Like a River Glorious (22 page)

L
ater, I return from the mine and discover my uncle waiting for me in the cabin. The air smells sweetly of tobacco, and he blows smoke from his pipe as I enter. On the dining table are two large packages.

“For you,” he says with a soft smile.

My hackles instantly go up, but I sound as cool as ever when I say, “There's nothing I need, Uncle.”

“Allow me to spoil you, sweet pea.”

He needs to be paying down his debt, not buying presents. I approach the table slowly, like the packages are animals caught in a trap, waiting for me to come within range of their teeth.

Gingerly, I open the smallest. I gasp.

My uncle grins around his pipe, but my gasp was not a happy one. Inside the package is another dress. Another dress exactly like the one I'm wearing, with blue calico and lace-trimmed sleeves.

“You should continue to wear the old one when you visit the mine and the creek,” he says in a perfectly reasonable tone. “But I want you to look well-groomed and lovely at all other times.”

My stomach curls in on itself. “Why?” I whisper.

“Because any girl of mine will be dressed properly, as befits her status as a—”

“No. I mean, why this dress? Why do you want me to look just like my mother?”

I know it's a mistake as soon as the words leave my mouth, because his eyes are suddenly as dark and threatening as storm clouds. “Your mother was a lovely woman,” he says coldly. “You should be proud to look like her.”

“Why do you have a picture of her on your dresser?”

Another mistake, and I wish I could put up a dam to keep the words I'm thinking from flowing out of my mouth, but a strange, desperate fear has gripped me so hard that I don't think I could do it for all the gold in California.

He slams his pipe down on the table. “You've been in my room.”

“Just . . . once . . . to clean. I was sweeping that day. I haven't gone back in since.” That last part, at least, is true.

He says nothing. We stare at each other a long moment.

“Open the other package,” he says.

My fingers tremble as I untie the twine and fold aside the paper to reveal another pair of women's boots, even fancier than the last, with little cuffs of lace folding over the ankles.

“I've commissioned a gown also,” he adds. “It will take time
to finish, but there will be a Christmas ball in Sacramento, the first ball to be held in the goldfields. It's imperative that you look your best, for I expect it to be well attended. I plan on making several good connections there.”

I stare down at the shoes. They are the silliest things I've ever seen. I couldn't make it from here to the outhouse without ruining them.

“Leah?”

“You didn't answer my question. About my mother.”

Hiram pauses, as if deciding something. Finally he slides onto the bench and gestures me to sit.

I do, folding my hands carefully in my lap to hide their trembling.

“Your mother was very special to me,” he begins.

“I know,” I admit. “Free Jim told me you were sweet on her. Everyone was surprised when she went and married my daddy instead of you.”

His fist comes down hard on the table. “We were sweet on
each other
!”

I flinch back. “Yes. Of course. That's what I meant.”

Some of the fight bleeds out of him, and he says, “No one was more surprised than I. Elizabeth and I were engaged. Then one morning I went into town and learned that she and Reuben had tied the knot, all secretive.”

His gaze becomes distant. “That was the worst time of my life, you know. I've never felt so betrayed. So . . .” He swallows hard. “So lonely. My brother stole the woman I loved right out from under me.”

This part I knew, but it still doesn't explain why he's dressing me to look like her. Or why he killed them both. I keep my voice neutral when I ask, “Why did Daddy do it, do you think?”

He frowns. “I wish you'd stop talking about him.”

“Why? So you'll stop feeling guilty for murdering him?”

He stares at me, neither in shock nor rage, but like a bookkeeper adding up a column of numbers. He retrieves his pipe and takes a good long puff. I expect he's working himself up to deny everything, but what he says is: “He deserved it.”

I gape at him.

The vision appears unbidden in my head: my daddy lying on the steps, his blood staining the wood, his face frozen in surprise.

“He took everything from me,” my uncle continues. “Everything!” His fist pounds the table again, and the corner of his mouth gleams with wetness.

“Just because Mama chose to marry him—”

“He took my woman, my land, and you. Even you.”

