Sam made his way back into the dining room and eased his way toward the front door. From behind him, his father’s voice sounded.
“The boys are having a little fun again, I see.”
Sam turned to face his father, surprised to find him dressed in dungarees and a button-up shirt, quite a change from his usual suit and tie.
“If that’s what you want to call it.” Sam fought the temptation to roll his eyes.
“Take it easy, son. You’ll get acclimated … with time.” His father fussed with his belt, a rustic number he must’ve picked up at the general store.
“That’s what I’m afraid of.” Sam would just as soon not, thank you very much. In fact, he’d much rather load up their belongings and head back to Independence. Back home, folks didn’t shoot at one another in the street. They didn’t whoop and holler when they needed or wanted something. They asked politely. And they certainly didn’t come barreling into his family’s restaurant, sauced and ready for a fight.
“You headed somewhere, Father?” Sam asked, as his father reached for his hat.
“Mm-hmm. Have an appointment.”
Sam released a slow breath and ushered forth a silent prayer that his father wouldn’t head over to the local saloon. He’d been disappearing a lot these days, often for hours on end.
As his dad slipped out the front door, a passel of hungry customers flooded inside, their voices sounding like a choir in need of practice. No point in showing any of them to a table. They always managed to find their designated spots without effort from him. And with everyone calling out their “Howdys!” to each other, who could hear him anyway?
Before long, the room was filled to overflowing. “Special of the day is chicken and dumplings, fellas,” Sam hollered out above the noise. “With blueberry cobbler for dessert.”
“Sounds good enough to eat.” Jedediah Tucker rubbed his extended belly. He then turned his attention to a spider crawling across the table. “What’s this? An appetizer?” A rowdy laugh followed his words.
Sam disappeared into the kitchen, where he took to filling bowls with heaping mounds of chicken and dumplings, which he loaded onto the largest tray he could find. He hefted the tray over his shoulder and made his way back out to the dining room to feed the rowdy crowd. A couple of the men took to brawling, but the smell of Cookie’s dumplings calmed them down in a hurry.
These days, with so few rules pertaining to properties, fellas tended to take the law into their own hands. A punch to the jaw seemed a fine way to stake a claim.
Before long, the noise lessened as men swallowed down bowl after bowl of Cookie’s tasty dumplings. There was a certain awe and reverence for Cookie’s home-cooked foods, which made for a few moments of silence as they ate. Sam always looked forward to this part of the meal. Of course, they took to hollering once again as he dished up helpings of blueberry cobbler.
Most of these fellas would be back for supper, of course. Many would down their food in a hurry then head over to the Watering Hole for several rounds of whiskey, rotgut, and the like. He shuddered when he thought about what went on over at the local saloon.
When the last of the cobbler had been eaten and the fellas disappeared out the door, Sam glanced around the dining room in disbelief. Upturned chairs. Napkins tossed here and there. Bowls overturned. Blueberry cobbler spilled. Those careless ruffians had torn up the place. Again.
What he wouldn’t give to return to his quiet life in Independence, to abandon this free-for-all once and for all.
“You all right, Sammy?” Cookie’s voice sounded from behind him and he turned to face her.
“Just thinking about home.”
“I understand. Think about it all the time myself.”
“I miss neighborly folks. Women in sensible clothing. And children. I miss children. Remember how much fun we had, watching them roll hoops at our church picnics? Such innocence.”
“I remember, all right. But there are plenty of children in San Francisco, Sammy, just not in our neck of the woods.”
“I know. Just reminiscing about home, I suppose. Do you ever want to go back, Cookie?” He posed the question with great care, knowing her answer could lead to actions bent on affecting them all.
Her eyes narrowed to slits. “Sammy-boy, I’ve known you since you were a baby. Fed and cared for you from the moment you were old enough to chew a crust of my homemade bread. I’ve walked you through the valley and kept you fed on the mountaintop. Surely you don’t think I’d leave you now.”
The sting of tears caught him by surprise. Cookie’s dedication to the family ran deep, no denying that.
