Cowboy of Mine Read online

  “Holy marriage?” Mr. Bruisner said with noticeable sarcasm. “Holy marriage, the woman says to me.”

  “Yes, I do.” Meredith couldn’t help herself, even though she knew Laura was pulling on her plaid, trying to get her to shut up. But she couldn’t let the ass get off with that tone, those remarks. He couldn’t talk that way to the most wonderful woman the world had ever seen. “Tom and Laura love each other. Their marriage is the happiest I’ve ever seen, and if you have a problem with that—”

  “Not only do I have a problem with that, but it’s against the law. The majority of our nation has a problem with that.”

  Meredith huffed. “Not my nation, buddy. Not mine.”

  Mr. Bruisner took a threatening step closer, suddenly inches from Meredith’s face. “I’m guessing with your accent it is, in fact, your nation. That you are not one of the millions of heathen immigrants stealing from my government. So I must ask, miss, are you an anarchist?” His voice had lowered, ominously.

  It flashed through Meredith’s mind. Couldn’t be helped. Years of being an historian might be to blame, but there it was, riveting through her brain, as if she were a freaking Wikipedia, the ascension of anarchy from Greek philosophy to current time, late 1880s. Anarchy began as a utopian idea, everyone having liberty, rights, and freedom through a no-government structure. That philosophy was thousands of years old. Anarchy resurfaced after the French Revolution, trying to find a peaceful way to regain control over a government that had killed too many. It had been a pacifistic movement for so long—advocating women’s rights, freedom of one’s body, free from judgment. Freedom.

  But with the world catching fire in 1848, ten countries embroiled in revolutions, anarchy, ironically, had started to become synonymous with terrorism. Bombings, assassinations, so much blood on the hands of anarchists. Or at least they were blamed.

  Meredith knew she couldn’t call herself an anarchist without the man thinking the worst of her.

  But, oh, how she wanted to say yes, just to goad him.

  “She’s not an anarchist.” A powerful voice rang through the dinning room.

  Meredith wanted to clench her eyes shut, but she turned to the second hero of the day: actually two heroes, Mr. Wan and his fourteen year-old son, Chen. It had been Mr. Wan’s remarkably loud voice calling out through the restaurant a beat ago. Now, they both stood—wide legged, arms crossed—just outside the kitchen. Mr. Wan and Chen were attired in white tunics, symbolic of Mr. Wan’s wife’s recent death. But there he was, defending Meredith.

  “Don’t talk to her like that.”

  Mr. Bruisner straightened and snorted. “I was just leaving.” He glared down at Meredith. “I know your type, you know? You probably think a woman such as yourself deserves suffrage. And the fact of the matter is, you probably are smarter than I, aren’t you, you little spitfire? You might even be more educated. Don’t think I missed your obvious New England, upper crest nasal drawl in your language.”

  “Don’t think I missed that you have no detectable American dialect,” Meredith retorted, not able to stop herself. “That’s right, I know all about you too, Mr. Bruisner. I’d guess with your hysterical remarks about immigrants that your parents might not have been born in this country. It’s a telling sign when one—oh, how shall I put this?—when the lady doth protest too much, methinks.”

  He narrowed his glimmering blue eyes at her, his nostrils over that gigantic mustache twitching.

  Ah, she knew she’d found her mark and proceeded to annihilate. God save her and her blabbering mouth that always, always got her into trouble.

  “Or was it you who wasn’t born here?”

  Under his long black sideburns, his jaw line kicked. “I was born in America, raised in America, as American as they get.”

  Meredith suddenly got bored with the conversation and rolled her eyes, earning her the amazing sight of Mr. Bruisner’s face turning red.

  “You can be sure I’ll tell my employer, Mr. Cooper, president of the Butte Mining Company, about this. About all of this. He’d heard of the Casper coal here and was going to make a very lucrative offer for the land. But I’m sure he won’t touch the place now.” He pointedly looked at Laura then. “It’s dirty.”

  He knew he’d found her mark and smirked at Meredith, somehow conscious that insulting Laura would hurt worse than anything he might throw at her.

