Like a River Glorious (10 page)

It takes two days of light rain for the ruins to cool enough to sort through properly. The woodstoves fared the best. They are ugly now, tarnished black, and one of the door hinges is stuck, swollen and slightly melted by the heat. The Major takes a file and spends a day working it out until it opens and closes with barely more than a hiccup. All our oil's burned, so there's nothing he can do about the final little squeak.

Everything inside the cabin was lost—all the Joyners' remaining furniture, their bedding, Becky's cooking supplies and food stores, her stationery and fancy feather pen, and a whole box of ammunition. Her quick dash inside as the fire was raging wasn't for naught, though. She still has the papers proving her husband's ownership of the cargo in San Francisco, and she still has a small bag filled with coins and bits of gold—payments she received for her breakfasts.

There was another bag of gold she didn't find when she dashed inside, the one filled with dust panned by Olive and Andy, along with the occasional pinch of gold from one of the miners. But on the second day, Tom lifts up a blackened pine branch and the remains of a chair to reveal a thin, lumpy sheet of golden metal on the ground. The gold dust melted in its bag and re-formed into this flat, round thing, like one of Becky's clumsy flapjacks, except it shines in the light when the ash is brushed away.

Gold doesn't melt easily. Something made this fire extra hot.

The chest I dragged from the college men's shanty turns out to be full of odds and ends—clothes, tools, candles, pens,
and ink. But it was so heavy because it also contained books from their time at Illinois College. When they realize I saved the books, Henry bursts into tears, and Tom wraps his arms around me and hugs me so tight I worry he'll never let go.

Peony, Sorry, Apollo, and Artemis wander back to their half-burned corral without being rounded up. We find the Joyners' gelding a mile away, nibbling happily on a thick patch of poison oak. He seems plenty glad to see us, though, and lets us halter him and lead him back home.

We'll likely never see the oxen or the cart horse again.

With the Buckeyes' help, we clean and salvage and sort. The children pitch in when they can, but sometimes they're so underfoot that Becky sends them off to pan for gold. She makes them stay within sight, though. No one goes anywhere alone anymore.

On the evening of the second day, we all hunker around the fire pit on logs recently cut to replace our destroyed furniture. Becky didn't much feel like cooking, and no one blamed her, so we eat cold oats soaked in water, with a bit of bacon and salt for flavor. Old Tug and a few of the Buckeyes are with us. They worked hard all day, and the least we can do is let them join us for supper.

Even Hampton has joined us. Jasper isn't comfortable letting him off alone, not until he's sure that concussion is long gone, and not while people are shooting at us and setting fire to our camp.

I watch the Buckeyes close. A few of them give Hampton measured looks.

“Didn't know you had yourselves a Negro,” Old Tug says.

“Hampton is a free man,” I say, and it comes out snappier than I want.

“Came west with us all the way from Missouri,” Henry chimes in. “We all vouch for him.”

“Glad to hear it,” Old Tug says. “Being from Ohiya, most of us are of an abolitionist spirit. We don't hold with slavery.” There are murmurs of agreement from the other Buckeyes, and I breathe a sigh of relief. Tug shoots a line of tobacco into the dirt, rubs any residual off his beard, and says, “Having cleared that up, me and some of my boys, we're thinking of moving our tents here.”

No one says anything.

“We'll keep our claims where they are,” he continues, “but we'd live here. That is, if you all don't mind. It's a mighty fine spot for a town.”

“Wouldn't have to walk so far for breakfast, neither,” another says.

The college men put their heads together and whisper among themselves. Becky and the Major exchange a look and a nod. Jefferson leans over and whispers, “We should think about it.”

Suddenly all of my companions are looking at me, and I know why. It's my secret. And it's probably my uncle who got Martin killed.

Keeping my secret from these men will be hard with them so close. But given recent events, I'm not sure it would put us in any more danger than we're already in. In fact, having a few rough-looking men hanging around might be a mercy.

I clear my throat. “Well, Mr. Tug, I'm not sure any of us are staying. We haven't made a decision about whether or not to rebuild and keep trying at our claims.”

He frowns. “Why not?”

