Chapter One – The Decision of Doom
What if I get caught?
Eleven-year-old Jenny Cameron scuttled through the enemy’s kitchen, stopping in front of the small room just past the wood box and cookstove. She pressed a sweaty palm against the forbidden door and listened.
Her heart pounded like a stampede of wild horses. Did she hear me? Is she coming?
Jenny strained to listen past the thundering in her ears. Clenching her fists, she tightened her body for the angry scolding sure to come.
The clock on the wooden shelf above the stove ticked out a warning. Tick. You’ll be sorry. Tock. Better not get caught. Jenny didn’t have to imagine what would happen if Grandma caught her in the act.
She knew what would happen
“Why do I listen to Brose?” Jenny whispered to the closed door. “Every time he has an idea, I get in trouble.”
Sweat trickled down the back of her neck. Except for the clucking hens in the barnyard and the pesky ticking of the second hand, the Cameron ranch dozed in afternoon silence.
A mosquito bite on one bare toe itched, and Jenny rubbed her dusty foot across the top. Scratching the itch was a good way of slowing the seconds until she committed . . . the robbery.
Forcing her hand to grab the china doorknob, Jenny listened again for Grandma . . . and for the dark-skinned terror who ruled the kitchen.
Aunt Charity had been with the Cameron family long before even Daddy was born. She would holler plenty if she knew Jenny and Brose were borrowing a dime novel from her secret stash. Jenny had just discovered the thrilling new story this afternoon while she dusted Aunt Charity’s room—one of her usual chores.
Although she wanted to blame it all on Brose, Jenny knew part of this mischief had her name written all over it. “My big mouth told Brose that Grandma and Aunt Charity are outside this afternoon, cleaning the bunkhouse.”
She sighed at her own stupidity. “Then I had to brag about finding a new dime novel.”
Brose’s brown eyes had gleamed. “It’ll take ’em hours to clean the bunkhouse. Get the book and we’ll read a few chapters.” He said it as easily as if he might say, “Let’s pick apples.”
Jenny knew she ought to have hollered “no” long and loud, but Brose could be pesky as a pecking rooster when he got an idea stuck in his head. Most times, it was easier to go along than to keep figuring out excuses.
Brose’s next jab had turned the temptation into a have-to. “Seems a mighty strange place to dust, inside Aunt Charity’s dresser drawers. I expect your grandma might wonder about that.”
He’d given her a smug look. “Wonder if I oughta tell Miz Cameron? So she knows what you’re up to when you’re doing chores. Or . . . maybe if you borrow the book, I might forget.”
The no had died on Jenny’s lips. Poking around in that old busybody’s belongings spelled trouble with a capital T.
“I’ll get it.” A squirmy wiggle had settled in Jenny’s stomach. That dirty-darn Brose! “I guess if we’re just gonna borrow it, Aunt Charity won’t care. Wait in the barn.”
A pattering noise jerked Jenny back to the present. One of her long, brown braids flew across her face. What’s that? She held her breath. Had Aunt Charity slipped inside?
Meow!
Jenny’s stomach flip-flopped. It was only Whiskers. This adventure, however, was getting scarier by the minute.
Her thoughts whirled. I’m the girl in a dime novel, the heroine of the book, Jenny pretended. She worked up her courage to make one fast, breath-holding dash into the forbidden room. This is my dangerous adventure. How would someone write about me?
Her imagination leaped . . .
Seconds from danger, our heroine stops to listen. With bare feet and wearing a pink-checked gingham dress, she doesn’t look brave, but she has proven her true worth many times before.
Today she will storm Aunt Charity’s room. To take—no—to borrow the hidden book, Outlaw Woman of the West. She waits to run on winged feet back to the barn, where her only true friend in a friendless world awaits her return.
Jenny’s daydream shattered. “Brose? A true friend? Ha! Dirty-darned boy!”
Quick as a galloping horse, Jenny slipped inside Aunt Charity’s room and shut the door behind her. The bottom drawer of the dresser opened without a squeak.
