Like a River Glorious

  I blink. “It must be from all the practice.” I step forward to grab the table, just like I’ve done hundreds of times, but I stop short, laughing.

  “What’s so funny?” Becky asks.

  “I was about to put the table away in the wagon. Then I remembered we don’t have a wagon anymore.”

  She grins.

  “Becky, I have to ask. Why were you so blasted friendly to that man? You practically invited him to join us.”

  She puts her hands on her hips and stares me down. “And what would have happened if I’d bullied him away? He’d have become suspicious, that’s what. He would have realized that we’re sitting on the best gold claims in the Sierra Nevada.”

  “Oh.”

  “And then he would have jumped our claims or gotten close enough to learn our real secret.”

  Our real secret. Tears prick at my eyes. “Oh.”

  “So we’re going to be friendly. Like it or not, we’ll encounter plenty of folks here in California. More are pouring in every day. Might as well establish some good neighbors.”

  I scuff my boots in the dirt. “You’re right, of course. Sorry.”

  “I’m not daft, you know. We’ll set a double watch tonight. Just in case.”

  I groan, thinking of lost sleep, as Becky flips the dishrag over her shoulder, signaling an end to it all. She crouches to tend to Andy and Olive and make appropriate exclamations over the gold they found.

  All the chores are done, so I mosey back up the creek to find Jefferson standing ankle-deep in ice-cold water, trousers and sleeves rolled up, leaning on a shovel.

  “Glad you’re here,” he says. “I wanted to ask you if this is a good spot.”

  I give him my best glare. “Jasper say you’re fit to work yet? You’re supposed to be staking claims, not heaving dirt.”

  A smile tugs at his lips. “Worried about me, are you?”

  “You’re going to tear your stitches, and then you’ll be useless for two more weeks.”

  He digs into the bank and comes up with a shovelful of mud and gravel, which he tosses into his broad pan. “Claims are done. And I’m hale enough to dig my way from here to Sacramento.”

  He looks it, too. His forearms are corded with muscle, his skin burnished by the sun, his black eyes bright. He catches me staring, and his tiny smile turns into a full-blown grin that makes my toes feel funny.

  I snatch the shovel from his hand. “If you’re so hale, you won’t mind when I dunk you in the creek.”

  Quicker than a blink, he steps so close that my nose nearly touches the hollow of his throat. “Try it,” he whispers. “I dare you.”

  “I . . .” I can’t stop thinking about his lips. “When did you get so blasted tall?” I blurt.

  His hand comes near to my ear, and he gently runs his thumb and forefinger against a lock of my hair. “It’s growing out,” he says. “I’m glad. You always had the prettiest hair.”

  I’m not sure what to say about that, so I change the subject. “A stranger came into our camp,” I say.

  His hand drops. “What? Who?”

  “Man by the name of Tug. Paid Becky two dollars for a plate of flapjacks.”

  “Poor fellow.” Jefferson steps away and squats to grab his pan full of mud.

  The air around me suddenly feels cold and empty. “He thought I was a boy.”

  He snorts. “Anyone who thinks you’re a boy needs spectacles.” He dips the pan into the creek and lets a ripple of water wash over its contents. Mud loosens from the gravel and swirls away.

  “Maybe it’s because I’m wearing trousers today.”

  “You look like a girl especially in trousers,” he says, and that tiny grin is back, making me feel funny all over again.

  “Well, anyway, he said he’d come back in the morning for more flapjacks. With friends. Becky suggested we set a double watch tonight. Just in case he comes early.”

  “Good idea.” He dips and swishes the pan once more. “We can stay up together. Watch the stars. Like old times.”

  And just like that, a double watch doesn’t sound so bad. “Just like old times,” I agree.

  He flicks some larger stones out of the pan, plopping them into the creek. “So, witchy girl, am I going to find any gold in this here pan?”

  “A little. Enough to be worth your time.”

  He flashes that wide, bright smile I never tire of seeing. “That’s what I like to hear.”