  Meredith slapped him across his freshly shaven cheek with the thick sideburn. The impact hurt so much more than anything she could have imagined. But she wouldn’t cradle her wrist as she wanted to. She wouldn’t cry out in pain.

  She glared at Mr. Bruisner as he straightened, touching his flaming red cheek. He flew at her, and, God, how she hated it, but she flinched, readying for his retaliation. But he just laughed. Opening her eyes, Meredith almost screamed seeing him inches from her face. His smile was close to maniacal, and his blue eyes were wild, raking over her face.

  Slowly he stood upright, towering over her.

  “Good day, miss.”

  He did leave. Nobody breathed for perhaps a full minute afterwards. Finally, Laura embraced Meredith. Hard.

  “Silly, girl. What do you think you were doing?” she whispered into Meredith’s ear.

  “He’s an ass.” Meredith’s voice shook, and she hated that obvious sign of her fear and intimidation. “No one should talk to you like that.”

  Laura laughed quietly, then pulled away, still holding Meredith’s arms. “No one should ever talk that way, honey. But they do. They do.” She pulled Meredith’s left wrist close, inspecting it. Laura glanced over Meredith’s shoulder to Mr. Wan and Chen. “Mr. Wan, could you please fetch some ice?”

  “Yes, yes. I’ll get ice for our little pugilist.”

  He and Chen left through the kitchen’s swinging door.

  Before she could censor herself, Meredith asked, “Why were you so polite? He’s a jackass.”

  Laura softly giggled again. But soon enough her smile slid off. Seriousness composed her beautiful face. “Did I tell you I was born a slave, honey?”

  Meredith’s heart stuttered and caved in with the knowledge. She shook her head.

  “Oh, I wanted revenge and vengeance for all the things done wrong to me.” Laura glanced back down at Meredith’s swelling wrist. “I was so angry for so long. When I met Mr. Casper, I was angry. Almost too angry to see him. But what I would have missed if I had. We had our son, lovely boy he was. And I was real angry when he died. I let myself be angry for a long time after that. But then...” She glanced back up at Meredith, “I would have missed out on you, pretty miss that you are, always trying to fill my belly with your bread.”

  “They’re your recipes.” Meredith smiled, although tears threatened to come.

  “But you make it better than I.”

  “No, I d—”

  “Yes, you do. Now hush. Let me tell you, there is a time to be angry, and there is a time to let it go. There is a time to let jackasses go about their merry ways being jackasses. Please don’t tell Mr. Casper I said that.”

  Meredith laughed. “Why? He’d agree.”

  “Oh, I know, but he gets real excited when I use language such as that.”

  Meredith chuckled even louder.

  Soon enough though, Meredith couldn’t handle the camaraderie, the way both Mr. Wan and Laura doted on her. She didn’t deserve it. So she left with ice strapped on her wrist, holding her horse’s reins tightly and trying not to cry.

  But she didn’t hold back when she crept into the cabin she’d woken in four months ago. She let the tears flow freely as she piled more wood in her kitchen’s stove. This little house was tiny, granted, but the open space—no distinction between kitchen, dining area, or bedroom—was invigorating. She had spun in her silly dancing circles throughout her small home without banging into any furniture, unlike her apartment in Cambridge. This place, her home now, was as sparse as a Shaker’s. And somehow, she’d come to like that. One large feather bed, one round oak
table with two matching chairs, a pantry for all her baking needs, a little pump sink, and the stove she had come to love as much as if it were her Mac laptop, complete with her favorite apps. And on every side of the house were large thick greenish windows that made everything outside, even now in winter, look like Ireland in spring.

  The greenish windows made things a bit cheerier, but nothing could soothe her now. Meredith had started to like the people of Plateau. Care about them. Oh, who was she kidding? She loved them. Even damned Mr. Matlock and his drunken ways.

  But she was a vicious woman who shouldn’t make friends.

  Besides, wouldn’t she be going back to her own time any day now?

  Or was she trapped here?

  Forever?

  Meredith kept crying at that last thought. Not because she missed Cambridge, her job, or anything of her time. She’d burned too many bridges. In fact, after continually waking in the 1880s for more than a month, she’d been relieved.

