Like a River Glorious (20 page)

T
he door creaks open, and I freeze midstep. My uncle enters with a rush of cold air.

“Hello, sweet pea,” he says. He carries a large package wrapped in twine beneath one arm, which he sets down just inside the door.

“Uncle.”

He whips off his gloves and places them on top of the package. “Have you been to the mine yet today?”

“Not yet.” I hide my hands behind my back, the ones that have been contemplating murder, as if hiding them can hide my intentions.

“I want you to visit
every day
. Make sure the boys are going in the right dir—” His gaze drifts down to my muddy, ragged hem, and his face becomes so dark it puts a chill in my throat. “What happened to your dress?”

I swallow. “I had Wilhelm take me on a tour of the south fields. It was very muddy.”

“That's not a place for a young lady.”

“You said to familiarize myself with our operation. I'm still familiarizing. It's a big, complicated place, and you can't expect me to take it all in at one go.”

He removes his hat and hangs it on its peg by the door. “You wanted to see that horse.”

No sense lying about that. “Well, yes, that too. I raised her from a foal. Wanted to make sure Abel Topper was taking care of her.”

“And if he wasn't? What then, Leah?”

I would have gutted that worthless worm.
“Well, I suppose I would have told you about it, hoping you'd have a word with him.”

“A man doesn't interfere with how another man handles what's his.”

“Seems to me men don't always do a good job handling what's theirs.”

His eyes flash with anger, and I almost take a step back. “That's his business,” he says. “A man ought to be sovereign in his house, even if his house is only a horse, a woman, and a gun.”

My molars grind together so hard it makes my jaw ache. Jefferson got beaten by his da all the time because no one would interfere. Mrs. Lowrey died giving birth because everyone refused to interfere. And no one in Dahlonega dared interfere when my parents were murdered and a strange man rode into town claiming their homestead and me along with it.

Well, I'm going to interfere. I'm going to interfere plenty.

“Visit the mine,” my uncle orders. “The gold's not coming up fast enough. We need more, and soon.”

“All right.”

“Speaking of . . . odd thing happened.”

My heart pounds a little faster, even though I'm not sure what he's going to say. “The foremen blasted forward into the rock, like you suggested. They found almost nothing. But the blast impact carved out a bit more than expected of the west wall. And wouldn't you know but the vein picked up right there, exactly where you
didn't
tell them to go.”

My heart is pounding in earnest now. “I . . . well . . . sometimes my sense of things is foggy where there's so much gold to be had.”

Two swift strides is all it takes for him to close the distance between us. His hand darts out and cups my chin, raising my face to meet his gaze. His thumb and forefinger bore into my jaw as he says, “Don't ever do that again.”

“I . . . Okay.”

“Your friends Bigler and McCauley are going to be mighty hungry tonight on account of missing supper. A second time, and hunger will be the least of their worries.”

His grip on my jaw is so tight and my frustration and anger so great that a single blasted tear leaks from my right eye. Judas tear, betrayer tear. “I'll . . . I'll do better.”

Hiram releases me all at once, and I stumble backward. “That's my girl,” he says. “I have some more errands to run, but I'll be back later to make sure you visited the mine. Also, there will be no visiting your friends today. You may
see them again after you've been on good behavior.”

My back is against the cabin wall now, and I take a bit of strength in its solidness. “Where did you go this morning?” I ask. He's always off on some errand or other, but it doesn't seem like there's all that much business to attend to in this wilderness.

“Why do you ask?”

“I'm showing an interest.” I swallow hard, but I'm not sure if it's my pride or my reservations. “I'm trying to be the young lady you expect me to be.”

“In that case, I visited Don Antonio de Solá, a ranchero just west of here. He owns one of the largest ranchos in California. We need financing to expand our operation, and he needs more able-bodied laborers. We might come to an agreement.”

I chew on that a moment. If this ranchero has so much money and needs able-bodied laborers, why doesn't he just hire more?

“You don't have laborers to spare,” I point out. “Not if you want to expand operations.”

