Daughters of the Heart (17 page)

But Braxton knew of a few of Claude’s old haunts that even Bull Glover didn’t have eyes in. “Deal, but might as well call it the first of January.”

“Why’s that?”

“Wouldn’t want to miss the holidays with my dear old dad.”

Bull stuck out his hand. “A letter a week, and do some shopping. Send the little lady a few love trinkets.”

Braxton hesitated, but what else did he have to pass his time? He could pick up his Sofie a trinket or two as well. “Fine, but Henry Buckmeyer is liable to kill us both.”

The fifth day of August, 1853, found Clay Briggs standing on a pier watching the offloading of his and Elijah’s steamer trunks, but more important—according to his friend—the ten cases of high pressure hoses.

The man extolled the value of his purchased in New Orleans. Clay had never seen so many gold coins in all his days, but then his pap handled the money.

The teamster finished the bills of laden, signed them both, then handed over the papers. Elijah signed one and handed it back. “How quick can you get there?”

“Three hour, no more’n four. I’s gots to get up Broadway first, then I’ll come around to yous directly.”

“You been there before?”

“Oh yes, sir. Everyone knows the Lone Star, Miss Mary’s Mercantile.”

Elijah folded the bill and stuffed it in his shirt pocket. “See you then.”

He touched Clay’s elbow. “Come on, we’ll find a hack.”

“Thought we was riding with our goods?”

“Take too long.”

Clay had adored New Orleans. The city’s rhythmic buzz set his feet to dancing, but from what he’d seen of San Francisco, he might love this town even more. Raw, yet rich, yellow-skinned men scurried about and other foreigners spouted strange words. While not as hectic, it all worked.

Bless the ocean breeze, blew all the bugs right on through. Wouldn’t miss the mosquitoes and flies one little bit.

He matched strides with the man he’d grown to like better than any of his brothers. Pu him in mind of the story about David and how he loved King Saul’s son Jonathon more than any of his own kin.

Elijah Eversole showed him respect instead of always knocking him around and taking picks.

A few blocks from the wharf, an oriental man with a long black pigtail swinging against his back, sped by, pulling a big-wheeled buggy with a high and mighty lady riding, her face mostly covered by a ruffled parasol.

Before he got a good look, they turned at the next corner. The man ran flat out as though about to miss supper.

“Where do you suppose that guy’s going in such a hurry?”

“China Town.”

“What’s that?”

What would it hurt? Elijah’s young friend’s obvious delight with what little he’d seen of San Francisco amused him.

For his money, he’d rather be back in Texas with his love, but seemed young Mister Briggs’ intrigue focused far more on the grand adventure of a new world than any romantic notions.

Elijah loved being a changed man now, born again.

He could show Clay around China Town, and still get to the Mercantile before his goods.

Rhythmic hammer blows pounded behind both
eyes. Elijah rolled over and told his lids to open, but they refused. Where was he?

A door creaked open. “Mister Eversole, sir?”

The voice sounded sweet, but not exactly like his Cecelia’s. “What?” His lips protested the movement. Were they bleeding?

“You awake?”

“No. Where am I?”

“Well, it sounds to me like you are, and Daddy wants to see you. He sent me to get you if you were awake. So if you’re talking, then you got to be.”

He filled his lungs. His ribs begged him to stop. To oblige them, he exhaled slowly. By sheer force of will, he pried one lid to crack open. Francy stood in the half-opened door. “Baby girl, where am I?”

“In our new home. Like it? You’re in the cook’s quarters, except we ain’t got no cook yet, so you’re using her room. Do you know how?”

He tilted his head a bit. “What? How to what?”

“Cook!”

Shaking his head ever so slightly, he fell back onto the pillow. “Some.”

“So, you do?”

“What, Francy? Can you leave me alone?”

“Like it! Our new house and the cook’s room. Ain’t it pretty?”

