“Oh, Seth. I…” She couldn't look at him. Wouldn't. Her eyes searched past him toward the cows. “Mother needs me more…and I still have to find out about Jeremy's business.”
“Then let's get that over with. Maybe that's what holds you back. Go now, before I head back to bring in another train.”
She pointed to the cows they herded. “These. Twice a day. Milk deliveries. Especially now with people not having much. Who would I get to milk them?”
“Ruth?”
“I could ask. But I think she has other plans. She's been after me to take the house and…for you to take on Jason.”
“Me? I'm not fit to raise a boy.”
“Well, thank you very much for the proposal of marriage, Mr. Forrester, coming in the same paragraph with the news that you're not fit to be a parent.”
“No! I mean yes! You know what I mean.”
She poked him in the ribs, then started walking faster. “I'll work on it, Seth Forrester.”
“The marriage part?” he called after her.
“Asking Ruth to milk the cows,” she shouted over her shoulder from a safe distance.
Suzanne stayed in the wagon with her boys while they napped, just as she had on the trail. She thought of the ceremony, Tipton a little nervous, putting on this great change in her life. She sensed a hesitation in the bride but none in Nehemiah. He loved her enough for both of them, she'd heard him say. He would keep her in the safety of his heart.
She was glad Wesley hadn't been there. She didn't want to have to explain his…ways to others. She couldn't explain it to herself, his walking like that into Ruth's home. Being here without him, she felt…relief. She'd been thinking of something Lura had said about the entertainers, and knew he wouldn't understand that at all. He'd…find fault. He said the right things, but the words didn't ring true. In the presence of the women she could see clearer, it seemed.
Esty had told her once that some of the groups traveled from camp to camp, receiving pay in gold dust. “Many are women and children, and they put on little plays. The miners cry like babies when a child sings. No one has ever been harassed. If I had a single talent, that's what I'd do.”
“You made your hat,” Suzanne said. “Ruth said it was lovely, and she doesn't hold much for fashion, I'm told. So you do have a talent.
“Not for performing,” Esty said. “Not like you and your music.”
She'd been given the gift of music and voice. Suzanne agreed. Was it pride to recognize that? She didn't think so. It was being honest with her gifts. If God wouldn't return her sight, she was still sure he would provide a way for her to see what she needed to do.
Her confidence grew with that thought. She and her boys. Lura and Mariah. Ned might come with them too. He sang like an angel. “Papa took us to see Jenny Lind,” he told her when she expressed admiration for his singing at the wedding. “I was little, but I member taking her voice inside me. Mama always cried when I sang. I sang for her today. Is that all right, you think? Even if it was Tiptons wedding?”
“I'm sure you didn't cheat on Nehemiah or Tipton one whit when you sang,” she told him. He'd leaned into her as he had when they'd sat around campfires back on the trail.
They could travel together, give a more respectable occupation to Lura, allow her and Mariah to be together, and let Suzanne's boys be raised by their mother. It would serve the others right, too, for lying to her about their gift of the stove—she'd survive this fire on her own terms.
“Really?” Lura said when Suzanne laid out her plan later that evening. “They make five hundred dollars in gold dust for a single performance?”
“Esty said if the song sang was ‘Young Ladies, Won't You Marry Me?’ you can get even more.”
“I could take my knife sharpener with me. Tend to knives and such during the day and then what, you'd sing? Play? What?”
“We could put together little dramas. Ned too, if Ruth will let him. Maybe you could play a part. Mariah could help with the boys if she would.”
Lura cackled in delight. “We travel to camps. We sing and dance. They throw money at us? Suzanne, I like the way you see things.”
California was a strange place, Suzanne thought as she listened to the wind pop against the wagon canvas. She hoped she wouldn't get blindsided by something she hadn't seen. Even sighted people could be caught unawares though. She had to be twice as clear to make sure she wasn't being led astray in some way.
