California Woman (Daughters of the Whirlwind Book 1) (35 page)

Esther was picking tomatoes in the new,
expanded garden between the ranch house and a stream that ran across the quiet,
northwest corner of her property. She had just worked out a way to introduce
the subject of Mosby to Murietta, when she heard the sound of hoofbeats. They
were rapid, and they echoed ominously from beyond the edge of the pines. She
had been concerned about Murietta. He was several days overdue. And now, as she
saw him clear the line of trees without slowing, her pulse rose.

He veered when he saw her and reined up
his snorting, lathered horse so abruptly he almost pitched out of the saddle.

"There is little time," he said
dismounting.

"What's happened?"

"They are sure I am a man called
Joaquin Ocomorenia, or another bandit who calls himself Murietta."

"Who does?"

"A man, a peace officer named Love.
Colonel Harry Love. He and a band of—how do you call them?—rangers, have been
scouring the area around Chinese Camp, watching the roads between Sacramento
and Placerville, Coulterville, looking for the outlaws. I took the southern
route, as I promised. But someone at the place where I stayed in Merced
believed me to be Ocomorenia, went to the alcalde, and they locked me up and
sent for Love. I gave the man who sweeps out the jail, a mestizo, a pouch of
gold for the keys hanging on the wall. The alcalde came back, and I had to
shoot him to keep him from killing me and the mestizo."

"Oh, God!"

He put his arms around Esther and kissed
her. "There is no time,
querida
.
I am certain I have no more than half an
hour on them."

"Where will you go?"

"I do not know. South first, through
the mountains. Perhaps across them and then north. I will make up my mind as I
go."

"They will listen if Senator
Frémont—"

"Frémont
is
not even at his ranch. And I may have killed a man. They are out for
blood."

She was torn between an instant, blinding
awareness of how much she needed him and the certainty that he had to run,
leave her for God knows how long.

"Wait," she said, running to
the house and motioning him to follow. He got up in his saddle and waited at
the front door, watching the line of trees and then hearing the low, distant
rumble of more than a dozen horses. She came back out quickly, handing him a
fistful of bills and stuffing a chunk of dressed beef into his saddlebag. He
gave her the papers he had brought, then leaned over and kissed her fiercely
before wheeling around and galloping toward the mountains. She dropped the
papers and sobbed. Collecting herself, she was ready when the thirteen men
carrying rifles burst out of the woods and stopped.

Esther watched for a moment as they
examined the open ground looking for tracks. Casually, she bent over to pick up
the two dozen or so letters, ledger-entry copies, and bills of lading that had
scattered in a wide circle after Murietta rode off. She picked up three of
them, then stood holding one hand to her back as the men rode up slowly, their
attention shifting from her to the house, then to the cottage where old
Marianita
and her husband,
Emilio,
stood watching.

Esther had started to bend over again to
pick up another piece of paper when the rangy man with the light-brown
handlebar moustache, battered top hat, and mud-splattered yellow slicker got
down off his horse. She stopped halfway through the movement, put her hand to
her back again, and winced.

"Would one of you gentlemen help me,
please? I'm afraid I have wrenched my back and…"

The rangy man wore a small, official
metal shield. He turned and motioned rapidly to three men, who dropped from
their saddles and began chasing the papers, now blowing in another gust of warm
wind.

"Name's  Love, ma'am. Colonel Harry
Love. Looking for a man rode this way. Little taller than you. Mexican. Seen
him?"

"Why no, Mr. Love." She turned
and pointed to the paper that was farthest away. "Please don't forget that
one." She turned back to Love. "You and your men look parched. Can I
get you something to drink?"

Love stared at her for a moment. He
turned and pointed two fingers at another man. "Take a look down there
around the corral and them sheds." He tilted his head at still another
deputy. "Take Willens, there, with you."

"Yessir." The two men wheeled
and, drawing their guns, loped back toward the outbuildings.

"
Marianita
," Esther
called. The old woman came running. "Fetch these men some water,
please."

"Thank you, ma'am," Love said.
"Tracks lead straight here. You sure you haven't seen anyone?"

"Seems I would have. I've been out
here working in the garden
…
"

"With correspondence?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Workin' in the garden with them letters?"
He smiled coldly.

"Why, no. They were in my apron
pocket. What do you mean?"

"Nothing, ma'am. Nothing. Fell out
of your pocket, did they? Blew all the way here to the front of the house? You
don't mind if we search the servants' quarters over there, do you?"

