The Treasure Of Eerie, Arizona -- Chapter 5 free porn video

The Treasure of Eerie, Arizona -- Chapter 5 By Christopher Leeson and Ellie Dauber December 17, 1871 Myra was sitting listlessly at the table, eating breakfast when she heard the hoof beats of the new posse. She walked over to the window and saw Paul Grant coming down the carriage path, followed by a tall, husky man leading the farm's two horses. Not surprising, the outlaws' saddlebags were no longer to be seen. The rest of the posse - three mounted men - remained at the edge of Riley Canyon Road. Irene went outside to meet the deputy. The big man -- Tor, Myra remembered -- took the horses over to the corral and tied them to the rails. After what was only a brief conversation with her aunt, Grant and Tor mounted up and the five took off briskly down the road toward Stagecoach Gap. Mrs. Fanning came back inside. "They didn't have time for chatting. the good Lord bless them-.- I was afraid that we'd lose those horses forever. It was good of the deputy to send them back today, rather than wait." "Yeah," the girl replied grumpily. "If we had to wait, you'd had me out pulling the plow myself next spring." Irene almost replied, but decided that it would be of no use. Instead, the young widow sent Myra out to do her chores. It bothered Irene that the girl, left to her druthers, would do no work at all. In that, she was still very much like Myron. 'Why can't Myra learn from her two narrow escapes?' She thought. 'Why can't she make the right decisions without needing to be commanded by magic?' She shook her head. What lad had ever done himself any good through aimless and neglectful behavior? Her sister Addie, in her letters, had sometimes lamented that Myron seemed ill-suited to farming. "He's too imaginative," Addie wrote. "Too full of wanderlust, to accept being tied down, to doing the same chores over and over." To Irene, it seemed that he actuallypreferred banditry to an ordinary life. Fortunately, Myra, being a girl now, couldn't follow in his old footsteps. But she still had Myron's restlessness inside her. Irene paused to pray for the Lord's help in making it all turn out well. # After the midday meal, Myra was sent out again, this time to chop kindling for the cook stove. She didn't care for the task, but realized that no wood meant no hot supper. While the potion girl busied herself, a small carriage drew up. She recognized the visitor and gritted her teeth. Molly O'Toole got down from her rig and opened the luggage boot at the rear of the vehicle. Aunt Irene emerged from the house just then and welcomed the saloon operator. Myra, expecting the worst, continued chopping while the others began to unload. Irene went inside first, carrying an armful of packages. "Are all these boxes for Myra?" she asked Molly as she set down her burden. The Irish woman put her own share of the bundles onto the bed. "Aye, they do make quite a pile, don't they? They should be enough t'be getting Myra started. Women's clothes are more complicated than men're used to, though. We'll have t'be acquainting her with thuir wearing, piece by piece." "Men are lucky. Their clothes are so much simpler. And not nearly so expensive." "But the beauty of thuir stuff can't be comparing t'ours," Molly said, as they began opening the packages. The first box that Irene undid contained a corset. She regarded its plain design. It was the type that women customarily wore under their everyday clothes. 'Myra won't like wearing this one bit,' she thought. Out loud, she said, "Men always think that corsets are silly." Molly smiled. "Men like corsets well enough on a pretty girl. Especially when the girl ain't wearing much else. Most cancan outfits don't amount t'much more than corsets dressed up with feathers and lace frillery." Irene's tried not to blush. "That's right, you mentioned..." She trailed off. "That I was a saloon dancer?" Molly didn't look embarrassed. "It's all right t'be talking about it. I am what I am. I was what I was. The fact is, I've liked t'dance ever since I was a wee little girl. 'Tis the Irish in me. Stage dancing was me first serious job outside the home." "What kind of a life is that, especially for a na?ve girl on her own?" The older woman shrugged. "Well, 'na?ve' didn't exactly fit me, not even back then. Me family left the Auld Country in '48. There was lots of fever on the boat, and some of us got sick with it. Me ma and me little brother, Dermot, died b'fore we could get to a hospital in New York. The gold rush was just getting started, and Papa got caught up in the excitement and took us West in 1849. He met Fiona Bourke on the trail, and she helped him with us kids. By the time we reached San Francisco, they was already married." "It didn't seem right; I thought he should mourn longer. I coulda kept the house and looked after the younger ones meself. After a year of me locking horns with me stepmother over this and that, Papa set me up to marry a fellow Irishman named Michael O'Casey. I didn't love him, but we got on well enough, so I went along. Mostly, I just wanted to get away from home. Michael went off to the gold fields to get us a nest egg," she sighed, "and I never heard from him again." "I was just eighteen. I'd lost me chance to marry, but I didn't want t'be staying home. I went down to the busy part of town, down by the harbor, and looked for a job. I coulda earned pennies at pot scrubbing or doing maid's work, but I found a sign that said a saloon was looking for dancing girls. I'd heard people say that dancers made a lot of money. I knew me Papa and step-ma wouldn't care for it, but