Read Online A Claim of Her Own by Stephanie Grace Whitson - Free Book Online Page B

her abundant dark hair and most of her head were swallowed up. She tilted her head back and looked at Freddie from beneath the brim.
    “You almost disappeared there for a minute.” Tom English’s voice carried up the gulch from below. As he climbed toward them he said, “And I almost mistook you for Brady Sloan.” He pointed to the claim above Mattie’s. “He’s about your size.”
    “Really?” Mattie handed Freddie’s hat back to its owner. “Maybe he’d sell me some of his cast-offs.”
    “Only if you’ve a mind to set up a vat so you can boil them first.” Tom smiled as he pointed to Mattie’s bare head. “I’d suggest you see if some nice storekeeper in town would extend credit to cover the cost of a hat.” He glanced down at her feet. “And rubber boots that fit.”
    “I didn’t find a hat inside, but I can wad up some newspapers to fill the toes of Dillon’s boots.”
    “That will work for today,” Tom said, “but you’ll need boots that fit before you start working in earnest. A woman who does a man’s job should dress for the dance.”
    “All right,” Mattie agreed. “I’ll get some proper-sized boots soon.” She ducked inside the tent and began handing out tools. “You can get set up while I resize the boots.”
    “Whoa,” Tom said. “All you need for today’s lesson is a shovel and the pan.” He reached into his shirt pocket and withdrew a few toothpicks. “I’ve brought the rest.”
    As she pulled on the paper-stuffed boots, she asked, “What about something to put the gold in?”
    “I truly doubt we’re going to need to worry about that for today.” Tom glanced up at the sky. “My aching back says the weather’s turning.”
    “Turning to what?”
    “Snow, maybe.”
    “In May?”
    “Welcome to the Black Hills,” he said with a nod. “Last year we had a two-day blizzard in June.”
    Mattie didn’t want to think about snow. She gestured toward town. “Why do you think the gulch is so deserted today?”
    Tom shrugged. “It’s a rare day when every claim is being worked. Today they’re all probably holed up in this saloon or that dance hall warming themselves with bad whiskey and wom—” He broke off. Cleared his throat.
    Freddie spoke up. “I got something.” He held out the stick he’d been whittling. It was about two inches in diameter, and before hollowing it out he’d smoothed one end so it would sit flat on a rock. “I bet it’ll hold at least an ounce,” he said. “And while you do the panning I’ll make a lid for it.” He settled back on the rock ledge and went back to work.
    Tom reached for the gold pan with his hook, then pulled back and extended his left hand. “Sorry.”
    Mattie touched his sleeve above the hook. “Please,” she said. “It’s not you. It’s—someone else. Someone I knew who—” She couldn’t stifle the shudder. She took a deep breath. “But you’re nothing like him. It’s just hard to forget sometimes.”
    Tom nodded. “I understand.”
    Looking up at him, she saw palpable hurt in his dark eyes. A thread of understanding passed between them before Mattie said, “Thank you.” She gestured around them. “For doing this.”
    Tom grinned. “We’ll see if you still feel like thanking me tonight when your legs feel like they’re going to fall off and your pretty little hands are red and chapped.” He led the way over to the creek bed. “All right,” he said and held up the pan. “First, the pan.”
    “It’s a rusty mess,” Mattie said. “I’ll get a new one if that nice storekeeper who’s going to extend credit for a hat and boots will allow it.”
    “Why would you want a new pan?”
    “Because this one’s all rusty.”
    “It’s supposed to be rusty,” Tom explained. “Run your fingers over the surface. Feel that? That texture will grab a lot more gold flecks than a smooth one. And since we’re talking about that, don’t ever use a gold pan for cooking. Obviously you wouldn’t do that