Alias Dragonfly by Jane Singer Page A

him and then make a decision. Right. I’d steal the horse.
    I crept close to the buggy. No good. Jake was there, hoisting a feedbag. I’d have to wait until nightfall. “I’ll feed the horse,” I said.
    Giving me a wary look, he handed me the feedbag. I slipped it over the animal’s neck. The poor horse looked as weary as I felt. At least someone was eating.
    Jake Whitestone handed me down a wrinkled, homespun dress and a heavy blanket. “Mrs. Salome’s laundry pile does come in handy,” he said. “Wash up, for all our sakes, and change back to your true self, I might add.”
    Rudely, I yanked the dress from him. He turned his back to me.
    “Your true self is not so bad,” he said, walking away. “Call me when you’re done.” I think I must have turned fifty shades of red when I heard that.
    I kept walking, following the sound of water on rocks. Just ahead was a stream. I stood there for a moment. Should I run off? Find my father’s camp? What if he wasn’t there? Oh, but the water looked so inviting, and I was so weary. I plunged my hands into the stream and splashed my face. Coolness, blessed coolness. I lowered my head and drank like a parched animal.
    My filthy clothes felt like they were plastered on me. I glanced around. No, Jake Whitestone wasn’t limping through the brush. I would have heard him approaching anyway, right?
    Slowly I removed the jacket. I waited, listening.
    Next, the ragged pants. And oh, those killing boots! Off they went. I held the revolver over my head with one hand, and waded waist-high into the stream in just my bodice and pantaloons.
    With one hand, I splashed water on my face and hair again. My curls ran with dirt into long, wet tendrils. Oh, how good it felt. My aching body slowly relaxed, my face and eyes washed clean of grit.
    “If you’re through, help me make camp,” Jake called out.
    I cleared out of that stream in an instant, grabbed up the blanket and dried myself. I threw on the dress. With no corset at hand, and no petticoats, the dress felt soft and giving against my skin.
    “Come on!” he called again.
    When I returned to our camp, Jake was scooping pine needles into his hands, sitting flat on the ground, his bad leg stretched out, looking wan and tired.
    “You look better clean,” he said.
    Without saying anything to him—and believe me, I did want to sass him good—I broke a three-forked branch off a tree and used it as a rake. In minutes I had a large, soft pile of pine needles topped with leaves. He’d be better off on something soft than lying on the ground. Oh boy, why did I care?
    I backed away and motioned to the pile. He lay down on it, and sighed.
    “Have you got food?” I asked. “And don’t tell me just hardtack.”
    He was rubbing his leg as though to put strength back in it. “In the rig, in a tin box.” His voice was weary. “Please, can you fetch it?”
    Why didn’t I answer? Why was I being so rude? Wasn’t he trying to help me? You know how sometimes you get all the words ready to say, and nothing comes out? Yes, that was me.
    I climbed into the rig, rummaged around until I found the tin box. Inside were apples and walnuts and a bit of cheese.
    Should I flee? No. Food first.
    I cracked the nuts with a rock with nary a break in them, as I’d seen Mama do.
    We gobbled the food.
    I’d never been alone with any man other than my father, and yet I felt no fear. Strange, it was, and new and . . . okay, it was exciting.
    How would I get away? And then it hit me. Did I really want to?
    Jake Whitestone stared at me as though he was reading my thoughts. I knew he couldn’t, but it made me feel warm, jittery, and anxious, all at once.
    I found a place for myself a good distance from him under a willow tree. Jake Whitestone lay down, his eyes closed.
    I sat there watching him, the way his young face relaxed, the rise and fall of his chest, and—
    A hawk screeched overhead. Night birds were descending. A bat flew out of a tree,