“We just lost someone very dear to us,” Becky says gently, a lot more gently than I'd manage. “I don't know that we can stand to lose even one more soul.” Her voice wavers a bit with that last. She leans down and kisses her baby girl's forehead, possibly to hide tears.

“Someone set those fires on purpose,” Henry says. “They knocked out the men we had on watch, shot our dog, and set those fires. We're just not sure it's safe to stay.”

Old Tug chortles. “Course it ain't safe, you lily-livered pretty boy. It's
California
.”

“It's
particularly
not safe for us,” I say.

My companions turn to me, the big question in their eyes: Will I tell him the truth?

“Why? Because you're a bunch of soft—”

“Because . . . because these are rich claim lands, as you well know. You are your boys are doing just fine, aren't you? Able to afford a paid breakfast every single day.”

Several nod agreement.

“You can't keep something like that a secret,” I continue. “Everyone is going to want our land.”

“If it's anyone's land,” Jefferson mutters, “it's the Indians'.”

My face warms. He's right, and it was a thoughtless thing to say.

Hampton stands. Jasper leans forward, ready to launch
himself to help Hampton if he needs it, but the man is steady as an oak on his feet.

“I'm not going anywhere,” Hampton declares. “Just a few days ago, I had a roof to keep my wife comfortable, and a few fixings besides. Almost everything's gone now, but I'm not giving up. I'm going to get it all back. Every bit.”

He sits back down.

“I'm not leaving either,” Jasper says. “I've been doctoring for months now. Maybe even . . .” He shuffles his feet a bit, looking sheepish. “Maybe even saved some lives. I'm doing what I came to do. No sense giving up.”

Tom says, “I haven't decided.”

“Tom and I are thinking of going to San Francisco,” Henry adds.

“I want to practice law,” says Tom. “That's what
I
came to do. San Francisco seems like the place to do it.”

Jefferson says, “I'm going where Lee's going.”

“Major?” I say, mostly to divert everyone's sudden attention from Jeff and me.

The Major has a few bits of thick leather in his hand, along with a large bone awl. He's making shoes for Olive, who recently grew out of her last pair. He takes a deep breath. When he looks up, it's in Becky's direction, and his pleading heart is in his eyes.

I catch my breath. He's carrying a torch, for sure and certain. No, it's more than that. Major Wally Craven has fallen head over heels in love with Widow Joyner.

“Becky?” he says, his voice almost a whisper.

Becky blinks at him, her cheeks coloring. “I'm frightened,” she admits. “Maybe I ought to go back home to Tennessee, if that's what it takes to keep my children safe. But . . .” She looks the Major straight in the eye. “I don't want to.”

Old Tug rubs at his tobacco-stained whiskers. “What
do
you want, Mrs. Joyner?” His voice is kinder than I've ever heard it.

She smiles back. “I want to keep serving you breakfast, Mr. Tug. And all the rest of you Ohio boys. I want to make a home here in California for my children. I want . . .” This time, she looks at me. “I want to stay with my friends.”

I swallow the sudden lump in my throat. “I want to stay, too,” I say. Jasper gives me a wide, relieved smile, but I hold up a hand to forestall any celebration.

There's no getting around the fact that our very lives are in danger. My friends have gone mad, wanting to stay. Gold fever has made them take leave of their senses. Maybe it's made me take leave of my senses, too. It's amazing what a body will risk when there's a smidge of hope to be had.

“I'm staying on one condition,” I tell them. “I'm going to find out who did this to us. And I'm going to end him. It's the only way we'll be safe.”

Old Tug nods agreement, but I only care about the reactions of my friends. They're nodding, too, even though they know exactly who I suspect, exactly who I'm talking about. My uncle Hiram Westfall did this, as sure as the sun sets over the Pacific.

“Fine by me,” Jefferson says. I look up to find his eyes alight, his face fierce.

“In that case . . .” I turn to Old Tug. “If my companions don't have any objections, I officially invite you and your boys to join us here. We'd be glad of the extra company.”

The extra gunpower, I mean, and everyone knows it.

Jefferson adds, “As long as you respect our claims and don't make any trouble.”