I had me own ideas." "When I told 'em what I'd be doing, they tried to get me to quit, but I wouldn't. I just couldn't stand all thuir bossing anymore. Soon as I got me first pay, I took a little room in the same house as me folks. I might as well've moved a hundred miles away. They wouldn't talk to me for months after that." Irene frowned, but didn't say anything. "Me first day on the job, I met Shamus, who was tending at the bar. He got a little fresh the first time we spoke, but I put my foot down then and there, and his manners improved." "A dancer's life is a mix. Being outside of the home gave me a different picture of how things work. A gal gets out of life what she puts into it. The way she earns her bread isn't all that important -- so long as it's honest." Irene was still at a loss to reply. Then Molly unwrapped another corset. "Ah, here it is! The one you found is for around the house. This is the kind girls like to wear beneath a dress when they're going to a shindig." "It's pretty," Irene agreed. The item displayed a great deal of embroidery and lace. "I picked up a going-out dress for the young lady, too," Molly remarked. She unwrapped a yellow cotton frock and held it up for Mrs. Fanning's approval. It had short sleeves, a tight waist, and white trim. Irene next examined a winter coat, something that Myra very much needed, with colder days ahead. "These are wonderful. Thank you, Molly. But before Myra tries anything on, though, she'll need another bath. We ought to give her one right away. I've got a trough full of water warming in the sun. It won't have gotten too warm at this time of year, but there's a kettle of water I'm heating for the laundry. We can add it to the tub instead." "Good. Another sponge bath'd be enough, though, and I'll fix her hair afterwards, if ye want." The pair fetched an oval tub from the shed and placed it close to the fireplace, whose low flames Irene fed with some dry sticks and a couple small blocks of wood. The blaze quickly grew larger and gave off a lively crackle. Then they carried in buckets of trough water to fill the container to a little more than ankle depth. Finally, Irene dropped into it a lump of store-bought bath soap and also a sea sponge. It was now time to call Myra in. When the girl appeared, sullen and wary about what was in store for her, Irene told her to undress for bathing. The girl, unprepared for this event, reflexively protested. "I had a bath three days ago!" "Don't be silly," her aunt said. "You've been working up a sweat doing chores. If you're clean, the clothes you try on will stay clean." Irene went to the cast-iron cook stove, where she used a pair of kitchen mitts to take a blackened kettle off the burner. She poured its steaming contents into the cooler water of the tub. "Now, get in, use the soap, and scrub yourself quick, before it cools too much." Myra was standing close to the receptacle, reluctant to take off her clothes. As Thorn, she had gotten over her bashfulness at being nude in front of a woman. As long as the woman undressed first. But this wasn't like that. "Why so shy?" Molly asked. "Ye ain't got nothing that yuir aunt and I ain't seen ten thousand times. But since ye're not used t'having what ye have, Irene and me'll be strolling outside for our chat. Wash yuir hair first, and use a decent amount of shampoo t'do it." Irene handed her niece a terry towel and a bottle of shampoo. "When you're done, dry yourself completely." With the women gone, Myra worked fast, wanting to be done and covered up before the two harpies came back. She slipped out of her shoes and peeled off her woolen socks, and then shed the apron. Following that, she squirmed out of her flannel dress. This brought her down to her chemise, a garment that afforded her needed warmth for the season. Its removal left Myra chilly, standing there in no more than her knee-length drawers. With a glance toward the door, the potion girl completed her disrobing. Tentatively stepping into the tub, she found it a little cool, but bearable. An oval of white soap was floating next to her ankle, but she had been ordered to wash her hair before doing anything else. Though the bathtub was scarcely wide enough, she knelt down in it and was able to dip her tresses. With eyes closed to keep the water out, she groped until she found the bottle of shampoo. Myra dribbled some into her right palm and, with long strokes, spread it over her wet locks. With her hair so long, she had to use a larger portion of the shampoo than she had ever needed as a male. She wondered about cutting her hair to boy-length before Aunt Irene ordered her to keep it long. Still hurrying, the potion girl wet her mane again and worked the soap through it. When it was well lathered, she hurriedly dunked her scalp and rinsed. Myra straightened up and pressed the excess water from her hair with her towel. It made no sense to dry it too much, since she still had a lot of washing to do. Rescuing the body soap from the bath, Myra rubbed the slippery bar over her arms and torso. Next, she took the sponge and used it to work up some suds. She found that touching her breasts felt as good as it had three days earlier. "Now I know why Gilana would moan so when I petted her pair," she mused. "Male breasts ain't near as tender to the touch." But the maiden's strongest reaction came when she worked the soft, wet sponge over her pubic area. She gasped, just like Gilana had done when touched between the legs. "Whoa," Myra wondered. "Are all women's bodies like this?" The girl frowned. "If they are, then why do even the sluttiest of gals always put