him leave, and I didn’t mean for him to fall but he did and he went splat right there,” Freddie said, gesturing toward the middle of the street, “and everyone was laughing and that’s when Mr. English asked me about our terms.”

“And vat did you tell him for terms?”

“Oh, I didn’t tell him terms, Mor.” Freddie shook his head from side to side. “I told him I wasn’t smart enough for that kind of business talk but that you’d be up to see him as soon as you got into town and you’d treat him right and honest and he said okay, he’d look for you as soon as you got back.” He beamed down at her. “And he shook my hand. Just like I was a regular person.” Freddie held his palm out and looked down at it and murmured, “I like Mr. English, Mor.”

Swede watched the man walk down the street. “Dis Mr. English,” she said, “vat is his Christian name?”

“It’s Tom. Mr. Tom English.” Freddie grinned. “He said for me to call him Tom. Do you think that’s all right?”

Swede swallowed. Nodded. “Yah,” she murmured. “If he said dat and he shook your hand—den it’s all right.” And without ever having met Mr. Tom English, Swede decided she liked him. Liked him and wanted to do business with him. How she regretted calling him “hook-handed.” She sighed and glanced over to where Mattie had knelt beside Eva’s cradle, obviously doing her best to pretend she hadn’t heard a word of what Freddie had just said.

“Vell, Miss O’Keefe,” she said abruptly. “It seems to me dis vould be an occasion for some kind of vord to mellow de bitter. I have just called names de man vit whom I am supposed to do business.”

Swede shook her head. Sometimes life brought trouble in waves. She had missed the chance to open the first store in Deadwood. She had probably alienated a new customer before so much as meeting him. She was tired, and she missed Garth more than ever, and if that wasn’t enough, as it turned out, Freddie knew exactly who Dillon O’Keefe was.

He’d helped bury him.

C
HAPTER 2

The Lord is nigh unto them that are of a broken heart.

Psalm 34:18

C
ephas Manning. Michael Usher. Jane Reeves. Old Man Ross.
Mattie read the names someone had hand-painted on wooden crosses. Deadwood might be a new town, but violence and sickness had already reaped a fair crop of lives. Dillon’s grave was unmarked. If it weren’t for Freddie Jannike’s being the one to dig it, Mattie would never have known which of the unmarked mounds of earth on this hillside covered over the only person on earth she loved. The only person who had ever really loved her. The only person who understood what was so funny about Mattie’s distaste for horehound candy. The only person who knew “Mist-Covered Mountains” and could sing along with her. Dillon had a fine voice. She would never hear it again. How was that possible?

Sinking to her knees, Mattie leaned forward and plunged her hands into the fresh earth. He’d always had weak lungs. He never should have come here. Working in the frigid water . . . and why didn’t he see the doctor at the first signs of the grippe? Picturing Dillon sick and alone on his claim . . . she let the tears slide down her cheeks. She would never hear him sing again . . . and they wouldn’t be building a new life after all . . . and she was afraid.

As grief and disappointment and fear washed over her, Mattie began to rock back and forth, back and forth. She lifted her face to the gloomy skies and let her tears fall. Mam had taught her to vent quietly, and so while another woman in a similar situation might have wailed and screamed, Mattie spilled her grief softly. No one watching would know the depth of her sorrow. No one would hear her heart break in half and all the hope she’d been storing there drain away.

“What do I do now, Dillon?” she croaked. “If you can hear me, I wish you’d show me what I should do.” She paused. “I’m so afraid Jonas is going to come after me. You know all that money I’d worked so hard for? He lied about it. He wasn’t keeping any kind of account. And then he started pressuring me to—you know. We had an awful scene the night I left. He almost forced—” She gulped. “I slapped him and my ring cut his face. Deep. I thought he was going to kill me right there. His vanity saved me. I got away while he was at the doctor’s getting his face sewn up.” Her voice wavered. “I had to get away, Dillon. I couldn’t wait. Don’t you see?”

