LITMIR.BIZ

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Chapter One

      “He’s a stinkin’ thief!” The belligerent voice hurled the accusation like a stone. “We don’t need his kind on this wagon train!”

      Nathan Reed stood against the words, hands bound in front of him with rope, the way they had been since last night. Like a common criminal.

      Like he deserved.

      But not for stolen hair combs. He was innocent—this time.

      He kept his eyes squinted where the rising sun was lighting the top two jutting buttes that formed a narrow canyon—he’d overheard someone call it Devil’s Gate. The landmark was outside the circle of their wagons, where they’d stopped the night before.

      “You’re sure you saw this man—Mr. Reed—­climbing out of our wagon with my sister’s hair combs?” Ben Hewitt asked of the preacher.

      The small committee had gathered in the predawn light, wanting privacy from the rest of the travelers in their westbound wagon train. This was Nathan’s judge and jury—the men who would decide his fate.

      Hewitt was a broad-shouldered, sandy-haired and seemingly good-natured man, from the few interactions Nathan had had with him. But Ben Hewitt didn’t know Nathan. Didn’t count him as a friend. Nobody did, that’s why Nathan was the only suspect.

      Out of the corner of his vision, Nathan saw that Hewitt’s sister Emma stood next to him and the group of men, the breeze blowing her deep green skirt a little. Probably sending wisps of her honey-brown hair dancing against her cheeks.

      He didn’t look at her. Didn’t want to see accusation or recrimination in the vivid blue eyes he’d had only glimpses of when driving the Binghams’ wagon.

      He saw enough of the emotion when he had a chance to spy his reflection in a stream or pond.

      He knew, probably better than anyone, that defending himself would get him nowhere. He was friendless on this Oregon-bound wagon train. No one to stand up for him.

      The wind blew his long, unruly black hair across his cheek, but he didn’t raise his bound hands to push it away.

      “Erm…well, it was getting dark. It looked like him.” It wasn’t solid proof. It sounded as if the preacher didn’t fully believe it himself. But that didn’t seem to matter to the other men.

      “Everyone else was accounted for,” Ernie Jones blustered. Jones wasn’t a committeeman, but had claimed to have witnessed the theft, along with the preacher.

      “You got anything to say for yourself, Reed?” James Stillwell asked. The man had been watching Nathan with suspicion since Stillwell had joined up with the wagon train.

      Nathan didn’t know why. Maybe he just looked suspicious, or maybe the man could see his past in his face.

      Again, Nathan said nothing. What was the use?

      The breeze felt good against his overheated cheeks. The rising sun played tricks with his eyes as he kept them locked on the gradual rise of the red rock slope in the distance.

      He felt dizzy and a little nauseated. He hadn’t had much of an appetite the past few days, and maybe not eating enough was catching up to him. Being on the trail day in, day out wore on a body. With no wagon of his own, he depended on the kindness of others for his meals.

      And Nathan didn’t like depending on anyone. Joining up with the wagon train was his last chance to find a new start for himself. A chance to finally outrun the past that dogged his every step.

      “Did anyone find the combs on Mr. Reed’s person?” Emma Hewitt’s soft voice was almost lost among the men’s murmuring.

      No one except Nathan seemed to hear her.

      Without his consent, his gaze slid to her. Luckily, she was looking at her brother, not at him.

      He’d been right. Her skirt fluttered. The brisk wind had set wisps of her honey-gold hair dancing at her temple and against her cheeks, like a vision out here in the wilds of the Wyoming Territory. Something beautiful that didn’t belong.

      He forced his eyes back to the craggy rocks in the distance.

      Then her brother spoke up. “Did anybody find Emma’s hair combs among Reed’s things?”

      “He ain’t got much.” Miles Cavanaugh, a committeeman, tossed Nathan’s satchel on the ground at his feet.

      Nathan ground his back teeth against the protest that wanted to escape. Those were his belongings. Meager though they might be.

      What right did they have to go through his things? Just because someone thought they’d seen him committing theft? In the dark?

      But he doubted anyone would be on his side if he demanded fairness.

      “He could’ve hid the combs somewhere. Along with the other stolen goods,” Stillwell argued. What did the other man have against Nathan, anyway? A lot of suspicions, that’s what.

      “Can anyone verify your whereabouts last night before the party?” Hewitt asked Nathan, not unkindly.

      Nathan kept his eyes on the brightening horizon. He’d been minding the oxen last night, separate from everyone as they’d washed up and chattered and prepared for the party.

      Most of the time he didn’t care that he was excluded from the gatherings. But last night it would have been nice to be one of the group. Then he wouldn’t have been in this predicament.

      Not that it mattered much in the scheme of things. He hadn’t stolen those hair combs, but he’d done enough thieving and snitching that he deserved whatever punishment they would mete out.

      Would they exile him from the caravan? He could live off the land, trapping and hunting the way he’d done for years. But he’d hoped for more. The small amount Mr. Bingham was to pay him for pushing the oxen to their destination was to be socked away so Nathan could purchase land.

      Or would they deem that his misdeeds were enough to hang him? He’d heard of it happening in other situations. The thought sent a shudder through him.

      Someone else was talking but a peculiar buzzing sound blocked the words and his light-headedness got worse. His stomach pitched from the dizziness.

      Everything around him began to darken—but that wasn’t right, was it? It was morning, it should be getting lighter as the daylight brightened.

      Then he blacked out.

      * * *

      The men had fallen into low-voiced squabbling and, at first, Emma Hewitt was the only one who witnessed Nathan Reed slump to the ground.

      And when the men noticed, they went silent.

      No one rushed to help him.

      “Really,” she huffed quietly. Emma did not like being the center of attention, but did the men have a shred of decency in them?

      They couldn’t seem to come to agreement on anything. After she’d discovered the missing hair combs yesterday, her brother had filled her in on the ongoing investigation. She’d heard talk among the other travelers; whispers of a thief among them, but the bite of violation remained this morning.

      Someone had rifled through her things.

      But that didn’t matter right at this moment.

      She picked up her skirt, intending to go to the fallen man, when her brother Ben touched her arm to stop her.

      “Wait. He might be faking. Pretending to swoon so if someone gets close he attacks

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