“Back away slowly, gal,” a gravelly voice sang out from somewhere behind her. “Don’t scream. Don’t talk. Just stare the critter right in the eye, and give it some breathing room. Given a choice, he’d probably enjoy eating a rabbit instead of tangling with you.”
Feeling helpless, Abigail stepped backward and heard a twig snap beneath her shoes. “Some more,” the voice coaxed. She backed up again, almost stumbling, but she caught herself. Her heart thumped wildly in her chest. The lynx slowly raised itself from its crouched position and stood, snarling, revealing sharp long teeth.
“Go on, be gone with you, you old varmint. Git!” the voice ordered, and before Abigail could react, a hatchet whizzed past her right ear and landed in a limb beneath the lynx, shaking the tree. Startled, the beast turned and leaped into the air, gliding into the soft needles beneath the pine and disappearing into the forest.
“You can move now, gal. He ain’t gonna bother you none. Got to give you credit, you’re not one of those weeping, fainting kind of females.”
Abigail turned on shaky legs and found herself looking into the face of a filthy, middle-aged man dressed in sweat-stained lumberman’s clothes. She heaved a sigh of relief. “I think, sir, you saved my life.”
“Maybe I did, maybe I didn’t. I reckon that old bugger might have wandered off by himself, given enough time. Heaven knows you weren’t about to.” The man laughed in his raspy voice.
“My name’s Abigail. Abigail O’Donnell, and I’m certainly pleased to meet you.”
“Folks call me River Roy,” he replied, “although they might not rightly be too fond of making my acquaintance. Over yonder is my son, Lenny.”
A young boy, as unkempt as his father, ducked out from among the nearby bushes. Abigail guessed he was close to ten or eleven years old. He had suntanned skin and dark hair and eyes. His coveralls were a tad too small and as filthy as his father’s. His hair looked like it had been cut with an axe.
“Hello, Lenny,” she said. “Your pa is mighty skilled with that hatchet.” When the boy hung his head bashfully, she turned to the man. “Do you live around here?”
“In a cabin in the woods way up over the next rise.”
“I’m new here. My sister is the new school teacher in town. You’ll probably meet her once school starts.” When the remark brought no reply except a quiet, blank stare, she asked instead, “Are you a lumberman?”
“Yep, lumberman and sometimes miner. My eldest son and I used to work the woods for the local paper mill,” he said, “until the fool kid went off to war and got himself killed. Now it’s just me and Lenny.”
“I’m sorry.” Abigail hesitated, unsure of what to say.
“No use in being sorry, gal. He marched away with the best of them, rifles thrown over their shoulders—all of them like eager beavers, ready to beat them Rebs. Only Walt weren’t so lucky, not like that Trumble kid. Walt came home ridin’ in a box.”
Abigail felt the bitterness radiate from the man. Beside him, the young boy merely hung his head and remained silent. “I wish I had something to offer you for your help.” She reached down and retrieved her bucket containing the few berries she hadn’t spilled. “You’re welcome to what I have.” She held out the bucket.
The young boy moved beside her, knelt, picked up a few berries from the ground and popped them in his mouth.
“Keep ’em.” River Roy walked to the tree and retrieved his hatchet. “There’s plenty more where they came from.” He chuckled. “And you left us plenty on the ground.”
Abigail stepped toward the footpath. “If you ever need anything, stop by the Mule Shed Inn. I’d be pleased to offer you a drink on the house.”
The scruffy man cackled. “I just may take you up on that. Not often anyone’s ever bought me a free drink or anything free for that matter.”
“I’ll do one better.” Abigail smiled. “I’ll save the best bottle of Canadian whiskey and have it reserved just for you. The entire bottle is yours.”
“The
whole
bottle?”
She nodded and started down the path.
“Hey, girl!” River Roy hurried after her. “You’re not the new gal the whole town’s talkin’ about, are you? You the one who’s planning to reopen the inn and barroom?”
“Yes.” Abigail turned toward him. “Yes, I am.”
“Where you come from? You ain’t from around here.”
“Utah by way of New York. The state.”
“Well, I’ll be darned! I thought you’d be much older—to run a barroom, I mean.” With a bemused gaze, he gave her a once over as he hitched up his pants to sit more securely around his waist.
