Beneath his feet the floor shook violently. Shit. Nothing terrified him like an earthquake. He’d been through two of them in L.A. Hot white light flashed in his face, blinding him. With an unholy force, the earth shook again, and he flung the camera, panic clogging his throat. Trying to focus, he dropped to his knees. He had to get out. Find the door. He flailed blindly as the floor rumbled and threatened to swallow him whole.
The violence stopped as suddenly as it had begun. He stayed frozen, waiting for the aftershock. Nothing happened as his vision slowly cleared. He should have felt relief. Except he was no longer in the attic.
3
CORD SQUINTED UP at the clear blue sky. A pair of hawks circled overhead. Clouds hovered close to hills blanketed with fallen yellow and orange leaves.
He blinked blearily. Nothing changed.
He spun around. The Winslow house. It was gone. There were no buildings, only an endless dirt road and skeletal trees, their limbs forking the sky.
How was this possible? He’d been in the attic only a moment ago….
Sniffing the air, he knew he wasn’t imagining the aroma of smoked meat mingled with charred hickory. That meant he was still alive, right? He looked down at his jeans and the tops of his cowboy boots, and then touched his gun through his cashmere sport jacket. The .38 caliber sat snugly in his shoulder holster.
He suddenly remembered the earthquake. The flash. The blinding white light. A gunshot? He opened his jacket and checked his blue striped cotton shirt. No blood. Only nervous sweat coated his skin. Hell. That didn’t mean he wasn’t dead. What other reason was there for him unexpectedly standing in the middle of nowhere?
Shading his eyes, he strained to see down both sides of the dirt road. He saw nothing, though the scent of the roasting meat seemed to have grown stronger so he had to be close to some sort of civilization. Like icy fingers squeezing the lifeblood from him, a chill gripped him, and he turned up his blazer collar as he started in the direction of the tantalizing aroma. That was another thing—if he were dead, the smell wouldn’t be so appealing.
He swallowed hard, but had to work at gathering enough saliva in his parched mouth. The dust he kicked up as he trudged on didn’t help, so he crooked his arm over his mouth and nose. After about a quarter of a mile, he stopped and listened. He thought he heard voices. Children laughing? At least he was going in the right direction.
The thought had barely flitted through his mind when he saw the eagle. As if beckoning him, the majestic bird dipped lower in the sky before soaring back up and glided just ahead of Cord. A sure sign that he was going in the right direction.
MAGGIE DAWSON pressed a hand to her nervous belly and then gathered her long skirt in one hand and carefully climbed down off the wagon. She prayed with all her heart that today was the day she’d hear from her sister. Mary had never been the fastest letter writer but once she learned of Maggie’s predicament, surely she’d responded hastily.
“Afternoon, Maggie, fine fall day we’re having.”
Maggie forced a polite smile on her face as she turned toward Mrs. Weaver’s voice. “Yes, nice and cool. Good baking weather. I have a mind to bake a couple of apple pies for Pa. You know how he does so love his sweets.”
Mrs. Weaver stopped in the middle of the boardwalk and tilted her narrow face to the side. “Come to think of it, I haven’t seen him in a good long while. How’s he coming along?”
Gritting her teeth, Maggie turned back to tethering her horse so Mrs. Weaver wouldn’t see the bright red spots that heated Maggie’s cheeks. When was she going to learn? Mrs. Weaver would have kept on walking if Maggie hadn’t opened her big mouth and rambled, and then she wouldn’t have to tell a big fat lie. Which plainly she was very bad at doing, partly in thanks to her cursed fair skin and disgusting red hair.
“He’s still feeling poorly. That’s why I’ve been the one coming to town lately.” Maggie cinched the reins and forced herself to face Mrs. Weaver.
“Well, honey, I wouldn’t be making him apple pie if I were you. He needs a good brothy soup. Just this morning I told Harold we need to slaughter one of the chickens. I could bring some—”
“Oh, thank you, anyway, Mrs. Weaver. But I just made a pot myself this morning. Pa’s probably eating some of it right now. He—” Shut up, Maggie, she told herself sternly and stepped up onto the boardwalk. She’d been lying and evading so much lately she should be better at it by now. “Say hello to Mr. Weaver for me,” Maggie said as she rudely backed away from the older woman’s disapproving face.
Her stomach in a twisted knot, Maggie entered Arnold’s general store and went straight to the threads. She would have much rather run straight to the corner where Mr. Carlson sat at a wobbly scarred oak table and sorted and dispensed the mail, but she never wanted to appear too eager and always first bought a few yards of fabric or a new color thread that she didn’t need.
After making her selection and quickly paying for her purchase, she approached Mr. Carlson with a bright smile on her face.
He looked up and smiled back. “Lordy, Miss Maggie, I do believe you have an extra sense about when the mailbag arrives. You’re pert’ near my first customer each week.”
Her smile faltered, and she shrugged a shoulder. “Being as I’m in town, anyway…”
Over his wire-rimmed spectacles, he eyed her speculatively for a moment, and then bent his balding head to sift through a pile of letters. “Nope. Nothin’ this week. You got somethin’ goin’ out?”
She pressed her lips together to hide her disappointment, and shook her head. “Not this time, Mr. Carlson. Thank you.”
What was the use? She’d already sent Mary three letters just in case she hadn’t received the first two. Maggie just had to be patient was all. Not one of her finer qualities, as Pa had reminded her often enough. Not unkindly, but just as it was a father’s duty. At least he hadn’t blamed that particular defect of character on the fact that at twenty-five she was a hopeless spinster. No, there were plenty of other reasons for her lack of suitors.
“Maggie?”
She’d made it to the display of mason jars next to the iron skillets, and turned back to Mr. Carlson.
“How’s your pa? Ain’t seen him in over two months,” Mr. Carlson asked, his kind ruddy face nearly her undoing.
Maggie pressed a hand to her waist and swallowed around the lump of grief in her throat. “He’s been feeling a mite poorly.”
“Again?” The man frowned. “Seems he’s been sick since September. Maybe you ought to have the new doc go out to your place and have a look—”
“No,” she said too abruptly and forced a brittle laugh. “He hasn’t been sick this whole time. He’s been busy prospecting the past month. Last night it seems he ate something that didn’t sit well in his belly, is all.”
“Ah.” Mr. Carlson smiled, clearly appeased. “Well, you take care driving that wagon home. You might tell him I noticed that left rear wheel might be wobbling some.”
“I’ll be sure to do that, Mr. Carlson. Thank you.” Maggie hurried out of the general store before anyone else could ask her about Pa. Lord, she didn’t need the wagon wheel to break now. Who’d fix the darn thing? Not Pa. Not buried twenty yards behind their cabin.
At the thought, her breath caught on a sob and she nearly stumbled off the boardwalk and into Bertha. The gray mare turned accusing eyes on Maggie, as if she knew that Maggie hadn’t even dug her father a proper grave. Rock-hard ground and trembling hands had allowed for a four-foot hole and she hadn’t dared wait longer to get him in the freezing