  Maybe that was why she was crying. This place made her happy.

  And damn it, she shouldn’t be happy.

  To help pass the time and not pace the floor madly, Meredith had started to learn how to bake. Well, first it had been how to make butter. For twelve years she’d craved butter. But being a modern woman, she’d done away with fats and carbs. The instant she arrived though, she wanted nothing but butter on warm bread. So she’d had to figure that out, and thanks to Laura she did. It had taken a lot of work, but she’d churned her own butter, then baked her own bread. After a few weeks of experimenting, the food Meredith prepared actually tasted good.

  And so she’d eaten. A lot.

  That was another reason why Sheriff Cameron wouldn’t think she was attractive, Meredith reminded herself as she unwound from the plaid keeping her warm, wiping the remnants of her tears from her cheeks. She had gained weight. Thank God she didn’t have her ubiquitous scales she’d had in Cambridge. Then she’d know how much weight she’d gained. And even though this was a different time where women were a little rounder than the praying mantis’s Meredith called super models, she felt...fat. And that felt horrible.

  Although, this was the first time in her thirty-two years of life she had boobs. She had to admit that was nice. In her own time, she’d starved, and always thought herself concave when it came to her chest, but now she had these two lumps that kept getting in her way, even while wearing the damned corset.

  Meredith huffed at her tightly bound chest, wondering yet again about Mr. Cameron...dreamy sheriff...lovely man...handsome man. Sure, he had scars on his face, but it had made him seem rugged. Wild. Sexy.

  Meredith snorted again and rolled her watery eyes. Why think about a man when there was no shot in hell he’d ever think of her?

  So why not eat again? Yes, that was always a good choice, even though baking and cooking were so much work. However, as the day turned into late afternoon, with the winter sun retiring early and showing shadows, she concocted a bacon, cheese, and egg quiche, fantasizing if Sheriff Cameron might like it.

  She’d gotten down to her chemise, corset, and a big skirt, barefoot and all, and she’d still worked up a sweat in her hot little house with the stove baking the egg pie to a golden brown and now cooling on her table. That’s when something tumbled on her porch. Meredith jumped, holding a hand to her chest.

  She laughed a little, walking over to one of the windows, thinking the noise was one of her adopted black kittens, Trick and Treat, who played in the barn. They were probably returning from a day of hunting, giving her mouse’s entrails and an ear as they liked to do.

  “You spooked me, little ones,” Meredith said out loud, even though she was sure the kittens couldn’t hear her. That was another reason why Sheriff Cameron would turn tail from her, she had started to speak to herself. Even more than she ate. Yes, she was truly Mad Mere now.

  Meredith placed a hand on the glass, the cool soaking into her too hot skin, and looked upon the frozen land. No snow yet, but bitterly cold. Normally, it would appear brown and stark, but through her window it was muted and looked like the promise of spring to come. One of the porch’s floorboard’s squeaked.

  She turned in a flash, spying out the window behind her stove, close to where she stored the tub. A shadow passed. A large dark image.

  Not at all a kitty. Not even two kitties.

  Meredith’s breath quaked, and her hands again flew to her chest, as if trying to muffle the sound of her thundering heart. Then she saw him. A large man’s silhouette—a bowler-style hat with a long duster crept along the window. Then his back pressed against the glass.

  She recognized her opportunity. He wasn’t watching her. She could run. The barn was on the opposite side of the man. Just run to the barn, fetch the horse, and run. Run. Run. Damn it, run!

  Then she did.

  Chapter 3

  As Jake supped with Laura and Tom, he reflected upon the day. It had been good, which utterly surprised him. He’d met many of the miners, the foremen, the transporting wagoneers, and gotten to know how Plateau ran. Six days of the week, the miners began work at about six in the morning and finished when it got dark, which, this time of year, was earlier and earlier. It was nearly dark already and hardly five in the evening.

  There hadn’t been any fighting today, which ironically enough was Boxing Day. But only Jake seemed to know the name of the day, which had nothing to do with fighting actually. Being Scottish, he guessed Boxing Day was more a British tradition than anything anyone in Plateau might follow.

