No Man’s Land—the strip of land between Kansas and Texas not claimed as a territory by the U.S. government
Summer 1886
Dustin Travis? Sorry, ma’am, but he up and died ’bout a week or so ago. Got trampled flatter’n a griddlecake in a stampede.”
Deborah Preston braced herself against a barrel. Her fiancé was known for pulling pranks, and his horse was hitched outside. She scanned all she could see of Foster’s Food and Feed for him. “Dustin? Please don’t tease me just now.”
The gangly young clerk shoved away from a teetering stack of multicolored calico sacks. “Miss, I wasn’t funnin’ you.” He smoothed back his stringy hair. “Don’t you fret yourself none. I’ll be happy to marry up with ya.”
“I–I’m afraid.…” Words failed her.
“No need to be afeered, ma’am.” He reached for her arm. “I’m Bently Foster. I’ll take good keer of ya.”
Deborah evaded his touch and shook her head.
“Well, well. My eyes weren’t playin’ tricks on me after all,” a man’s voice said from the doorway. “That’s a woman—and a purdy one, too.”
“She’s mine,” Bently said as he stepped in front of her. “Go find your own woman, Testament.”
“I’m not your woman.” Deborah frowned at him, then glanced over at the man approaching them. “I came to marry Dustin Travis.”
Three other men tromped in behind him, all big, blond, and homely. Two whistled. The other spat out a wad of tobacco and smiled at her. The first one shrugged. “No use wasting the trip. I’m claiming you.”
“Now wait a minute here!”
“Hush up, Foster. She already said she don’t want you.” The men started arguing over her.
Normally, Deborah could appreciate a fine joke, but after days of travel, weariness swamped her. Dustin must have taken appreciable time to cook up this elaborate charade, but she was too tired to be a good sport. Backed against a post and hot and dusty as the road she’d been on, Deborah hit her limit.
“Stop this. Stop it at once!” She shoved the basket she’d been carrying onto the nearest barrel, then thought better of that move and grabbed it back. “I’m not a juicy bone to be fought over by a pack of wild wolves.”
“All wolves are wild,” a woman said from somewhere to Deborah’s left. Her voice carried an entertained lilt.
Relieved that she wasn’t the only female around, Deborah craned her neck to locate the woman. Once she spied her, Deborah’s hopes for any assistance or sisterly support wavered. The woman wasn’t quite twenty, and she was handsome in the way only a young, raven-haired woman could be—however, she wore a holster instead of a sash, and her hair wasn’t up in a lady’s fashion but braided in a long tail that fell over her shoulder.
“I need Dustin, please. Dustin Travis.” Head pounding, mouth dry, Deborah silently prayed this woman would take pity on her and put an end to the tasteless joke.
“Hardheaded little thang, ain’t she?” One of the men moved closer.
“King Testament,” the strange young woman said in an exasperated tone, “you’re not going to claim this girl.”
“Mind yer own business, Lou.”
Having decided Dustin wasn’t planning to rescue her anytime soon, Deborah pushed back an errant tendril of hair. “Gentlemen, I’m going to need to appeal to—”
“Oh, you appeal to me just fine.”
She pretended she hadn’t been interrupted. “—Your chivalry. Perhaps you could direct me to the nearest boardinghouse.”
“Lady, these men don’t even know what chivalry is,” Lou muttered. “Now you men just go on home.”
The men didn’t seem the least bit interested in the women’s opinions. King chuckled. “Petunia ain’t got no boardinghouse, and you won’t need one. You’re coming home with me.”
Deborah realized these uncivilized men must not be part of Dustin’s joke and couldn’t be reasoned with. Even if Lou had a gun, Deborah knew they were outnumbered. She figured the time had come for her to rely on what she had on hand and good old-fashioned common sense. She could use the derringer in the basket. Her amethyst-topped hatpin would make for a wicked weapon, and she still had Papa’s favorite pocketknife, an arsenal of knitting needles, and her sewing scissors. Yes, the time had come to defend herself and her virtue. These men weren’t being honorable, so she was going to fight as dirty as she could. Deborah took a deep breath, let it out, and burst into tears.
“Now look what you went and done to that poor gal, King One.” The tobacco spitter yanked off his hat and whacked the foremost man with it.
Deborah sucked in a choppy breath, took a better look at him, and decided she’d been out in the sun too long. He looked just like the man beside him. That wouldn’t have been quite so alarming, but the other two men looked exactly the same as one another. Seeing double. I’m just seeing double. It’s not as bad as I thought. No, wait. It’s worse. I’m sunstruck and—
“Sugar, don’t pay them Testaments no mind.” Bently patted her arm. “I’m not gonna let ’em have you. Yore mine.”