"They fell when I came back
to…" Her voice trailed off as she watched the two men Love had waved over
to Marianita's cottage stop and take a long look at old
Emilio.
"Do you always behave so
rudely?" she asked, conscious now that her heart was beating rapidly.

Love was looking at the ground near her
feet. "Sorry, ma'am, but the man we're looking for has killed a number of
people. Highwayman. You understand."

"I see. Would you like to search the
house?"

"Judgin' from these hoofprints,
yes."

She looked down at the tracks Murietta's
Appaloosa had left. "They're fresh, aren't they?"

Love stared at her again. "Yes,
ma'am, they are."

"You think I'm concealing
someone?" She wondered how many minutes had passed, how much time she had
gained for Murietta.

"Didn't say that, ma'am. Now, if you
don't mind, I'll just take a look around
…
"

"You just walk into my house, into
my home," she said, stalling as much as she could, any way she could,
"and I have to stand still for it?"

"Ma'am," Love said,
exasperation beginning to show in the set of his face. "You might not have
noticed him. Could have snuck into the house while you were out here. Might be
hiding somewheres."

"I doubt that." She calculated
how long it would take them to look through the ranch house. "But do go in
and see for yourself."

"Thank you, ma'am."

"Just one moment… I believe I left
some… unmentionables… on my bed. I would like to put them away before you
enter."

"Certainly, ma'am. But be
careful."

"I'll just be a moment." 
Marianita waddled out with a wooden bucket of water and a ladle.

"Much obliged, ma'am," Love
said, sipping as Esther backed slowly in through the doorway.

She was in her bedroom, peering out from
beside the window, when one of Love's men ran around from behind the house.

"Fresh tracks, same as these.
Headin' east."

"Let's go," Love barked,
dropping the bucket at Marianita's feet.

Back outside, Esther put one arm around
Marianita and wiped at the old woman's tears. "It's all right. They'll
never find him. I just know it." She hated herself for not believing what
she was saying.

They both turned when they heard the low
whistle from the direction of the pines. Murietta sat there on his Appaloosa,
barely visible behind a low-hanging branch. He waved, and she could see the
white of his teeth as he grinned in the sunlight. He wheeled then and was gone,
back in the direction from which the posse had come.

Esther smiled. Until Mosby finally
crossed her mind once more, and the numbing certainty suddenly came over her
that she would never see Murietta again.

The
poster hung on the varnished, wood-paneled wall of the new Wells Fargo Express
depot in Sacramento:

$5000

REWARD!

For the
Capture

of the Bandit

JOAQUIN

Alive
or Dead

Sitting in the waiting room, Esther put
her arm around little Moses. She stared at the "wanted" poster and
thought of the dozen crimes reportedly committed by Murietta during the two
months since she had last seen him. She laughed to herself at the absurdity of
at least some of the charges. On several days, bank and stage robberies that
had taken place hundreds of miles apart and hour or two one another had been
attributed to him. A pamphlet written by a San Francisco journalist claimed
that Murietta was a Mexican miner of good breeding who had turned to crime in
revenge. A band of prospectors had raped his young wife. The Americans had in
turn hanged his brother. They had left Murietta for dead after lashing him to a
tree and whipping him for an hour.

Barnett had shown her the pamphlet at
dinner in a restaurant on K Street the night before.

"It is patently ridiculous,"
Esther said, wondering if there was any way to enlist Barnett's aid in
contacting Murietta. The idea seemed totally improbable.

"Obviously a fiction. But the
business about the whipping is an extraordinary coincidence. The man who wrote
it is talented, but taken to gambling. He's so heavily in debt he would
probably write anything to turn a dollar."

"Is there
anything
we can do
to help Joaquin?"

"I'm afraid it's hopeless,"
Barnett sighed. "Now that the Merced alcalde is dead…"

"But Joaquin was not the man they
were looking for in the first place!"

"That no longer matters to those who
are hunting him. I understand how it all started, but I'm only one voice."
He saw the tears brimming in Esther's eyes. "Esther, I promise you I will
do everything within my power to see that Murietta is taken alive."

Esther absently fingered the gold watch
hanging from her neck. It was all she had left of Murietta. She doubted either
she or Barnett would ever see him again. Murietta was wily enough to know that
even the best lawyer in California could not save him from the gallows now. She
was certain he would never allow himself to be taken alive.

