Wyoming Winterkill Read Free Page A

over, he angrily snapped, “No touching, mister.”
    Fargo, his hand still on Margaret’s, let his smile widen. “No touching what?”
    â€œNot what, who,” Wilbur growled, with a nod at Margaret. “No touching her. You pay for a drink and food, not the other.”
    â€œShe your missus?” Fargo asked.
    Wilbur went from mad to flustered. “Well, no.”
    â€œYour sister?”
    â€œNo, of course not.”
    â€œYour mother?”
    â€œDamn it to hell, you know she’s not,” Wilbur said. “Quit asking stupid questions.”
    â€œIf she’s not any of those,” Fargo said, “then you don’t have a say.”
    â€œShe works here,” Wilbur declared.
    â€œNot anymore.”
    â€œWhat?”
    Margaret opened her mouth as if to say the same thing but caught herself.
    â€œShe’s leaving with me,” Fargo said.
    Wilbur sputtered and glanced toward his three friends and then blurted, “She can’t. I mean, I took her on out of the goodness of my heart with the understanding that she’d work here more than a few weeks.”
    â€œShe’s a grown woman. She can do whatever the hell she wants.” Fargo stood and pulled Margaret to her feet. “I’ll go with you and help you pack. Lead the way.” He grabbed the whiskey bottle and shoved it in one of the deep pockets of his bearskin coat.
    George Wilbur looked fit to bust a gut. He reluctantly moved aside, saying to her, “I wish you wouldn’t.”
    â€œMy room is in the back,” Margaret said to Fargo.
    The narrow hall opened into the kitchen and another room, where Wilbur lived. Hers was so small that Fargo could spread his arms and his fingertips almost brushed the opposite walls. There was a bed and a tiny table and that was it.
    Her carpetbag was under the bed. Pulling it out, Margaret opened it and began to fold a cotton robe she’d left lying on the bed. “I don’t know why I’m doing this. But I sense I can trust you.”
    Fargo had left the door open a crack. Taking his hat off, he peered out.
    Wilbur and Fletcher were at the far end of the hall. Fletcher looked angry as hell. Suddenly Fletcher gripped the front of Wilbur’s apron and put a hand on his revolver and Wilbur blanched and vigorously bobbed his head.
    â€œWhat do you see?” Margaret asked.
    â€œMy seed has taken root.”
    Margaret placed her robe in the carpetbag. “Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”
    Putting his hat back on, Fargo clasped her hands in his and sat her on the bed. “Listen. They can’t let us leave. They won’t risk you telling anyone about your husband and that old couple.”
    â€œI still can’t believe they’re as wicked as you make them out to be.”
    â€œThe proof will be when they try to stop us from reaching the front door.”
    â€œStop us how?”
    Fargo stared.
    â€œOh,” Margaret said. “Can’t we avoid that? I don’t want bloodshed.”
    â€œIt will be them or us.”
    â€œNo,” Margaret said. “There has to be another way.” Her face lit with an idea. “I have it. We’ll go out the back and sneak around to your horse. I don’t have one of my own, so I’m afraid we’ll have to ride double.”
    Fargo would rather confront the four men and get it over with, and said so.
    â€œPlease. Let’s do this my way. I couldn’t live with myself if blood was spilled on my account.”
    Fargo scowled. He could take her out the front anyway but she might give him a hard time and he needed to concentrate on Fletcher and his friends.
    â€œI’m begging you,” Margaret said.
    Fargo gave in. “We’ll do it your way.”
    â€œThank you,” Margaret said, and pecked him on the cheek.
    Fargo checked the hall. Fletcher and Wilbur weren’t there. Crooking a finger, he said, “Let’s