“What in tarnation are you going on about?” Tears are leaking from my eyes now. They're born of anger and frustration and a whole heap of grief that I mistakenly thought had faded to a tiny tickle in the back of my head. But in this moment, facing down my deranged uncle, I miss Mama and Daddy more than anything.

“Don't you see, Leah? Haven't you figured it out? Reuben always said you were a smart girl, but—”

“For heaven's sake, Uncle Hiram, just spit out whatever's on your mind.”

“You're mine. My very own girl. Born of the love shared between Elizabeth and me.”

My face prickles with sudden heat, and my breath feels thin and forced. “You're mistaken.”

“Have you ever looked in a mirror, my Leah? You're my spitting image. Your jaw, your chin, the shape of your mouth . . .” His eyes rove my face, searching, desperate to see.

“It's not unusual for a niece and her uncle to share a passing resemblance.”

“Anyone with eyes to see knows it's more than that,” he insists. “I'm your father, no doubt about it.”

I'm shaking my head against the possibility. It's too horrible to bear. “Mama and Daddy were years married by the time I came along.”

“Yes. We were . . . This is not a proper conversation to have with a young lady.”

“Fine. Don't tell me anything, and I'll persist in never believing you.”

He sighs. Reaches forward and fingers the lace of my new boots. “We were intimate. Once. Several years after she married Reuben. I came upon her in the barn, and . . . well, something came over us, and . . . we were true with each other at last.”

His gaze is shifty, refusing to light on any one thing. And I know, as sure as I know the sky is blue, that his story stinks to high heaven. My hands tremble.

“That's impossible,” I tell him, my hand going to the locket at my heart. “My mother would never . . .” He coils in on
himself, like a viper about to strike, so I let my words hang in the air, unsaid.

He's still touching the lace, rubbing it gently between thumb and forefinger. He says, “She had boots just like this.”

The boiled oats and molasses I ate for breakfast churn in my belly. I breathe deep through my nose, afraid of what might happen if I vomit up my meal all over my new clothes.

“I'd appreciate it if you put on the new boots,” he says.

“Right now?” I practically squeak.

“Now,” he says firmly. “To check their fit.”

“All right,” I manage. Keeping one eye on him, I bend down to unlace Daddy's boots. They make my feet look huge, but they're his, and they've held up through miles of mud and rock, of sun and rain, of happiness and heartbreak.

I give a quick thought to the small bag of gold shoved down inside the toe of one, but I doubt Uncle Hiram will think to check, and I plan on putting these boots back on at my soonest opportunity.

Reluctantly, I slide them from my feet. Uncle Hiram's eyes are wide as I slip on the new ones, with mania or fever or something I don't quite understand. He is not my father. He's
not
.

I lace them up and stand. They feel funny on my feet—pinched and tiny and fragile. “Perfect fit,” I say with a forced smile. “Thank you.”

He beams. “You're welcome.” He stands and circles the table to get a better view. “They are lovely on you.”

Then, faster than a swooping hawk, he scoops up Daddy's boots from the floor where I left them.

“What are you doing?” I demand.

“You don't need these anymore.”

“Of course I do. All the mud and—”

He opens the door to the box stove and thrusts them inside, slams the door shut, latches it.

“No!” I reach for the stove, but he blocks me, batting my hands away. “Daddy?” I whisper. I try once more to lunge past him, but Hiram grabs me by the throat and shoves me away. I collide with the table, scooting it back several inches.

While I struggle to rise, he stands sentry before the stove, arms crossed, face resolute. “You'll wear the other boots I gave you, the ones you ruined, when you visit the mine. These you will save for special occasions.”

I should say something back, but if I open my mouth, all that will come out is a scream.

“Leah, never mention Reuben again, do you hear me?
Never.
”

I give up trying to stand and fall to my knees instead, sobs quaking in my chest, tears free falling down my cheeks. Grief is a whipping whirlwind inside me, like gold gone sour. Because my daddy was the best person I knew, and I've lost him all over again.

Something pops inside the stove. Burning leather has a peculiar smell, different from wood.