For a moment the thought of him dead and
the task ahead of her with little Moses became too much to bear. Barnett didn't
know anything about Moses, was not aware that Esther even
had
a son. She
had purposely kept it from him and almost everyone else. Now she had the sudden
urge to share the secret, to relieve herself of some,
any
part of the
mental burden she was carrying. She was about to tell him about the boy, reveal
that an elderly woman was watching over him at the hotel, and that she was
taking Moses north to enroll him in school. But then the waiter came to clear
the dishes and bring them coffee. It is too complicated, she thought. She was
too tired to parry the questions Warren would ask about Moses' father. 

"You are going to Marysville to look
at property?" Barnett said, interrupting her thoughts.

"Yes," she answered, suddenly
thinking she might do just that after she had taken Moses north to the school.
Perhaps it was time for her to be away from the mountains, away from  direct involvement
with the gold. It occurred to her that if she moved, she might persuade Miwokan
and
Solana
to
come with her. If she could, it would prove that she had no intention of
dropping them from her life now that Moses was no longer with them. And it
might spare them any more heartbreak. She was suddenly aware that Barnett had
asked her a question. "I'm sorry, Warren. I wasn't listening. What did you
say?"

"I asked if you are taking the new
Wells Fargo stage to Marysville?"

"Yes, I thought I would have a look
at Adams's competition."

"I'll be interested to hear what you
have to say. I've heard glowing reports, but Adams is too powerful to be
threatened by them, I would think."

Unconsciously, Esther seized on the
welcome distraction the subject of Wells Fargo provided. Concentrating, she
suddenly hit on an idea. "Too powerful
now
."

"What are you getting at?"

"When will the Blue Star merger with
Pacific Mail Steamship be official?" she asked.

"In a matter of days, I would think.
A week at most."

"And if Wells Fargo becomes a
serious rival to Adams, it will be a dog-eat-dog affair. Wells Fargo will need
cash to survive, to gain an enduring place here in California."

"True… but what is your point?"

"I was just thinking," Esther
said, weighing, sifting, calculating. "If they do become serious rivals,
and we joined forces with them—became partners by providing the cash they will
need—the combination of Blue Star, Pacific, and Wells Fargo would be the
foundation for a mail, express, and banking company of even greater power than
Adams."

Barnett raised his eyebrows and whistled.
"My God, Esther. Is there no end to the things that marvelous brain of
yours can imagine? It's a marvelous idea. It will bear watching, careful
watching. But I'll speak of it to William when I return to San Francisco."

Absorbed, Esther's mind was still
ticking. "We might want to assist them in the early stages, help them
reach the status of serious competition more quickly."

"I don't see how… The risk… We rely
heavily on Adams."

"It could be done secretly."

"But how…?"

"There are numerous independent mail
and express companies operating in the shadow of Adams…"

"Such as Todd's."

Esther smiled to herself. "Wells
Fargo would need immediate cash to do it, but if the new company absorbed some
or all of the smaller operations…"

"Ingenious!" Barnett exclaimed.
He calculated for a moment. "Why, they'd become a threat to Adams almost
overnight."

And Alex could take a step to even
greater success, Esther thought. "We would need someone we can trust,
someone who had proven himself to us, on the inside, to look out for our
interests."

Barnett
thought
for a second. "Todd. He has done an excellent job for us, don't you think?
He would be perfect. Part of the arrangement might be that he be given a
substantial managerial job in the enlarged firm. If he's willing to be bought
out."

"I have no mind for such
decisions," Esther said casually, positive that Alex would leap at the
chance to tangle on even terms with his brutally competitive rivals. "I
have nothing but praise for Mr. Todd, but I would leave that choice up to you
and Bill."

Esther smiled now, thinking about the
maneuver, as the Wells Fargo stage pulled in. Five minutes early. It was almost
certain that Barnett and Kelsey would choose Alex, if such a merger ever took
place. And Alex's impression that it had been the idea of his good friends,
Kelsey and Barnett, would be sustained. For the time being, however, she would
see for herself if Wells Fargo was all it was cracked up to be.

She watched as four Chinese and two
heavily rouged women emerged from the stage and came into the waiting room.
There were no complaints. Esther listened as the courteous clerk explained a
schedule to one of the Orientals. She glanced at the "wanted" poster,
felt a pang of longing, then fought it off by turning her attention to the two
men coming down off the driver's seat of the stage.

