Fletcher's Woman Read Free Page B

had been gravely insulted. She raised her hand and slapped Mr. Jonas Wilkes with such force that the mark of her fingers blazed, crimson, on his face.
    The tense silence in the tent seemed to vibrate.
    There was a frightening expression in Jonas Wilkes’s eyes as he surveyed the trembling, furious girl before him. A thin, white line encircled his lips, and he clenched and unclenched his fists. “Miss McKinnon, if you ever do that again, you will bitterly regret it.”
    Rachel was terrified, but she was too proud and too stubborn to let anyone, especially this man, know that. She stood her ground. “Mr. Wilkes, if you ever demean my garments again, or imply that I am unclean, you will bitterly regret it.”
    Some intrepid soul laughed aloud just then, but if Mr. Wilkes heard the sound, he dismissed it. His eyes moved over Rachel’s body with dispatch, then returned to her face. “Your father would be Ezra McKinnon—the sawyer I hired last week in Seattle. Am I correct?”
    A lump throbbed, raw, in Rachel’s throat as she remembered that she and her father depended upon this man for their livelihood. “Yes,” she admitted.
    He took a small, leather book from the inside pocket of his suit coat and made a flourishing notation on the first page.
    It was all Rachel could do to keep from craning her neck to read what he’d written. She swallowed miserably. “Are you going to dismiss my father?” she asked, after an awkward, painful pause.
    Mr. Wilkes smiled generously. “Of course not, Miss McKinnon. That would be a spiteful thing to do, wouldn’t it?”
    Rachel searched her mind for a diplomatic, dignified reply and found nothing she dared say beyond, “Thank you.”
    Once more, the impudent gaze swept over her. “Think nothing of it, Urchin,” he said. And then, abruptly, Mr. Jonas Wilkes was striding across the sawdust floor and out of the tent.
    The moment he was gone, the stunned populace of Tent Town dared to breathe again.
    A thin woman with wide, fearful blue eyes approached Rachel first. There was surprise in the narrow, careworn face, but there was respect, too, and no small measure of admiration. “You slapped Jonas Wilkes!” she breathed.
    Rachel stiffened, though she secretly enjoyed being the center of attention. “He brought it on himself,” she said, with bravado.
    The splendid, defiant giggle Rachel had heard before rose above the excited chatter, and she saw that it came from a slender Indian girl standing nearby. She had beautiful, nut-brown skin and wore a slim, beaded headband and a buckskin shift trimmed with twisted fringe. “I hope the gods are fond of you, Purple Eyes,” she said, tossing her long, glossy black hair back over one shoulder. “You’re going to need all the help you can get.”
    The woman who had spoken first shot an impatient glance in the girl’s direction and frowned. “Don’t pay Fawn any mind, Rachel. She’s been traipsing all over the territory with Buck Jimson’s Wild West Show these past few months, and she got into the habit of carrying on like an Indian.”
    â€œI am an Indian!” cried Fawn, with spirit. “You’d better remember it, too, Mary Louisa Clifford, or I’ll creep into your tent some dark, rainy night and scalp you bald!”
    Mary Louisa shook her head and smiled at Rachel. “It is wise to be careful, where Mr. Wilkes is concerned. He can be vindictive.”
    Rachel shivered. “My father—will he lose his job?”
    Mary Louisa patted Rachel’s hands in reassurance. “If he’s a good, hard worker, he won’t be discharged.”
    Fawn pressed closer, her dark, sparkling eyes wide withforeboding. “No woman strikes Jonas Wilkes like that and gets away with it. Mark my words, Rachel McKinnon. He’s making plans for some kind of revenge right now.”
    Small, sharp needles of dread