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Sapphire Skies at Mustang Pass

By Cindy M. Amos

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Upstream of the waterfall, a woodland band covered the land until the impenetrable mountain ridge determined otherwise. Rene Dubois understood the solidness of granite, but preferred the workable disposition of fresh-sawn wood. Today, he positioned his rusted traps under the sycamores at the behest of friend Argus Drury, who labored below the falls building a gristmill. His days as a fur trapper seemed limited to the riddance of nuisance pests lately, in this case, a worrisome beaver intent on damming Rocky Creek.
With the mercantile building now constructed, he had no less than ten houses to complete finish carpentry work inside as Mustang Pass prospered. The first of June marked the premier shipment of copper out of the valley. He had culled the tailings piles with a crew out of Idaho in an effort to help Granite Mine remain on pace. Argus established the rail line out to the railroad spur. As of last week, the men had commenced mining the east shaft to excavate the bountiful copper ore. Chance Mullan called this extraction site the best secondary deposit west of the Mississippi River, making the entire valley flush with prosperity.
The last trap set with a hair’s trigger. He rose slowly and checked its alignment with the others. After making a wide step to clear the area, he noticed Argus had taken a break from his constant hammering. The day already sweltered with heat, though not yet ten o’clock. At least the trees by the stream lent some merciful shade. He closed his eyes, wiped sweat from his brow, and tried to plan the remainder of his day. Otherwise, trapper’s wanderlust would take over.
The sound of rustling fabric startled him. He scanned the woodland edge. Behind him, a twig snapped and a figure hastened out of nowhere. In seconds he realized the runner headed right across his trap line, an aggravating hitch. “Halt—don’t cross there.”
A woman with tousled brown hair ran towards him, her skirt hem clutched in her fist like an act of utter rebellion. She glanced at him with a leer. “Not…your woods,” she managed between panted breaths.
Her pace left him no time to reason, so a step shy of the trap line, he lunged and knocked her into the undergrowth. A stand of serviceberry shrubs cushioned the brunt of the fall, though he tried to land with his arms under their entwined frames. When she bucked for immediate freedom, he pinned her on all four quarters. “Stop. You’re about to violate my trap line. If you even twitch, the trap off your left ankle will snap shut.”
Her eyes opened to reveal a hazel mottling like moss on a tree trunk. “Liar. Let me up this instant you…ambusher.” She tried to wrest one shoulder free with the accusation.
He freed an arm and laid his hand across her collarbone, a slender neck filling his grip. “If you want to walk out of the woods today, miss, then we’ll do it my way. If you don’t mind a life as a cripple, then go ahead and do it your way.” He examined her expression and saw some of the rebel fire dissipate from her attitude. “There now, you’ve made acquaintance with sound reason. While I’ve got you still for five seconds, maybe we should make acquaintance, too. I’m Rene Dubois, a fur trader turned carpenter helping to build this town.” He lifted a brow to ratchet her response. Beneath his palm, her heart still beat a rapid-fire objection.
She blew out a breath to clear some hair from her face. “You built the mercantile?”
Upon that recognition the feminine show turned amusing, and his ire quelled. Dark hair framed a comely face, with a widow’s peak making it heart-shaped. As her eyes changed color under the dappled sunlight, the apparition held him mesmerized for a few delayed moments. “Yes, from the foundation up, I built that mercantile structure. We needed a trading post for foodstuffs and dry goods—and now we have one worth claiming.”
Her spirit broke with a shudder of her shoulders. “My family moved to town to operate the store—which takes me to a new wilderness where I can run.”
He knew better than to trust a female. “We hired Jim Merriman as storekeeper.”
“Yes, he’s my father. We arrived yesterday evening, bone-weary from Colorado. I saw the stream on my morning explore and had to make a crossing—it looked so inviting.”
Unable to count the number of times he’d entertained a similar thought, he couched his agreement with a simple nod. “Let me catch this pesky beaver for my friend building the gristmill, and you’ll be free to wander anywhere you want. I’ve never known a woman who wanted to run. Come to think of it, I’ve never had a woman run toward me either.”

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