Old Tug grins, flashing his tooth. “As long as
you
respect
our
claims and don't make any trouble. We'll settle in tomorrow.”

L
umber to rebuild doesn't come easy. We cut so much down for the cabin and the store of firewood—all of which was lost in the fire—that we have to hike a ways to find good trees and then use the horses to lug everything back. Our hill is now scarred black, and the autumn mud has a particular stickiness to it, being full of ash. As we fell more and more trees, even the hills around us turn barren. The wind and rain hit us harder now, and the mud never dries.

The beaver disappear from our pond, and I don't blame them. We lived in peace with them for a while on opposite ends, hearing their tails smack the water occasionally. With all the Buckeyes setting up tents, I suppose there are just too many people.

The banks of the pond and the outlet creek below lose all their grass, churned up by miners' boots. Deer that used to visit our meadow in the evenings are nowhere to be seen. Hampton, with the help of a few Ohio men, expands the
corral to make room for the new horses. Within a week, the meadow is grazed out. Feed will be a lot more expensive from now on.

The world is changing around us, and we're the ones changing it. A funny feeling in my gut says we're not making it better.

I don't see a single Indian. It niggles at me that even though they're near enough to help us, they never show themselves. Becky is frightened of them, but I rather suspect they're frightened of us. Maybe Jefferson is right and this is their land we're squatting on.

I'm so tired from panning and pickaxing and chopping and carrying and keeping extra watch shifts that my very bones ache. I sleep on cold, wet ground in a threadbare blanket I got in trade for two rabbit skins. Some nights it's so cold that I take my blanket and sleep in the corral with Peony. The ground is just as churned up with mud, the air just as cold, but she stands sentry over me all night, fast asleep herself more than half the time, and she never steps on me once. It puts a warmth in my heart, if not my skin.

Becky says I can sleep in the cabin with her and the children once it's rebuilt, and I'm not going to decline. The rebuilding might take a while, though. The college men leave for Mormon Island with our leftover gold and come back with the sad news that most everyone has gone to Sacramento looking for work to wait out the winter, and everything we need is in short supply, especially canvas, hammers, and chickens.

So no shanties, no eggs, no chicken coop, and no cabin for a good long while.

They bring back plenty of oats, bacon, beans, flour, and coffee, though, and the Buckeyes don't complain one bit about getting the same breakfast almost every morning.

One day I'm late abed after a long night on watch, sleeping close to Jefferson this time, on a hard patch of rock that makes my neck ache but is relatively clean of mud. We're far away from the noise of camp; it's the morning sun, shining against my eyelids, that makes me stir. Beside me, closer than is necessarily proper, Jefferson snores as loud as a locomotive.

The camp is as clean as we can make it, and rough lean-tos are starting to replace the shanties that burned down. I've found more gold for everyone, carefully and quietly so as not to arouse the Buckeyes' suspicions. There's nothing holding me back from making good on my word. Today will be the day I start finding out who tried to burn us out.

I'll begin by heading downriver to see if those cussed claim jumpers are still there. If anyone knows what's going on, it'll be a crew of nosy good-for-nothings whose claim spot allows them to see river traffic all day long. Jefferson will put up a fuss about it. Claim jumpers are dangerous, sure, but so am I.

I blink against sleep, trying to gather the gumption to get up, but my limbs feel as heavy as lead. Maybe just a few more minutes of shut-eye. In his sleep, Jefferson rolls over, and his big arm flings across my shoulders.

I freeze.

Jefferson and I slept side by side the whole way to California,
under the Joyners' wagon or beside it. But it feels different now. Every little accidental touch sets my heart to pounding and my cheeks to flushing.

His snoring abates, which I find suspicious. Maybe he's just pretending to sleep.

“Jeff?” I whisper.

“You shouldn't pester a man who's trying to rest,” he grumbles.

I don't know what comes over me, but all of its own accord, my body turns over and curls up against his chest. “I'm cold,” I say weakly.

His breath catches. Then his arms pull me even closer, so that our thighs press together and my nose is under his chin. His hand comes up to caress the back of my head, his fingers tangling in my hair. He's like a woodstove, for how much heat he puts out, and he smells of damp earth and campfires and the tallow he's been using to protect his saddle.

