Like a River Glorious (24 page)

And I guess that's part of the problem. Bad men are never all bad, and good men are never all good, and it makes it hard to know up from down. I erase the slate with the side of my hand and write:
Is it a trap? Is he a spy?

Jefferson shakes his head emphatically no.

What's the plan?

He makes an
O
with his lips and leans toward the window. I want to lean forward and kiss him through the glass. Then it becomes clouded, and his fingertip scrawls a new word.

I nod. I knew this already.
What do you want me to do?

Get laudanum from Wilhelm?

He nods.

My heart races.
How?

He shakes his head and gestures with his hands, a giving motion, from him to me.

I erase the first half of my board and start writing:
You give me gunpwdr?

He nods.

That'll be a distraction, for sure.
Why me?

That makes sense. I'm not searched. In fact, I might be the
only
person who leaves the mine without being searched.
What do I do with it?

I've seen the barrels of gunpowder just outside the mine, protected from the rain by canvas. Another barrel sits in the foremen's break area. Muskrat and Mary must be planning on using some of it for their distraction, but I have no idea how someone will pass it to me without being seen. In a jar? A folded-up handkerchief? Where could I possibly hide it?

I write:
Where?

He shrugs. Then he gives a little start, and he writes:

I'm about to protest, but I remember how Mary empties the bucket every morning when she comes to make us breakfast, sometimes even before I'm awake.

I write:
Smart.

We stare at each other through the glass. I suppose he's said what he came to say, but I don't want him to leave. I don't ever want him to leave again.

Quickly I write:
Hiram burned Daddy's boots.

Tears leak from my eyes as I raise the slate back up to the window.

Jefferson's face turns angry and fierce, and just being able to tell him, watching him be furious on my behalf, is the greatest comfort I've had in a long while.

He writes:

I erase and write:
He says he's my real father.

Jefferson gapes. Then he shakes his head. He writes:

His lips move:
Never

I put my fingertips to the window, and he reaches up and mirrors me, finger for finger. Even though it's dark, even though his black eyes are lost in shadow, I sense his agony. It's in the set of his shoulders, his lips pressed tight. What are they doing to him? If they've hurt Jefferson . . .

One last time, he fogs the window and writes:

My heart races. I wipe off my slate, but then I stare at it, not sure what to write.

Jefferson answers my hesitation with a lightning grin that could brighten a whole dark night. He wipes off the window, erasing all traces of our conversation. He's still grinning as he dashes away.

If he can find something to grin about in our situation, then maybe there's reason to hope, after all. I only wish I felt it, too.

“Y
ou got chalk on your dress,” Hiram says with a frown.

We're sitting at the breakfast table, eating fried eggs and buttermilk biscuits with honey.

“Sorry,” I mumble around a mouthful of eggs.

His frown deepens.

I mentally kick myself. I know better than to talk with my mouth full in my uncle's presence. I swallow quickly and add, “I'll wash up better before heading to the mine today.”

“See that you do.”

I nod as I take another bite.

“You're developing a reputation as a fine young lady with proper airs and grooming. I want to keep it that way.”

I almost choke. “I am?”

“Indeed.” His smile makes my very toes shiver. “In fact, I've received two offers for your hand.” I'm not sure what that means at first. Does someone want my help with something? Finally it dawns on me. My hand in marriage.

“Who?” I squeak out.

“The Chinese headman,” he says. “He sent another man to suggest a wedding date and negotiate a bride price. Offered a tea set, can you imagine? Naturally I declined.”

“Naturally,” I say in a thin voice.

“Don't worry, sweet pea. You're young for marriage, but when I do consent to give you away, it will be to an upstanding American citizen with good breeding.”

I frown. I suppose my uncle would consider Jefferson to have terrible “breeding,” even though he can recite all the presidents backward and do long division in his head.

“You said two offers,” I remind him.

“The other was from Abel Topper.”

“What?”
Is there anyone in this whole blasted territory who isn't consumed with acquiring a woman?

My uncle grins. “Well, he asked to court you, with the intention of eventual marriage. Said you had grown into a fine, handsome lady, against everyone's expectations. He was very clumsy about the whole thing. It made me shudder. I told him I'd think about it.”

“First you give my horse to him, and now—”

“Now, now, control your nerves, Leah. I have no intention of giving you to one of my foremen. We can make a much more advantageous match for ourselves than that. I expect you'll meet far more eligible men at the Christmas ball.”

The eggs are like sawdust in my mouth. Hiram talks like I'm a prime breeding mare, to be dispensed with at auction to the best bidder. And why not? Hiram considers me his property.

“In the meantime,” he continues, “I'd appreciate it if you would be very polite to Mr. Topper. Even solicitous. We need to make quota every day until the ball, so I need him working hard.”

“You want me to string him along.”

He blinks. “Well, that's a vulgar way of putting it.”

“Does your note come due soon? Is that why quota is so important right now?” I know this already, of course, but I want to see if he'll tell me.