Something Bryce had told her once came to her mind. He'd talked of the devil's mill. “In Irish lore,” he said, “the devil builds a mill. It looks promising, inviting, as secure and safe as home. But it lures people in, Suzanne. And before they know it, bad things happen to them. Unfortunate events that whisk away their happiness, love, and wealth. To trick the devil is never easy once one succumbs to the mill,” Bryce told her. “You have to remain true to your heart to avoid that seduction.”
She'd thought her plan through. It used her talents. It was no devil's mill. She wondered why she'd even thought ofthat.
She saw it as a way to stay true to her heart.
Ruth slept in the barn that night, listening to the crunch of the cows chewing their cud and the gentle slurp of calves bunting their mothers as they suckled. Coyotes howled in the distance; her horses stomped as they shifted their weight in sleep. She couldn't sleep. She knew why.
That Wesley person. It seemed odd he would come out to buy horses on the day of the fire when everything was so chaotic. A serious suitor would have stayed behind to help Suzanne. She hadn't been thinking right herself, she guessed, leaving the girls, not reminding them to bar the door. She just didn't think like a mother, didn't act like one either. It put those children at risk. She worried over Suzanne, but what about her inability to take care of those she said she loved?
And she did love them, truly she did. But her mother had done the right thing in sending her away. More and more, she knew that was what she needed to do too. She would make it look as though it was best for them. If she had…an occupation, then they'd have to be cared for by someone else. They wouldn't feel shoved away. They'd see that with Auntie Ruth working, they wouldn't be safe, left home alone.
So what might she do? She pulled the blanket around her. Shoe horses? She'd done that once or twice in her life. But there were plenty of blacksmiths around for that. She was no good at cooking or laundry. Maybe helping rebuild. Carpenters made twenty dollars a day. She might paint portraits. A horse snorted in its stall. She could draw. She could make lithographs. Return to what she knew first, and maybe it would tend to her soul. She turned over in her bedroll, calmed by the grinding of the cows’ chewing. She knew what she had to do.
If only she could get Mazy to agree to stay at this place. The boys could help her with the cows. That might work. Maybe keep Sarah on with Suzanne—wherever Suzanne ended up in town. That left Jessie. She'd have to think about that one.
Maybe sleep would give her an answer.
In the morning, Ruth stood and stretched, achy and unrested. Adora was already out by the bedrolls of the newlyweds, hovering. Nehemiah said something, and Adora scurried to the house. Ruth shook her head. Family. She thought of the wedding. She wished Tipton well in her new life. It did seem that she'd found a man who adored her, someone good and kind yet willing to be strong when needed. That was what Tipton said she always wanted. She'd need someone strong enough to love her yet not so much he smothered who she was. Smothering could easily happen, especially with someone so young.
It was good that Adora would go with them. Grown up as Tipton thought she was, sixteen was young, and the girl was still forming. Best to have a mother close at hand. Jessie's face came to Ruth's mind.
It would have been a perfect day of celebration, she thought, if they'd waited to read the letter from Sister Esther. Who needed the reminder on their wedding day that more than gentle laughter and good wishes might fill the marriage bed ahead?
Ruth started toward the house to fix the morning c
offee. Then saw something from the corner of her eye.
The mans face was lifted away toward the sun, but Ruth recognized him instantly, even before he turned.
“Well, Ruth Martin,” he said, pulling at that clipped place on his ear.
“The prodigal son returns,” Ruth said.
“Its such a lovely morning.” Charles Wilson grinned.
“Until you arrived, it was.”
Tipton stood with a blanket around her, not yet even dressed. Though the morning air had already warmed, she shivered. She shivered the first moment she heard her brothers voice as he bent over her and Nehe-miah's bedroll. “What do you want?” Tipton asked.
“Why, to wish you well,” Charles said. “And maybe to warn your husband that you have a history of bad luck with those you love.” Tipton noticed her mother approaching like a mother cow discovering her lost calf. Why hadn't Charles gone to the house before rousing them from their marriage bed?
“Her first fiancé turned up dead,” Charles said, leaning in to his new brother-in-law, who was pulling on his woolen pants.