a man off until he first gives her whatever she wanted?" So many damned things about women made no blamed sense, at all. Yet there was a lot about the sex that aroused a male's interest. Thorn had seen some of those cigar cards that showed women in scanty attire. He didn't have to see many of them before he realized that he wanted a flashy, exciting sort of girl, like Gilana, not any of the drabs that most men ended up marrying. "Yes, sir, having a doll baby on his arm is one of the easiest ways for a man to get respect. Folks figure that it takes quite a man to lasso an exciting woman." Myra rinsed off the lather and then carefully patted herself with the towel. She was mostly dry when she heard voices from outside. She wrapped the towel around her hips, which left her maidenly breasts in plain view. But her ample display just didn't seem right, and she quickly re-positioned the wrap to conceal them. Molly entered first and pursed her lips approvingly at what she saw. "Come on outta that tub and finish drying yuirself. Do yuir feet first," she said, and began to rummage through the rows of open boxes on the table. The barkeeper's wife selected a couple items and brought them over. Myra, having stepped out of the tub and dried herself, was standing there with the dank towel held up in front of her body. "Here, lassie, put on yuir drawers first. Then slip into this chemise." Myra had to obey. The saloon woman's crisp orders always made her scramble. The cautious way that Irene usually spoke left the new girl unsure, at times, whether she was being ordered or not. Molly O'Toole regarded the girl's movements as she dressed. "Ye're looking right pretty already," the saloon woman judged. She went back to the boxes and returned with the stylish corset, light blue muslin trimmed with lace and pearls. Myra gritted her teeth. It was a thing that would have looked mighty fetching worn by Gilana, but the thought of putting on such a rig herself was enough to make her want to kill the bugger who'd made such a contraption. "Usually corsets ain't so comfortable t'be sleeping in, so ye don't have to," continued Molly. "But when ye're up and about during the daytime, ye should be wearing one. It keeps a body looking trim and full-bosomed, something the boys like to see. And a fancy corset'll make ye feel all gussied up, even if the dress ye have on ain't a special one. Be careful though; some girls fix them too awful tight, and that can be punishing." "This sort here is for dress-up occasions," Molly explained. "I also bought ye a couple plain ones for around the farm. Ye'll find out that corsets are a smidgen constricting sometimes, like if ye're bending or crawling. Ye can loosen 'em or even take 'em off if ye get too uncomfortable, but otherwise keep yuir corset on. Going around without one just ain't respectable." "Says you!" Myra snarled. "Aye, says me," replied Molly. "Besides everything else, a corset supports yuir back and makes it easy for ye t'be standing up straight. Slouching ain't never attractive." "Why would I ever want to be attractive?" the girl challenged. "Ye'll be figuring that out for yuirself, once ye get used to being a lassie." The red-haired woman turned Myra around, and then enveloped the girl's slim torso in the frilly, steel-boned garment. Molly needed a few minutes to lace the draw-cords. When finished, she tugged the strings firmly, and Myra felt the infernal piece snug up around her. "Ye feels nice, don't ye? Since y'er not used to corsets, ye'll have to go easy at first. Ye should be wearing one for about two hours a day, until it remembers yuir shape, and ye can wear the thing without hurting+,+ from sunrise t'sunset. Since ye've got three of 'em t'be breaking in, it'll be weeks before they'll all be fit for day-long wear." Next came Myra's new petticoat, looking like a lacy, starched skirt. Myra didn't like the weight of all that material. "It feels bulky,' she complained. "And it sticks out so much it'll probably knock something over whenever I walk too close. Petticoats, corsets? Why do women wear such dumb clothes?" "Ye're lucky that hoops aren't the fashion nowadays," said Molly. "And I hope they never come back. The bustle is what all the high-toned ladies back east like wearing these days, but I didn't get ye one of those. There probably won't be much call for their like around Eerie." "Irene, would ye be handing me the yellow dress?" the Irish woman requested. Myra glanced toward her aunt to see what was coming next. The fancy outfit Molly selected was clearly the type that girls wore to catch the eye in public. She disliked it at once. Molly helped the scowling maiden put the frock on, and then adjusted the way it hung. "I don't see it will take very much alteration," she adjudged. "How are ye with the needle, Mrs. Fanning?" "I believe I can do the piece justice." "Please sit down, Myra," Molly directed. "You'll be needing t'keep your hair looking neat." The girl did as told and the town woman began to comb out her locks with long strokes. Just then, there came a knock on the door. Irene, when she opened it, found George Severin on the other side, his straw hat held in his hands. "Mrs. Fanning," he said. "I heard the news from town. Did Myra get hurt any up at the Gap?" Irene stepped aside. "Come in, and see for yourself. She's a very brave girl." Myra rolled her eyes to the ceiling. Being seen dressed this way, by the likes of George Severin especially, was almost as bad as being caught naked. "_Wellll now_," George drawled appreciatively, "that's a right fine new outfit. You look ready to take off for a square