Authors: Sawyer Belle
Silver Nights
With
You
Gold Canyon, Nevada
Territory
1858
No amount of oil could silence the creaks or soften the
edges of the old leather saddle. Morgan pulled the reins and groaned as he
shifted back and forth uncomfortably. His younger brother, Valentine, stopped
beside him and chuckled, leaning forward to brace a forearm across the saddle
horn. He tipped his hat back off his forehead to see more clearly.
“Problems in your pants there, brother?”
Valentine teased.
“Not if you like a sharp wedge of rawhide riding your ass
crack,” Morgan replied before huffing and dabbing his forehead with the back of
his sleeve. The inside of his mouth still felt gritty from his last taste of
the alkali water they’d pulled from the springs several hours before. Large,
dark circles of sweat spread beneath his armpits.
They’d been riding for four days straight through nothing
but barren desert, heading west toward nowhere in particular and Morgan could
feel his patience running as thin as their sulfuric water supply. He untied the
canteen from his saddle and took a long swig. His black hat was thick with dust
so he pounded it against his thigh to clean it, baring his dark brown hair to
the desert heat. Dampened by sweat it curled softly, the foremost locks falling
to tease the creases near his temples.
A few dribbles of water escaped his swallow and fell over
his chin. The entire lower half of his face was so coarse with dark stubble
that he could light a matchstick off of it. His eyes, an iridescent light
brown, stung from dryness and dirt and he rubbed them wearily before replacing
his hat.
“Hot damn, Val! Are we done chasing the wind yet? Surely
that run-in with the Lahontans was enough adventure to satisfy your energy?”
The youthful, handsome face of his similar-featured brother
smiled over at him.
“Careful, Morg.
You’re starting to
show your old age.”
“Yeah, well, looking after your reckless hide all these
years hasn’t done me any favors.”
“Oh, come on, now.
No
favors?” Val asked with a suggestive lift of an eyebrow. “You haven’t had your
share of pleasure in the process? That paddleboat down the Missouri proved
profitable for you at the tables. And I’m sure Marianne didn’t sour the
experience any.”
Morgan chuckled,
then
swiftly
snorted. “What good did it do us? You went and blew the entire lot in Texas.”
“True, but if I hadn’t we would have never had the
experience of driving cattle up into Colorado with the Bar JR boys.”
“What do you mean ‘driving cattle’? The Mexicans practically
chased us up into Colorado. The cattle just happened to come with us.” He shook
his head at the memory. “What a damn fine way to learn that the cattle had been
stolen from across the Rio Grande.”
Val laughed. “I believe the foreman called it comeuppance
for the two hundred horses those same Mexicans took from the Bar JR. Even
still, without them you would have never got it into your thick head to turn
cattleman one of these days.”
“Why not?”
Morgan asked
defensively, raising his arms out to his sides. “It was a good experience. We
learned a lot and it’s a good, hard, honest living.
Much
better than your idea of racing from town to town looking for the sweetest pot
of honey.”
Val shook his head in defeat. “I do enjoy the sweet stuff.
What can I say?”
Morgan smiled briefly but sobered. He and Val had some good
larks, but he was ready for peace and a quieter life. Val was restless, full of
itches that needed scratching, and Morgan knew that he had done nothing but
enable that aimless existence for the four years since their folks had died. He
was well into his third decade and had nothing to show for it but a string of
small adventures. He was ready for a slower pace, and God willing, a wife and
family, too.
“Seriously, Val.
We’re one state
away from the coast. There’s nowhere to go from there. What do you plan to do
after that?”
“Hell if I know. There’s always the sea.” At the disobliging
look on Morgan’s face Val continued. “Don’t tell me you’re really thinking of
settling down somewhere?”
Morgan dipped his head thoughtfully and pursed his lips.
“Yeah, I reckon so. I’m thirty-two next year, a full decade more than you. I’m
tired of wandering, kid.”
Val ignored his brother’s tone and unspoken plea. “Aw, we’ll
just get you a new saddle. That’s all you need. Once you can sit more
comfortably, you won’t care how long you’re doing it.”
