Free Adventures of Cash Laramie and Gideon Miles (Cash Laramie & Gideon Miles Series) by Edward A. Grainger Page B

having these thoughts. John Murphy was a strong man whose land came second only to his love for me, she thought, and I won't leave it. I'd rather die defending it.
    She grabbed the gun entered her modest home and closed the door. John had always taught her to remove the bullets from the rifle for safety, but considering what might be headed her way she felt safer with it at the ready. She leaned it behind the door like she always did.
    Delilah walked to the table, sat down, stood up and paced some more. Each time she was up, she looked through the window beside the bolted door. She ran her hand over the glass she wiped down faithfully every day. "Civilized" is what John said a home was with a proper see-through window. She wanted to close the shutter to feel safe, but she knew it needed to be left open to watch for the approach of any unwanted guests. She contemplated making herself a pot of tea, but she didn't feel like sitting still. Instead she tossed the chicken she'd killed that morning into a pot along with some potatoes and carrots, hung it on the fireplace hook and swung it over the fire to simmer until suppertime.
    She paced some more then shouted, "Enough!" Delilah grabbed her battered straw hat hanging from a nail on the wall and strode back outside. By God, she wasn't going to be a prisoner in her own home. The garden needed weeding, and later the chickens had to be shooed into the coop and secured for the night, not mention a cow who would be bawling to be milked and butter to be churned. And that was just what she was going to do. Indian or no Indian she had chores to do and by damn she was going to do them.
    Delilah marched the short distance to the barn to get the hoe, quickly scanning the horizon for trouble. The area was empty except for a scrawny rabbit that skirted off into the distance. A light wind kicked up some dry dirt as she got to weeding. Only the sound of her hoe working down the rows broke the silence.
    A few hours later, after milking the cow, Delilah walked out of the barn coming face-to-face with the wanted man from the poster. She opened her mouth to scream but nothing came out. She stumbled backward, regained her footing, but dropped the bucket she was carrying, the dry ground lapping up the spilled milk. She straightened her back, standing tall and firm.
    He walked up to her, hovering over her with a fierce look in his dark eyes. He wore farmer's dungarees and a dark-brown hat pulled low. A long single braid from the back trailed across his shoulder and down the front of his chest. A Spencer rifle rested in his right hand. He flung a rapid-fire series of Cheyenne at her. She stepped back but he moved forward with her.
    "Stay ... away."
    He advanced staggering, like a drunk. There was nothing more unpredictable than a drunken Indian her father had once warned her. She went to take another step back but saw the blood running down his arm and instead rushed forward managing to catch him before he fell.
    "C'mon, Coyote, you've made it this far, help me get you to the house." She felt foolish for her initial reaction. Bracing herself against his weight, the two struggled together into the house.
    * * *
    Delilah dreamt she and John were entertaining President and Mrs. Grant in their home. She was fretting over not having proper silverware while John argued reconstruction with the president. A sharp pounding on the door interrupted. She strode across the floor to open it but stopped short. Marshals Laramie and Miles stood on either side of the door shaking their heads no. John looked displeased and yelled for her to open the door. Delilah reached for the knob but it was already turning.
    She jerked awake, clamping a hand over her mouth to stifle her scream. She had fallen asleep in her rocker in front of the fire. Her heart pounded in her ears as she looked toward the door, the bolt was still slid home. The house was shut tight against whatever lurked in the darkness outside.
    Light from the fire