‘Shush, it’s all right.” He lifted her into his arms and rose. She had to live, she had to! He’d searched and searched. And he’d found her, just when he’d almost accepted the fact that she was dead.
As he shifted her weight, a searing pain tore through her and she cried out. He felt her go limp and froze in fear. No, she was still alive. He held her close against him and grabbed her mare’s reins. He began the trek to the river. He could feel the clammy dampness of her clothes. She must have ridden throughout the rainstorm. He bent his head down, listening. Was there congestion in her lungs? Was her breathing labored?
There was no doctor in Grass Valley, the last one having died from pneumonia while panning for gold in the Yuba. There was no one to help her but him.
His own breathing was labored by the time he reached the shack. He kicked the door open and carried her inside the one-room structure. It had one table, one rickety chair, and a fireplace. Nothing else. He laid her on the floor, then brought in the bedrolls.
As carefully as he could, he stripped off her damp clothes and wrapped her in a wool blanket on a bedroll. He spread the skirt and blouse on the floor to dry, wondering as he did so where she’d gotten them. And she’d worn nothing else. He wouldn’t allow himself to think about that.
“Please stay unconscious just a bit longer,” he whispered to her. Quickly he filled a pan of water from the river and returned to the shack. He built a fire and heated the water. He thought frantically about what to do about the wound. Whiskey. He had just a bit left.
He gently bathed the blood from her shoulder and breast. The bullet wound was clean and, as he’d thought, through the fleshy part of her shoulder. He poured whiskey on the wound and bandaged her tightly with strips torn from his only clean shirt.
He sat back on his haunches and stared down at her pale face. She was alive; she was his; and he would never let her go. He thought of the long days and nights alone. He shook the thoughts from his mind. There was much to do if they were to survive.
He gently eased her next to the fire, covered her with the rest of the blankets, and rose. He drew a deep breath. One thing at a time, he told himself. He had to find food. He didn’t want to leave her alone, but he had no choice. He picked up his rifle and left the shack.
Chauncey awoke to the smell of roasting meat. She felt her mouth water. Her thoughts were vague, disoriented, and for several moments she didn’t know where she was. She bolted up, crying out, “Del!”
“I’m here, Chauncey,” he said, kneeling beside her. “Lie down, sweetheart. You must rest.”
“You’re really here with me. I thought I’d dreamed it.” Tears formed in her eyes. “I didn’t think I would ever see you again.”
“I’m like a bad penny,” he said. “I’ll always keep turning up.”
She gasped at the pain in her shoulder and turned her head slightly away from him.
“I know you hurt, love. There’s nothing I can do about it. I’m sorry.”
“If I hurt, I know I’m alive,” she whispered. “How did you find me?”
“That, love, is a very long story. The rabbit is nearly cooked. Let’s eat first. All right?”
She nodded weakly. “There’s so much to tell you.”
“I know. First things first.”
He cut the meat in small pieces and fed her slowly. She ate everything. He realized that she was thinner. Her high cheekbones were shadowed, and for a moment he pictured her naked body in his mind. Much thinner, and so pale.
“I’m not pregnant,” she said.
He stared at her, not knowing what to say. Suddenly she gasped, her face contorting in pain.
“Del,” she cried softly. He grasped her hand and felt her fingernails dig into his flesh.
“Take shallow breaths and breathe slowly,” he said. “I’m going to tell you about the last five days. Listen to me talk. Concentrate on what I say, not the pain. Do you understand me?”
She swallowed, and kept her eyes on his face. He was bearded, and there were lines of fatigue around his eyes. The bandage around his head made him look like a bandit.
“It was near dawn, remember?” she heard him say, his voice pitched low and soothing. “I heard movement in the woods and went to see what it was. There were several Indians. One of them shot me in the head. Luckily the bullet just grazed me, but I was unconscious for a time. When I came to, you were gone.”
His hand tightened around hers. “I’ve never been so scared in my life. Unfortunately, the wound in my head kept me lying about for nearly that entire day. When I got my wits back, I knew the odds were that I couldn’t track you. I went to Grass Valley and organized search parties. At least ten men have been searching for you the past four days. I came back to where we had camped and searched from there.