A minute passes. Two. Then Hiram's footsteps stomp across the room and he slams the door as he leaves.

I jump up and use the tongs to pull Daddy's ruined boots from the stove. They're stiff and shrunken and blackened, the
edges crumbled to ash. I leave a nasty soot mark on the table when I set them down, but I'll worry about that later.

I allow them to cool awhile, then carefully peel back the charred leather tongue and find what I'm looking for, still lodged in the toe. Some of the tiny nuggets stick to one another, the result of impurities melting a little, but the gold is intact. I upend the boot and shake the gold out onto a napkin, but my sense tells me there's still some stuck inside, so I take a finger and sweep around until I've recovered every possible speck.

My finger smarts from the still too-hot leather as I ponder a moment. If I save these boots, my uncle—I refuse to think on him as my father—will find them and throw them away again. So I can't hide the gold inside them. Maybe the best place is the box stove, after all. It's rare for a fire to get hot enough to melt gold.

Then again, I don't know how often the stove is cleaned out. And what if I need to grab the gold fast, someday soon? There'll be no time to let it cool, no way to carry what would amount to a burning coal.

Under my mattress will have to do for a hiding place again, though I wouldn't put it past Hiram to search my bedroom on occasion. Inside the mattress would be better, but I've no knife to cut with. Hiram has been careful—there is not a single knife in this cabin that I can see, not even to cut food. He tidies up his desk and takes his letter opener with him every time he leaves.

But maybe not this time. I upset him quite a bit.

My gaze falls upon Hiram's writing desk. I dash toward it and fling open the single drawer. Sure enough, a bronze letter opener gleams at me from inside. The handle is shaped like a sword hilt, so that it looks like a tiny dagger. I grab it and run my finger down its length.

A tiny,
dull
dagger. But it's hard and pointy, and I bet I can make do.

I run to my bedroom, fling off the quilt, and lift the mattress. I stab into the ticking with the letter opener, then poke my finger into the hole and pull and yank until it's large enough for my napkin-wrapped gold.

I work the tiny bundle through the hole, then smooth out the fabric as best I can before letting the mattress fall back into place. I flip the quilt over the bed and stand back.

Perfect. Without my witchy sense, I'd never know what treasure lay hidden inside.

I return to the writing desk. Before replacing the letter opener, I hold it up for a moment, staring at it. It's too dull to cut with, but a strong girl like me could still do a lot of damage with its hard point. If I don't find my guns or a proper knife, this might end up my weapon of choice.

It was lying to the right of the papers when I found it, cocked at a slight diagonal. I put the letter opener in the drawer, hoping I'm remembering correctly, and slide the drawer home.

I grab Daddy's boots from the table, and I close my mind, my heart, as I toss them back into the box stove, then close and latch the door. Using one of Mary's dishrags, I wipe the
soot from the table, dampening with water and scrubbing to get it all up.

There. I have done something. Something that is not wallowing in despair.

The next day passes as though nothing happened. Wilhelm and I visit the mine, and I wear the ruined boots just like Hiram ordered. I wave to Jefferson as we pass the arrastra on our way back. It's a casual wave, a wave of nothingness, as if every fiber of my being is not yearning to close the distance between us.

Mary comes by to make supper—a chicken soup with raw egg drizzled into it and cooked. Hiram and I eat in silence while the box stove sizzles and pops, continuing to burn my daddy's boots to cinders.

When he's finished eating, Hiram wipes his mouth with a napkin, folds it neatly in front of him, and says, “Take a walk with me.”

“All right,” I say meekly.

“Change into your new dress first.”

My blood boils, but I say, “Yes, sir.”

I change quickly, and it's a bit odd to remove one dress and replace it with its identical copy. But the fabric is brighter, the hem clean and perfect, and Hiram is beaming when I take his proffered arm.

“You look beautiful,” he says, reaching up to touch a lock of my hair.

I don't trust myself to open my mouth without screaming,
so I say nothing as he pushes through the door and leads me into the late-evening darkness.