CHAPTER 1

Sawyer Kennett made up his mind the first time he saw her. The bright mass of her hair drew his eye to begin with. Then her straight back and how she walked, like a queen. But it was her way with the dog that decided him. How she told the rough-coated, one-ear-up one-ear-down mutt to stay with the wagon using only a slight hand signal. Except somehow, at the same time, she turned the command into a caress, and when she jumped from the wagon to the ground, left him with a quiet word spoken like to a friend.

Sheepherder girl. In his experience, only sheepherders had dogs that well-trained. Disappointment cut through his mind, but he followed her into E.H. Bradbury's Gents Furnishings and Grocery Store anyway, intent on discovering her name.

Rain had fallen during the night. A soaking rain–one that would give the hay fields a good drink before the June cutting, and help get Gincy Tate's garden off to a fast start. The damp had made the trip into the town of Rathdrum, Idaho Territory this May morning a pleasure, the road being neither too muddy nor too dusty for a change. Besides, the washed-clean branches on the cedars overhanging the wagon ruts smelled better than any French perfume in the world.

Not that Gincy had ever in her life smelled French perfume–or probably ever would. She'd only read about such things once, and seen a perfume bottle pictured in a fancy New York magazine. You didn't need to smell the contents to know they'd only put something magnificent in a bottle made of twisted blue glass with a lead crystal stopper. That's what the print had said: twisted blue glass with a hand-blown, lead crystal stopper. It only made sense for cedar essence–essence being another good word gleaned from the magazine–to be every bit as fragrant as any imported French rose water.

Gincy sighed. That had been last autumn, down in Spokane Falls, and the magazine had been better than a year old even then.

Morris Tate shook the reins above the backs of the two matched bays and glanced at her over the top of the medium-sized dog sitting between them. "What're you thinking about, girl? You blew enough air just then to nearly take the hat off my head."

"Cedar," Gincy replied, ignoring his exaggeration. She hadn't realized she'd been loud enough for him to hear.

"Cedar," her father repeated. He looked fully at her now, a frown creasing his brow. "You mean trees? Well, why ever are you thinking about them, Gincy? You should be going over your shopping list. Make sure we get everything we need for the drive."

"I have the list memorized, Pap. And I know how much money we have and just what we can afford, too." The minute the words left her mouth Gincy knew she shouldn't have mentioned the money. Morris Tate's jaw tightened and his shoulders hunched in on themselves, making him look older and a whole lot tireder than he really was.

"Don't you worry, Pap. We'll make it. We'll be fine." She added this last part in a rush, with maybe less than total conviction. Actually, it wasn't truly Morris's fault about the money. Or only maybe fifty percent. She wouldn't rag on him, though. He knew.

Morris didn't say anything for a while, just kept staring out over the sleekly brushed backs of the team. Gincy had time to ponder over whether there was anybody in the world, France or the U.S. of A., who knew how to brew up cedar scent and package the aroma in a bottle before he spoke again.

"Sure we will, Gincy girl. We get this herd of horses drove over to the fort and we'll be more than fine. First thing I do with that money is stuff what I owe Mr. William Blau right up…in his shirt pocket. The second is buy you a pretty new dress. Yellow, I think. Or maybe green."

Gincy, who longed for a brand new, store-bought dress in the worst way, smoothed the dark blue serge skirt she wore over her knees and secretly wished she could have a red dress. Or pink. Pink would be prime, too. But with hair practically identical in color to that of the team of horses Pap was driving right now, she'd probably look a freak.

"I'd like a new dress," she allowed. "And a book. Do you think there might be enough money to buy a book? A brand new one nobody else has read?" But the dress came first. She had cut down the last decent article of clothing to be found in her mother's trunk–the serge skirt–and made it over to fit herself. Still, she admitted, she was getting mighty tired of making do with her dead mother's clothes.

"We'll see," said Morris, with a red-faced, shifty-eyed look that told Gincy plain as day he had plans of his own for part of the money. She had a pretty good guess what those plans were, too, not that she'd ever in this world admit to Pap she knew about such things.

Getting her father to think about the forthcoming payday took his mind off their present circumstances. He was sitting up straight and proud on the wagon's hard plank seat by the time they rolled down main street.

Eagerly, Gincy looked around. She hadn't been into town since Christmas, and to her bewildered eyes, the streets seemed filled to overflowing with noisy people all rushing hither and yon. The place had grown so much in only five months she scarcely recognized it.

Dogs raced about, barking and getting underfoot. From the sawmill across the Northern Pacific railroad tracks, edged steel screamed as it cut through huge, old-growth logs.

She counted three new saloons, a restaurant, and another blacksmith shop, all built since she'd been here last. Horses stood nose to nose at the rails in front of the saloons. Both blacksmith shops had a pall of dark smoke pouring out the open doors, what with forges going full blast while wagon wheels were repaired, plow shares sharpened and horses waiting to be shod lined up in a queue. Mostly draft horses, Gincy noticed. Ranchers, as a rule, had their own man to take care of the horse's feet.

"Good gracious, Pap! Where have all these people come from?" Gincy's head felt like to twist right off, she was kept so busy trying to gawk at both sides of the street at once. Ahead of them, she saw Mr. Bradbury's store, her destination, but the building looked different than it had five months ago. More prosperous, with barrels and kegs and boxes piled on the boardwalk out front. The name of the store stood out in black letters, freshly painted on the new false front.

Copyright © 2003 by Carol Crigger