“I’ve been scouring the country for two days now, in first one direction from our camp, and then another. I thought I’d dreamed the sound of your voice when I heard you scream my name.”
Her grip on his hand tightened.
“Chauncey, try to listen to me. Can you understand me?”
“Yes,” she whispered. “I’m sorry to be such a coward.”
“You’re anything but a coward, sweetheart. No, don’t try to speak again. Breathe slowly. That’s right.
“Now, let me tell you something. I’ve been a thick-headed ass. You were right when you told me I would die of perversity if I didn’t make up my mind what I wanted. What I want, Chauncey, is you. I want us to begin again. No more secrets, no shadows between us. I’ve had nothing but time to think during the past days, to think and worry and hate myself for all the vile things I said to you in my anger.”
He grew silent for a moment, gazing into the crackling fire.
“I love you, you know.”
His eyes fell to her face. She was asleep. Gently he traced a fingertip over her pale lips, her smooth jaw, her delicate ear. He picked up the thick braid of hair and realized it was still damp. He unbraided it and spread her hair about her head. He cursed softly when he laid his palm on her forehead. The fever was beginning.
He held her tightly against the length of his body, stroking his hands up and down her back, and still she shivered convulsively. The small cabin was terribly hot, and he felt beads of sweat on his forehead and chest. She was burrowing against him, trying to get inside of him, he thought. God, if only he could give her his strength! But he couldn’t. There was nothing he could do save try to keep her warm. He felt her lips move against his throat and heard her speaking, slurred sounds that he couldn’t understand.
“Chatca,” she whispered suddenly, quite clearly. “I won’t let him touch me! I’ll die before I let him touch me. I’m bleeding!”
She began to laugh, a raspy, pitiful sound that made gooseflesh rise on his body.
“I’m bleeding and he won’t touch me! God, please help me!”
“It’s all right, Chauncey. He won’t touch you, I promise.”
Had the Indian raped her? What did she mean by bleeding? He suddenly remembered her whispering to him that she wasn’t pregnant. Had she begun her monthly flow? Had that saved her?
She was sobbing softly, and he felt her salty tears against his shoulder. He began to talk, softly and slowly, of anything to keep her mind from her ordeal.
“Did I ever tell you about Mr. Olney of Coyoteville? The miners elected him justice of the peace under the rules of our new constitution. Do you know, he died just last year and left all his money, some six thousand dollars, to the boys, to have a jolly good time. They did, you know. And there was Danny Slengh, who sold his claim for ten thousand dollars. It was over in the Gold Run and Deer Creek area. Then he came back furious because another miner sold a claim that was about an eighth the size of Danny’s for four thousand dollars. The other miners laughed at him, and he finally left, ten thousand dollars richer, but still feeling like he’d been robbed.”
Was she breathing more easily? He couldn’t be certain. He continued stroking her s
hivering body. “When you’re well again, I’ll take you to Red Dog, Rough and Ready, and Humbug. Yes, I swear they’re really names of towns near here.
“Did I tell you about Sam Brannan? Not for old Sam to stand thigh-deep in freezing water panning for gold! No, he was far too smart to ruin his health doing that. He bought gold pans for around twenty cents and sold them for sixteen dollars apiece to the miners!”
She grew quiet in his arms and he stopped talking and pressed his cheek against her forehead. She was cooler, he was certain of it. She began to mumble words again, and the name Cricket came out. Cricket, he thought. He must not be hearing her aright. She was growing more agitated, and he began speaking again, calmly and slowly.
“When I first arrived in San Francisco, it was the most ramshackle, flimsy, higgledy-piggledy, haphazard collections of shacks you’ve ever seen. Big ones, little ones, ugly—and all inflammable. We had six fires in eighteen months. I, personally, lost my first home and a warehouse. But it really didn’t matter. We all rebuilt. So many changes I’ve witnessed in only four years, love. There was litterally nothing in forty-nine, and now we have banks, waterworks, the beginnings of a lighting system, hotels, theaters, churches, schools . . .” He stopped, his mind a blank for a moment. Good God, what else did San Francisco have? He really didn’t give a good goddamn. Was she quieter than before? Was his voice, pitched soothing and low, calming her?