His gaze slides away from my face, and he becomes absorbed by the half-eaten biscuit on his plate. “Yes,” he admits.

“Who do we owe the money to?” I hate using “we” to discuss the mine, this camp, Hiram's debt, but I'm hoping the gesture will make him trust me.

“No one you know. A very successful man who made his fortune, first with gold, then by selling land plots in Sacramento. He's contending for California's first governorship, though I expect he won't get it.”

“I see.”
James Henry Hardwick. James Henry Hardwick.
“Will I meet him at the Christmas ball?”

“It's very likely.”

I intend to be long gone by then, but I say, “I promise I'll do my best to charm him utterly.”

Hiram gives me such a wide, warm, genuine smile that it takes me aback. “That's my girl,” he says.

He excuses himself to run errands, making me promise to practice my penmanship. I breathe deep as soon as the cabin door shuts behind him. It always seems like the air is a little lighter, a little fresher, after he is gone.

“Mary,” I begin cautiously. There's no one to overhear us that I know of, but she's always so careful when she's inside this cabin, and I follow her lead.

She turns to face me.

“May I take the extra biscuits today? My escort will enjoy them.”

It's the only thing I can think of to bribe Wilhelm with. There is no reaction in her lovely features that I can see, but she takes a basket from the shelf in front of her and plops it onto the table before me.

I peel back the linen to find a whole mess of warm biscuits. More importantly, my gold sense sharpens, becomes a harsh prickle in my throat.

Following the sense, I reach inside, tunneling through the biscuits. Something cool, flat, and round jumps into my hand.

I pull it out. It's a gold eagle coin, worth five dollars. It should be enough to tempt Wilhelm away from some of his laudanum. This is better than anything I would have come up with. Once again, I feel like I'm running behind and trying to catch up.

“Thank you for the biscuits,” I say. Mary gives me nothing but silence in response and returns to her chores.

I have money and biscuits to buy laudanum. Now I need to figure out a way to smuggle gunpowder out of the mine.

This dress Hiram insists I wear has no pockets. Maybe Mary has an apron or pinafore I could borrow. Then again,
it would seem very suspicious if I suddenly started wearing a pinafore. Also, I have a feeling that covering up this dress in any way would anger my uncle beyond reason.

My new, dainty boots are too tiny and tight to slip anything inside. The dress's high collar prevents me from sneaking anything down my bodice.

Perhaps these sleeves . . . I consider them a moment. The lace might disguise any bulges, especially in the murk of the mine. Daylight, however, would be another thing entirely. And it would have to be a very small package of gunpowder to fit under a sleeve.

I sigh. I don't even know exactly what I'll be smuggling out of there.

The air in the cabin is colder than usual, so I open the box stove and toss in some fresh wood. It hisses and pops a little—the wood wasn't quite cured—as I close the door to the stove and begin to pace.

Frost edges the glass of the front window. Winter will be here soon. The Indians in the stockade will be in even worse trouble then. Our thanksgiving plan, whatever it is, has to work. So I need to do my part.

If I had a needle and thread, I could cut a piece of fabric from the old blue dress and create a pocket for the new one. I'm not a proficient seamstress, but Mama taught me the basics, and I'm sure I could wrangle something.

Maybe I can get sewing supplies from the Chinese headman, though my belly churns to imagine talking to a stranger who offered my uncle a bride price for me. Would it bother
my uncle if I acquired a needle? He won't even let a butter knife into the house.

I continue pacing, to my bedroom and back, over the small braid rug, past the writing desk. Something above the writing desk catches my eye.

It's a small pelt, stretched along the wall for decoration. It was taken from a snowshoe rabbit with winter-white fur.

Annabelle Smith back home always wore a rabbit-fur muff in winter. It was one of her prize possessions.

Could my solution possibly be so easy?

I step onto my uncle's writing chair and reach for the pelt. It's nailed to the wall, but with patience and care, I'm able to work it off the nails without tearing larger holes.

I'm taking a big risk, grabbing the pelt without asking permission first. Surely my uncle won't deny me a warm muff for my hands? A lovely rabbit-fur muff is fashionable. A white one, even more so. I will simply tell him that my hands were cold, and I thought the bright fur would be beautiful against my blue calico dress.

Better yet, I'll tell him that Mama used to wear a white rabbit-fur muff.

Guilt twinges in my chest. I've become a no-good liar, and I'm using my parents' good names to do it. It doesn't set right.

But what other choice do I have?

I can't make a proper muff of it without needle, thread, and batting. I'd need a nail or awl too, to punch the leather, and I can't imagine my uncle granting me these things. For now, I'll have to be content with simply letting it drape over my hands.
It will be more than enough to conceal a bit of gunpowder.

Before donning the makeshift muff, I step outside the door with the basket of biscuits in one hand, my golden half eagle in the other. Wilhelm stands there as always, his breath frosting in the air.

“Good morning, Wilhelm,” I say, offering a biscuit.