“Better?” he murmurs into my ear.

“Yes.” Strange how being pressed close makes me so aware of myself. His breath on the curve of
my
neck, his arm wrapping the small of
my
back, the way his warm skin makes
my
lips buzz with the need to—

“May I kiss you?” he whispers.

One heartbeat. Two.

“Okay.”

His lips press against my cheek first, a soft, gentle kiss that sets my belly on fire. He kisses me again, just as gently, but closer to my lips. He smoothens my hair from my forehead,
then lets his hand linger against the side of my face, his thumb caressing my cheekbone.

He looks me boldly in the eye, leaving no doubt as to his intentions. “It's about damn time,” he says. Then his lips meet mine.

They're soft at first, tentative as if filled with questions, and I wouldn't know how to answer with words, but other parts of me seem to have plenty to say, because I press into him and snake my arm around his neck so he can't get away.

He groans a little and deepens our kiss. His hand slips under my shirt to splay against the skin of my back, and just like that I'm lost, not knowing up from down from sideways. I just know Jefferson, who is familiar and strange to me all at once, and this sudden feeling that I can't get close enough to him. There's too much space between us, too much air, too many clothes, too much heartbreak.

He breaks away, leaving my lips cold, but his fingertips still caress my back. They slip lower, toward the waist of my trousers. I feel like I'm coming out of my skin, and I have to blink to make sure we're not surrounded by a cloud of gold dust.

“Leah,” he whispers. “Please marry me.”

It's like a bucket of cold creek water dumped over my head. “I . . .”

“Lee McCauley!” someone calls from a distance. It's a man's voice, rough and snarly. “Lee McCauley!”

Jefferson and I exchange an alarmed look. “That's Frank Dilley,” he says.

I jump up and yank on my boots, heart pounding something
awful. I have no idea what he wants, but it was only a matter of time before he returned, wanting something. Maybe he's brought my uncle with him. Maybe he's come to run us out for good.

My five-shooter is in the saddlebag I'm using for a pillow, but I don't dare keep it loaded, especially with so much rain about. As Jefferson dons his boots and tends to his Colt, I load all five shots. It's a cap and ball, so I force myself to slow down and be patient, lest I drop my shot all over the ground. I buckle on my holster and slip my gun inside.

Jefferson shrugs his suspenders over his shoulders. “Let's go,” he says, shoving his Colt into his own holster.

Henry meets us halfway to camp. Despite his hurried steps and panicked gaze, his hair is perfectly parted and combed, and his shirt crisp and fresh. “It's Dilley,” he says. “He's here to make a bargain, but he'll only speak to you, Lee.”

“Where's Hampton?” I ask.

“He already made himself scarce.”

That's one less thing to worry about. “Well, let's go see what Dilley has to say.”

“Reverend Lowrey is with him.”

“What?” Jefferson exclaims. He never liked Reverend Lowrey, particularly because the preacher asked me to marry him, back when we were camped at Soda Springs. Jeff liked him even less when he took off with Dilley's Missouri men, leaving us in the middle of the desert with almost no supplies and Becky about to give birth. “That lousy, blasted—”

“C'mon, Jeff. Trouble doesn't need our help to make itself.”
It's something Mama always said to me. As we head down the rise, my fingers find their way to her golden locket at my throat.

The camp is abuzz. Smoke curls from Becky's stove, and the air smells of firewood and cornbread. Everyone is up, breakfasts left cold on Becky's makeshift table. The Major, the college men, and the Buckeyes stand together in haphazard formation, united against the newcomers—Frank Dilley and Reverend Lowrey on horseback, eight or so riders behind them.

Andy and Olive huddle just outside the new half-built cabin, out of danger, I hope. Olive clings to a tightly wrapped bundle of baby sister.

“Mr. McCauley,” Frank calls out with a tip of his hat. “And Jefferson.” Frank never thought up a dumb joke he didn't want to say at least twice.

“What are you doing here again, Frank?” I ask, my hand twitching next to my holster. “Did you come to buy our claims already?”

Because if he has, I've got a mother lode of no for him.

