Chapter sixteen

It had been a long two days, but productive. The reins jangled as Amber urged Gunpowder across one more homestead and on to home. Gunpowder’s tail swished away the flies as Amber rotated her parasol to discourage the pesky insects. Bradley hadn’t liked the idea of her riding to Kingfisher alone, but it needed to be done. Until they filed their claim at the land office, they were vulnerable to anyone who wanted to swear possession of it. Someone like Caroline with a dugout completed and crops planted would have a stronger case. Honest people like Amber and Bradley needed the piece of paper to show that they’d been there all along. At least until they had something more substantial than a one-room wooden frame covered in canvas.

She brushed a fly off her face. Not that she thought Caroline was dishonest. Not really. But she was hardheaded, just like Amber’s fiancé. And Amber was caught in the middle.

A hawk swooped down ahead of her and snatched up a furry rodent for dinner. One less thief to raid her supplies, Amber reckoned. At least she hoped it was a mouse and not a rabbit. They would need all the rabbits they could get if they were going to have enough to eat before their crops came in.

But they had the land. Amber had the paper in her pocket, and it was registered at the land office as well. It had been two weeks since the race. She hadn’t expected the line to be so long, but it looked like many others had done as she had—waited until the first rush was over before venturing off their homesteads. And then she’d made her wait even longer. When she got up to the front of the line, a man in chaps and boots had offered her five dollars if he could take her place in line.

Amber only hesitated a second. Five dollars? She pocketed the money, then went to the back of the line and waited again. If she wasn’t worried about leaving their farm unattended, she would have stayed all day waiting in line for those wages.

She knew the moment they stepped hoof on her property. What was it that made this square of grass different from all the others? Love? Less than two weeks until the wedding. Ten days, to be exact, and she’d be Mrs. Bradley Willis. Then she’d have another certificate in her pocket, telling her that her plans had come to fruition.

But here was another wrinkle.

The man saw her riding up—he must have—but instead of coming forward to greet her, he darted into her house. With grim resolution, Amber folded her parasol, tucked it into her saddle roll, and took out a pistol. She’d dealt with claim jumpers ever since the twenty-second of last month, but for the most part, they were merely argumentative. No one had wanted to ambush her in her own home.

The four posts of her house covered the same amount of space as a wagon bed. Wooden crossbeams stretched from post to post and supported the oiled canvases that Bradley had nailed into them. One canvas had a hole cut for the stovepipe, and that stovepipe was wisping out smoke. There was someone inside. She hadn’t imagined it.

Staying on her horse, Amber rode around to the flap that served as a doorway. Gunpowder’s ears twitched as she tried to figure out what was happening. Amber laid the pistol on her lap but kept her hand on it.

“Come on outside,” she called. “I know you’re in there.”

The wind blew the flap open. She caught a glimpse of a man’s legs before the canvas settled down again. Her breath was short and choppy. Her knees knocked against the saddle.

“No use in hiding,” she tried again. “I’m not leaving.”

What could he be doing? She didn’t have anything of value in there. Her parents would bring her trousseau with them for the wedding.

And then she smelled the turnips frying.

Amber flexed her hands and loosened the reins. She squinted at the flapping tarp. “Come on out,” she said. “I’ll let you finish your dinner, but I’d feel better if I got a look at you.”

The canvas lifted. The trespasser was dirty, tired, and not much more than a boy. He held her only tin plate in one hand and rubbed the back of his neck with the other.

“I’m sorry, ma’am. When I found no one here, I thought perhaps you’d absconded. Looked to take this claim for myself. When I saw the vittles, I knew you’d be back, but I was so hungry, I couldn’t help myself. Some turnips and potatoes. I didn’t take anything else, I swear.”

He seemed like a harmless sort, but Amber preferred the safety of her mount all the same.

“It’s been a spell since you’ve eaten?” she asked.

“Yes, ma’am. Came for the race but didn’t prove out. Since then I’ve been wandering, looking for work. People everywhere are hard-pressed to feed themselves, much less take on a hand.”

That might be her and Bradley once his military pay ceased. She nodded in understanding. “Get finished and move on out. As you can see, I don’t have anything to spare either.”

He shifted his weight to one leg as he took another bite of food. “That’s a fact. If you need some work done for the meal, I’m happy to oblige.”

Amber sighed. How she’d love to have him plow another row or two, but he was a stranger, and she was all alone. Better to send him on his way.

“Thanks for the offer. I have to pass for now, but you might find work in Kingfisher. I got paid to stand in line.”

“No fooling? You’ve been more than kind. I’ll set this plate back inside, and then I’ll go.”

The young man did exactly as he’d said with a generous amount of hat-tipping and thanks. Still astride her horse, Amber watched him depart. He’d been pleasant enough, but she didn’t like the thought that people were wandering around, helping themselves to the contents of tents. Ten days. Then she would marry Bradley and wouldn’t have to worry about being here alone. Not unless he had to go find work. Hopefully by then they’d live in something better than boards and canvases.

Her nose twitched. That wasn’t turnips she was smelling. Amber turned to see smoke billowing out of her house. Her jaw dropped as she kicked her heels against the horse’s side and raced to the shack.

She didn’t remember dismounting or running toward the door. The smoke stinging her eyes was the first thing she knew. The second was that the frying pan atop the stove was ablaze.

“Never trust a man in the kitchen.”

But the blaze on the stove wasn’t her greatest concern. It was the piece of canvas behind the stove that had caught fire. Maybe she should have grabbed her bedclothes and pulled everything out of the shack, but instead she attacked the canvas. Picking up their new shovel, she beat at the burning canvas. She turned her face away from the flying sparks, only daring a peek when she felt the canvas give beneath her strikes.

With her lungs burning and her eyes streaming, she finally got the burning canvas down off the frame. Stabbing it with the shovel, she dragged it away so it could burn at a harmless distance. The fire had scorched the crossbeams. They smoldered. Not safe, not yet.

She ran back inside the open shack and grabbed a bucket. She’d have to douse everything that had been touched by the flames before she could be sure there was no more danger. Later, after her daily planting was done, she’d have to wash the smoke from her belongings and off her person, but she could only do one thing at a time.

She’d been so proud of what she’d accomplished in Kingfisher today. She’d gotten her name on a piece of paper, but it had nearly cost her everything else.