dance." "Fat chance!" came Myra's gruff reply. "What're you doing out here? Hoping to find out I was kilt?" "Hardly that, gal," he said. He pivoted toward Irene. "I wanted to ask, ma'am, if you'll be wanting me around tomorrow." Then he glanced back at Myra. "After such a scare, I thought your niece might be having a fit of the vapors, and she'd be taking it easy for a while. I reckoned her chores would still need doing." The girl stood up stiffly. "I've rested enough. I got more wood to cut before supper." George grinned. "In that fancy new dress? You might tear it. I got an hour to spare. What would you ladies say if I finished the chopping while Myra keeps busy just staying pretty? No charge for the work." Irene blinked bemusedly. "Oh, we can't ask for favors, George, , especially not on a Sunday. We wouldn't want to take advantage of a boy who must have plenty of work to do at home." "Well, it seems to me that there's a kind of pay that I'd powerfully appreciate. I was wondering if Miss Myra might do me the kindness of keeping me company while I finish the chopping. That would be payment enough." "I don't think so," the girl answered with a chilly tone. The youth looked dejected. "To be honest, Miss Myra, I was mostly hoping to talk a little in private, so I could ask you about something." "The answer is no, whatever it is!" "What did you wish to ask her?" inquired Irene. George glanced down. "It's just that there's the Christmas dance coming up next Saturday, ma'am. The younger ladies hereabouts are all married, too young or too old for me, or they're being courted by someone. Your niece doesn't know many local people yet. I'd like very much to escort her to the festivities." "No! _Absolutely_ not!" Myra declared. Irene looked askance at Molly. She was thinking that it might be too early for Myra to be going to socials. The Irish woman, on the other hand, seemed to be considering it. "Myra," Mrs, Fanning said, "be polite. Go chat with George while he works. That isn't much to ask in exchange for all the help he's giving us." The girl's eyes flashed, but she had her orders. She started for the door in stockinged feet. "Don't be so eager, Myra," Molly cautioned. "Put on yuir new shoes first. And be careful ye don't get yuir fancy new dress dirty while ye're outside," she added. The lass gave her a surely look while she donned her footwear. Molly stepped up behind her. "Let me tie your hair, so it doesn't get tangled in the breeze." She used a red ribbon to create a bow that fixed Myra's lengthy tresses into a sleek ponytail. The girl hurried out, not wanting to see her reflection. With the sun shining in a clear sky, the day wasn't chilly, so she didn't bother putting on a coat. Irene glanced at Molly. "Did you have some more advice for me?" "Do ye mean about whether it's too soon t'be sending Myra out among folks?" "Yes. She's so embarrassed about people looking at her as a pretty girl." Molly rolled that question around in her mind. "When a young lass comes into town for the first time, most everyone's going t'be interested in her. But if she stays a mystery for too long, people start t'be wondering who exactly she might be. If they guess right, Myra won't be happy. We need t'be hurrying her along a mite, to get her acting natural-like around people. Then folks won't have any call for becoming suspicious." "She might be so jumpy that she could make things worse," cautioned Irene. "She's tough-minded for her age. The dance ain't for a week; so here's me advice: Take her into town for a wee bit of shopping tomorrow, or the day after. We'll both see how she handles herself out among folks. If she braves it out well enough, I think she might be doing right well at the party. Getting her off the farm as soon as possible might even be a good idea. We don't want t'be giving her time t'be settling into reclusive ways." "Are you sure?" "To be telling the truth, I've never worked with a potion girl so young. There's Emma O'Hanlan that just changed last month, but upstanding folks like her parents keep their kids clear of us saloon people. I know how it was for the older potion girls, but it's probably going t'be harder for Myra than it was for them. They didn't have to pretend to be normal among the hoity-toity kind. The saloon crowd gave 'em allowance if they made a misstep now and then. Myra is bound and determined t'make people believe that she's a lassie like any other. It might be a harder trick for her to pull off than _any_ of us know." # Myra, seated uncomfortably on a crate, was staring down Riley Canyon Road. Behind her, George continued chopping wood, using rapid, powerful blows. Myra didn't want to be anywhere near the neighbor boy, but she had received her orders, and the spell held her fast. The young workman finally paused to catch his breath. Though Myra faced away from him, he started talking. "The stage that brought you into town must have been the same one that got robbed right afterwards, when it moved up into the Gap. Ain't that right?" he asked. Hearing yet another of George's prying questions made the girl glower. She hadn't worked out every detail of her made-up story, and had to bluff through. She met him eye to eye, and said, "Yes." He shook his head. "It must have been awful, to hear about your cousin dying on the same day you came in." She shrugged. "Well, I've heard better news." "I've been wondering. Where did that new riding horse over yonder come from?" Another hard question. "I don't know." "Didn't your aunt buy him?" Myra pondered. She couldn't tell George the same story that she'd told the gang, about Thorn riding