Yellowstone Memories Read Free Page A

Wyatt’s throat for a chest of gold.
    Wyatt steadied the gun and eased a step closer, kicking at one of the barrels. “Come out with your hands up, or I’ll shoot.”
    His hand on the trigger flinched, palms sweaty.
    And before he could pull it, a shadowy figure rose slowly from behind the barrels, casting a terrible shadow.
    Wyatt thrust the lantern forward, heart pounding in his throat.

Chapter 2
    J ewel?” Wyatt leaped back, feeling the blood drain from his face as if he’d seen the ghost of Crazy Pierre himself. He reeled, light-headed. “Uh … Miss Jewel? Ma’am?” he corrected, trying to recall his manners as a thousand disbelieving thoughts hit him at once.
    Take off your hat, Wyatt! For pity’s sake
. Wyatt scrambled for his brown leather cowboy hat with his free hand, gun wobbling, and clumsily dropped the hat on the floor.
    “What,” he stammered, “in thunder’s name are you doing here?” He cleared his throat, all nerves and shaking fingers. “Ma’am?”
    Wait. Shouldn’t he translate? The girl spoke as much English as her ridiculous Indian pony. Arapaho, maybe, the few words he knew—or French or something? She came from a French trapper’s outpost in Idaho. That much he knew, from all his wasted tutoring sessions back at Uncle Hiram’s cabin—mainly trying to pry her knowledge of the gold.
    But his dry mouth couldn’t form any words. Couldn’t think.
    On a good day at the ranch he could barely meet her eyes, so graceful she was—so darkly mysterious, so confident. Oh, how he envied her ease and confidence—her uplifted chin and sparkling black eyes, meeting his for a fleeting second over the Bible pages or across the stable.
    And his gaze would flutter away in embarrassment, landing on his boots or the table, or on her simple wedding band. Scurrying off like a field mouse before she noticed the ruddy glow in his freckled cheeks.
    Jewel raised her head from behind the barrels, her earrings glittering in the light from the lantern, and said nothing.
    “Answer me, miss, or … or …” Wyatt couldn’t finish his own sentence, trying to keep the gun level and make his lips move. “Why are you here? At my uncle’s, and at Crazy Pierre’s?”
    He blinked, feeling sweat break out on his forehead under his hat. Her appearance made no sense. His uncle’s Arapaho horse trainer who bungled all her verbs and couldn’t understand a lick of English? In Crazy Pierre’s root cellar at midnight? Black spots swirled before his eyes, and he reached out a shaky hand to steady himself against a brittle shelf.
    Jewel lifted her chin in an almost haughty manner. “My given name is Collette Moreau,” she said coldly in perfect English, standing up to her full height. Hands raised. “But you may call me Jewel like everyone else. What are
you
doing here?” She nodded to the floor. “And you may get your hat.”
    Wyatt stared then fumbled on the dirt littered floor for his hat. He slapped it back on his head at a crooked angle.
    “I’m … I’m looking for something,” Wyatt stammered, strangely unnerved by her calm and even accusatory demeanor. For pity’s sake. He was the one holding the gun!
    He jabbed the gun barrel forward, trying to keep a steady grip as his palms perspired. “How did you find out about this place?”
Wait a second
. “You speak English?” Wyatt stared, openmouthed. “I thought you could … could barely get out a sentence.”
    His mind reeled as he recalled hours and weeks of tedious tutoring, trying not to fall asleep at his uncle’s brawny oak table while she stammered over the simplest of words in the thick family Bible. He’d lean his stubbly red- bearded chin in his hand and yawn, pulling off his glasses to wipe bored tears from his eyes.
    “That fool girl can’t speak a word of English,”
Uncle Hiram had said after she left, rocking back in his chair and making the wooden slats of the chair groan in complaint
.
“Figures. Redskins are awful slow at