“With a question over how he died,” Tipton said.
“Was it an accident or…suicide,” Charles said. He held his hands out as though weighing ore.
“No suicide. An accident, maybe. Or worse. But not suicide. That much I know. It's taken me a year, but I know Tyrell loved me and would have married me if he had lived. The rest, that's all your doing, Charles. That's in the past.”
“Which we've no time for,” Nehemiah said. He tightened his arm around Tipton's shoulder, then said, “Why don't you get dressed?”
She shook her head. “I'll wait. I don't want to leave mother alone with this…person.”
“Oh,” Adora purred, breathless. She opened her arms as though to inhale her son. Charles leaned into the embrace. “If truth be known, I did not know just when or if we'd ever see you again.”
“I was always looking to find you, Mother.”
“Were you?”
“How dare you spoil my wedding day,” Tipton said, her voice lower and shakier than she wanted.
“He really didn't, Tipton,” her mother said. “You were married yesterday.”
“And I missed it,” Charles said. “Still, I see the flavor of your celebration. Tables of food, a beautiful wedding dress worn, I'm sure. And a lovely nightdress.”
Tipton's knuckles were white where she held the quilt tight around her. She wished she were dressed, wore something to give her strength. “Come on, Nehemiah, let's finish loading what little we have and leave. Coming, Mother?”
“We have to take a little time with your brother, find out how he's been.” She took his arm. “Where did you winter? How did you find us? Oh, we can talk ofthat over a great big breakfast. I'm just sure everyone will want to hear your stories once they're up.”
“Mother. After what he did to us, to all of us?”
“He's family, dear,” Adora said.
“Come on, Tip,” Nehemiah told her. “You and I are family now. Let's get dressed, eat a bite, and then hitch up.”
Adora linked her arm through Charles's. “Are you living near here? Surely you're hungry. So many questions.”
“Had a string of unfortunate luck, Mother.” He patted her hand. “But that's changed now that I've met up with you. Oh, Tipton, you'll like hearing this. I know father would have wanted me to do out here what we did back in Wisconsin. Run a store. Shasta's as good a place as any to do that.”
Adora put her hands to her mouth, her eyes filled with tears. “Oh, Charles, that's so wonderful. I knew you'd come to your senses.”
“Good time to do it with the whole town rebuilding.”
“And you have capital for this venture?” Nehemiah asked.
“You probably still have some of the money you…borrowed, don't you, Charles?” Adora asked.
“Truth is, Mother, I used that all up just staying alive. I had to live in a tent all winter near Sacramento. Got my feet frostbit in the mountains. I'll have some trouble standing on my feet all day tending to customers, but I just think it's what we should do.”
“We? You have a partner?”
“Why, you, Mother.” Tipton gasped. Charles went on, “I felt sure you'd want to be a part of Fathers dream. Didn't figure on Tipton being married, or she'd be welcome too.”
“Right here in Shasta. Imagine that,” Adora said. Her face was blotched with reddish spots. A light breeze fluffed against Adoras flannel gown.
“And you got a loan and all, to start to build?”
Charles turned to gaze across the field where Jason and Ned led four black mules toward the Wilson wagon. “Our mules, Mother. I was hoping you still had them.”
Adora turned, their arms still linked. “Whatever a son needs,” she said. Charles smiled at Tipton over his shoulder.
It was too much for her. Tipton brushed between them then, her face hot, her eyes blurred by tears that spilled as she ran. Behind her, she barely heard her mother say, “And they'll bring a good price this time of year too. I'm just so glad we waited.”
16
Zane planned to give Suzanne time. Let her flounder with those women and discover what she'd given up in refusing his offer. Yes, he'd give them time. Both of them, he thought as he rode south toward the Middle-town camps, then west, and finally ending up northwest at Greasy's camp. He expected to hear the sounds of working boys, picks and shovels, and shouts. But the diversion dam had not been set in Whiskey Creek that ran through Mad Mule Canyon. And no one stood in the water shoveling ore into the Long Tom sluice box.