in on it. "It wandered in by itself, I guess. It was trying to get at the hay when Aunt Irene and me came in from town." "Did your aunt recognize the critter?" "She told me never saw it before. The saddle neither." "If it was saddled, it must have strayed away from its rider. Do you think it could have been Myron's horse? It might easily have walked a couple miles from the Gap." "I haven't thought about that." Myra realized that she had to be more careful with the lies she told. George glanced at the corralled animal. "It's a fair-looking cayuse. It'd be nice if you and your aunt could hold on to it. I don't know about Mrs. Fanning, but you ride as smart as an Injun. How did you learn?" Myra didn't like the way he'd asked that. He had the eye of a hunter tracking a coyote. "We kept horses back home," she answered. George suddenly changed the subject. "I've been wondering. If the stage men saw Myron shot, and if he was dead, what happened to him afterwards? Your aunt didn't mention that there'll be any funeral." She tossed a hand into the air. "Search me. The bandits must have hidden the body." "Could be. But you don't seem too broken up about your cousin not getting a proper burial." Myra changed her tone. "I - I feel sorry for Aunt Irene. But I never met Thorn. He never did so much as send us a card back East." "If you didn't really know Myron, when did you find out that he wanted people to call him Thorn? I've never heard your aunt speak that name in front of me." Damn him! "That - That's the name the judge and the deputy were using when they came to talk yesterday." "Judge Humphreys was out here? Why so?" Blast it! Did he have to haggle over every word? "The judge knows Aunt Irene. He wanted to let her know that Th - that _Myron_ was suspected of robbery, and he also wanted to express his sympathies." "Was he already sure that Myron was dead, even with no body?" "The stage people's message said that he was shot bad. The sheriff sent somebody up to look around, but there was no sign of anything. So everyone just assumes he's dead. If he wasn't fit to ride off, he must have died, and his body was hidden." George's brows knitted. "It seems kind of odd that those outlaws rode out for three days, but then came back to Myron's house for no reason. Or was there a reason?" Myra thought quickly. "They knew Myron lived close-in to the Gap, but that wasn't why they came. They said they needed some pack horses to carry off the gold that they'd hidden before." "So, if they only came for horses, why did they need to take you back up there with them?" Myra was again tempted to tell George to go to hell, but held herself in check. "A couple hours before they showed up, I'd gone to the Gap with that Deputy Grant, to search around. We found the gold, and then Grant hid it in a different place, so the robbers wouldn't be able to find it if they happened to sneak back. But by the time we left the canyon, the gang was probably already hiding up there, watching us. They must have followed us, and they saw where I stopped. They barged in after dark to make me show them where the box was." "I thought you said they just came to steal a couple horses." "They did steal horses!" she replied sharply. "They would've come to get horses no matter what. After they saw Grant and me up at the Gap, they had _two_ reasons to come here." George wasn't put off. "Another thing makes me wonder. Why on earth did you need to ride up to the Gap with the deputy? I figure he already knew where Stagecoach Gap was." Myra glanced away again, while she worked up an answer. "No reason. I just asked if I could go along, for the adventure. Buried treasure; that's exciting." Severin smiled. "You sound like an adventurous girl. I can't stand fraidy-cat females. I knew there was something about you that I liked." "Ehhh," Myra said with a shrug. 'He's flirting with me,' she told herself in disgust. 'Just what I _don't_ need.' "But here's what I don't get. How did anyone know there was buried gold?" The girl's fists were clenched. This nosy neighbor was just begging for a slam to the jaw. Carefully, she said, "Nobody knew anything, but they suspected. Everybody knows how strong and heavy those stage company boxes are, and how the drivers don't carry the keys with them. The deputy and the judge were talking about how the outlaws might have needed to hide the gold close by, so they could come back later, with tools and pack horses." "I see. But how did the deputy find the chest so quickly? Wasn't it buried?" Myra stood up to storm away, but, thanks to her aunt's order, she couldn't move her feet. Sitting down again, she finally replied to his question. "Sure, it was buried under a pile of rocks. But the stupid outlaws left a corner of the box still showing." The youth again shook his head. "They surely _do_ sound stupid." "I met them. Believe me; they're as dumb as they come. Why are you so interested?" George shrugged. "There ain't much excitement around Eerie. Anyhow, I figured a little conversation might help us get acquainted. I already know you've got spirit. My oldest sister, Rosedale, would still be shaking like a leaf if she'd gone through all that you did. If you think I'm asking too many questions, you can get even by asking me anything _you_ want to ask." She sniffed. "Why should I be interested in anything that concerns you, _Mr._ Severin?" "No reason; we're just passing time." "It seems like time isn't passing half as quickly as I'd like it to." "Whenever I'm busy, it just flies by. Did your aunt ever write and mention that she had someone helping her work the farm?" "She never