She pawed through the linens until her fingers closed around the paperback dime novel. Ah-ha!
The rest of the robbery took mere seconds. Jenny slid the drawer shut, tiptoed across the room on her bare feet, and scurried outside. Moments later, she reached the safety of the big tree in the barnyard.
Jenny clutched the book to her body in sweaty hands and let out a deep sigh. A quick glance in the direction of the bunkhouse showed all was quiet. Nothing moved in the still afternoon except one of the barn cats.
Jenny peeked at the cover of the dime novel. A woman on a white stallion stood on top of a mountain. Moonlight shone on her red hair and glinted off the pearl-handled revolvers holstered at her hip. Horse and rider stared down into the valley below. Dark, mysterious shapes of cattle and men huddled in one corner.
The title swirled across the top of the book. Outlaw Woman of the West, then in smaller print, The Life and Times of a Female Cattle Rustler.
“Jenny! Are you coming?” Brose shouted from the hayloft window.
Jenny’s heart pounded. A bunkhouse door creaked. Voices!
Quiet as an Indian scout, she scurried into the barn.
Chapter Two – Deep in Dime Novel Disaster
Once inside the barn, Jenny waited for her eyes to stop blinking spots. A musky scent of sun-warmed hide rose over the nose-pinching smell of horse droppings and damp straw.
Mmm, this is the best place on the whole ranch. None of the horses care if my hair’s brushed or my dress is mussed.
Fancy nickered a greeting from the nearest stall. Any other time, Jenny would have brought an apple to treat her horse. This time, though, she’d been too scared to stop.
“Sorry, girl.” She reached over the wooden rail to scratch her filly’s silky brown nose. “I’ll bring two apples next time.”
Brose leaned over the edge of the hayloft, dropping straw on her head. “Hurry up. You’re slower than a dried-up creek.”
Jenny tucked the dime novel under her arm and climbed the wooden ladder.
“Anybody see you?”
As much as she liked Brose, he was sometimes dumber than a fence post. “You think I’d be here if Aunt Charity caught me?”
“Reckon not. Ain’t nobody can holler like her. Or hit.”
Brose rubbed his knuckles, like he might be remembering the cook’s sharp whack with her wooden spoon. Then he grabbed the book from Jenny’s fingers and flipped through the pages. “This looks like a jim-dandy story!”
Imagining what could have happened if the pinch-faced tyrant caught her, Jenny shuddered. I’d rather be thrown into a den of hungry lions than face her wrath.
A long time ago in Virginia, Aunt Charity had been a slave. Even though it was against the law, Grandma Cameron taught her to read and write. Before the War Between the States, Grandma bought Aunt Charity’s freedom.
They’d been fast friends ever since.
Most afternoons, the Camerons’ cook settled in a rocking chair on the back porch with a dime novel. “Paper fancies,” she called them. When she wasn’t reading or picking herbs, she ruled the kitchen with a fierce scowl and demanded strict obedience to her rules.
Ever since Jenny and Daddy moved to Rancho Cameron, Aunt Charity made it plain that she didn’t like anyone messin’ in her domain. Not even Daddy dared cross the cook when she got in a foul temper. He’d had his knuckles whacked a time or two.
Jenny sighed. If they’d stayed in Salinas, she wouldn’t have to worry about grumpy old Aunt Charity or Grandma’s nagging tongue. Even though she knew why they’d moved, she couldn’t understand why Daddy loved it here.
Does he ever miss home, like I do?
Jenny’s throat swelled with an ache of longing. She wished—for about the thousandth time—that Aunt Rose hadn’t married that banker and moved to San Francisco. Mama had gone to sleep with the angels so long ago that Jenny only knew her as a teensy picture inside Daddy’s pocket watch. Aunt Rose had been the only mother Jenny knew, the one who had held the family together all those years.
We were happy! Jenny wanted to shout in a voice like a raging bull. Now we’re scattered all over creation. With Aunt Rose gone, Daddy figured he’d never be able to ride herd on Jenny, her three brothers, and keep on being a lawyer all by himself. The boys had gone off to military school, crazy with excitement.