Abigail grimaced in good humor. “Well, thanks to you, I just might have that chance now—to grow older. And, I’m planning to manage the inn and hire someone to bar keep.”
“You met Emma yet?” He squinted and rubbed his whiskered face with a dirty knuckle. “Be careful of that one. She’s more than a few shots short of a full bottle.” He turned to leave, but thought better of it and added, “And if I were you, gal, I’d shy away from trees along the path, unless I was carrying a gun. There are other varmints in the trees beside lynx, and there are snakes in the ferns along the path.”
Nodding her appreciation, Abigail left, walking briskly down the mountain until she arrived at the cottage. Breathless, she found Maria, dust-covered and laughing, as she helped Tye who stood on the seat of a chair, trying to hang some curtains in the small parlor window. He looked like there were a thousand jobs he would rather be doing at the moment.
Maria whirled abruptly when Abigail entered. “Oh, Abby, everyone thinks we might be able to move in tomorrow! The remaining repairs to the outside can be made after we move in. While they fix the front porch, we’ll use the back door. The bedrooms, kitchen, and living area have been cleaned and set up. People have been so generous. They’ve brought furniture and curtains, and they’ve offered to help paint—” She stopped abruptly, peering at her sister’s ashen face. “Why, Abby, what’s happened? You look like you’ve seen a ghost!”
“I met the lynx that owns the mountain.”
Tye jumped off the chair. “Are you hurt? I forgot to warn you about the four-legged wildlife around here.”
“Aren’t you a little late with that piece of advice?” She offered him a wane smile.
“You need to learn to shoot, and you both need a gun.”
Through the doorway, Amos appeared with Brett close on his heels. It was obvious the old black man heard the conversation because he wore an expression of sheer terror. “Might be best to wear onions and garlic in your socks next time you go on a jaunt up the mountain,” he said. “The smell just might discourage them critters.”
“We’ll do no such thing.” Maria frowned. “The smell would discourage any hopes of enticing business for the barroom as well as travelers who planned to spend a night. And what would my students think if I showed up smelling like that?”
“Tye’s right. I think a pistol would offer far more protection than a smelly sock.” Abigail glanced at Maria. “And it would be best if we
both
learned how to handle one.”
“Oh, no.” Maria’s eyes widened, and her face filled with fear. “I couldn’t pull the trigger even on a foul old skunk.”
“Then you’d better become acquainted with a hatchet like old River Roy. If it wasn’t for the old man, I’d be sitting on the mountain still trying to stare down that lynx.”
“You’ve met River Roy?” Tye’s eyebrows raised in amazement.
“And his son, Lenny.” She looked at her sister. “You’ll probably have him in school.”
“I doubt it,” Brett spoke up, thumbing back his hat. “He doesn’t believe in sending the child to school. They keep to themselves up there and rarely come into town, except to buy supplies. I don’t even think either of them can write their names. Lenny is half-Indian, his mother was an Arapaho, I believe. River Roy lost his wife when Lenny was only a few years old, then lost his oldest son in the war.”
Wide-eyed, Abigail pointed to Brett. “What’s he doing here?”
“Hush, Miss Abby. Mind your manners.” Amos put a calming hand on Abigail’s shoulder. “Why, Brett, here has been generous enough to supply all the lumber and shingles for the cottage porch and roof.”
“What?” A soft gasp escaped from Abigail’s lips as she whirled on Brett. “Is this some sort of a joke?”
He rewarded her with a cocky grin. It sent her pulse racing and her temper rising.
“Now, now, Abby,” Tye said. His voice was gentle, but firm. “The school board asked for his assistance. You can’t rightly turn away those eager to put a roof over your sister’s head so our young-uns might have an education. Brett’s father is on the school board along with my brother.”
Brett pushed himself from the wall he was leaning against. “Ah, yes, my friend, my sentiments exactly. You couldn’t have put it more eloquently.” He touched a finger to his hat. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll get the wagon unloaded. I’ve a business to attend to.” He stared at Abigail a moment, daring her to challenge him. When she only glared at him, he merely winked and strolled insolently out the door.
“That man is a cad.” She huffed.
“He’s a very generous man,” Maria countered.
“And my friend,” Tye added.
Abigail’s mouth fell open. “You knew all along he was the mail thief? You were in cahoots with his devious little plan?”