“You’ve gone above and beyond, Cookie.” He slipped an arm over her shoulder and pulled her close. “And I’m grateful.”
“It’s what your mama would’ve wanted, me here with you.”
“You don’t think she would’ve wanted both of us back home in Independence, leading a less …” He paused to think through his word choices carefully. “Exciting life?”
“Oh, I don’t know.” Cookie appeared to lose herself to her thoughts. “Your mother was an adventurous soul. Don’t you remember that time she made up her mind to go to Africa after a missionary spoke at your church? It took your father weeks to talk her out of it.”
“I’d forgotten.” Sam’s thoughts took a different turn with the memories of that time in his family’s life. “If I recall, Dad frightened her off the idea with some story about cannibalistic natives.”
“Yes, sir. He did, indeed.”
“And yet, here we are, surrounded by savage natives at every turn.” Sam’s gaze shifted back to the dining room. “And Father doesn’t even seem to notice. What’s the difference?”
“The difference is, this is his own personal adventure, not someone else’s. And, as far as the natives go, at least they’re eating my food and not each other.” Cookie laughed. “Other than that, not much difference, I’d say.”
Sam pondered her words before speaking. “Father has changed, that’s undeniable.”
“But not you, son. You’re instant in season and out, reproving, rebuking, exhorting with all longsuffering and doctrine. Second Timothy chapter four, verse two. Loosely translated.”
He shook his head. “Cookie, I don’t know how you do it, but you have a verse for everything, don’t you? You’re a walking, talking Bible.”
“Open and ready to be read by all the local rowdies. And I suppose that’s a high compliment, seeing as how the good Lord tells us to shine our light wherever we go.”
“Even in San Francisco?” he asked, not completely convinced her words were true.
Cookie slung an arm over his shoulder and nodded. “Yep, Sammy-boy. Even in San Francisco.”
Whatever illusions Abby had about wagon-train travel were given up for lost just a few days outside of St. Louis. She found the experience miserable, morning to night. If not for the scenery and the friendships she made with the other women, the whole thing would have been completely unbearable. How mother had endured such a journey to the Oregon Territory, she could not imagine. Her dainty mother could scarcely dress herself without help from a lady’s maid, let alone contend with the daily ordeals that arose from wagon travel.
Somehow the days passed, one upon the other. Abby made it through Wuthering Heights, not once, but three times. Though she found the story sobering, it helped pass the time. Just two days shy of the trading post at Fort Hall, she began to get her energy back again. Soon they would come to the fork in the road and would take the path north and west to Mama. She prayed her backside would make it.
As they pulled into town, the wagon jutted up and down, back and forth, until every joint ached.
“My teeth are coming loose.” Neville squirmed in his chair. “By the time we arrive I won’t be able to eat a thing.”
“Don’t exaggerate, Neville,” she countered. “It’s not th–that bad.”
“Hmm.” He shifted his position in the seat, finally reaching for a smal
l pillow and shoving it underneath him. “There. Don’t know why I didn’t think of that sooner. You should do the same, Miss Abigail. You will thank me for the idea.”
She reached into her belongings and came out with a small blanket, which she folded into a pillow of sorts. She attempted to stand but a sudden dip in the trail pitched the coach to the right and she nearly toppled over. The blanket flew across the space between them, landing in Neville’s lap.
“No thank you,” he said, and then yawned. “I’m too warm already.”
Moments later the driver pulled the horses to a halt, and the wheels of the coach groaned against the gravel path in front of the outpost. Abigail startled, nearly jolted from her seat once again.
“Have we arrived?” She peered out the opening at the front of the wagon and took note of the fact that all the wagons in the company had stopped as well.
“Pretty sure we’re camping overnight,” Neville said. “The two trails diverge here, Miss Abigail, so it’ll be northwest from here on out.”
“Sounds like music to my ears.”
Neville shook his head. “No, that’s the sound of men yelling. Not sure what’s got everyone so worked up, but I’ll check.”
He climbed down from the wagon and disappeared in the direction of the wagon master, who appeared to be arguing with someone. Rather heatedly, in fact. Abby stretched her back, eager to get out of the wagon for a few hours.