A breeze whipped up the hill and ruffled her dark hair. Shivering, Mattie clutched at her shawl and glanced to where Freddie Jannike was sitting on a boulder whittling at something. She looked back down at the grave. “What do I do now? I don’t have much money left. There’s a stagecoach, but—” She sniffed and swiped at a tear. “I avoided the train and the stage. In case Jonas decided to look for me. And besides that, I can’t afford it.” She answered the question she imagined Dillon asking. “No, no. I won’t even consider that. I promise.” She leaned forward and placed one palm on the mound of earth. “I promise on my life. My dance hall days are past.”

Mattie sat for a few more minutes waiting for her heartbeat to slow and her emotions to recede. She wasn’t finished crying. She would likely never finish crying over Dillon, but the daylight was waning and a storm was brewing and she had to find somewhere to sleep tonight. Her hand went to her waist. She ran her finger along the curve of the Colt’s grip. A lesser woman in her situation might consider taking a fast ride to wherever Dillon was. Mattie had known girls who did that, although guns weren’t the usual tool. There were quieter ways to quit life. But quitting was for cowards. And whatever she might be, whatever people might think of her, Mattie O’Keefe was no coward.

She wasn’t stupid, either—except when it came to Jonas Flynn. She’d believed he would be fair to her out of respect for Mam.
Respect.
What a fool she’d been to think Jonas ever respected any woman. Mam meant nothing more to him than warmth on cold nights and a steady income from all the other men, and the minute she was dead Jonas forgot every promise he’d ever made to her to treat Mattie differently; to let her sing on stage and deal cards—and to keep her out of those little rooms upstairs.

Mattie got to her feet. “I’ve been a fool,” she spoke to the earth. “I was stupid to trust Jonas. But I won’t make that mistake again. And I’m not a coward, and I won’t quit. I will make you proud of me. I promise.”

As Mattie turned away from Dillon’s grave, she saw Freddie close his whittling knife and put something in his pocket. He stood, waiting while she picked her way through the random arrangement of graves. When she finally got down to where Freddie was waiting, she looked up at him and asked, “Do you think your mam would agree to bring a proper tombstone for my brother’s grave on her next trip?”

Swede leaned over and poured the pitcher of rainwater slowly over the back of her head to rinse out the soap. Setting the empty pitcher on the ground, she reached for the clean flour sack towel she’d tucked into the waist of her calico skirt, wrapped her hair and, with a deft twist of the towel, stood back up. Was there anything in the world that felt better than clean hair? Well, yes, she recalled with a faint smile. There was something. But her husband was gone, so there was no sense in longing for the leeks of Egypt. She had had her time of marital joy . . . and would likely never have it again. It was expecting too much to think there might be another man like Garth Jannike striding the earth.

Nearly all men wanted pretty little things with ivory skin and small waists like Mattie O’Keefe, not tall, thick-waisted women like Katerina Jannike. And now that she had calloused hands and a tanned face and muscled arms from months of wielding a bullwhip . . . Swede sighed. God had given her the miracle of Garth. Best not to appear ungrateful by hoping for yet another.

With Eva playing happily on a comforter nearby, Swede toweldried her hair before sitting down to comb it out. She’d ignored the gathering clouds to perform her hair-washing-at-the-end-of-the-trip ritual, and she was glad. How good it felt to have these moments to herself, to feel the breeze and the warm air from the campfire move through the long silken strands of her waist-length hair. There was never a chance on the trail for much of anything beyond a quick brushing and rebraiding every few days. More than once she’d been tempted to cut it all off and be done with it. But Garth had loved her long hair so; cutting it would be another step away from him that she was not willing to take. Swede took a deep breath and closed her eyes. Clean hair was a blessing . . . and so was
sitting.

Her feet hurt almost constantly these days. She held them straight out before her and flexed her ankles. A woman just wasn’t meant to walk five hundred miles in two months, was she?
Soon. It vill be
over soon.
The bag of gold with her name on it in James Woods’s safe would double in size if she could sell this load of goods at the usual profit, and the tent could come down to make room for a real store on this very lot. And then—