“We don't. We'd have to fetch some more.”

“How would we . . . Oh.” He's talking about the Indians. He plans to send Dilley and his men to round them up.
No,
I correct myself. He plans to send Dilley and his men to
kidnap
them.

I suspect I
do
know what my daddy would say.
It's okay to put down a bear if it's a man-eater.

“That package is for you,” my uncle says, pointing to the bundle at the door. “You'll begin wearing them immediately.
And after you visit the mine today, you will launder that dress.”

“Yes, Uncle,” I say meekly.

I can't stand to be in his company a moment more. I grab the package and take it to my bedroom.

I'm not surprised to open it and find a new pair of lady's boots. They are elegant and beautiful, with shiny brass eyelets, silk laces in soft blue, and a tiny rosette sculpted in leather at each toe. I am surprised, however, at how practical and sturdy they seem. They're made of stiff black leather, polished to shine, and the heel is a little less dainty than necessarily fashionable. They're the farthest thing from the perfect, flimsy silk things Annabelle Smith back home used to wear. In fact, they're perfect for a girl who might encounter a little mud or even hop onto a horse.

It's a thoughtful and wonderful gift, and my skin crawls to think of donning them.

I've worn nothing but Daddy's too-large boots for almost a year now. It's the only thing of his I have left. I won't give them up. I won't.

But there's no telling what my uncle will do if I don't wear the new ones.

A smile tugs at my mouth. I know just what to do.

Quickly I shuck Daddy's boots and retrieve the small bag of gold stashed in the toe. I shove it under my mattress. Not the best hiding place, but it will keep for a short while.

I slip on the new boots. They're stiff, and they pinch my toes together, but I've no doubt they'll fit perfectly once broken in.
Strange how my uncle could estimate my shoe size so easily. Did he measure me in my sleep? I don't remember him ever staring at my feet.

I lace up the boots and head back into the main room. Hiram is sitting at the table, eating dinner while penning a note. He looks up when I enter.

“Thank you for the boots,” I say.

His smile is as wide and kind and generous as I've ever seen. “They're perfect on you!” he says. “Once you get that hem cleaned up, you'll be as proper as they come.”

I can't stand to play at niceness even one second more. “I'm off to the mine,” I tell him, heading for the door. “See you later.” And I swing the door wide, dart outside, and shut it behind me before he can respond.

Wilhelm is standing sentry as usual.

“Mr. Westfall wishes me to pay a visit to the mine,” I say.

It's possible I'm mistaken, but the look he gives me seems commiserative. He offers his arm, and off we go.

Frank Dilley and several of his men are sitting in the alcove near the barrels of sugar water, playing cards. I frown. Seems to me that if we need to bring more gold out of this mine, there are plenty of able-bodied men right here who could get to work.

“Miss Westfall,” Frank says, with a tip of his hat, and the deference startles me. I can't remember the last time he addressed me without making fun of me for dressing like a boy.

But his jaw is tight and his eyes mean. He doesn't like being forced to pay me any respect.

“Dilley,” I say. “My uncle wants me to have a look at the Drink today.”

I don't want to go back down there. Just stepping inside this dark, musty place makes me think of that poor man, the one who practically got his head blown off right before my eyes. But I have to do this. I have to.

Frank Dilley shrugs. “Whatever the boss says.”

But he doesn't want to leave his card game, so Wilhelm and I continue alone.

This time, I know the way, so I lead us down the dank, slippery passage. The air moves constantly, almost like a breeze, and the lanterns lining the low ceiling sway and bob, making moving patterns of light along the walls and floor.

The sounds of splashing and clanging pickaxes grow louder as we near the tunnel's end. We skirt a cart, half full with sopping-wet ore, and its bored burro whose ears twitch irritably at every sound, and then the tunnel opens wide into the hollowed-out cavern. I stop when the toes of my new boots meet the water's edge.

