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,” Dille
y 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.”
Major Craven swings forward on his crutch. “Did you do it, Dilley? Did you set fire to our camp on Westfall’s orders? You know we lost the Hoffman boy, right? You’re a murderer, Frank, plain and simple.” He shakes his head. “Remember when you threatened to put me out of my misery? After the buffalo stampede?”
Frank reaches up to pat the shotgun resting in his saddle holster. “The offer still stands, Wally.”
“Well, I suspected you were indecent then, but I’m disappointed, Frank, deeply disappointed, at just how foul a man you are.”
The reverend bristles. “Have you all turned savage?” he says. “Mr. Westfall is offering you safety. Honest pay for honest work.” He shakes his head as if overcome by deep sorrow. “‘For the love of money is the root of all evil—’”
“Oh, quit your sermonizing!” I holler. I’ve had it with thieving, self-righteous pigs. “No one wants to hear Scripture right now, especially from you.”
He straightens in his saddle and opens his mouth to stubborn it out.
“You’re not going to propose to me again, are you, preacher? Because if you do, my ‘no’ might be accompanied by a boot in your face.”
“I think—”
“I think you should be on your way. You’ve said your piece.”
Frank Dilley rubs at his mustache, looking around for support. “You seem like a reasonable man,” he says to Old Tug.
“Reasonable and fine looking,” Old Tug says with a wicked grin. “But I don’t know you from Adam. I do know Widow Joyner, who doesn’t seem to like you much, and neither does my friend Miss Lee, and that’s enough to make me think twice about your offer.”
“Well, don’t think too long,” Dilley says. He places his foot in the stirrup and mounts. “It would be a real shame if a terrible tragedy befalls this place before you can take advantage of Mr. Westfall’s generosity.”
A click echoes in the air as someone cocks a Colt.
Dilley knows it’s time to retreat. “I’ll be back in three days for your answer. Lee, pack up and be ready to travel when I return.”
He clucks to his horse and steers him away. Reverend Lowrey and the rest of the Missouri men follow.
The murmuring starts up as soon as the trees close around their departing backs. No matter what Old Tug said, the Buckeyes are going to consider my uncle’s offer. They’d be crazy not to.
“Do you really think your uncle sent his men to burn down our camp?” Jefferson asks.
“Who else?” Jasper says.
Becky has retrieved the baby and steps up to join us as she pats the tiny thing on the back. “This is California,” she points out. “There’s no shortage of unsavory persons here.”
Old Tug and some of the others are pretending nonchalance, but their ears are pricked like a cat’s. I have to choose my words carefully.
“I guess we don’t have any proof he did it,” I say. “But I know he killed my mama and daddy, and he stole my homestead right out from under my feet. He’s capable of such a thing, for sure and certain.”
The Major rubs at his beard. “I’ve been thinking about that fire,” he says.
Jasper and the college men join our circle. It’s like we’re a regular town council now, with the Buckeyes whispering among themselves but staying close enough to listen.
“We know it was started on purpose,” the Major continues. “Someone knocked out Hampton, while another snuck up on Martin. The fire started in at least two places at once—the feed shed and the cabin. They probably used kerosene. Or maybe even gunpowder. Because something made the fire hot enough to melt gold. And we know that whoever did it was armed, because they shot Jefferson’s dog.”
No new territory here. We already knew it was arson; that’s why we’re all so exhausted from keeping extra watch shifts.
“Where are you going with this?” Jasper asks darkly.
“Why didn’t they just shoot Hampton and Martin? It would have been a lot safer for the arsonists. Wouldn’t have to get close.”
“Maybe it was too dark for shooting,” I offer, remembering the moonless night.
The Major shrugs. “Maybe. But in my experience, there’s only one reason to sneak up on someone right before a battle.”
Jefferson is nodding. “To catch your enemy unaware.”
“Exactly,” the Major says. “Whoever did this didn’t want to risk the sound of a gunshot. They wanted those fires to spread as much as possible.” He pauses. “While we were still sleeping in our beds.”
The world shifts. I’ve never been the fainting type, and I’m not going to start now, but I sidle closer to Jefferson so I have something to cling to if necessary. “You’re saying that whoever did this didn’t care about casualties,” I whisper. “They might even have been hoping for casualties.”
The Major doesn’t answer, but his lips press thin.
“That doesn’t make any sense,” I protest. “My uncle wants me alive.” In a voice too quiet for the Buckeyes to hear, I add, “You know why he wants me.”
“Your uncle, yes,” Becky says. Her baby gives a little hiccup, and milky spit bubbles between her lips. As Becky pats the baby’s mouth with her apron, she adds, “But I wouldn’t put it past Mr. Dilley to do worse than he was told, just for spite. He loathes us. I’m sure of it.”
“What did we ever do to him?
” Jefferson asks.
“We exist,” Tom says simply. “Look at us. Look at who we are.”
We’re a half-Cherokee boy, a one-legged war veteran, three confirmed bachelors, and two uppity women. Little does Frank know we also have a runaway slave with us, but I’d die before I told.
“You’re a dab at riding, Lee,” Tom points out. “You shoot better than Frank, hunt better. You disagreed with him in front of everyone—more than once. Then you turned out to be a girl.”
He says “girl” the way you’d say “thief” or “murderer,” like it’s the worst thing ever. I know Tom doesn’t mean it like that, but he’s right about the way Frank Dilley sees it. Dilley’s the kind of fellow who feels that being a white man makes him better at everything than everyone who isn’t. And if the facts prove otherwise, he’ll try to destroy the facts.
“It’s a good thing he doesn’t know everything about me,” I say.
“So what do we do?” Jefferson says.
Henry has been quiet this whole time. He looks down at his boots, shuffling them in the mud. “I’ll do whatever you all decide,” he says softly.
“You have no opinion at all?” the Major says.
Henry gives us a sheepish shrug. “Honestly, I’m not sure gold mining is for me. I’d like to see San Francisco someday. Maybe even Oregon. But . . .” His gaze shifts to Tom. “I don’t want to leave my friends.”
Jasper starts to protest, but I interrupt. “There are some things that don’t add up,” I tell them. “With my uncle, I mean.”
“Such as?” Jasper says, squinting against the morning sun, which is full up over the mountains now.
“Dilley kept referring to him like he was a rich, powerful man. And I guess he is, a little. He was a fancy lawyer down in Milledgeville, did well enough for himself. But he didn’t have that much money.”
“He stole all your gold,” Jefferson says. “Remember?” Then quieter, so the Buckeyes can’t hear: “That stash you and your family had. It was worth over a thousand dollars! Then he sold your homestead, right?”