wrote." Damn; that didn't sound likely. "Almost never; just a card now and then, like at Christmas. She never said much more than 'I hope you've been well' or 'Merry Christmas.'" George nodded and resumed chopping for a few minutes. Then he took another break, drew a sip from his canteen, and said, "You mentioned you're from back East. Whereabouts?" She raised her chin. "My aunt told me that I had to... that I should... chat with you, as annoying as you are. But she didn't say that I had to answer a thousand snoopy questions." The youth leaned the ax against the stack of cord wood. "Why won't you let me know a little something about yourself? Are you some kind of outlaw on the dodge?" He smiled at the joke. Myra felt a jolt, and quickly forced a laugh. "Do I look like an outlaw?" "No, but... " he paused. "No, you _surely_ do not. By the way, why is it that you don't want to go with me to the Christmas dance next week? Do you have a fella already?" "Stop the questions!" "Okay, no more questions. What would you prefer to talk about?" "I don't want to talk at all." George sat down on the woodpile. "So, you're a girl who doesn't like to talk too much? I didn't know that kind existed." He grinned broadly. "Finding a sensible gal is like finding buried treasure. I _definitely_ want to get to know you better, Miss Myra." "I've only known you for four days, and I already know everything I _want_ to know about you. It's as plain as the sun in the sky that you can't stop jabbering like a parrot." "People say I grow on them." "Yeah, like a wart!" He chuckled. "Yes, sirree, you're a girl full of ginger. The list of things I like about you is getting powerfully long." "Maybe so, but you bore me to tears!" This reply only added to his mirth. "If you really don't like me being around, you can tell your aunt that you want to do all the chores by yourself. Is that what you're aiming for, Miss Back-East Girl?" Myra frowned. "I can learn farming easily enough if I want to. For all I care, you can go off and annoy someone else." He gazed down at the cut wood he was sitting on. "The chopping you did earlier seems like decent work. You're already used to doing some of the chores, ain't you?" She stood up again, rested her hands on her hips, and faced him boldly. "Some chores yes; some chores no. When are you going to stop jawing and start earning your pay?" "I'm not getting paid in coin. Chatting with the pretty new girl in town is my pay; I said that straight-out to your aunt." "Hah! My aunt thinks I'm a kid. She's got no call to be deciding who my friends are going to be." "Don't you care for your aunt? I like her just fine." "You aren't the one she's always bossing around." "Of course I am. She pays me to do things for her." "If you think she's so nice, you should take _her_ to the Christmas dance. Lord knows that no other man is going to bother with her." George made a click at the side of his mouth. "She's got a few years on me. I want to spend time with the sort of gal that I could get serious about." "That sure ain't my kind of... gal." "I hope that won't always be true. There's precious few young gals of the right sort out here. The two of us are about the same age, I reckon we go to the same church, and neither of us is seeing anybody. Maybe we're neighbors because Providence is working its magic." She suddenly looked mad as a volcano ready to blow. He smiled again, to let her know that he'd only been funning. Myra, still holding in her temper, said, "Providence is like a mule, if you ask me." "Why do you say that?" "Because a mule is stupid and stubborn. All it's good for is kicking a man in the teeth when he least expects it!" "You sound like you've been kicked lately. What happened?" She gave that a few seconds' thought, then answered carefully. "I lost both parents, or maybe you didn't get the word about that." The youth look abashed. "Pardon, Miss Myra. I plum forgot." "If that's the case, you should be working on your memory, _and_ working on that wood pile. If you don't, there's no reason I should be out in the wind jawing with you." George seemed to accept that observation and set to work in earnest. # About an hour later, with light failing, the air was getting colder. Molly O'Toole climbed back into her carriage and set out for town, while Mrs. Fanning stood waving goodbye from the front door. As the carriage turned onto the main road, Irene started toward the wood pile. George was putting the ax away for the night, and she called him over to speak to him about something. Myra didn't wait to listen. She no longer felt compelled to stay put, so she went back to the house. A minute or two later, she heard the farm boy riding off, and her aunt joined her indoors. "Did you and George have a good talk?" Irene asked. "No, we didn't. I don't care much for the fellow, but you _told_ me I had to keep him company!" "I suppose I did. Anyway, did you two discuss the Christmas party?" "He talked about a lot of things. He almost talked my ears off." Irene nodded. "Young men often jabber when they happen to like a girl." "I know what boys do! And I especially know George Severin. If he hadn't been around so much when I was living here, I probably wouldn't have headed out as soon as I did." "You didn't like _any_ of my helpers." "Good riddance to the lot of them!" Irene changed the topic. "I asked George if he'd be willing to clean the hog pen as soon as he has time. If you don't care for having him hereabouts, would you be willing to take on that job yourself?" The girl looked fit to be tied. "Hell, no! That work is too hard for..." "For a _girl_?" Irene gave her