He cracked the same eye again and tilted his head the slightest he possibly could get away with and still see the room. Wallpaper looked new and stylish, nice enough. And the extra-wide woodwork’s fresh off-white paint framed it quite well.

“Sure. Go away now, and let me go back to sleep.”

“I don’t think that’s a very good idea. Daddy’s mad. You best get on up and face the music.”

The door swung all the way open. Jethro Risen himself stood next to his adopted daughter. “Afternoon, Elijah.”

He nodded. “Where’s the water closet?”

“To your right. Come on, Francy. Let’s go put on some coffee. Our guest is going to need it.”

The door swung toward its place.

“Wait. Where’s Clay Briggs?”

“Upstairs, but let him sleep. He’s worse off than you.”

Two dry heaves, then half a cup of coffee later, as he sat Jethro’s new kitchen table, every last detail flooded his soul like the Lord wanted him to remember it all, so he’d never be tempted again. He drained his cup.

“More?” Jethro reached for the dainty little mug.

“Please.”

His partner—except the man was way more—stood, filled the saucerless beaker of porcelain, then set it in from of him. “Care to tell me what happened?”

He inhaled, but stopped short. The pain proved much greater than his need of air. “I’m a fool, Jethro. Just like that dog returning to his vomit, I returned to my folly.”

Quoting the scripture seemed to soften the older man’s countenance. “Elaborate.”

“After my folks got the fever and lit out, well…” He closed his eyes and let his mind’s eye wander back to those awful lonely days. He hated that time. But the word says confess you faults one to another, and he’d never told a soul. “The melancholy hit me hard. Whiskey helped for a time, but…” He rubbed his throbbing temples. Why had he ever taken that first drink? “I hated the next-mornings. Hated it that my work suffered, too.”

He looked away.

“Continue.” Bless Jethro’s heart.

Thankful it was just the two of them, Elijah went on. “One idiotic night, I went with this miner I’d done some work for to China Town. Like the fool I am, I shared a pipe with him.” He looked back.

His friend hiked his chin a bit and raised his brows. “Opium?”

Elijah nodded.

“What about yesterday? You share a pipe with this Clay?”

“No, sir. A rickshaw passed us and turned into China Town. The boy wanted to know about it. I thought…” He looked away again. A fool indeed. Never should have taken another drink. Should have known better.

“What did you think?”

He looked back, studied his coffee cup, mustered some courage, then took in as much air as his sore ribs allowed.

“That one drink couldn’t hurt. Pride, nothing but my pride. Clay ordered a beer, and I didn’t want to admit I had a problem before. ’Course, that one tasted so good, then we had a saki…he’d never tried rice wine.”

“Tell me about the fight.”

“Not much to tell. Wine is a mocker, strong drink raging. Clay and this loud-mouthed miner got into it. I had to help; the guy had forty pounds on him. Then the miner’s friends got involved.”

“Damages were considerable.”

“Yes, sir. Who do I need to see about them?”

Jethro shook his head. “I told the man to send the bill to the bank, and warned Father to expect it.”

“Yes, sir. I’m sorry. Can you forgive me?”

“Of course. Now how is it that you’re back from Texas so early?”

Elijah would have preferred to return to bed, but instead, he shared stories of his time at the Buckmeyers’ and why he invited Clay Briggs to return with him.

“Interesting. Shame Mary Rachel wasn’t here to hear it all, but then she’ll want more detail.” Of course what woman didn’t relish every bit of news from home? “And…” Jethro grimaced. “In my opinion, you should be telling Henry about your past, too. Next time you see him. Don’t put it off.”

For a long while, Elijah didn’t respond. The man had only asked whether he believed and had been baptized.

Never questioned him about his life before he’d met Brother Paul and turned it all over to the Lord. “Suppose you’re right. May the Lord have mercy on my soul.”

Jethro chuckled. “So I take it you found Mary Rachel’s father as advertised?”

“Oh, yes. And more.”  

