The Gunslinger's Untamed Bride. Stacey Kayne

and Johnson each lifted an end of the lockbox holding the payroll. Mr. Allen gripped the handles of three leather cases containing their ledgers and accounting files.

      “What should I do with the luggage?” asked the driver, standing near his team of horses. Their trunks were still strapped to the top of the carriage.

      “Leave them for now,” she said, setting off across the grounds. “And wait here for us.” If no one was around to collect their pay, they may indeed be traveling back to the valley as Regi had hoped.

      Lily carefully picked her way across the rutted dirt, stepping over splintered wood and chunks of tree bark. The scent of freshly baked bread grew strong as they passed a few cabins, none of them appearing to be more than common living quarters. The distant sound of a cow echoed across the yard, along with the cluck of chickens—all good signs of inhabitants.

      The squeak of hinges drew them to a stop. A man stepped out from one of the ramshackle cabins to their right. His hat hid all but the shaggy brown beard of his face as he fumbled with the closure of his trousers. His other hand gripped an ax. Finished with his pants, he tucked his hands and the ax through red suspenders, then froze at the sight of them.

      “Good afternoon,” said Dobbs.

      The lumberjack quickly shrugged his suspenders into place, his hand taking a rather firm hold on his ax.

      Dobbs stepped in front of Lily, blocking her view. “Who’s in charge of this camp?” he asked.

      “You the new owner who’s holdin’ our pay?”

      “I’m a representative of L. P. Carrington,” he answered as Lily moved beside him.

      “I wouldn’t be shouting that to the treetops,” the man advised. “Ever since that ‘Frisco bigwig put the stop on our pay, Sheriff’s been a mite busy. He’ll be wanting to see you when he returns.”

      “A sheriff?” Lily glanced at Reginald.

      Regi shrugged his shoulders as Dobbs continued his inquiry.

      “Where do I find the man in charge here?”

      The lumberjack scratched at his whiskery jaw. “Depends on where you’re standin’ and the time of day. Bein’ that it’s noon, Cook’s in charge. Elsewise, Grimshaw runs the mill and assigns the bullheads. The Swede carries some weight, but he mostly brings down the heavy for the sheriff.”

      Lily wasn’t sure the man was speaking English, having understood very little of what he’d said. “Where is the sheriff?” she asked.

      “Ma’am,” he said, quickly pulling off his battered hat. “Ruckus on the mountain.” He motioned his ax toward the rise of trees beyond the river. “I suppose Grimshaw is who you’d want to see,” he said to Dobbs. “Follow that path.” He pressed his hat over matted brown hair and pointed his ax toward a dirt path leading through the thicket of pines on the far side of camp. “The whine of the saw or Jim’s swearing will lead you to the millhouse.”

      “Lovely.” Reginald motioned for Lily to go ahead of him.

      “The lady might choose to stay in the carriage,” the timberman advised before setting off across the grounds.

      “Not likely,” Reginald muttered.

      “Come along,” she said to the others.

      Reaching the far side of camp, she ducked beneath chains and stepped over steel tracks as she started up the hillside leading to the millhouse. The wide path cut through a patch of tall timbers. Tracks for rail cars ran along one side. She wondered why this thicket of trees hadn’t been cleared. Perhaps to cut down on noise, she thought, hearing the whine of a saw through the tall timbers. Lifting her skirt, she trudged up the hillside.

      Up ahead stood a giant open-ended barn. As she reached the top of the hill, the piercing whine of the saw fell silent. The sound of rushing water and the chirping of birds was as loud as steady traffic moving through San Francisco streets. Much like those busy streets, flatbed rail cars piled with cut wood were lined along the tracks leading to smaller open-frame buildings farther down the embankment of the river.

      “Watch your footing,” she said to Johnson and Brown as they carried the heavy lockbox across a wide grid of steel tracks. Cautiously she stepped into the millhouse, a massive structure filled with machinery and oval tables surrounded by flat hand saws. Other tables supported circular blades in a variety of sizes. The strong scent of sawdust coated her senses. In a place she’d expect to find covered in bark and shavings, the floor was swept surprisingly clean. At the far end, ramps led down to what appeared to be a giant pond filled with logs.

      “I think we got it working, Jim.”

      Two men huddled over one of the tables near the center of the room.

      “Good afternoon, gentlemen,” she called out.

      Both men jumped as though she’d raged at them. Two clean-shaven jaws dropped open as they met her gaze. Both men wore ivory hats tugged low on their brows, blue denims and ivory shirts.

      “I’m looking for Mr. Grimshaw.”

      “That’s me,” said the taller of the two, wiping a red handkerchief over the black grease on his fingers. “Who are you?”

      “We’re representatives of L. P. Carrington Industries,” said Reginald. “I’m Reginald Carrington. This is Miss Carrington and our accountants, Mr. Johnson, Allen and Brown.” Each man tipped his hat with the introduction. “Our man, Mr. Dobbs,” Regi added, motioning to their menacing guard whose presence was title enough. “Are you the manager here?”

      “I run the place,” Grimshaw said with a nod. “This is Ted Mathews, one of our tree fellers.” He jammed his thumb toward the man beside him.

      “Delighted,” Reginald said, flashing a rather patronizing smile, which wasn’t missed by the two men and annoyed Lily.

      “We’d like to have a look at your payroll files,” he continued.

      “Did the sheriff know you was coming?” asked Grimshaw, slowly strolling toward them.

      “I wasn’t even aware that we had a sheriff,” said Lily. “We’ve come to retrieve the payroll files. Where is your office?”

      The two men stared at her for a moment before looking at each other then glancing at Regi.

      “Miss Carrington has asked you a question.”

      “I, uh.” Again, Grimshaw turned toward the equally vacant expression of his co-worker.

      “Surely you have employee files,” said Lily.

      “Yes, ma’am.”

      “We would like to see them.”

      “I’ll be truthful with you. Those files aren’t as sharp as they ought to be.”

      “We’ll be able to straighten them out,” said Reginald. He pulled a stack of papers from his briefcase and held it out to Grimshaw. “Our estimated payout is listed on top. Beneath you’ll find a cross-reference for employees. We’ll need you to confirm positions and pay rates.”

      Grimshaw glanced at the papers. The man beside him leaned in. “You brought the payroll up here?” Grimshaw said, alarm tightening his features.

      “This is the Pine Ridge Lumber Camp, is it not?” asked Mr. Dobbs.

      “Yeah, but pay’s usually passed out in The Grove. Sheriff set that up right off when he took over.”

      “The grove?” said Lily

      “It ain’t really a grove, just a spot in the lower hills where some of the family types put down stakes and planted some fruit trees. It’s got all the particulars of a township, banking office, church, brothel and general store. A man wants his pay, he goes to The Grove office.”

      “‘Cept for here lately,”