The sound of voices, followed by angry shouts and what sounded like an argument, convinced her to stay put. She peeked outside to get a closer look. Neville most certainly did not look happy. He stormed back to the wagon and climbed aboard, his expression tight. “Well, this is a fine kettle of fish.”
“What happened, Neville?”
“The road to Oregon has been washed out by spring rains. Our wagon master has just received word that we can’t move forward.”
Her heart rate quickened. “What does this mean?”
“It means we turn back to St. Louis, Miss Abigail.”
“No!” She fought back tears of disappointment. “I’m not going back home, not without Mother in tow.”
“We can’t get to her, Miss Abigail.” Neville gave her a fatherly look. “We have no choice but to turn back.”
“There are always choices. Always.” She released a slow breath and closed her eyes. What would the character in her novel do at a time like this? She would forge ahead, undeterred.
Moments later, her eyes popped open. “We’re at a fork in the road, yes?”
“Yes.”
“The other road, where does it lead?”
“California, of course. San Francisco.”
She slapped her knees, more excited than ever. “Perfect. We’ll go to San Francisco and wait until the roads open. No doubt there’s a road to the Oregon Territory from there, one Mother can use to meet us.”
“San Francisco?” Neville shook his head, the fear in his expression leaving little doubt of his opinion on that matter.
“Yes. Jimmy Blodgett says it’s a fabulous town with endless possibilities. And think about it, Neville. Once I send word to Mother, she will be enticed to join us. You know how she is. She will love the idea, I assure you.”
“I can’t imagine she would want to make the trip. And who is Jimmy Blodgett, pray tell?”
“The waiter on the train. He told me wonderful stories about how beautiful it is in California, how the rivers are thick with gold, and how people come from all over the globe to experience the wonder that is California.”
“You’ll pardon my asking, but if this fellow found the rivers to be heavy with gold, then why is he working on a train?”
“Well, that’s quite another story.” She paused to think through her next words. “One that involves a father who preferred to gamble away the family fortune. But the point is, San Francisco is a bustling port town with adventurous opportunities. Mother can meet us there when the roads clear. Don’t you see? For all our hesitation about how we would get her out of Oregon, we now have our answer. We will ask her to come to San Francisco for a vacation, and she will jump at the chance. We will see new and exciting things and so will she. Then, when the dust has settled, we’ll all head back home to Philadelphia … together. The perfect solution, don’t you think?”
“Perhaps. But … San Francisco?” He shivered. “I have not prepared myself for that. I have heard stories, as well, and they are not as … picturesque … as yours. The kind of adventures I fear would involve thievery, drunkenness, shootings, and women of ill repute. Not the sort of locale I would consider safe or inviting.”
“One doesn’t plan adventures, Neville. One takes them as they come. See? This is a blessing in disguise.”
He gave her a look that shared his thoughts on the matter, then a more reflective look came over him. She knew this look well—one of resignation. “If we’re to travel to California, I will need to arrange for our travel. This will be a costly venture, Miss Abigail.”
“As all good adventures are.” She offered a hopeful smile. “Let’s look for the silver lining, shall we?”
“Humph. Don’t you mean gold lining?”
“Gold, indeed.” Endless possibilities took root and her thoughts tumbled in multiple directions at once. Suddenly she could hardly wait to get to San Francisco.
“Sam, what can I do for you?”
Sam looked up from the list in his hand as the mercantile owner called his name. Doing business with Marcus Denueve required careful attention.
“Oh, good morning, Marcus. I’ve come for our weekly supplies for the restaurant.”
“Of course. Same list as always?”
“Yes, but Cookie wants to add an extra pound of sugar and three bags of flour. She plans to do a lot of baking, I think.”
“And where is Cookie this fine morning?”
“Up to her eyeballs in pastry dough. Couldn’t come this time.” Sam didn’t want to share the rest of the story, that Cookie had sent him on their weekly grocery run so that he could see firsthand just how Marcus had taken to gouging them.