  Hours later we head back to camp with a small pouch full of tiny gold nuggets and flecks, worth at least thirty dollars. Henry and Tom have marked out a large rectangle on the hilltop and begun clearing it of brush and rock. Becky has bolstered the fire pit with stones, and her cook pot hangs over it from an iron spit. Hampton has set up a tying post for the horses and is now busy with his ax; the pile of firewood beside him is already thigh high. Major Craven and little Andy are working on a lean-to made of pine branches, which is a good thing, given that the rains will start long before we get that cabin finished.

  Warmth and pride fill my chest. It’s only been a day, but Glory, California, already has a sense of permanence about it. Of home.

  The next morning, Old Tug shows up with two other men in tow. They’re as filthy and unkempt as he is, and just as appreciative of Becky’s flapjacks, which are crisp on the outside and mushy in the middle.

  My mama would have smacked my knuckles with a wooden spoon if I’d shown the table manners of these men. They shove food down their gullets like it’s the last meal of their lives, letting crumbs and gobs of butter stick to their beards. All the while, they look back and forth between Becky and me, with an occasional glance at Olive. It makes me twitchy, the way they stare. Like they’re starving animals, and I don’t mean for food.

  Major Craven and Jefferson stick close by the whole time, rifles within easy and noticeable reach.

  The men leave Becky with two dollars and a couple of pinches of gold dust.

  “We need to send someone back to Mormon Island,” she says cheerfully as she clears the table. “I’ll need more flour, salt, and coffee. Eggs, too. And bacon, maybe? If they’re paying me two dollars for flapjacks, think what I can get for eggs and bacon!”

  Runny eggs and burned bacon, she means, but I hold my tongue.

  “It would be better to get a milk cow and some chickens,” she continues happily. “I guess I have to learn how to raise chickens and . . .” She frowns, looking up at me. “Lee?” her voice is suddenly shy. “Do you think Tom or Henry could teach me how to make butter? They made the most delightful butter, back when Athena the cow was still with us.”

  I hide my smile. Mrs. Rebekah Joyner was a fine lady back in Chattanooga, and I reckon she didn’t work a day in her life before hitting the trail. “If they don’t, I will,” I tell her. “And anything else you want to learn. I should warn you that I never was much for cooking. The Major would be a better teacher on that count. But I can show you all you need to know about raising chickens and keeping dairy cows.”

  Her relieved smile flutters away as she stares at me. No, she’s staring beyond me. I turn, dread coiling in my gut.

  A man walks toward us, hat brim low, a saddlebag thrown across one shoulder. Something about that walk is familiar, and for a split second I’m certain my uncle has found me, that it’s one of his men bearing down on us. I’m about to dash for my rifle when Becky exclaims, “Martin!”

  I peer closer. It is Martin Hoffman, weary and faltering, tall and skinny as a pine. His sister Therese appeared just like this, that day she hiked through the desert to get help for her family. She stumbled the same way, held her chin with the same determination, the same blazing sun on her shoulders. I sprint toward him.

  “Martin! Is everything all right? Your family . . .”

  He looks up and grins.

  Jefferson’s boots pound up behind me. “Martin?”

  “They let me come back,” Martin says.

  “They’re all right?” I persist.

  “La
st I checked. We parted ways.”

  Becky and the Major have caught up to us, along with little Andy.

  “Martin, your ma must be beside herself!” Becky exclaims.

  The boy straightens. “I’m almost fifteen years old. She said I’m a man now. That she can’t keep me from trying for my fortune here in California.” He pats his hip, where a shiny new Colt revolver hangs from a leather holster. “Vater lent me his gun, on the condition that if I haven’t made something of myself in a year, I’d go back home to Ohio.”

  The Major leans on his crutch and claps the young man on the shoulder with his free hand. “Son, we’re happy to have you back.”

  Jefferson is grinning fit to burst, and it occurs to me that he and Martin probably became good friends, and I didn’t even notice on account of trying so hard not to see how much Jefferson liked Martin’s sister, Therese. “There’s room for you in my lean-to,” Jefferson says. “You can help me convert it into a shanty. And I’ll show you where I staked my claim so you can—”

  “Give the boy a rest,” Becky says sternly. “Come along, Martin. I’ll fix you some coffee and flapjacks. Plenty of time to set up later.”

