A Claim of Her Own (33 page)

A plate of flapjacks in hand, Aron sat down. “I’m not the only one who’s been working long hours.” He nodded her way.

“Me?”
Mattie shook her head. “I’ve been lazy compared to you. Nursing the sick, counseling folks, preaching, spending hours with the Underwoods—building.” She broke off. Did she sound . . . jealous? She shifted in her chair. “Aunt Lou thinks you aren’t eating right.”

Aron pointed at the tall stack of flapjacks in front of him. “You’re my witness that Aunt Lou has nothing to worry about.” He slathered butter between each of the cakes before smothering the tower with molasses. While he ate he talked. Tough times had started people asking questions and listening to some of the Bible’s answers. There was even talk of building a church in Deadwood. “And,” Aron concluded, “until that happens, Jack Langrishe has offered to let us use his theatre for church services.”

“That’s wonderful.”

“And when the Underwoods heard about it, Kitty volunteered to play for the service.”

Kitty.
Not
Miss Underwood. Kitty.
Mattie forced a smile. “Even more good news.”

Someone was knocking at the front door. Aron jumped up. “That’ll be—” He looked toward the front of the store and smiled. “Right on time.” Coffee cup in hand, he went to open the door. Mattie got up and followed, pausing in the doorway just as Kitty Underwood placed a gloved hand on Aron’s forearm and smiled up at him.

“Thank you so much for opening early for us,” she said.

“Not a problem.” Aron gestured toward Mattie. “You’ve met Miss O’Keefe?”

“No,” Mattie spoke up. “We haven’t actually met. Not officially, anyway.” She crossed to where they were standing and said, “Nice to meet you.”

She was answered with a barely disguised look of disdain as Kitty looked Mattie over, staring pointedly at the work pants and boots.

“Miss O’Keefe works a claim up on Deadwood Gulch,” Aron said. “A rather
successful
claim.” He smiled at Mattie. “And Miss Underwood—”

“—plays the piano,” Mattie said. “And will grace the congregation with her talent this coming Sunday.”

The girl giggled. She blushed. She covered her mouth with her gloved hand and batted her eyelashes and gushed, “Oh, I’m not very good. But Mama insisted I try. And I’m just so pleased to help out.”

I just bet you are.

Miss Underwood glanced Mattie’s way. “Do you play, Miss . . . O’Keefe?”

Mattie shook her head. “No. I prospect. And it’s time I got to it.” But then she just couldn’t resist. Looking at Aron, she said, “Aunt Lou’s expecting us for dinner tonight.”

“Oh . . . all right. That’ll be . . . fine. Great.”

Mattie made her escape, blushing furiously as she hurried up Main Street toward the gulch.
Mattie O’Keefe, Aunt Lou said no such
thing. You made it up. You LIED. What has gotten into you, anyway?!
What, indeed, but an overwhelming desire to wipe the uppity expression off Kitty Underwood’s face. And it had worked.

C
HAPTER 18

That ye might walk worthy of the Lord unto all pleasing,
being fruitful in every good work,
and increasing in the knowledge of God . . .

Colossians 1:10

N
ot being strong enough to do anything else, Jonas kept watch. The day after he left the pest tent, he saw Mattie leave town and head up into Deadwood Gulch. She was dressed like a man, and it wasn’t hard to figure out that she was going to meet up with her brother on his claim. Jonas wanted to follow her, but his legs wouldn’t even carry him the length of Main Street yet, let alone up the gulch. No, locating Mattie and Dillon O’Keefe on a gold claim would have to wait. He made a camp of sorts up behind the hotel where he’d first seen Mattie, resting during the day and coming out at night to scavenge. Hunger drove him, but weakness reduced him to picking through a bucket of slops set outside by the mammy who cooked for the hotel.

For a while Jonas thought maybe he’d been wrong about Mattie owning that store. She was at the hotel so often, he wondered if she lived there. Or maybe she just cooked for them. But she had the keys to the Garth and Company store and no one else seemed to be around over there. It was a puzzle that he was too tired to solve. He’d been a sniper in the war. He was good at hiding and good at observation. For now, he would be content with watching. He would heal and regain his strength and then—then it would be time to act.

Swede’s wagonload of cats caused no small stir in Deadwood. Long before the oxen halted in front of her store, folks had begun to follow alongside the lead wagon in her outfit. They pointed and chattered and opined, and a good-sized crowd had gathered before Swede so much as set her bullwhip down.

Her first customer was Slim Danvers, a shy typesetter who worked for the newspaper.

“I-I-I’ll g-give you t-twenty-five d-dollars for that one.” He was pointing to the prettiest cat of all, a soft gray one with china blue eyes and dark gray nose and paws. When Swede looked doubtful, Danvers reached for the leather bag around his neck. “I c-can p-pay,” he said.

“I do not doubt dat you can pay,” Swede said quickly. “I vas only surprised dat you vant one at all, much less de most expensive.”

The boy blushed. He nodded toward the north end of Main. “D-daisy will l-love it.” He swallowed. “Sh-she’ll t-take real g-good care of it.” He nodded and gulped.