“Did you know that men could simply pick gold nuggets up from the ground? I remember the story of old Simon Luther. He was just walking along one day, not too far from here, and chanced to kick a stone out of his path. The kick had a surprising recoil. He picked it up and found that it was pure gold. The record for one nugget is nearly one hundred and forty-one pounds. Then there was John McGlynn. He was a teamster from New York and had brought his wagon with him. He came to search for gold like the rest of us, but he promptly decided that wasn’t for him. Things had to be hauled, and there was no one to haul them. His was the only wagon in town. Do you know, love, that very soon he had an entire fleet of wagons? He even had an out-of-work lawyer driving one of his wagons. The story goes that a judge and friend of McGlynn’s approved of this, saying that ‘the whole business of a lawyer is to know how to manage mules and asses so as to make them pay.’ ”
Delaney had always laughed at that story before. Now he might as well be reciting a prayer book.
“Do you know the phrase ‘a gold spoon or a wooden leg’?”
She didn’t answer, of course.
“I remember back in the early spring of fifty-one that flour cost four dollars; by late summer it cost forty dollars. You see, what the merchants did was take risks continually. Would their shipments arrive first? If they did, the profit was enormous, and thus the merchant gained a ‘gold spoon.’ If he lost, a ‘wooden leg.’
“So many absurd things came over on the clipper ships. Can you believe that once we got a whole shipload of omnibuses? Just last year, the sagebrush on the hills was littered with junk that simply didn’t sell. The Stevensons’ house has a foundation of cases of tobacco. Just eight months ago we used hundred-pound sacks of coffee from Brazil and flour from Chile to fill holes in Kearny Street. Montgomery Street was passable during the rains of fifty because of a double row of cooking stoves sunk in the mud. Of course, several months later, everyone needed cooking stoves. Too late. You can’t dig a thing up and use it, once you’ve sunk it in a mud hole.”
That had always seemed amusing to him. Now the stories were just strings of nonsense words. “Chauncey,” he whispered softly against her hair, “I’ll tell you these stories again when you’re well. I want to hear you laugh, watch your eyes sparkle.”
What if she dies? It will be your fault, all your fault.
Suddenly Chauncey said very clearly, “I’ve always disliked you, Guy. Your mother is a witch!”
He smiled against her temple. “I agree with you. Likely a dried old prune.”
“Cricket, I must have a bath!”
Who the devil was Cricket? Think! Tell her more stories. She’s got to remain calm. His mind was a blank. He shook away his fear for her and said, “It was so difficult and primitive in the beginning. There was so much gold to be found in the rivers and creek beds. You know that gold is seven times as heavy as rock and gravel, thus our use of gold pans. Hell, we even used wooden bowls, Indian baskets, and sluice boxes to free the rock and gravel from the gold. I was very lucky, Chauncey, very lucky indeed. I didn’t have to spend the winter freezing in the mountains. I gambled like all the other miners. God, it was so lonely and miserable in the camps. I wrote so many letters back home. My brother told me that only a few arrived eventually. Then, in only two months, I found my fortune. Several huge nuggets, Chauncey, and that day I yelled at the top of my lungs in triumph. But I knew that my real fortune was in commerce. I met up with Dan Brewer in the fall of fifty in San Francisco. He was also one of the fortunate ones. Then—”
“I must have a bath!”
“Yes, love, I know. When you’re well, I’ll bathe you myself.”
“Don’t let him touch me!”
“No, he won’t touch you. I swear you’ll be all right.”
He spoke on and on, telling her of the construction of his new house, of how he had found Lin and gotten together with Lucas. His voice became hoarse, his words making less and less sense as fatigue washed over him.
His last thought before he fell into a light sleep was that her forehead felt cool against his cheek.