  Still, Jake had borne witness to a simmering resentment between the miners. The two peoples segregated themselves from each other, tension palpable from their suspicious glances.

  Interestingly, most of the wagoneers were black men, who got along well with the Slavic and Finnish groups. When the blue-eyed man had first whisked Jake away to treat his smallpox in the strangest hospital Jake had ever seen, let alone been in, he’d given him a book to read about the history since the seventeenth century. He’d been fascinated with the neutrality Switzerland declared in the early nineteenth century, always wondering how a country could do such a thing—not pick a side. But while watching the wagoneers, who just wanted to do their job with as little trouble as possible, Jake understood a little better Switzerland’s stance. Besides, although he didn’t want to demean either Slavic or Finnish culture, he had no clue where the animosity came from. And wasn’t that the way most wars began—who knew why the hostility had erupted? But there it was.

  His new employer, Tom, seemed like a kind man, decent. When was the last time Jake had been around truly decent folks, he wondered, as he sat with Tom and Laura for dinner?

  With a pang straight through his chest, he thought of his brothers. How he missed them. Missed the constant jests, the laughing, and being close to people he knew.

  It had happened so fast and in such a blur—becoming a prisoner of war, then shipped down to the Virginia colony, sold to a rich Rice King, who sent them even farther south with the intent to be worked to death, it had seemed. Jake had thought he’d worked hard as a lad, farming, but nothing compared to the twenty-hour days tending to the mosquito-infested rice fields in the sweltering heat of what was now called South Carolina. After his brother, Michael, had been whipped and nearly beaten to death for giving water to the black man next to them while they’d been sowing, Jake had had enough. Carrying Michael on his back, he and Thomas had made their escape with other slaves and servants. The Yamasee tribe, promising to protect him and his brothers, had rescued them.

  Lord, he’d never been more grateful. Then shortly after, he’d contracted smallpox. He’d thought he was dying from it. Vaguely, he remembered hearing his brothers whisper about the others dying within the village. Then the healer placed him in a sweat lodge with other sufferers. His brothers had carried him out again, forcing water down his throat. The healer was there one minute, praying for a cure for him, for all the dying. And all he remembered was how thankful he was to be in
cluded. Wasn’t that odd? But that was his sentiments. He’d been so appreciative for the prayers, for the care, all the while knowing he was about to die. But he’d die in peace with his brothers close. And that was all right with him.

  Then the blond man with icy blue eyes materialized. Jake never could call him Odin. That would be insane; although, the whole matter was maddening. Some people had screamed. Thomas had tried to wrestle him, especially when the blue-eyed man had picked up Jake. But the man calling himself Odin easily threw Thomas to the ground. All the while, Jake had thought the blue-eyed man was death taking him. And he’d been so tired of fighting for life, he’d submitted. But then he’d woken, tucked into a bed, a needle stuck in his arm, another into his hand, some tubes attached to the needles. And everything was so white, so bright. Fevered, he could only open his eyes for a few seconds, and the too brilliant illumination stung every time he’d flicker his lids a little. The blue-eyed man was in the room, smiling at him, telling him he’d survive. The nurses spoke a language he’d never heard before and wore gigantic crackling yellow suits over their whole bodies. The blue-eyed man explained that to treat Jake, he’d had to take him to Yugoslavia in 1972, the last known outbreak of smallpox in Europe.

  When he was better, and Jake had even learned a few phrases of Yugoslavian, the blue-eyed man had returned. In another whirl of time, he was in the Arkansas territory, 1886. The blue-eyed man had given him a piece of newspaper from the future, telling him he had to wait a few months, but then to get himself to the Montana Territory by September. Hell, Jake was as weak as a hundred year-old man and could hardly support himself upright. He’d had to go to another hospital, which had accumulated in Jake becoming massively in debt within a matter of a couple weeks. Paying off that bill had taken months of time, then he’d finally gone to work for the railway, thinking it was good money. It was indecent money, that’s why it was so good. After fighting with his employers, getting himself shot in the process, the blue-eyed man appeared again to take him to yet another hospital. This one, he told Jake, was in the year 2014 in Los Angeles, California, where they were a little more used to treating gunshot wounds.