Waiting for a moment to observe the care
and efficiency of the firm's freight-handling, she gathered up little Moses as
the driver took their bags, and they walked out to the open stagecoach door. In
minutes they were at the magnificent new
Embarcadero
levee, waiting for the ferry to take them
across the river. On the ride north through what had once been Sutter's
enormous land-grant from the Mexicans, Esther's bitterness over Murietta was
replaced by resignation and a small measure of thanksgiving. At least he was
still alive. Then melancholy superseded her faint hope that
Murietta
would continue to elude the persistent
hunting of Harry Love and God knows how many others.

She turned to little Moses. The suit,
shirt, and shoes she had bought him the day before fit perfectly, seemed almost
made to order. Still, they did not look right. They fit him physically but in
no other way. With his longish black hair and permanently wary dark eyes, the
predominant impression he gave was of a subdued but still wild creature trapped
in a tight cage.

He looked at her now and then,
expressionlessly. Most of the time he gazed out through the window, intently
studying the countryside slipping past. She wondered if he was storing the
route in his mind, preparing himself to retrace it if he could escape from the
school. He had not uttered a word to her since the painful parting at the
village.

Strangely, it was she who had nearly
wavered, not
Solana.
The
Indian woman had grown as attached to Moses as she was to her own son, and at
first she wept uncontrollably. Moses, too young to know or have anything to say
about what was happening to him, nonetheless seemed as totally accepting of the
change as an ancient shaman. He stared calmly over Solana's shoulder, first at
Miwokan, then at Esther, and then, comfortingly, almost patiently, he stroked
Solana's hair as though he was the parent and she the child.

"You see? He knows this is
best,"
Solana
said,
standing up, wiping her eyes, and taking Esther's hand as she walked out of
earshot.

"But now I don't," Esther
whispered, holding back tears.

"You know that I love him as my
own."

"Yes."

"But I must be strong in this, as
you must be. I must live with the pain of his going away, accept the empty
place in me that will be there all the years he is no longer here. As you must,
in your own way. I cannot know why you will not have him with you, but I know
you. And I know you would not do this unless the reasons in your heart are
strong."

"Someday I will tell you what those
reasons are."

"It does not matter to me. I believe
you do what you must. And I know that Moses, as much as he is loved here, is
different. He will always be different here, not an Indian… Not  a stranger—he
could never be that. But never completely one of us."

"That wouldn't be good for
him."

"No it would not. I hope it is not
too late for him to be one of his own. But what you are doing will be a chance
for that."

Esther gazed off for a moment, wondering
if the four years here had already shaped him enough to make him a permanent
outsider in the world he was about to enter. She turned back to
Solana
and smiled sadly. "You and Miwokan
always remind me, when I least expect it, of how much wisdom and strength I
lack."

"Come,"
Solana
said gently, putting her arm through
Esther's. "We will go back to him now. And there will be no tears. We must
do what is for him and not ourselves."

When she rode out of the village with
him, his expression was as blank as it was now. She brushed at his hair with
her fingers as the stagecoach finally rocked him to sleep.
He probably knows
there is nothing he can do about what is happening to him
, she thought.
No
more than I can alter the emptiness and increasing uncertainty I have felt in
Joaquin's absence.

He is accepting it as I must
accept. But God, the lack of Murietta is so dreadful.

It was not the same palpable, hollowed
out longing she had experienced during her year without Alex at Bent's Fort.
That had been like the absence of a limb and a lessening of the warmth of the
sun. Aside from what the loss of Joaquin meant concerning Mosby, this was more
like an increase in weight around her heart; and an unexpected unsteadiness, a
feeling that the earth was about to shift beneath her feet, to open and swallow
her up. Until now, she had not been aware of how much she had come to rely on
Murietta. She sorely missed his honest, objective advice about her business
dealings, his confirmations and gentle corrections of her judgment, the way his
calm reason cut through her often emotional reaction to things and helped her
see them more objectively. She could almost
feel
the absence of him,
see
the gap where a living, physical barrier once screened her from loneliness. She
also recognized now how important he had been in providing a focus of attention
outside herself.

Magnifying her disquiet was the strange
disbelief that began when she glanced at the accountings Murietta had hurriedly
left with her that final day. Inventory, Blue Star holdings, and mining
properties aside, $501,475 was deposited in her name at Adams and Company. When
she translated the figure into the words "more than a half-million
dollars," she had begun laughing hysterically. She had watched the figure
increase on each bank statement over the past four years, but now she wondered
whether there had been some simple but enormous mathematical mistake somewhere
along the line. She was only twenty- three years old. She could not comprehend
how she had come to be a rich woman. During the hours when she believed the
figure, she was not sure she could continue playing such a game without
faltering, committing some disastrous error, and losing everything.