The miner’s fist crashed into Clay’s jaw. He stumbled, righted himself, then turned as he drew back. The man had vanished. Instead, Gwendolyn stood before him.

“You going to hit me, Clay Briggs?”

“No, of course not. Never.” He retreated a step.

“You say you love me, yet you ran off to San Francisco.”

“I had to, sweetheart.”

“Don’t be calling me any of your pet names. Off having your grand adventure, sailing on steamers, drinking whiskey and brawling, and I saw you ogling that sporting lady. You going back tonight to see her?”

“No, Gwen. I’d never….”

“Well, Clay, you might as well. I’m marrying Braxton Hightower.”

“No, you can’t.” He sat up. His head exploded, forcing him back down. “Gwendolyn?” He reached out, but she wasn’t there. Only a dream. That’s all, just a bad dream. She loved him. He’d seen it in her eyes at the Donoho. Henry wouldn’t let her marry that chowderhead dandy, but what if she ran off? Like Mary Rachel.

Wait. He rolled over and spied his surroundings. Where was he?

Oh, man…in big trouble for sure, no matter where… Least no bars held him in. Good thing Ma lived more than fifteen hundred miles away—way—back in Texas. He raised his head. The pounding in his temples forced it back down.

His stomach roiled. Bile came halfway up his throat, burning, then hovered, threatening eruption.

Best find the outhouse. He slid off the bed. A sledge pounded his head as he stumbled toward the door.

A water closet? Where was he?

No answer came, only the contents of his stomach.

The retches finally stopped, leaving a horrible taste, but his mouth suffered nothing compared to the pain in his head. And pulverized ribs. No brother had ever hit him as hard as that miner.

Him and his big mouth. He eased out and surveyed the room. His steamer trunk, the one Elijah bought for him in New Orleans, sat on a short table or stool at the foot of his bed.

Was it some fancy hotel?

After washing up at the sink with running water, he eased into a clean shirt and fresh britches, then figured once he found some coffee, he’d be almost human again.

Humph.

His door didn’t have any numbers, neither did any of the others in the hall. He put one foot on a stair, then the other. On each descending step, he hung on tighter to the rail.

At the bottom, he followed his nose and voices through two rooms. Elijah sat across from what had to be Jethro Risen. Clay had heard so much about Mary Rachel’s second husband, seemed like he knew him.

“Hey, Clay, there you are. Want some coffee?”

“Please.”

Jethro Risen waved his partner back down, then got a cup for the young man who, according to Elijah, was head over heels in love with Gwen. Handsome enough.

Well, he would be again once the swelling went down and the bruises vanished. He swallowed the mirth that threatened to erupt as full-blown guffaws.

Wouldn’t do him laughing at these two’s misery. But then the Word said a man reaped what he sowed. The boys sure had themselves a bumper crop coming.

He handed Clay the coffee, then faced his partner. “That teamster delivered the ten cases of hose you bought in New Orleans.”

“Good. If they work like I think, we can double—maybe even triple—production at the mine.”

“What did we have to give for them?”

While Elijah justified his rather expensive purchase, Jethro marveled at the transformation in the younger man.

Contrite before, once he launched into his explanation of why he spent so much on the hose and how he planned on using them at the mine, seemed his aches and pains all but vanished, and a confidence that belied his years took hold.

“Enough said, proof will come in the doing. And it isn’t like you haven’t earned the right to spend our money however you see fit.”

Like he could at last relax, Elijah eased back in his chair. “Thank you, sir.”

Again, Jethro stifled his mirth. If he had a mean streak, he’d mention the coming confrontation with Cecelia’s father just to see how his partner reacted, but he himself had dreaded his own trial by the man’s fire.

So instead, he turned his attention to young Mister Briggs. Could be—if Elijah was right—this boy might be his brother-in-law come next spring.

“So you’re in love with my wife’s sister?”

The boy nodded. “Yes, sir. With my whole heart, and for over four years now.”

“Why’d you agree to come west then?”