Deborah flinched. She stuck her hand into the basket and blindly searched for the derringer. The least Dustin could have done was show up to meet her instead of leaving her to fend for herself. Tears blurred her vision and thickened her voice. “Leave me alone.”
“You done went and ruint it for all of us,” another complained as he elbowed past and stepped closer to Deborah. “Calming a sobbin’ gal is harder than puttin’ socks on a goat.”
“You boys back up,” the woman said as she hopped up and stood on a nearby crate. The action managed to reveal the scandalous fact that she wore men’s boots. “You don’t know what she has in that basket, but you sure enough know I have my pistol.”
One of the men snorted, and two of the others snickered.
King went ruddy. “You just keep that Colt in your holster, Lou. My brothers would hate to have to wing you. As for me worryin’ ’bout this gal posin’ a threat—she’s bawling like a baby and just as helpless.”
Bently muttered, “Lou, she’s a regular girly girl—not a scrappy she-coyote like you.”
The soft angora yarn brushed the back of Deborah’s hand as it toppled out of the basket. She refused to look down and watch where it went. If she couldn’t find the gun, at least she could grab something.
The closest man stuck out his hand and caught the ball of pink yarn. He lifted and inhaled deeply. “How d’ya like that? Smells like them flowers of Ma’s.”
“Gimme that and git outta here.” The clerk grabbed the yarn.
Looking quite earnest, the man with the hat pressed it against his chest and shuffled so close she caught a whiff of the beer he’d been drinking.
“C’mon, sweetheart,” King crooned to Deborah as he shoved aside the man with the hat. “You ain’t got no call to cry or—ouch!”
The minute he touched her wrist, Deborah yanked a knitting needle from her basket and poked him. He jerked back, but she lost hold of the needle. It pinged as it hit the floor. She hastily sought a replacement from her basket.
“That’s the way!” Lou stayed on the crate and cocked her pistol. “Now you boys just mosey on back home.”
“Lou’s got her hackles up,” one of the brothers groused.
“And my gun drawn. You Testaments already know I’m not shy about pulling a trigger when it’s necessary.”
“Louisa Stafford, what stunt are—” The unseen man’s impatient voice changed to a bellow. “Put that gun back in your holster, girl!”
“Not ’til the Testaments leave this lady alone, Wally.”
Boots grated on the floor as an older man walked up. Wrinkles and impatience creased his face. “You boys kick up more trouble than a cyclone. I can’t have you hassling my customers.”
“Your customers are bothering us. Lou’s drawn her gun, and this other—” He scowled at Deborah as he rubbed his wrist. “She pert near poked a hole clean through me with a pig sticker.”
“Watch what you say about pigs.” Wally pulled Lou from the barrel and set her on the floor. Deborah noted he hadn’t repeated his order to holster her weapon. With that in mind, she took out another knitting needle.
“Now you went and done it.” Another whap with the hat punctuated that exclamation of disgust. The speaker lowered his voice more. “We’re all gonna have to listen to another Petunia story.”
“Miss Eleanor, she thought highly of my Petunia. Didn’t she, Lou?”
“Yes, Grandma sure did.” Lou bobbed her head. “She named the town after your pig. It’s not every day you see a pet like yours.”
He has a pet pig? Oh, the sun really did bake my brain. Deborah bit her lip to keep from letting out a cry of despair. She tried to wipe away some of her tears, but the knitting needle kept prodding the brim of her bonnet.
“Gonna put out her eye, First Chronicles. Lookie there at how she’s poking that stick around. Somebody oughtta help her out.”
“Not me. Already drew blood on my wrist with the other one.”
“Women wouldn’t have to defend themselves if you’d behave and leave them alone.” Lou holstered her gun.
“You boys are already in enough trouble.” The old man shook his head. “Your ma’s gonna skin you alive when she finds out you’ve let Chronicles drink again.”
“Aw, you ain’t gonna tell her, are you?”
Lou hurriedly said, “Not if you promise to leave us alone.”
Wally folded his arms and glowered at the Testament men. “You are your brothers’ keepers.”
The wobbly feeling in Deborah’s legs should have gone away when the muttering men tromped out of the feed store, but it didn’t. She leaned into the post. “Thank you. Thank you both so much.”
“You’ll be safe enough now. Come on over here and sit a spell. Pay no mind to those louts, and rest your bones a bit. I’ll tell you all about my pet.”
The odd man had a kindly face, and Deborah decided she might stand a chance of reasoning with him. As he tucked her hand into his crooked arm and led her toward a disreputable-looking stool, she promised, “You can tell me all about Petunia after we find Dustin Travis.”
“Why, I suppose that’s easy enough.” The old gent’s face drooped mournfully. “They’re buried right next to each other just out back.”