And I’m stuck here.
“Frank Simmons says this is the best story he’s ever read.” Brose flipped through the pages and read a few lines out loud. His cheeks quivered with excitement, causing his freckles to dance. “Sure looks dandy. Let’s hurry an’ read it.”
Jenny shrugged away her unhappy thoughts and nodded. “We better, before Grandma starts hollering for something.”
They pushed hay bales into seats near the open window. Warm sunshine poured through the opening. It smelled like summer and sweet alfalfa.
This place was a cozy hideaway, safe from grown-up eyes. Having her brothers here would have been nice. If Jenny closed her eyes, she could imagine Mike or Nicky enjoying the story with her. Ben would act too grown-up at sixteen, but he would listen.
Brose opened to page one. In a whispery, mysterious voice, he began to read.
Chapter One – The Making of an Outlaw
As the sun came up that April morning, a slender woman opened the door of a rustic cabin in the piney woods of Colorado. Standing in the rising sun, she stretched. Her long, red hair flowed like a silken shawl past the waist of her crisp green calico. With eyes as blue-gray as slate, she stared toward the West. A faint smile curled her crimson lips.
“Yuck,” Brose interrupted in his own voice. He tossed down the book. “Why do they have to ruin a good story with sissy stuff? Crimson lips? It’s enough to make you upchuck.”
Jenny snatched the book away and raced through three pages of glowing descriptions.
Brose gagged.
“Shush. You’ll like the next part.”
He sat up, hands on the knees of his patched denim overalls.
No one ever saw Annie O’Banyon without her matched set of pearl-handled revolvers. Legend said they were a gift from that great showman, Buffalo Bill. No one denied the woman was a crack shot.
“I once saw her shoot the stem off an apple,” Tom Smith of Fort Wayne, Nevada, said. “It plopped to the ground without a mark. Not many can shoot with that precision.”
“Wow.” Brose sucked in a whoosh of air. “That takes skill.”
Caught up in the outlaw’s story, they took turns reading the chapters. Throats dry, voices hoarse, they’d just turned to chapter ten when—
“Jennifer!”
Startled, Jenny staggered to her feet. Pins and needles from sitting too long stabbed her toes, her feet, and her legs. She winced. “It’s Grandma. Dirty darn, what’s she want now?”
Jenny’s heart beat to the drum of one condemning thought, You’ve been naughty, you’ve been caught. You’ve been naughty, you’ve been caught.
“Jen-ni-fer Eugenia Cameron!”
Chapter Three – The Errand
Cheeks burning, Jenny snatched the book from Brose and shoved it under the hay. “I gotta see what she wants.”
In his worst moments, Brose sometimes remembered he had a conscience. Jenny was sure he did it just to annoy her. “Reckon she found out you took Aunt Charity’s book?”
Ooh! I won’t yank those red curls he hates so much. But her fingers itched to do just that. I won’t punch him, either. Instead, Jenny shoved him—hard. “You made me.”
Brose tumbled over a hay bale and landed with his feet waving in the air. “Never did,” he argued in a muffled voice.
“Jennifer Eugenia!” Grandma hollered again.
Scurrying down the ladder, Jenny missed a rung and scraped her shin. Tears of pain filled her eyes, but she limped on. She didn’t dare stop to rub the sore spot. Dread ached in her stomach.
Grandma stood on the veranda, hands on the hips of a blue-calico work dress. Flushed with the heat, her leathery face, lined with years of sun wrinkles, glistened with sweat. Wisps of brown hair streaked with gray straggled from the normally tidy bun at the nape of her neck. She looked hot and bothered.
Grandma’s grim expression did not spell h-a-p-p-y.
Jenny stopped in front of her. “I’m sorry. I didn’t hear you.”
“Slow down, child.” Grandma brushed a loose strand of hair off Jenny’s cheek. Tucking it back into her braid with a rough hand, she said, “No sense running. You’ll get heatstroke.”