“Came to parlay,” he says. “Remember the good preacher?”

“I remember a man who left us high and dry in the desert.” Looking Lowrey straight in the eye, I add, “Thought you'd be too ashamed to show your face here.”

“Miss Westfall,” he acknowledges, getting my name right for the first time, and somehow that sends a stab of fright into my chest. The reverend clutches his Bible to his belly; he's riding horseback, and he still carries that giant Bible. For a mean
second, I imagine a snake spooking his horse, and him falling hard to the ground. “I was called to minister to miners,” he says. “And I will obey the Lord, no matter how much it costs me personally.”

Jasper snaps, “I'm sure it was a great sacrifice, turning your back on people in need to run away.” Jasper was the one who doctored Therese, to no avail. He doesn't talk about her much, and the two never seemed like especially good friends. Still, sometimes I wonder if her death grieves him as much as it does me and Jeff.

“Get to business, Frank,” the Major says. He looks fierce, his beard wild, his forearms thick with muscle, his eyes steady and smart like a wolf's. He's so kind and good-natured most of the time, I sometimes forget that many consider him a war hero.

Old Tug and the Buckeyes remain watchfully silent as Frank Dilley swings a leg over and dismounts. He approaches me, and even though I yearn to take a step back and put some distance between us, I force myself to hold my ground.

“I have an offer for all of you,” he says, even though he's only looking at me. “A certain gentleman heard tell of your recent tragedy with the fire and all.”

Jefferson steps up beside me, his hand very near his holster.

Dilley eyes him warily but continues on. “Being a fellow rich in both gold and compassion, he's willing to offer a tidy sum for claims in this area.”

Everyone starts mumbling among themselves.

“Why this area?” I ask, even as one of the Buckeyes hollers out, “How much?”

“My employer has an eye for prospecting,” Dilley explains. “He thinks there's plenty of gold to be had here, but it's deep underground. It will take money, equipment, and labor to mine it out. He's willing to invest his own wealth to make that happen.”

Jefferson and I share a glance. This is not what we expected.

“In exchange, he'll offer three hundred dollars per claim, and everyone who sells will have first pick of paying jobs in his new outfit.”

The mumbling grows louder. It must sound like a sweet deal to the Buckeyes, but they don't have a witchy girl helping them out. My gold sense makes our claims worth more than ten times what Dilley is offering, and only my people know it. Well, them and my uncle, who no doubt has guessed that I'd only settle my friends on the richest land available.

“Three hundred dollars is a lot of money,” Old Tug says.

“It's not
that
much,” Jefferson mutters, and I give him a quick kick in the leg to shut him up.

“There's one more condition,” Dilley says, his eyes still keen on me.

My legs turn to rubber. Whatever's coming next, this is it. My uncle's gambit.

“My employer requires that Miss Leah Westfall accompany us back to Sacramento.”

Everyone turns to me. You could hear an earthworm in the mud, for how silently they stare.

From behind everyone comes a high, feminine voice. “This employer of yours,” Becky calls out. “His name wouldn't
happen to be Hiram Westfall, would it?” And God bless her soul for asking the question rolling around in my head that I was unable to force out.

“Why, yes, that's his name, all right. I understand his niece ran away from him back in Georgia. Stole his horse, too.” Dilley grins wide, and it feels like a steel trap closing around me. “It's comeuppance time, boy,” he says.

My jaw is aching from clenching so hard, and my legs twitch as if to run. I could be on Peony's back in three minutes and halfway to Oregon before he could spit.

“Lee isn't going anywhere,” Jefferson says in a dark voice.

“Now wait a minute,” Old Tug says. “This is a good offer. We should consider.” Several of the Buckeyes murmur agreement.

“These are probably the men who set fire to our camp,” says Jasper—just loud enough for the people standing next to him to hear, but it's enough to stop the murmurs. “Lee's uncle is a double-crossing snake. You can't trust any promise he makes.”

“A deal with Mr. Westfall is tantamount to a deal with the devil,” Becky adds loudly.

This time, it's Reverend Lowrey who jumps in. “As part of the deal, Mr. Westfall also agrees to offer his special protection. You'll never worry about arson again.”