“Look at you, Margaret Grace.” He shook his head as though he weren’t the one responsible for her tattered state. “What would your daddy think of his precious little girl crawling through the dirt in her fancy pink clothes?”
A smile curved his lips, and tears blurred Maggie’s vision. He’d never liked her, but she never guessed her brother harbored such hatred. “What have I ever done to you?” she cried.
“You were born. My life was perfect before you came along. You killed my mother and have been nothing but a drain on my inheritance. And now I’m supposed to waste what’s left of my money on some finishing school and a dowry so you can be pawned off on some aristocratic fool?”
“I don’t have to go. I won’t go!”
“It’s in the will!” he shouted, waving the crumpled pages. “His lawyer has a copy. I’m his only son, the rightful heir! All this talks about is preparations made for you, Margaret Grace!” He swung his fist.
Pain exploded through her cheek. A scream ripped from her lungs as she hit the ground. She curled up, defending herself as best she could.
When the next blow didn’t come, she opened her eyes and saw a pair of Indian boots just inches from her nose. Her gaze traveled up a giant wearing a thick fur coat. A full beard covered most of his face, but didn’t hide three long scars twisting through his cheek.
Maggie gasped and scrambled back until she bumped into something. Fingers twisting into her hair, popping strands at the root, reminding her she faced a greater threat—her own brother.
“Who are you?” Nathan demanded.
The beastly man stared at her a moment before he glanced at her brother. “Trapper.”
“You’re trespassing on my property.”
“I come to trade.”
The trapper looked directly at her. Maggie shivered, his vacant brown eyes increasing her fear. She was scraped, bruised and bloody, one of her braids had unraveled, yet he stared as though her brother held a dog by a leash.
“You want her?” Nathan asked, laughter in his voice.
The trapper’s shoulder shifted and a bound clump of fur landed on the ground beside her. “Give you six beaver pelts. Fair trade.”
Maggie gasped in horror. She couldn’t be sold! “Nathan.” She tried to stand, shaking her head despite the pain in her scalp. Her brother wrenched his hold. Pain pierced her scalp, forcing her back onto her knees with a sharp cry.
“You live around here?” he asked.
“No,” the trapper answered, his gaze fixed on her. “I follow the rivers.”
“You can’t sell me!” she shouted. “I’m your sister!”
He released her hair. Pain exploded across her back as he kicked her into the dirt. “Take her.”
Long, grimy fingers reached for her. Maggie screamed as she was hoisted up and tossed over the giant’s shoulder.
“No! Nathan!”
She kicked and screamed as the trapper carried her deeper into the woods. Her thrashing didn’t slow his strides. He broke from the trees and ran across a wide clearing. Reaching the other side, he stopped and swung her forward, pinning her against the rough bark of a tree.
Fear choked her. Her breaths came in short gasps.
“Hush your mouth, lest you want to die,” he said in a harsh whisper.
She stared at the jagged scars rippling across his cheek and into his thick beard.
“I seen lots of death, little miss. That man has killin’ in his eyes.”
He lowered her to the ground and steadied her. “You want to live?”
Tears burned hot against her cheeks as she nodded.
“Then you bes’ move fast and keep quiet. He may not be finished with us yet.”
Her mind reeled as he tucked her against his side, his gaze scanning the ground he’d just covered.
He was afraid. Afraid her brother would come after them.
“Goddamn cowards on that ranch,” he murmured. “Even wolves defend their young. Goes to show why I don’t trust my back to no one.”
Maggie gazed up at his tawny, withered face and the matted brown hair poking out from beneath his battered hat. He smelled bad and was old, but not so old that his hair had grayed like her daddy’s.
“I done my good deeds in this life,” he muttered, taking a step back. Fisted hands twice the size of her brother’s slammed onto his hips. His angry dark eyes narrowed.
Maggie stumbled back, beyond his reach.
“I got a mule a half mile from here. We’re headed north. You can go my way or find your own way. It ain’t my worry.”
Find her own way? “I—I’m only thirteen.”
“Only two ages in this world that matter. Either you old enough to survive or you ain’t.” He held his hand out to her.
Maggie stared at his large, filthy palm then glanced at her own scraped hands. Twigs and leaves clung to dirty pink satin and the frazzled black hair draped over her shoulders. She was suddenly aware of the ache in her swollen lips, the burning in her eyes.
Her daddy was dead. Her brother had tried to kill her.
“You old enough, Margaret Grace?”
Only Nathan called her by her first and middle name.
“My name is Maggie,” she said, taking the trapper’s hand.
“I’m Ira.”
Low murmurs carried across the meadow, drawing his gaze. Ira’s fingers tightened over hers, tugging her after him.
“Run, Maggie.”
Chapter One
Central Wyoming Territory—Fall, 1889
She moved with the caution of a doe caught grazing in an open meadow. Her dirt-stained fingers quickly secured a rope behind her saddle, binding her supplies as she discreetly watched the men filing out of the newly constructed town hall.
Following a roomful of grumbling cattlemen out onto the boardwalk, Garret Daines spotted the woman they called Mad Mag the moment he stepped into the crisp evening air. Her mangy bearskin coat and battered brown hat was hard to miss in the fading light of an otherwise deserted street. Murmurs of recognition and surprise rumbled through the crowd of men.
Garret had seen the mountain recluse in a town only one other time in the eight years he’d lived in these Wyoming hills, some years back in a settlement further north. The bushel of tangled black hair beneath her hat suggested she could still benefit from a lesson or two in hygiene. Known for having a temperament on the far side of crazy, Mad Mag tended to avoid folks altogether. She obviously hadn’t expected all the cattlemen within fifty miles to spill out onto the streets of Bitterroot Springs at five o’clock in the evening. He glanced around at the men watching her with an equal measure of curiosity and caution.
“What’s the plan?” Duce asked, clapping a hand on Garret’s shoulder as he stepped beside him.
Garret glanced over at his business partner, the man’s wide grin striking him as a pure wonder. The past two hours of heated debates and near brawls, two of which had included Garret, left an ache in his shoulders, the frustration winding inside him still burning for release. In the fourteen years he’d been riding with Duce the wiry cowpuncher had never known a sour mood.
He doesn’t handle the account