Tye nodded.
“Who else knows about this?”
Amos, Maria, and Tye shifted uncomfortably in their stances, peering guiltily at the floor.
“You all know?” Abigail shot them an incredulous look.
“And we need to keep it a secret,” Tye said. “Gossip flows around here like the water in Cherry Creek.”
“Well, good luck with that,” Abigail said and flounced out the door.
Later that day, when Abigail told her aunt about the incident with the lynx she was surprised by Emma’s reaction. The woman nodded indulgently, then suddenly broke out into a long, hysterical ripple of laughter. “I told you to go back to Utah, if you know what’s good for you.”
It was only when Maria mentioned the fresh flowers on their uncle’s grave that the woman stiffened and grew sober, staring at her in confusion before her eyes glazed over in hostile fury. And much earlier in the evening than before, and later into the next day, they were tormented by the same plaintive and repetitious sound of the spinet.
Chapter Six
Abigail hesitated in the entranceway of the Mule Shed Inn inhaling the sweet smell of newly sawed wood and the tangy odor of linseed and shellac. It had been three weeks to the day since she and Maria had arrived in Golden and settled into their cottage. To her relief, Maria spent every minute of every day caught up in arrangements for opening the school, which left Abigail a free hand with the inn.
Under the skilled direction of Amos, the shabby-looking structure had come alive like a pauper putting on a suit of fine clothes. Abigail had decided immediately the Mule Shed should be perceived as a new establishment and under new management. She wanted it to be a place where a gentleman could take a lady to dine, an establishment where a man could play cards and imbibe in good whiskey, a place of entertainment, and center of activity for the local town folks.
Inside the barroom, she tore down all the undesirable pictures of robust, scantily-clad women and replaced the back wall behind the bar with an array of mirrors and gas lights. Later, once she had some profits to spare, she would have murals painted along the room’s expansive, newly painted walls. For now, the only portrait adorning the room was a large oil painting of her grandmother she had discovered while sifting through the dust and junk stored in the attic of the cottage. It showed a vivacious young woman, seated demurely atop an open wagon, pulled by a team of four, gray, stout-shouldered mules. In the Arbitration Room, she hung a series of pictures depicting lumbering operations she had stumbled across in her uncle’s office.
Under Amos’s meticulous directions, all the bedrooms on the third floor were cleaned, disinfected, aired, and ready for patrons. Abigail closed down all but six, pilfering the best furniture from each room and redistributing them among the others. The largest room, at the very head of the stairs on the second floor, she relegated to Amos, despite his protests for something smaller, less fancy.
With the help of Will Singer, she rehired the cook and two serving girls for the kitchen and dining room. On the advice of Tye, she located a crusty old lumberman, Charlie Haney, who had injured his back in the woods and was looking for less strenuous work as a bar keeper. Noted best for his ability to make lively conversation, Haney was also an expert at distinguishing good whiskey and ale from the smell alone, and it was through him, she was able to engage the services of a piano player and two Irish sisters whose voices were as light as mockingbirds. Big Jake was the last to be added to her staff. At two hundred pounds, the robust trapper could break a man in half with his well-muscled arms. Abigail hoped his looks alone would keep the peace, but she cautioned him to remove anyone from the premises who started the slightest disturbance including any gentleman who entered the guest parlor without a calling card or a good reason.
Yet, despite her frugal maneuvering, she still needed new draperies, carpeting, and some much-needed paint for the dining room. Although she hated the thought of being indebted to anyone, she realized there was only one way she’d ever be able to complete the room and open the inn—borrow the money. She approached Emma the same afternoon.
“If we make the place as presentable as possible,” she told her aunt, “we have a better chance of enticing people to return.”
“I know, my dear, but the object of allowing you to manage the Mule Shed was to make money, not for you to spend it,” Emma replied curtly, standing like a queen in the center of her furniture-shrouded parlor.
“Have you been down to see it?” Abigail swallowed, trying hard not to disguise her irritation.
Emma shook her head. “Why on earth would I want to go down there and
see
the pitiful place that did little more than take up hours and hours of your uncle’s time?”
“It’s really coming along. Sometimes you have to invest time, money, and effort before you get to reap the rewards. A few hundred dollars would go a long way to help the time and effort.”