Jenny relaxed. So far, it didn’t sound like grandma knew about the dime novel. “I didn’t want to keep you waiting, ma’am.”
“Hmm.” Grandma’s blue eyes could be piercing. Right now, those eyes looked as if they could see right through Jenny, all the way past the weathered boards of the barn to the dime novel hidden under the hay.
Jenny waited with her fists clenched in the folds of skirt.
“What were you doing?”
“Um . . .” Jenny shifted from one bare foot to the other. A shaky smile twitched her lips. “Nothing much.”
“Sounds like you’re begging for an errand to keep yourself out of mischief. Take Ambrose with you.”
Jenny’s ears pricked up “An errand?” It was the last thing she’d expected.
“Ask Rex to hitch up Buttercup. You can fetch the washing.”
“The washing?” Jenny clapped her hands, delighted at this unexpected treat. A minute ago, she’d figured trouble knew her name. Instead, she’d been given one of the best jobs on the ranch. “Thank you, Grandma. I’ll do a good job. I promise.”
Grandma sniffed as if that wasn’t possible.
Still, Jenny didn’t let it spoil her excitement.
Because the Camerons owned one of the biggest ranches in the state, Grandma sent the washing out. Jenny loved to accompany anyone to Mrs. Daniel’s house to take or fetch the laundry.
The jolly washerwoman had twins near Jenny’s age. Since school had let out, it was the only time Jenny could play with girls. “May I drive, please?”
Fussing, Grandma brushed bits of hay from the skirt of Jenny’s dress. “Can’t you stay clean? Let Ambrose drive. He’s more familiar with the road.”
Jenny didn’t let it show on the outside, but a bubble of anger boiled inside. “I know the way too,” she mumbled, unable to keep the pout out of her voice. “Brose’s ma does her own washing. Bet I know the way there better than he does.”
“Watch your tongue, missy. Go tell Rex.”
“Yes’m.” Scuffing her feet a little, but not enough to get scolded, Jenny dawdled back to the barn. Fuming at the unfairness, she pondered a world without boys. It sure would make life a whole lot easier.
Brose leaned over the loft. “Did she find out?”
Annoyed, Jenny let him worry a minute before she shared the good news. “No. I get to pick up the wash.” To rub it in a little, she preened, “I’m driving.” No sense telling him he got to drive, just in case Grandma didn’t remember to.
“Let me come.” He scrabbled down the ladder, skipping rungs and jumping off in front of her. “Let me drive.”
“Maybe.”
“C’mon, don’t be stingy.”
Swollen with power, Jenny hurried to the stables. Behind her, Brose yipped along at her heels, pleading.
Rex, the stable boy, smelled like horses, hay, and leather. A harness lay slung over one broad shoulder. Jenny’s admiring eyes followed every move as he hitched up the wagon.
If I was a grown-up lady, I’d swoon because he smells so good. Horse aromas are better than ladies’ perfume any day.
“There you go, Miss Jenny.” Rex gave her a gentlemanly hand into the seat. Tipping his black cap, he turned back to work with a jaunty wave. Jenny secretly thought Rex was as handsome as any dime-novel hero.
“Thank you, Rex.” Jenny grabbed the reins.
Brose climbed up beside her and mocked in a prissy voice, “Thank you, Rex.”
Just see if I let you drive after that, Ambrose Duncan. “Giddup, Buttercup,” she said aloud.
The patient horse shook her harness, twitched an ear, and plodded away from the stable yard.
The beautiful princess rides behind the fastest white steed in the kingdom. Her carriage wheels are made of pure gold, with diamonds that sparkle in the sun. The mare lifts her proud head and shakes a mane twisted into a braid with silken ribbons. Pink ribbons—
Jenny sighed. Pretending about Buttercup took lots of imagination. The sorrel-colored mare had thick, picky feet. If she saw a puddle, Buttercup refused to wet her hooves. Her limpid brown eyes could see a twig and balk. Driving her meant a lot of stopping and waiting while she plodded about as fast as a snail.
“Jenny!” Grandma hollered.