  Andy runs forward and throws his arms around Martin’s thighs. Martin reaches down and sweeps him up, and Andy hides his face in Martin’s neck so we can’t see his glad tears. Everybody is looking at Martin, and that’s why they can’t see mine. It feels like my family is whole again.

  Chapter Four

  During the next week, we keep busy making a home. Hampton marks out a decent pasture and starts putting up fence posts; he was a shepherd before his owner died and he ran off to join us. The Major and Jefferson spend most of their time digging a foundation and felling trees to build a log cabin. The college men, Jasper and Tom and Henry, leave on a supply run for Becky, armed with the most perfectly penned and beautiful grocery list I’ve ever seen.

  Andy and Olive pan in the creek, accompanied by splashing dogs, under Martin’s watchful eye when he isn’t off hunting.

  I spend the days sifting through everyone’s claims, casting out with my sense for easy gold. Anything I find goes to the claimant. That’s the rule, and I stick to it. By the end of the week, everyone is at least a hundred dollars richer. But Becky is richer still. On top of her claim findings, she makes an additional seventy-five dollars selling breakfasts to hardened miners, meals that would pucker the tongues of lesser men.

  When the number of morning guests reaches five, the Major vows to make Becky more furniture. We don’t have the tools to make good lumber, and the nearest mill is more than a day away. So he splits a few logs in half, turns them flat side up, and starts rigging a rough table and chairs.

  On the seventh day after Martin’s return, Old Tug finishes his breakfast, smears the food on his beard around with one of Becky’s napkins, and stands from his chair, adjusting his suspenders. I’m sitting on one of the Major’s log benches, working polish into the leather of Peony’s saddle, when Old Tug starts toward me. He holds his hat in his hand and grins like a boy at Christmas.

  He’s lost a fair number of teeth, with one standing like a sentinel front and center on the bottom row. He’s probably Daddy’s age, if my daddy were still alive, and he hasn’t washed his shirt or trousers in weeks. He’s tried to mat his hair down with grease, but his beard sticks out like a wire brush covered with gray ash. His breath reeks of Becky’s coffee and unscraped teeth.

  “Found somethin’,” he says, eyes twinkling.

  “You don’t say.”

  He reaches into his pocket, but I already know what he’s fishing for—a gold nugget the size of a juicy ripe strawberry, niggling at me like an itch under my skin.

  “Take a gander at this,” he says. “Found it on my claim yesterday. And it’s just the beginning. Lot more where this came from.”

  “Congratulations, Tug,” I say, trying to sound surprised. “I’m real happy for you. Now, if you don’t mind, I need to tend my horse.” I haven’t given Peony nearly enough attention lately, so I plan on taking her for a ride and then giving her the best rubdown of her life.

  I stand, hefting the saddle over my shoulder, and I start to head up the hill, but he blocks my way. “I wanna talk to you first,” he says.

  I take a step back. “Sure, Tug. What about?”

  “Seeing as how I made my stake and all, I was thinking I could give this to you, like a ring or whatnot, and you and me could get hitched.”

  I blink up at him as the words sink in. “Tug, are you—”

  “I’m asking you to marry me,” he says, his grin bigger than ever. “As of this morning, I’m the most eligible bachelor in the area, and you’re the most eligible girl. Only makes sense we end up together.”

  “No, sir, that doesn’t make sense at all.”

  “Course it does.” His laughter has an ugly quality. “Imagine how jealous the fellows will be, me being the only one who snagged a wife, and a young one to boot!”

  I think of my daddy’s boots, still on my too-small feet because I refuse to take them off. Specifically, I think of their steel tips and the damage they could do.

  I put my chin up and look him dead in the eye. “No.”

  His face flashes to angry. “When did I ever do wrong by you?”

  At his raised voice, Becky’s other customers shift in their seats and glance our way.

  “You haven’t never,” I say hastily. “But I don’t want to get married, not to you, not to anybody.”

  “Ain’t natural!”

