She would alter it as soon as she could. But where?
Once the lumber arrived, maybe she could set up a temporary worktable. Yes, that’s what she would do.
Eventually, she would have a home. This winter, she would buy fabric and make new clothes for herself, clothes that actually fit.
But for now, she needed to preserve what she had, so she stood there on the creek bank in her chemise and petticoat and folded the uncomfortable dress carefully then laid it atop a relatively flat, mossy rock near the willows, where the mountain cur lay drowsing.
“Be thankful you don’t have to wear clothes, boy,” she told the dog, who opened his eyes and blinked at her. “Especially store-bought dresses.”
Then, suddenly, the dog was growling.
“What is it, boy?” she asked, then turned and screamed.
The man was coming off the hillside with an eager grin, pointing a revolver at her.
Mary was terrified. Who was this man? What did he want?
She wished she was still wearing the uncomfortable dress. She felt naked in her chemise and petticoat.
Though she would happily trade the dress and even the rest of it for the shotgun Conn had bought her. Why hadn’t she brought it out here with her?
Because she’d let her guard down. That’s why.
Foolish!
With no weapon, she could only use her words. “Turn away, sir, and allow me to dress. I thought I was alone.”
“You ain’t alone, Mary, and you ain’t putting that dress back on, not until I’ve had my fun. That’s why we came out here that night. But you got away.”
Instantly, her terror was complete.
This was one of them, one of the men who’d killed her husband and burned their home.
Then, just as instantly, her terror was gone, replaced by rage.
“How dare you come here?” she demanded, stepping forward with her fists clenched. It was ridiculous and terribly stupid to threaten this man, some part of her understood, but her rage didn’t care.
He had killed Cole!
Now, it was the man’s turn to feel fear. Not at her—a little, unarmed woman in her underwear held few terrors for a cold-blooded man holding a firearm—but at the mountain cur that burst from the willows, barking aggressively, and stood between her and the man, the brindled fur bristling between its shoulders.
“Call off your mutt, lady,” the man said, turning his gun on the dog. “Call him off, or I’ll shoot.”
“Get him, boy! Get him!” Mary shouted, and hurled herself forward, not caring if he shot her, not caring if she died, rushing forward and swinging her fist even as the man fired the gun, swinging her fist the way Pa had shown her when she was just a girl and Mother had died and Pa was trying his hardest to teach her everything he knew, things a girl with no mother might need in the world, things like how to punch like a man…
The gun boomed and the dog yelped, and Mary’s fist crashed into the man’s face, drilling him hard and making him stumble.
She was no match for a man, of course, but she attacked with fury, clawing at his eyes as the mountain cur, wounded but determined, buried its teeth into his thigh.
The man screamed wildly and swung the barrel at the dog.
That’s when her fingers found his eyes. She jabbed them with all her strength.
The man squealed and turned to flee, but the dog held tight, growling and squatting low and shaking his blocky head as the man fell and screamed and dropped the revolver.
Mary scooped it up and drew back the hammer, meaning to shoot the screaming man in the back of the head, but that’s when she heard the other man.
“Hey!” he said. “Hey now! You stop that! Call off your dog!”