Jenny tossed the reins to Brose. “You can drive.”
Grandma stopped beside the wagon. “Be careful, Ambrose. Don’t bring that poor critter back lathered in sweat.” She handed Jenny a straw hat with a green-ribbon band. “Wear this and keep out of the sun all you can.”
“Yes’m.” Jenny plopped it on. “Please may I drive too?”
“Hmm.” Grandma brushed the request off, not saying yes in so many words. But not saying no either.
Jenny saw trouble ahead. Beside her, Brose sat taller and cleared his throat.
“I forgot,” Grandma said. “You aren’t going to Mrs. Daniels. Bertha got down in her back and had to give up washing. A new woman took over, an Alice O’Leary. She moved into the old Curtis ranch. Can you find it?”
“Sure enough,” Brose said. “Pa found a bee tree there last spring. Didn’t know anybody lived there.”
Grandma lifted a white apron to swipe her sweaty face. “Miss O’Leary and her brother came from back East to homestead. She does a fine washing. See you come straight home. No dawdling. I’ll be waiting for those clean sheets to make up the beds in the bunkhouse.”
“Yes’m,” Jenny and Brose chimed together.
For the first mile and a half, Jenny tried to see how far she could sling her hat, trying to hit the pines or the low-hanging branches of the willows beside the creek. When she tired of getting in and out of the rig to fetch her hat, she figured Brose had done more than his share of driving. “Give me a turn.”
“No.”
Jenny grabbed his hands and pried at his fingers. With three brothers, she’d done her share of scuffling and wrestling. Ben, the oldest, had taught her a few pinches to make an opponent let go fast. She tried one on the underside of Brose’s arm—a twisting pinch between her thumb and two fingers.
“Ouch! Stop! I’m drivin’.”
“No, I am.”
Brose narrowed his eyes. “You are not, or”—he smirked—“I’ll tell Aunt Charity who took what, and where it’s hidden.”
Until that second Jenny had forgotten about the dime novel. Groaning, she slumped back against the wooden wagon seat. “Dirty darn! What if someone finds it?”
Brose shrugged. “Quit worrying.”
Jenny bit her lip. A knot curled in her stomach. Aunt Charity would squawk like a rooster when she discovered the book missing. Soon as we get home, I’ll put it back and hope nobody finds out. Then see if I borrow anything again, no matter what Brose says.
“Whoa, Buttercup.” Brose pulled up beside a tumbledown fence with a tipsy gate. “Looks like the O’Learys got work to do. Did you ever see such a rundown farm?”
“Nope.”
They turned down a rutted dirt road toward the house. Ugly blotches like mud balls marred the front windows. Crooked shutters hung sideways and creaked in the breeze. Untidy weeds, grown tall as a man’s knees, smothered the few surviving pink hollyhocks in the old garden. Broken fence pickets leaned toward the front door like they meant to attack. Chickens clawed in the sparse grass by the barn.
Nothing else moved.
“It’s spooky.” Shivering, Jenny scooted closer to Brose.
“Quiet too,” Brose whispered. Then he hollered, “Anybody home?”
Startled, Jenny almost fell off the wagon.
A rooster squawked before strutting away with a cock-a-doodle-doo. Something about this eerie house dozing in the midday sun caused fear prickles to pop up on Jenny’s arms.
“Howdy,” a pleasant voice called. “Be right down.”
Jenny shaded her eyes and looked up.
A woman perched on the roof of the house, a hammer in one hand and a piece of shingle in the other. With the sun at her back, she was just a dark shadow against the light. Lithe as a cat, the woman walked across the slanting roof, swung herself onto a wooden ladder, and climbed down.
Jenny’s mouth dropped open as Alice O’Leary straightened a ruffled, calico dress and walked toward them. A satiny length of flaming red hair tumbled across her shoulders. Shiny, pearl-handled revolvers hung from a beaded holster on her slim hips.
Jenny’s heart skipped a beat. Then it thumped into fearful recognition.
Annie O’Banyon. The outlaw.
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