And so began one of the more unusual exchanges of goods between freighters and the citizens of Deadwood. Now that the wagons had stopped moving and the cats had been fed, they’d calmed down considerably. It was no trouble getting hold of the soft gray cat Slim wanted.

Soon after he hurried off up the street with his purchase, the sporting girls of Deadwood descended upon Swede with a vengeance. She almost had to break up a fight when two of them insisted they must have the calico with green eyes. Long before the end of the day, thirty-nine cats had found homes, and Swede was trying not to be smug about it as she walked into the store with an enormous black-and-white female obviously ready to give birth any day.

Tom English looked up from where he’d spent most of the day weighing out payments for cats and going over Mattie’s figures in the store ledger and smiled. “Once again, you prove your brilliance,” he said.

“I am not brilliant.” Swede shook her head even as she cradled the purring cat in her arms. “I only hoped.”

“I beg to differ,” Tom said, stroking the black-and-white cat. “Keeping the one that guarantees a high return on your investment is brilliant.”

“Vell,” Swede said, and put the cat down on the counter, where it struck a regal pose, “it couldn’t hurt to have more dan one. Aren’t ve both sick of mouse droppings in de storeroom?” She reached for an empty box and, taking the last length of hideous cloth off the shelf, arranged it at the bottom before setting the box on the floor. The cat watched but didn’t move until Swede walked back to the storeroom and poured a half cup of precious milk into a bowl and set it down on the floor. Instantly the cat bounded after her and began to circle her, rubbing against her legs while it purred appreciation.

“I believe you have won her over,” Tom said.

“I vill believe dat ven she stays.”

“Why wouldn’t she stay?” Tom gestured around. “There’s a warm stove, a roof over her head, and a lovely woman pouring bowls of fresh cream.”

Swede blushed at the compliment. “Vell, lovely or not, I von’t be surprised if she jumps out de storeroom vindow tonight and ve never see her again.”

“Are you going to name her?”

“Perhaps it is vise to vait and see.”

“If she stays?”

Swede shook her head. “No. To vait and see vat she is like. So de name fits de personality.”

“Think I’ll call her Cat,” Tom said. “That definitely fits.”

Swede laughed. She looked around the store and sighed. “It is good to be back.”

“Yes,” Tom agreed. “It is.”

“It vas good to be rescued.”

“You didn’t really need to be rescued.”

“But if I had, you and Freddie vere dere to do it.”

“Yes,” he agreed. “I hope we always will be.”

When Tom didn’t look away, Swede didn’t know what to do. So she looked back, and her heart thumped even as she scolded herself about her impossible dreams.

Tom finally broke the mood. “Well,” he said, and closed the ledger, “if it’s all right with you, I’ll leave the rest of the ciphering for tomorrow. As expected, Matt the Miner has done a fine job in our absence.”

Swede nodded. She pointed toward the upper level. “Eva fell to sleep de instant I laid her down. Ve are all tired.” Tom locked the front door. He turned down the lamps. Together they walked toward the back of the store. And just when she was about to say good-night, he kissed her. On the cheek.

“Sleep well, Swede,” he murmured, “and welcome home.”

Swede stood transfixed while he let himself out. And then she mounted the stairs. But she did not sleep. Not for a very long time.

The minx was back at the hotel on Saturday.
With a dog
. Ah well. He could handle a dog. He’d just have to be careful about leaving his scent. And he knew some tricks that would throw a dog off the trail. Jonas watched for most of a day, content to see the comings and goings, aware that his strength was returning, albeit much more slowly than he would have liked.

It made him laugh to think of Mattie O’Keefe cooking. The little snip who’d never lifted a hand in any kitchen in all her life was helping a black mammy. And liked it. She
sang
while she worked, the sound floating through the back screen door and up to where he lurked.

For all his weakness, his hearing and his sight were still good. And his appetite was back. Too bad he wasn’t strong enough for hunting yet. But moments later, when a Chinaman delivered the carcass of a pig to the kitchen door, inspiration struck.

Jonas waited until sundown to pick his way slowly toward Chinatown, passing first behind the hovels in the Badlands. Folks were used to vagrants and drunks hunched against buildings or sleeping it off there, and no one bothered him when he stopped to rest. As for Chinatown, it was the usual collection of laundries and cheap eateries, opium dens and whorehouses. Jonas skulked down one narrow alley after another, shuffling along, keeping his pockmarked hand hidden and his head bowed. It was dark by then and no one noticed that smallpox was among them.

Finally he found the perfect opportunity with two white-haired ancients seated just inside an open doorway at a low table. Each one was picking at a bowl of rice and some other dish Jonas didn’t recognize. Once he was certain they were alone, he walked in and, in two quick moves, used his hook to dispatch them. Death was swift and silent, if a little messy. Fortified by a quick handful of rice, he inverted one bowl over the other and took it with him as he made his getaway. So efficient was the attack, so silently did he move, that no one followed.

He barely made it back to camp before collapsing. He slept for a while, but when hunger pangs woke him, Jonas ate rice and whatever it was until he was stuffed. In the morning he congratulated himself on finding a way to survive. Just as he’d learned during the war. Survival was the supreme motivator. He might use the same ploy a few more times. Deadwood had no law, no sheriff . . . and who cared about a couple more or less inhabitants in Chinatown anyway.