He grabs it with a quick nod of thanks. Do they never feed this huge man? Maybe he just really loves biscuits.

“I'm sorry you have to stand out here in the cold,” I tell him. “I'd invite you inside, but Mr. Westfall would probably whip me if I did.”

Wilhelm gives me a tiny, sheepish shrug.

I'm putting off the inevitable, and there's no easy way to ask what I must. I just have to do it. Before I can think about it a moment more, I blurt, “Do you have any laudanum to spare?”

His lips part in surprise.

“I'm having a terrible time sleeping,” I add quickly. “It's all the noise of camp. That and my uncle always stays up so late. When he finally goes to sleep, he snores like a rumbling locomotive, and now I'm exhausted every morning. I could pay you. I have five dollars. It's all the money I have, but it's yours. Also, biscuits. I'll bring you biscuits every morning.”

His eyes narrow, and he studies my face. I wish I had even the tiniest clue what he's thinking.

“Biscuits with honey?” I add.

Of course he says nothing, just stares steadily, breathing in and out through his nose.

“Please, Wilhelm. I don't know who else to turn to.”

He looks away, as if the answer to my problem lies in the distant, snowy peaks of the Sierra Nevada. His scarred lips twist in thought.

Five dollars is enough to buy several bottles of laudanum. At least it would have been back east. I know from visiting Mormon Island that everything is more expensive out here, but it still should be enough to buy at least two.

I reach out with the half eagle. It flashes in the morning light. “I only need . . .” I almost say one bottle, but I don't know what Jefferson and the others have planned. “Two bottles. You can keep the rest of the money for yourself.”

Finally his gaze returns to me, and he snatches the coin from my hand. There's something strange in his eyes. I'd mark it for gold fever, had we been discussing gold.

“Thank you,” I say, more than a little relieved. I hand him the basket of biscuits. “Take as many as you like. I'll be back in a moment.”

I go inside, just long enough to grab my rabbit pelt and screw up my courage. I've successfully negotiated for laudanum. I can do this next thing, too.

But as I offer my fur-wrapped arm to Wilhelm, I'm plagued with doubt. What if he tells my uncle? He's never shown the smallest inclination for talking, but I suppose he can write. He has to report to my uncle somehow.

If Hiram asks about it, I'll give him the same lie I gave Wilhelm.
I'm tired. I need to sleep to do my job.
Maybe I'll even embellish a little.
My gold sense goes weak on me when I'm tired,
is what I'll say.

I'm not sure how the gunpowder is going to be smuggled to me, so I try to be ready for anything. Fortunately I don't worry about it long. I'm halfway down the Joyner tunnel when I feel something round and cool pressed against my elbow. Quickly I grab it and hide it under my rabbit fur. A moment later, when I casually turn to see who it was, no one remains. They have slipped away as silently as falling snow.

Just like with Mary and the biscuits. I don't know what the plan is yet, but I can feel the pieces in motion. Other people are doing their part. I must do mine.

I go through my daily motions of assuring Dilley he's mining in the right direction and pay quick visits to the Drink and to the foreman break area. I take a sip of sugar water, just to make the men happy, and then finally Wilhelm and I leave the mine and return to the cabin.

My uncle is still gone, to my great relief.

Only when I'm in the relative privacy of my bedroom, with the quilt blocking the doorway, do I pull out the object I'm holding.

It's an inkwell. Not as nice as my uncle's. Filled to the rim with gunpowder.

As planned, I set it inside the slop bucket. When I wake in the morning, it is gone.

As I hoped he would, Hiram approves of the way I've used the rabbit fur. He even brings me an awl and thread so I can fashion it into a proper muff. I spend the entire evening working on the muff by candlelight while he manages correspondence.
I've never been a dab at sewing, but it's a nice change from pretending to practice my penmanship. After I'm finished, he declares my muff to be the height of fashion, and immediately confiscates my awl.

Somehow, Muskrat has arranged for a bit of gunpowder to come my way every single day. Each time, I receive it in a different container, from a different pair of hands. Once, it's no more than a double layer of worn calico, like a quilt square, tied with twine. Another day, I get a small but bulging leather bag. Each morning, the gunpowder is gone from the bucket when I wake.

A few days after speaking to Wilhelm about the laudanum, he greets me at the doorway with two bottles. I glance around to make sure no one is looking, then I grab the bottles, in exchange for several biscuits.

That night, I put both gunpowder and laudanum in the slop bucket. I lie awake a long time, wondering if I'll know when Mary—or whoever—sneaks into my bedroom to retrieve it. Truth be told, I hate all this sneaking around, and I especially hate that I can't feel alone and safe even in my own bedroom. How often do people come in here when I'm not aware?

Naturally my thoughts move to the gold stashed in my mattress. I'm like the princess and the pea—no matter how many layers between it and me, I'll always be able to sense whether or not it's there. It hasn't been discovered yet, and I wrap my mind around it, enjoying the buzz in my throat.