Every Perfect Gift Read Online Free Page B

livery and ride up there all alone. Unarmed. In the dark.”
    McCracken sighed. “This is dangerous business. And besides, it isn’t proper.” He looked down pointedly at her skirt.
    “It’s dark, Mr. McCracken. No one will be scandalized. And this is my first big story. Don’t make me miss out just because we’re short a horse.”
    “Sheriff, we’re losing time,” Trotter said.
    The sheriff grunted in exasperation but held out his hand. “Are you going to be this much trouble every day?”
    “Oh, no, sir.” She grabbed his hand and vaulted onto the horse, settling herself behind him, arranging her skirt as best she could. “Some days I expect I’ll be even more trouble.”
    The riders headed for the logging trail behind the train station and began the climb to Blue Smoke, Mr. Foster and Mr. Trotter in the lead. Sophie tucked her notebook inside her reticule and draped her shawl over her head to ward off the chilly mist shrouding the mountain. Light flickered through the thick stands of trees, the torch fires hissing in the damp.
    As they neared the resort, shouts shattered the darkness. Gunfire erupted.
    “Hold on.” The sheriff dug his heels into the horse’s flank and they flew through the darkness, passing the others and arriving just as another round of gunfire split the night.
    Sheriff McCracken dismounted and helped her down. “Stay here,” he ordered. “Do not move.”
    Sophie frowned. How in the world did he expect her to write a full account of this event without getting close to the action? It would be like getting one’s nourishment by watching someone else eat. She waited until the sheriff had drawn his gun and moved toward the front entrance. Then she circled behind the waiting horses. Keepingto the shadows, she crossed the wide expanse of lawn to where a small knot of men huddled beside an empty freight wagon.
    “What happened?” She addressed her question to a brown-haired young man dressed in denim pants and a blue-plaid shirt.
    He spun around. “Holy cats. What’s a girl doing in the middle of a fistfight?”
    “Is that what it is, a fistfight? Who started it? What’s it about?”
    A string of shouted curses blued the air. A window shattered. A Chinese man, his pigtail flying, scurried from the shadows and disappeared around back.
    A burly, red-bearded man frowned at Sophie. “Who wants to know?”
    Brown Hair glared at him. “It started out as a fistfight, miss, but then O’Connor over there pulled his gun, and then Mr. Heyward ran out and—”
    “Mr. Heyward. That would be Mr. Ethan Heyward?”
    “One and the same. He doesn’t allow gunplay up here. He took Jubal’s rifle, and Jubal took a swing at Mr. Heyward. I reckon Jubal will be gone for good come daylight.”
    “Is anyone hurt?”
    “Oh, no, ma’am. I don’t think anybody was hit. The gunfire’s just a way the men have of blowin’ off steam. They don’t mean anything by it.”
    “But someone told the sheriff a riot was in progress.”
    “Yes’m. This argument got out of hand, all right. The next thing we knew there was more’n thirty men slugging it out.” He shook his head. “One of the younger boys on the logging crew got scared and sounded the alarm. Truth is, the Irish and the ni—uh, black folks don’t like each other at all.”
    Sophie’s stomach dropped at the man’s use of the hated epithet, but she nodded.
    “Both groups hate the Chinese.” The young man jerked histhumb toward the door to the kitchen. “Li Chung keeps to hisself mostly, but the others have been at each other’s throats since this whole project began. And I for one’ll be glad when it’s over.”
    “What do the men fight about?”
    Brown Hair’s burly companion shrugged. “You name it. Women, whiskey, cards, somebody looks at somebody else the wrong way. You get nigh on a hundred men living in these conditions, fights are bound to break out. Two men got themselves killed last year. But Mr. Heyward don’t like to