“Well, I’ll have Kennedy get your things.” Marcus paused and appeared to be thinking. “You want to take care of this month’s bill while you’re here, or should I send it at the end of the month, as usual?”
“Whatever works for you.”
“I’m always happy to be paid.” Marcus ran his fingertips along the edge of his wiry mustache. “As one business owner to another, I’m sure you understand.”
“Of course. Happy to oblige.”
The elderly store clerk, a wiry fellow named Frankie Kennedy, went to work, gathering the necessary items. Sam bided his time, looking over new merchandise. When Frankie finished, he loaded the groceries into a large crate and lifted it to the counter.
Sam snagged the bill and almost gasped aloud as he scanned the amount. Since when did Marcus charge a dollar for a dozen eggs? And why so much for flour? Was the stuff made of gold?
“Hesitating over the bill, eh?” Marcus’s words sounded from behind him and stirred Sam from his ponderings.
Sam bit back a retort as he turned to face the man. “A little shocking, if you don’t mind my saying so.”
Marcus slapped his arm around Sam’s shoulder. “Prices are going up. Can’t help that, my friend. Such is the cost of doing business in a place like San Francisco. You, of all people, should know that. Won’t be long before your father ups the prices at the inn.” He gave Sam a knowing look. “It’s bound to happen.”
Shrugging out of Marcus’s embrace, Sam tried to focus on the conversation at hand. “We’re already full-up at the inn. Don’t need the extra business.”
“All the more reason to charge more. You don’t have room to grow the building, but you still have plenty of opportunity to grow your income.” Marcus’s jaw tensed. “Take a few hints from me, my friend, or risk losing your business. There’s plenty of opportunity for growth in San Francisco if you charge accordingly. Everyone’s doing it, so th
e fellas will get used to it over time.”
“Prices are going up, yes, but this is far beyond what I would’ve expected.” Sam gave the bill a closer look, stunned at the itemized prices. “Why such a big jump, Marcus? Doesn’t make sense.”
“Gotta allow for a decent overhead so I can keep this place afloat.”
Keep the mercantile afloat? At these prices, the place could be painted in gold and adorned in rare jewels. Marcus was already robbing the prospectors by selling pans for ten dollars apiece instead of a quarter. And the cost of his shovels and rakes? Ridiculous. This fellow knew how to rake in a buck by taking advantage of wide-eyed miners and their families. Now he’d decided to gouge the locals too?
Instead of arguing, Sam pulled out the necessary money, slapped it on the counter, and tipped his hat. “Have a good day, Marcus.”
“Same to you … neighbor.” For whatever reason, Marcus’s words didn’t sound all that neighborly.
Not that Sam had time to think about it.
Outside the door of the mercantile, Mrs. Linden, the pastor’s wife, stood with a slip of paper in hand and a laundry bundle under her arm. She glanced up as Sam passed by.
“Oh, good morning, Samuel.” Her brow knotted as she glanced back down at the paper. “I’m sorry, I’m a little preoccupied. Almost didn’t see you there.” She shuffled the laundry bundle to her other arm, nearly dropping it in the process.
“Is everything all right, Mrs. Linden?”
“Hmm?” She folded the paper and put it in her pocket then ran her palms over her skirt. “I’m sorry. I should’ve waited to pick up my things from the laundry woman after I’d finished up at the mercantile. It’s too hard to juggle.”
“Here, let me hold that.” He took the laundry from her and gestured for her to sit on a nearby bench.
She plopped down with a thud, then shifted her gaze to him. “To be honest, I’m just perplexed by my bill from the mercantile. We’ve grown accustomed to paying higher prices here in San Francisco. Much higher, in fact.” She leaned in to whisper, “But it’s highway robbery to charge a person a dollar and fifty cents for a pair of men’s underwear. I’ve never heard of such a thing. Why, if I told Henry, he’d make me take them back. But, well …” Her cheeks flushed. “The man is in need of new things.” Her voice lowered and the heightened color on her face subsided. “Though you didn’t hear that from me, all right?”