Morgan blew out a breath. “You’re honestly telling me that
you haven’t thought about settling down
at
all
?”
Val shrugged dismissively. “I haven’t found a place that’s
given me a reason to stay. Besides, Morgan, how are you gonna settle when we’ve
got nothing? It’s not like you can just pick a spot of land and dream up timber
and cattle.”
“True enough,” Morgan agreed. “But if we stayed put in one
place and held onto our money it could work. All it takes is a boundary fence,
a house and a posted notice and we’ve got ourselves some land.”
Val nodded grudgingly and nudged his horse into a walk. “And
what place has sunk into your heart enough that you would you stay put in it,
brother?”
Morgan tapped the flanks of his horse to carry on. Cresting
the swell of a small and sandy hill, they stood still once again to look down
and admire a lush valley with a wide, clear lake and thick forests laid against
a back drop of grand mountain spires. He felt a twinge in his chest and at once
saw his life there in that fertile land.
“This would do just fine,” he finally answered.
Val scoffed and rolled his eyes skyward. “You’re a man of
few needs, brother. I think you’d be happy anywhere.” His gaze fell inward. “I
envy that of you.”
“You mean you require more than my company for happiness?”
Morgan teased.
Val laughed. “Well, let’s go down there then and check out
your homestead.”
Morgan shook his head softly. Val had a way of saying a
thing by using words that meant the exact opposite. It was a testament to how
well Morgan knew his brother that he could decipher what the man was really
saying. He looked longingly at the valley floor and kissed it goodbye, knowing
that Val was not ready to slow down.
They moved through the loose desert floor at a slow canter
for a few minutes before Morgan felt a noticeable dip in his horse’s hind leg.
He slowed to a trot and peered back. As suspected, his horse was limping and
carrying his hoof high above the ground.
“Hold up, Val,” he called, dismounting. He spoke in low,
soothing sounds to calm the animal whose legs were quivering tightly beneath
his palm. He ran his hands over the muscles, noticing where and when the animal
tensed. A thumb-sized spindly burl had lodged itself into the coarse hair near
the horse’s fetlock. He unsheathed his knife and worked carefully at cutting it
out. Once it was dislodged, he massaged the spot to ease the animal’s
suffering. When he lifted the hoof to examine it he stared in wonder at the
metal shoe.
It glimmered in a thin coat of dust and Morgan’s brow
creased. Using the pad of his thumb, he wiped the surface clean and held his
finger up to his eyes. It was a fine powder that spread from one finger to the
next as he rubbed them all together. He examined the next hoof, finding it
there as well. By the time he had checked all four his hand was coated in the
stuff. The daylight glinted off of it, shining like ground up sun rays.
Soft.
Burnished.
Golden.
He sucked in a breath as it dawned on him what he held in
his hands. Coughing in disbelief, a deep round of incredulous laughter shook
his shoulders.
“Hey Val!” he called excitedly. “You say you haven’t found a
place that’s given you a reason to stay?”
“Yeah,” Val answered warily as he brought his horse around.
“Well, how about now?”
He held his shimmering palm up to the sunlight watched it
beam like the hand of God in the white desert sky. Val’s eyes widened and a
slow smile split his face. He leapt from his horse and picked up a hoof,
finding the shoe coated as well. He wiped it onto his palm and held it up to
the sky as Morgan had. While he stared in wonder his breaths fell heavier and
he panted silently for a long minute. Finally, Morgan grasped his brother’s
golden palm in his and together they laughed.
“Gold, baby!”
Chapter 1
Two years later
The late-summer heat pressing down across the desert with
the weight of a full-bellied sun was far worse than any summer she had
experienced in the hills of Virginia. The windows of the stage coach were open,
their curtains furled to let a hot breeze blow across the sweat-dampened necks
of the occupants, and Lila felt a pang of pity for the mules speeding them
across the stretch of dull, brown desert. She leaned against the thick leather
strap that served as a back for the middle of three bench seats and heaved a weary
sigh. Just where was this golden California anyway?