I glance around for Jefferson or Tom or Muskrat. There are people everywhere, soaked and naked. Abel Topper stands shadowed in an alcove, whip held ready. “My uncle wishes me to do a thorough inspection,” I call out to him, and he nods.

And I don't even bother to lift my skirts before I wade right into the muck, new boots and all.

I make a show of examining everything—the ceiling, the walls, a lone pickax leaning against a rock, its wooden haft split from so much constant moisture. Gold tingles in the
back of my throat. There's plenty of it down here, but they'll have to do something about this water to reach it.

Wilhelm has waded in after me; in this gloomy place, his giant form feels like a huge shadow looming over my shoulder. I have to figure out a way to distract him.

I let my witchy sense pull me forward, toward the westernmost wall. At least I think it's the westernmost; it's so easy to get turned around down here. It's an area of the mine that's been much neglected—Topper seems to be focusing the miners in a different direction—and only one man is working it, doggedly attacking it with a pickax. His strikes are strong and quick, even though his body is thinner than a deer in a drought.

He hears me sloshing through the water and turns. It's Muskrat.

I thought he didn't work in the mines. Something has changed. Maybe my uncle has become suspicious. But I dare not ask my questions in front of Wilhelm.

Pretending nothing is amiss, I put my hand to the wall and close my eyes.

This bit of rock was laid down by flooding water, maybe over thousands of years, and it's riddled with gold—it glitters bright in my mind, like endless stars against a dark velvet night. But beyond that is a vein, a river of honey sweetness, singing as loud and clear as an oriole.

It's the first nice thing I've felt all day, and I wrap my thoughts around it, embrace it, let its shiver flow deep inside me.

The wall vibrates, fast and soft like hummingbird wings.

I lurch back as if bitten, and I hold up the palm of my hand and stare at it. The meager lantern light casts yellow warmth onto my skin, with occasional shifting shadows, so that it almost appears my hand is on fire.

What just happened? It's like I placed my hand on the wall, and when the gold spoke to me, I spoke back. It wasn't my witchy senses making it
seem
like the wall vibrated. It really moved.

I made the wall move.

Behind me, Wilhelm grunts. Muskrat waits, patient and tense. If Topper catches him idle, he might be whipped, even though he's just being courteous to me.

I've stood here too long, and I need to get moving. I'll figure out this gold business later.

“Wilhelm,” I say.

He regards me expectantly. The shadows snag on his scar, making it seem as though he sneers.

“Fetch Abel Topper for me, please. We need to discuss this section of the mine.”

Wilhelm frowns.

“And please hurry,” I say brazenly. “I need to get him back on track.” I return my hand to the wall and pretend to continue my inspection, peering at the rough rock as though my eyes could possibly tell me something I don't already know.

This time, when the siren call of gold invades my senses, I ignore it, tamp it down, tell it to go drown itself in a creek. Because I have other things to focus on right now.

Wilhelm hesitates only a moment more, then reluctantly backs away, splashing through the water toward Topper and his whip.

Once he's a safe distance, I whisper, “Muskrat, you were right. I saw. And I will do everything I can.”

He says nothing.

“Why are you here?” I ask. “I thought you were an interpreter.”

He hammers at the wall with his pickax. “Westfall,” he says between blows. “Insists I take Ezra's place. The man who was killed.”

“Ezra,” I whisper, because I want to lodge the name in my mind forever.

A tiny nod, almost imperceptible. “We met at the mission. He helped teach me English. He . . .” A chunk of rock falls from the wall and splashes into the water. Muskrat reaches for it and heaves it dripping into a nearby cart, where it clatters around loudly before settling. “And now, I will make sure Ezra's grandchildren leave this place alive.”

“Do you have a plan yet?”

“Almost. Do whatever Mary tells you.”

I'm about to ask Muskrat if he has a family, too, but Topper and Wilhelm come splashing toward me. Their movement waves the water above my knees. My dress—and my new boots—are well and truly ruined.

“Miss Westfall, I've work to do down here,” Topper says as Muskrat attacks the wall with his pickax, ignoring us. “We haven't met quota yet and—”