reassuring squeeze and led Lobo away, leaving her sitting with downcast eyes, waiting to see if any man did dare approach her. When several minutes passed and the area around her table remained empty, she raised her head and surreptiously ran her eyes over the roughest-looking bunch of men she'd ever seen. They were worse than the miners she had known in the many mining camps she had lived in.
Of course, she had known the miners, Raegan remembered. She had learned that behind their rough-looking visages were often tender hearts. Look how nice they had been to her and Mama after Papa was killed—never a disrespectful look nor word, supplementing their diet with fresh game.
Perhaps, she thought, these men were the same. Maybe in time, as she got to know them better, she would see them in a different light also. After all, Chase was a trapper, and though he didn't have the face of an angel, his every act and word toward her had been that of a gentleman.
Raegan ignored the sneaky inner voice that suddenly accused her, "You'd like it better if he wasn't such a gentleman," and transferred her gaze to the women who moved from table to table, coaxing men to come upstairs with them. She had known already that they were prostitutes from their heavily painted faces and stained satin dresses.
She felt a stirring of pity for these women whose youth was gone, used up by drink and the demands of their profession. They had probably migrated here to the wilderness when they were no longer able to compete with their younger sisters in the big cities.
Raegan's face flamed red, and she stared down at the table when one of the women was pulled into a drunken trappers' lap, a shrill laugh escaping her red painted lips when he thrust a hand down the front of her dress.
She was wishing Chase would hurry back when the heavy post door banged open with such force that it slammed back against the wall. The heavy bulk of a man stood in the opening, the wind blowing the rain in behind him.
"Shut the door, you dumb lout!" Sid Johnson shouted at the man who made the hair stand up on Raegan's arms.
She stared at the newcomer—the man she and Chase had come across on the trail—thankful that she sat in the shadows. Uneasiness gripped her nevertheless when, with a loud oath, Roscoe slammed the door shut and plowed his way to the bar, shouldering his way between two patrons standing there.
"Hey, you big tub of lard, who in the hell do you think you're shovin'?" the younger of the pair growled, his hand going to a knife at his waist.
When Roscoe made no response, only stepped back and moved to the far end of the bar, Raegan realized the man was a coward, brave only when it came to brow-beating a helpless woman. She remembered the Indian woman he had abducted from her tribe, her face battered at his hands, and wished that the man had struck Roscoe instead of yelling at him.
Where was the Tillamook woman? she wondered. Had that monster at least found her a pile of hay to lie in, or had he even bothered to give her shelter in the stables? What if she was outside somewhere, huddled in the rain?
Raegan was debating going to look for the Tillamook woman when Chase arrived at the table, an Indian woman following him carrying a tray of food in her hands. As she placed steaming bowls of stew in front of her and Chase, he said, "Raegan, this is Ruthie Johnson, Sid's wife."
Raegan hid her surprise and stood up to shake the hand held out to her. The woman, who looked to be approaching her fortieth birthday, was quietly attractive with a proudly-held head. That she was loved and cherished by the big man behind the bar was evident in the serenity of her features.
Ruthie Johnson smiled, showing white, even teeth. "A name given to me by Sid. He cannot prounce my birth name."
Raegan and Chase chuckled at her remark, and she placed a pot of coffee on the table and turned to leave. "Do you have time to have a cup of coffee with us?" Raegan smilingly asked.
A
Of course, she had known the miners, Raegan remembered. She had learned that behind their rough-looking visages were often tender hearts. Look how nice they had been to her and Mama after Papa was killed—never a disrespectful look nor word, supplementing their diet with fresh game.
Perhaps, she thought, these men were the same. Maybe in time, as she got to know them better, she would see them in a different light also. After all, Chase was a trapper, and though he didn't have the face of an angel, his every act and word toward her had been that of a gentleman.
Raegan ignored the sneaky inner voice that suddenly accused her, "You'd like it better if he wasn't such a gentleman," and transferred her gaze to the women who moved from table to table, coaxing men to come upstairs with them. She had known already that they were prostitutes from their heavily painted faces and stained satin dresses.
She felt a stirring of pity for these women whose youth was gone, used up by drink and the demands of their profession. They had probably migrated here to the wilderness when they were no longer able to compete with their younger sisters in the big cities.
Raegan's face flamed red, and she stared down at the table when one of the women was pulled into a drunken trappers' lap, a shrill laugh escaping her red painted lips when he thrust a hand down the front of her dress.
She was wishing Chase would hurry back when the heavy post door banged open with such force that it slammed back against the wall. The heavy bulk of a man stood in the opening, the wind blowing the rain in behind him.
"Shut the door, you dumb lout!" Sid Johnson shouted at the man who made the hair stand up on Raegan's arms.
She stared at the newcomer—the man she and Chase had come across on the trail—thankful that she sat in the shadows. Uneasiness gripped her nevertheless when, with a loud oath, Roscoe slammed the door shut and plowed his way to the bar, shouldering his way between two patrons standing there.
"Hey, you big tub of lard, who in the hell do you think you're shovin'?" the younger of the pair growled, his hand going to a knife at his waist.
When Roscoe made no response, only stepped back and moved to the far end of the bar, Raegan realized the man was a coward, brave only when it came to brow-beating a helpless woman. She remembered the Indian woman he had abducted from her tribe, her face battered at his hands, and wished that the man had struck Roscoe instead of yelling at him.
Where was the Tillamook woman? she wondered. Had that monster at least found her a pile of hay to lie in, or had he even bothered to give her shelter in the stables? What if she was outside somewhere, huddled in the rain?
Raegan was debating going to look for the Tillamook woman when Chase arrived at the table, an Indian woman following him carrying a tray of food in her hands. As she placed steaming bowls of stew in front of her and Chase, he said, "Raegan, this is Ruthie Johnson, Sid's wife."
Raegan hid her surprise and stood up to shake the hand held out to her. The woman, who looked to be approaching her fortieth birthday, was quietly attractive with a proudly-held head. That she was loved and cherished by the big man behind the bar was evident in the serenity of her features.
Ruthie Johnson smiled, showing white, even teeth. "A name given to me by Sid. He cannot prounce my birth name."
Raegan and Chase chuckled at her remark, and she placed a pot of coffee on the table and turned to leave. "Do you have time to have a cup of coffee with us?" Raegan smilingly asked.
A
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