Having traversed the Central Overland Trail across expanses
of forests and hills, flat plains,
thick mountain
passes and hot white desert, she wondered if they had already seen everything
glorious the country had to offer. She reached up and unclasped the tiny
mother-of-pearl buttons at her throat and unfolded her collar to expose the
glistening flesh of her chest and throat just above her camisole. A swift frown
from her father in the seat across made her redo the last two buttons but she
stopped there. She didn’t care if the entire Union army saw the swell of her
cleavage. The heat was so thick that it hovered above the ground for miles.
“Are you trying to cause a scandal, Lila?” her father
admonished quietly.
“No, I am trying not to faint.”
His eyes softened in sympathy and his voice lost its edge.
“I’m sure we’re nearing the next station. A quick stretch of the legs ought to
do you some good.”
His voice was paternal and soothing, but she turned her gaze
back to the outside world and forced her mouth into a pout. “I’m still not
talking to you,” she declared.
She hadn’t wanted to leave Virginia. In fact, she had begged
him to stay but he would hear none of it. The flowers had barely begun to
sprout from her mother’s fresh grave before he was liquidating their belongings
and packing up their life to head west. He told her that the east coast was
congested and swarmed with corruption. Talk of war spread from parlor to parlor
while salacious tales of golden riches near the Pacific graced the papers.
Little more than a month had passed since they’d traveled by
train to the Missouri River, booked passage on a steamboat north to Kansas and
boarded the stagecoach in Atchison. Each passenger had only been allotted
twenty-five pounds of baggage before boarding. While this didn’t affect her
father’s belongings, she had had to part with half of her wardrobe. Despite
reassurances that he would purchase a new one in California, the loss was a
devastating addition to her heavy sorrow and she had vowed then and there that
she would never speak to her father again.
Tears threatened to gather in her eyes. She knew it was
silly to cry over discarded trunks, but all of those fine things! The satin,
velvet and brocade bodices, the lace-trimmed fichus and capes, gone from her
forever! Now, the laughably small valise resting on her lap housed two day
dresses, their necessary accessories and underpinnings, a plain and
unflattering nightgown, and her most prized possession: a photograph of her
mother taken two years ago. She pinched her eyes against the sudden moisture,
knowing that it wasn’t the lost wardrobe that gnawed on her heart.
In all of her life she had only seen four photographs, and
two of them were in the photographer’s shop in Boston. Her parents had taken
her to the city for a two-week holiday and they were introduced to the man at a
dinner party of one of her father’s old colleagues. He fussed over her mother’s
beauty and begged to immortalize it. Within the week they found themselves
turning up to spend an entire afternoon attempting to capture the image of Lynn
Cameron.
The day had been comical with Lynn unable to sit still or
keep from laughing for the necessary hour of the exposure. It took a hidden
clamp to hold her head straight and a stern lecture from the photographer on
relaxing her mouth, but Lynn refused. It was wholly against her nature, she
exclaimed, and she would rather be forgotten than to be remembered with a
frown.
The photographer professed that it was impossible for a
person to smile for an hour and the final effect would be a blurred mouth. Lynn
happily took up the challenge, and won. The result was a beautiful portrait of
Lila’s mother seated at a desk, her arms folded primly, the lacy edges of a
fichu lying delicately across her torso, her brown hair bundled and hidden
mostly beneath a flowery bonnet.
And the smile.
Lila frowned sadly as she silently thanked God that she
could still see her mother’s smile every day.
The coach wheels bumped over the hard ground and she winced
as her eyes opened again. The pleated skirt and slip she wore made poor padding
for her tender backside slamming against the hardwood bench and she regretted
her decision to wear a corset. Her chestnut hair was piled atop her head and
fitted snugly beneath the pins of a crisp felt hat the cerulean color of her
dress. It was like a hot nest roasting her scalp.
The long-sleeved bodice stretched over her arms and torso
with a high-collar that teased the underside of her chin. The pearled buttons
formed a single line from the v-shaped bottom to the top. She had considered it
her best dress of the three she still owned, but at the moment she wanted
nothing more than to shred it so she could ride around in her corset and
bloomers. Tiny beads of sweat trickled down her back and in between the deep
cleft of her breasts. She worked the paper fan back and forth in front of her
exposed throat to cool the areas not touched by the breeze.