niece a "Got you!" smile. "I'm _not_ a girl. The work is too hard, period. But what does it matter what I want? Go ahead and bust my back; cripple me." "You're so dramatic about everything!" Irene stated in exasperation. "Girls clean pig pens, and do even harder chores. I need help to work this piece of land. At least George is willing to pitch in while he earns a wage. We could save a parcel of money if you'd do more of the things that I've been _paying_ him to do." Myra looked away, annoyed. "By the way, Molly suggested that I should make it clearer when I'm... I'm _telling_ you something that is really necessary." The girl turned. "When you're giving me an order, you mean." "That's not the way I'd like to put it. But _this_ is my idea. For now, when I say something to you and call you 'my girl' when I say it, it means that I'm telling you something important, and that I want you to do what I say." "You're always bossing me around. You're not either one of my parents." Irene shook her head. "I loved your folks, too, Myra. Your mother was my sister, after all. What happened to them wasn't anyone's fault. Or are you only using them as an excuse to avoid necessary work?" "I just want to have some time to do the things that _I_ want to do." "I don't like having to order you about like a servant, not at all. What _do_ you want to do? To run off again and become a _girl_ outlaw this time?" "What's wrong with trying to better myself?" "Better yourself with stolen money? Look what it's cost you already. Would you ever have considered robbing people if you knew that it might get you turned into a young lady?" The girl threw up her hands. "My only mistake was coming home to the craziest town in the world. I don't see why a _man_ should be criticized just for taking care of himself. As long as he doesn't get caught, anyway." "But you _did_ get caught - caught by a strange fate that you truly _did_ bring upon yourself. Every time you look into the mirror from now on, think about how different your life could have turned out if you'd only worked a little harder at being honest." Myra swung away again, her arms crossed. Irene sighed. "You certainly don't seem in any mood to talk sense. Now, listen, _my girl_. Change out of your nice clothes, and take care that you don't dirty or tear them!" The girl felt this new form of command taking a grip upon her. Teeth clenched in anger, Myra scooped up her pile of cast-off everyday clothing and stomped into the pantry, preferring to change out of sight. Irene then went to finish supper. This new quarrel had gotten her thinking. Myra didn't like farm work, anymore than Myron had. Would she take to household tasks any better? Irene considered asking Myra for help with the evening's meal. Then she shook her head. That would probably be pushing things too quickly. 'Patience would be needed' she told herself. 'From what Molly says about these things -- from her own experience with those other potion girls, Myra will eventually start looking at life the way that most young ladies do." It would be wisest to nudge her in the right direction bit by bit; not try to force things along too hard, especially when she was so likely to get her back up. December 18, 1871 The next morning, George Severin returned for a full day's labor, game to take on the pig sty. It was a good thing he had had four younger brothers and sisters at home, all old enough to take over the chores while he was away. The youth set the manure cart in a convenient spot before he went into the pen, carrying the farm's four-tined manure fork. He wore his wet-weather boots. The mess at his feet was gummy, and the task called for a strong back like his. Irene, at her front door, watched the hired man set up. Local folks generally liked George, she knew, and he wasn't known to misbehave - other than by pulling a few boyish pranks when younger. It was too bad that her niece couldn't put away her old grudges. Myron, she knew, hadn't found it easy to make friends - at least, not nearly as easily as he made enemies. He'd often complained that no one liked him, probably one reason why he had left home at just sixteen. Irene was starting the noonday meal when someone rode in through the gate. Through the window, she saw it was the same big man who had been helping Paul Grant. The deputy and two others, including this man, had found her tied up in the kitchen and cut her loose. Grant's companions had spoken with some sort of Scandinavian accent. Her present visitor was large, broad-shouldered, and looked very strong. She recalled that his eyes had been the color of shadowy blue ice. The townsman was getting down from his horse when the farm woman stepped out to meet him. "Is there any news about the outlaws?" she asked. "Some gude news," he replied with a single, exaggerated nod. "That pack horse of deirs must have bolted loose when dey vere running and ve found it vit lots of gold in da saddle bags. Paul kept after da bandits vit two of da men, but he sent my bruder and me back to town vit the gold. They're slippery as seals, deese outlaws, and dey yoost may git avay." "If they do, I hope they never come back to Eerie!" "How is Myra doing?" "She's doing well. She's a brave girl." Irene then frowned, embarrassed. "Excuse me, but I can't seem to recall your name." "Tor," he said with a good-natured grin. "Tor Johannson." He pronounced it "Yohannson." "You're from... Norway?" "Sveden! I come over vit my bruders during da var and right off ve got drafted into da army. After a lot of bad stuff, it vas over, and ve vent gold-seeking. Ve came down to Eerie dis year. Ve've