27
“You are the most beguiling little ragamuffin I’ve ever seen.”
“And you, sir, look like the most ardent of villains!”
“Hold still, love, there’s still that spot of smut on your cheek.”
Very gently he wiped her face with the wet cloth, then patted her dry. “Better?”
“Yes, a bit.” She turned her head slightly away from him, not wanting him to see her face contorted with pain.
She felt his hand lightly stroke against her cheek and throat. “I know, Chauncey. It hurts like hell itself. Just a few more days and you’ll be up and about again. You’re young and strong, and there’s no more fever now.”
She clenched her hands into fists at her sides. Her shoulder felt as if someone had pressed a red-hot poker into her flesh.
“Here, drink this.”
He eased his arm behind her head. “It’s the last of my whiskey.”
The liquid burned a fiery path to her stomach. “Oh my!”
“That will help, you’ll see.”
He laid her back and pulled the blanket to her shoulders. He rose and looked down at her. “I must find us some food, Chauncey. Will you be able to sleep while I’m gone?”
She didn’t want to sleep; she wanted to howl at the damnable pain. “Yes,” she said, “I’ll sleep.”
Still, he didn’t leave the cabin until she had closed her eyes. When she heard the door close, she opened them again and cursed. To her surprise, the pain eased somewhat. “I’ll have to learn some more colorful language,” she muttered toward the fireplace. Why, she wondered, frowning, hadn’t Delaney asked her yet what had happened to her? Was he afraid to? Did he believe that the Indians had raped her? Her mind flinched at the thought. No, it couldn’t matter to him. He had treated her as if she were the most precious, fragile of women. He was as gentle and caring as he had been when she’d schemed to get into his house and ended up hurt.
She heard two swift rifle shots.
Ten minutes later, Delaney strode into the shack, his eyes drawn immediately to her face. “Did the shots awaken you?”
“No, I was thinking. Del, did Sam Brannan really sell gold pans for sixteen dollars apiece?”
He grinned at her, his white teeth flashing against his bushy caramel-colored beard. “So you did hear me going on and on.”
“Just bits and pieces.” She watched him place his rifle carefully on the rough-hewn table. He had shucked off his vest and was clothed in a full-sleeved w
hite shirt and dark brown buckskins. Black boots hugged his legs. His face was tanned from the hours he’d spent in the sun, and there were lighter streaks of blond in his hair.
“You are beautiful,” she said.
His grin widened. “In my dirty buckskins? And my bushy face? I begin to believe you delirious again.”
“I don’t think so,” she said in a serious voice. “But I can’t believe that any number of women wouldn’t have tried to abduct you and use you for their pleasure.”
“Ah, what makes you think that they didn’t? Why, I remember a lush brunette named Brenda. Lord, to remember what she did to my poor helpless body—”
“A brunette named Brenda? And I suppose there was a redhead named Rosalie and a blond named—”
He laughed deeply and she glowed at the wonderful sound. “Del, listen to me, please. Chatca, the Indian who took me—he didn’t rape me.”
He became very still. “No, I know he didn’t,” he said at last. “You started your monthly flow and he didn’t touch you.” He spoke very matter-of-factly, as if they were speaking of the weather.
“How,” she demanded, “did you know that?”
He knew her small show of bluster was a result of embarrassment. “You told me you weren’t pregnant,” he said calmly. His eyes lit with some amusement. “I do know something about how a woman’s body functions, you know.”
“Oh. Then why haven’t you asked me what happened to me?”
“I didn’t want to rush you. You’re still not up to snuff yet, love. You will tell me when you’re well enough and ready to.”
She fiddled with the rough edge of the blanket for a moment. “You have forgiven me for all I did to you? For all the awful things I thought about you?”
“Yes.”
“You feel sorry for me, don’t you? You feel responsible.”
“Yes.”
“You’re being utterly perverse again, Del!”
“And you won’t put up with it anymore, right? You’re going to jump up and pummel my chest and kick my shins.”
“Are you going to send me back to England?”