Margaret Brownley by A Long Way Home Read Free Book Online Page B

the birds, watched a squirrel frantically forge for acorns, and sensed the heaviness in the air. Reading the weather was not a gift; it was a skill taught him by his father, who had learned it from his own father, Logan’s grandfather. Predicting the weather was the first step to learning how to survive in the wilderness.
    He estimated that the approaching storm would last anywhere from three to five days. It was his habit to stock supplies to see him through a storm. He had enough fresh meat stored in the tiny smokehouse behind the shack, but he was running low on staples.
    He didn’t want to admit to himself that it wasn’t supplies he needed as much as time for the strange inner fire to run its course.
    He shoved his hands down into the warmth of his pockets, and traipsed to the tiny general store squeezed between two tented saloons.
    The wind blew against the canvas store walls with such force the nails began to pull away from the rough wooden frames. A red-hot brazier provided some heat, but only if a person stood up close.
    Seemingly oblivious to the impending collapse of his store, the store’s proprietor, Hap Montana, looked up from his three-month-old newspaper and grunted. A short man with a bushy beard and head as bald as a hen’s egg, he wasn’t particularly friendly or talkative and that’s exactly how Logan liked it.
    Hap didn’t concern himself with neatness. The shelves were never stocked the same way twice; the goods were in no particular order. It irritated Logan to find a bottle of molasses lying on the shelf next to a block of beeswax and four rotting apples.
    Knowing from past experience that Hap would be no help in locating the items he needed, Logan scanned the untidy shelves until he found what he was looking for. His arms filled with tinned goods, tallow candles, and lye soap, he dumped the items onto the rough-hewn counter.
    Hap folded his paper. “Anything else?”
    “You’d better give me some illuminating oil.”
    Hap stood on the wooden crate to reach the shelf over his head where a single can of oil stood next to an iron skillet.
    Logan glanced around. “You don’t happen to have any eating utensils, do you?”
    Hap stepped off the crate and pointed to a wooden keg. “You might find a few pieces in there.”
    Logan walked over to the deep barrel and started digging through a wide assortment of goods. Amid a hodgepodge of tin cups, spools of flaxen thread, playing cards, and a book on the life of Franklin, he found a knife and fork forged out of steel. Neither matched, but they would serve the purpose. On impulse, he reached for the book. Perhaps if Mrs. Summerfield occupied herself learning a little history, she would be less inclined to talk so much.
    Hap sorted through the supplies Logan selected with great interest, holding up the eating utensils. “What’s the matter, St. John? Ain’t your fingers good enough anymore?” He laughed aloud and wet the tip of his lead pencil with his tongue, then proceeded to add up the purchases. He glanced up. “Holy smokes, how long do you think this storm is gonna last? You got ‘nough supplies here to last a month.”
    Logan had no intention of revealing the fact that he was entertaining a guest. He shuddered to think how the miners would react upon finding a woman in town. They’d all be pounding on his door demanding to see her, obligating him to stand guard over her twenty-four hours a day.
    “If the storm lasts that long, I’ll be ready.”
    “That’ll come to thirty-two dollars even.”
    Logan frowned. It was highway robbery, that’s what it was, the prices Hap charged. Logan paid for his purchases and headed for the door.
    “Enjoy your eating utensils,” Hap called after him. The man’s laughter followed Logan outside.
    A few raindrops fell as he hastened down the dirt road toward his cabin. Upon reaching the porch, he hesitated and wondered if he should knock. Suddenly he felt like an intruder in his own house.
    He hated