been finding gold enough to pay for our beer and beans, but not much more!" "You speak very good English. Gracious! I don't think I could learn Swedish in a hundred years." "Tank you, Mrs. Fanning. You are very kind." "Did you come to tell us about the robbers?" "Yes, and no. It's a funny ting. Out hunting outlaws, I kept tinking that it vas too bad dat you and me didn't get to speak a little more. I t'ought you vere... a handsome woman." "You flatter me, sir." "I am very sad dat your nephew vas killed." Irene regarded Tor. Obviously, the deputy had not shared the whole story with him. "Paul said dat the boy vas shot by da outlaws," he continued. "He said dey must've hid his body somevhere." Then the man winced, realizing what he was saying. "I am sorry. I shouldn't be talking about anyting so awful." "Yes, it's very hard." . "Vhat I came for vas to ask if you vould let me take you to da Christmas dance next veek. Please forgive me if you are already planning to go vit somebody else." This surprised the widow. She had almost no social life in Eerie. Now she now realized that she had kept making excuses to avoid socializing until the local men had stopped asking her. "No, I wasn't planning on going to the Christmas party. I haven't been invited to such things in a long time." "Dat is a shame; a lady like you!" "I don't wish to be rude, Mr. Johannson, but I've heard bad stories about gold miners. Do we have any mutual friends who... who could vouch for your good character? Other than Deputy Grant, I mean?" "Vell, I go to Styron's hardware store. Dey know me at da Lone Star Saloon and at da Eerie Saloon." He looked abashed. "I know dat deese do not sound like very gude places to a church lady like yourself. I yoost to go to church a lot in Sveden, but not so much in America. My bruders and me spend our Sundays up in da hills." "Myra has said that you fought bravely to rescue her. I'm very grateful." "I did vat I had to. I'm sorry you don't troost prospectors, but I von't be one for long, I tink. Paul says dat da sheriff is tinking about hiring a new deputy... Say, Paul said you know Molly O'Toole. I know Molly, too, and her husband, Shamus. I think they vill tell you dat I am a gude person." She smiled, liking the way that Tor Johannson pronounced his long 'O's', as when he said _O'Toole_. "I did think about taking my niece to the Christmas party," she said, not entirely truthfully. "We might meet one another there... on the dance floor, perhaps." He returned the smile. "Yes, it is _very_ possible that ve may. I von't be vit anyone else." "I'm quite sure that I won't be, either... except Myra." She made a sudden, daring decision. "Mr. Johannson, I am forgetting my manners. Myra and I owe you so much. Won't you stay and join us for dinner?" He beamed. "I vould be very pleased." Irene led him inside and showed him to a chair. "Dinner will be ready in about an hour," she said. He nodded thoughtfully. "Vell, dat is a good long bit to be yoost sitting around. Vould you mind if I helped out vit da farm chores till den?" "Oh, Mr. Johannson. That's not at all necessary! You have done so much already. But -- if you really want to, maybe George, the boy outside, will have some suggestions." He excused himself and exited. Irene went outdoors herself, circling around to the west side of the house. The farm widow was testing Myra's willingness to do chores that didn't require hard muscles. The girl had been predictably resistant to the idea, but Irene had no choice but to be firm. She was hoping that such busy work would take the edge off her niece's brooding. "Myra," she said, "I've decided that it would be a good idea for us to attend the dance next week. I'll drive us there in our buggy. I expect George - and his family -- will also be coming. You won't have to speak to him if you don't wish to, though." The girl stopped scrubbing. "What do you want to go to that dance for?" she demanded. "You'll only be a wallflower, and I'll be miserable." "I'll fare well enough. This is a chance for both of us to make new friends. Anyway, I might even find someone willing to dance with me once or twice." The thought, she considered, pleased her. Myra frowned. "Who are you talking about?" Then she remembered the man who had ridden up to the house a few minutes before. "You're planning to see that... that _foreigner_, aren't you?" she accused. "He's Swedish. Anyway, he helped you, didn't he? Wasn't he a good and brave man?" The young lady looked peevish, but said nothing. "Please answer, my girl. Wasn't he?" Myra felt obliged to reply. "I got no complaints, but it surely was irritating, listening to him mispronounce everything, all the time." Irene was not really listening. She was considering Myra's hair, liking the way that Molly had arranged it. 'It had looked even nicer before Myra had slept on it.' On impulse, she reached back and touched the tight bun that she had been wearing ever since she was widowed. That bun had grown to be so much a part of her that she hadn't even considered changing it. But now, for _some_ reason, it no longer seemed that tomorrow always had to be exactly the same as the day before yesterday. "Dinner will be ready in about an hour," she said absently. "Mr. Johannson will be joining us. I'll call when things are ready." Myra was left where she stood, feeling infuriated. 'Aunt Irene's acting like a gooney bird,' the maiden thought. 'And she's gonna make me go to that tomfool dance and be a public spectacle!' It was at moments like this one that she almost wished that that dumb yak Ike Bartram had shot her dead. _Almost_. The End... For Now