  “Seems plenty natural to me.” How can people not see? A woman married is a woman with nothing of her own. Everything she’s ever worked for belongs to her husband, especially if Tom’s prediction proves out and California becomes a tried-and-true state.

  “It ain’t the Indian boy, is it?”

  “What?” I am ice-cold now. Steel chilled in a mountain stream.

  “We all seen him hangdogging around, you chasing him off with a stick. I figured you were just waiting for a white man, or someone older and more respectable to come along.”

  He’s exaggerating to make his point. Still, I glance around, half hoping Jefferson isn’t around to overhear, half hoping he is—because I’d sure feel safer if he were within sight. But he must have left for his claim already.

  “I said no, Tug, and you need to take me at my word and walk away right now.” My five-shooter is only inches from my hand. After this, I’m going to practice with it. I’m going to practice drawing quickly and shooting accurately, every single day.

  Tug spits on the ground. “What the hell is wrong with you? A girl as ugly and manly as you ain’t never gonna do better than me.”

  Everyone is watching now. Some of the men at Becky’s table are giggling like schoolgirls at lunchtime. Major Craven grabs his crutch and starts hobbling over. Martin’s hand drifts toward the Colt at his hip.

  Bolstered by the support of my friends, I’m about to say something unforgivable about his missing teeth and his rats’-nest beard, but at the last second I remember Becky and the Major being kind when he first appeared, and I choose honey instead of vinegar.

  “You are a fine, fine man, Mr. Tug,” I say gravely. “Any woman would be proud to have you. But I have a fiancé back in Georgia, you see.”

  “Well, he ain’t here.”

  “I shall remain true.”

  Old Tug’s eyes narrow, like he’s sussing the lie. “Well, all righty then,” he says with reluctance. “I suppose it wouldn’t be right.”

  Martin’s hand relaxes.

  I force a smile. “I do thank you for the offer, though, and I hope we’ll see you tomorrow for breakfast.”

  “That you will, little lady. That you will.” He plops his hat back on, then strides away as if it were all nothing.

  My breath leaves in a whoosh. I’m not sure why that conversation made me so nervous, but it did, and I’m not looking forward to seeing him back in the morning.

  “It isn’t true, Miss Leah,” O
live says, and I jump.

  “I didn’t see you sneak up.”

  “You aren’t ugly, and you can do plenty better.”

  I laugh. “Thank you, Olive. But I don’t care what that no-good son of a goat thinks of me.”

  “I knew he was going to ask you, after he asked Ma.”

  I almost drop my saddle. “He asked Becky?”

  She shrugs. “Ma won’t marry some stinky old man.”

  “Is that what she told him?”

  “No, Ma was nice. Said she still loved my pa, even though he’s gone, and Old Tug laughed at her and said it was just for practice anyway, and he was going to ask you.”

  I glare toward Becky, who is serving up a second helping of lumpy porridge to an unlucky miner. “She could have said something,” I mutter. Another man proposed to me under Becky’s knowing eye, back on the trail. A reverend by the name of Lowrey. Becky didn’t bother giving me a warning then, either.

  “That’s also not true,” Olive adds.

  “What’s not true?”

  “Ma didn’t love Pa.”

  I put the saddle down on the log and crouch to face her. “Sweet pea, what makes you say such a thing?”

  “She’s happy now.”

  Becky Joyner never speaks of her dead husband, and I haven’t the foggiest notion how she felt about him. But Olive is right: Becky is happier than she used to be. She’s free now. Free of a man who controlled her utterly, who owned everything she worked for. Free to make her own decisions about her day, about her children, about her life.

  I plant a quick kiss on Olive’s forehead. “I think she did love your pa. But I also think she’s happier now. And that’s important to understand, Olive. Even when we lose someone we love, we still have a chance at happiness.”

  Olive’s chin trembles, but she doesn’t cry. “Okay, Lee.”

  “Want to go for a ride with me and Peony?”

  “Okay, Lee!”

  Together, we head toward Hampton’s makeshift corral, and I marvel at my own words, feeling their truth blossom deep inside me. I lost Mama and Daddy to my murderous snake of an uncle. I miss them every day. But I’ve found happiness, for sure and certain.