A sliver of smoke came up through the chimney of the shack, so someone was there. Zane eased off his horse a distance from the cabin. The door stood partially open. Stupid Greasy. The Indian brats had probably outwitted him.
Inside, Greasy lay sprawled on the floor. A gash at his head bled, forming a pool beneath it. “Help me?” He coughed.
Zane stared, looked around. No gold stashed. The boys had been smart enough to take that after they took Greasy on.
“Whend it happen?” Zane asked.
“Not long. You. Catch ‘em.” The man's beak nose looked broken, his face already bruised. “Help. Me?”
Zane reached over him, pulled a bottle of whisky and set it beside him. Greasy reached for his pant leg, and Zane moved quickly back. No sense getting blood on his suit.
The ankle irons might hold those boys back, he thought as he spurred his horse. Those and the weight of the ore they carried. He picked up their trail, slipping and sliding, so close to the thickness of the timber, then through it. He noticed handprints clutching at rocks, bare feet gouging the earth. They couldn't be far ahead. Branches still moved from their passing, and he thought he caught a glimpse of one or two. Tendrils of long black hair hung on low branches.
Zane zigzagged the horse up the side of the gulch, crossing over their tracks, once or twice picking up where one split off from the others. The footprints he followed sank in deep—they'd be carrying the ore. Not much loss, the boys. The war fever against them would tend to them soon enough anyway, so Zane had no fear of complaints if they turned up wounded. Or worse. They couldn't even bring a charge against him. But he wanted his gold. He had earned it.
He rode now, just below the top of a ridge, through manzanita with its glossy leaves, around large boulders bulged out from streaks of red and sandy earth. Once, he thought he lost the trail, but then he found it again, and this time it worked its way down over the side of the hill, and then something from the corner caught his eye.
They'd dropped the ore pack. Must have decided their lives were worth more than the gold. Zane smiled, rode over to the spot on the steep side-hill where the canvas lay. He dismounted, scanned the area, then lifted the sack, securing it behind his saddle. The horse stomped, twisted its head back to bite at a fly. Zane wiped his brow of sweat with the back of his arm. Something moved in the distance.
Another rider, headed out of the ravine, up and over the next r
idge. Zane eased himself over to his saddle bag, moved slowly, got out the telescoping glass. A single rider. Where had he come from? He scanned the horizon, moved his gaze down through the trees to the base of the ridge. He stopped when he saw the cabin hidden among the pines. A small open space of green spread out from it toward a fast-moving stream. He moved the glass. He saw a woman and a child.
The woman looked up then, stood staring in his direction. She put her hand at her forehead to block the sun, and he thought perhaps there'd been a reflection from his brass. He quickly pulled it from his eye, but not before he recognized who she was.
His breathing sounded raspy, his thoughts clanging as he rode back to Greasy's cabin. He found the man dead. Inconvenient. He considered digging a hole in the gravel and dragging the body to it. Instead, he set the structure on fire.
A new focus twisted with the old one, as he watched the flames. The shack burned hot and fast, leaving little but ashes to drift across the gravel bar.
July came on dry and hot. There'd been no rain since April except for a sprinkle in June. The temperature had risen along with tempers as Shasta sprouted tendrils of streets and alleys, no letup in sight with rich new diggings being uncovered. Main Street resurrected itself. Running east and west like a trough between the hillsides dotted with shanties and cabins rose buildings of sturdy red bricks and heavy lead doors and shutters, no one allowing fire to ravage the “Queen City of the North” again. On the side streets, the smell of fresh-cut lumber and sawdust tickled the nose. Seth's anticipation of four or five bookstores looked to come true before long. Two already lined the new, widened street. A third was planned. Farther down, but on the main road toward the coast, the route Tipton and Nehemiah had taken from town, rose Chinese quarters, Koon Chong's store, his competition—Quong Sing and Company—and simple houses facing west. Their presence made it easier for Shasta housekeepers to buy their imported fish and oil and nuts, and easier for Mazy's mother to fetch the Chinese candies she'd come to love.