The log cabin I share with the Joyner family is murky and dank, with a packed dirt floor that moistens to near mud at the base of the walls. But it has a solid roof, a cozy box stove, and—best of all—a single bright east-facing window with a real glass pane. Real glass! It’s such a rarity since coming west to California, but our claims have proved out so well that we can afford a few luxuries.
I work hard each day and fall into my bedroll exhausted but happy. Usually, I’m awakened by Zeus, Becky Joyner’s proud rooster, who trumpets every single dawn like it’s going to be the best day of his life. Sometimes I don’t wake until the first light of morning shines through that window, warming my cheeks and eyelids.
And every great once in a while, I’m so late abed that Becky or one of the children must intervene.
“Miss Leah Westfall, you get up right this minute, or I’m going to pour the wash bucket onto your face.”
A skirted shape looms over me, backlit by the light of the window. Her hands are on her hips, her head cocked to the side. I groan and rub my eyes. “Becky?”
“Pull on your boots and a coat and come help me. Quick.”
Obeying Becky is such a habit that I’m sitting up and reaching for my boots before her words sink in. “Something wrong?” I ask.
“Just got news the peddler is coming. Any miner within fifty miles square is showing up this morning, and a few Indians besides. Every seat is full. We’ll probably run out of food, but we can keep everyone full up on coffee.”
Becky is a terrible cook, but that hasn’t stopped her tavern business from booming. People come from all over to experience the “bad food, bad service” of the Worst Tavern in California. Or so they say. I expect the real reason they travel so far and spend so much gold is that our town of Glory now boasts a few female residents. Becky suffers at least one marriage proposal per day. Mary, her hired waitress, gets several per week. Even I get my fair share, in spite of the fact that I’m already affianced to the best fellow in all of California.
Thinking of Mary puts a puts a nervous hitch in my breath. I’ve been meaning to talk to her about something important—about the real reason for Glory’s prosperity—but I keep finding excuses to delay: Knowing the truth might put Mary in danger. Knowing the truth might chase her away. Knowing the truth might make her stay, but for all the wrong reasons.
I’ve been putting if off for weeks, ever since we escaped Uncle Hiram’s mine together. I just need to gather my gumption and get it done.
“I’ll see you outside,” Becky says, and she leaves.
I lace up my boots, splash icy water on my face, and wrap a scarf around my neck. I’m still wearing yesterday’s skirt of soft yellow calico, a parting gift from a friend who left for Oregon territory. If Mama were alive, she’d box my ears to see me wearing my everyday skirt to bed.
My hand goes to the golden locket dangling at my throat, like it does every morning. It’s my last keepsake from Mama; I took it from her still-warm body right after she was murdered, and it traveled all the way across the continent with me.
And as I clutch the locket in my palm, letting the precious metal invade all my senses, I realize that Mama would have been fine about the skirt. She was smart and practical, and she would have understood that things are different in California.
I pull on my coat, push open the door, and step into the brisk morning.
It’s a clear, bright day, perfect for prospecting. Frost surrounds the stoop, covers the canvas roofs of the nearby shanties, even edges our big muddy pond at the end of town. The sun is just now peeking over the oak and pines, turning all that frost into glittering diamonds. Shanties and lean-tos and tents hug the slope of our hill, all the way down to the muddy field and paddock. The structures don’t look like much from the outside, but one tent houses Jasper, a doctor; another has Wilhelm, a blacksmith; and still another a leather worker. Glory is a right and proper town now, as fine a town as any I’ve lived in, with even finer people.
To my left is the Worst Tavern, full up on folks sitting at long tables beneath an enormous, thrice-patched awning. Mostly miners, a few Indians. Two woodstoves keep everyone in steady biscuits and provide extra warmth—the seats nearest the stoves are always first to fill. Becky works a griddle, flipping flapjacks and bacon. Her daughter, seven-year-old Olive, is at the other stove, using tongs to lift biscuits into a basket. Mary, Glory’s only current Chinese resident, is scurrying back and forth between the stoves and the tables, delivering food, filling coffee cups, growling at customers.
When she sees me, she gives me a relieved smile.
“What can I do?” I ask.
“Coffee. Here, take this.” She shoves the pot into my hands. “Olive’s got a second pot brewing on the stove for when that’s empty. Sure hope that peddler brings another one. We’ll need three pots going at once by the end of the month.”
I start at the nearest table and fill all the cups to three quarters full. Mary grabs dirty plates and heads toward the wash station. One of the miners, a grizzled fellow with a big bald spot dead center on his scalp, reaches up with grasping fingers for Mary’s backside.
Mary whirls and—quick as a viper—whips out a handkerchief and snaps it at him.
The grizzled man snatches his hand back. “I was just being friendly!”
“Be friendly without using your hands,” Mary says.
The man frowns. “You ask me, this tavern ought to be called Uppity Women.”
Mary grins. “Thank you for the compliment, sir.”
He squints. Before he can suss it out, I step forward with my pot. “Hot coffee, sir?”
“Don’t mind if I do!” he says, Mary forgotten.
This is how it is most days at the Worst Tavern. Becky and Olive and Mary work themselves ragged to feed hungry miners, making mountains of biscuits, flapjacks, scrambled eggs, and bacon, cleaning dish after dish, all while avoiding the wandering hands of fellows who think coming to California means they no longer have to act like gentlemen. Sometimes I help out, but most days I’m out in the goldfields, working my own claim or helping my friends with theirs.
I return to the stove for more coffee, just as Mary comes back for more biscuits. “I need to talk to you,” I whisper to her. “Just as soon as the morning rush is over.”
She hefts the plate of biscuits with one hand and wipes her brow with the other. “Sure, Lee,” she says, and she’s off.
Becky leans over. “You’re going to tell her?” she whispers.
“Yep.”
Becky’s brow furrows. “You sure you can trust the girl? She’s young and . . .” Her voice trails off.
And Chinese? And foreign? I’m not sure what it is Becky won’t say, and I keep my face smooth with some effort.
“She deserves the truth, Becky,” I say firmly.
Becky turns away, scrambling her eggs a little too violently.
“She helped me destroy Hiram’s Gulch, remember? We wouldn’t have escaped without her. I can’t begin to guess how many lives she saved. Besides, she’s been working here for a month. In all that time, she’s earned for you three times what you pay her, without once complaining. I trust her, and so should you.”
I’m preaching to myself as much as Becky, I suppose. I trust Mary. I do. It’s just that my secret is such a big one, and so many people have been hurt because of it.
“What does Jefferson say?” Becky says. “He’s going to be your husband; it’s only proper you consult him.”
“Jeff trusts her. He says it’s up to me whether I tell her or not.”
She shovels eggs onto a plate just in time for Mary to dash by and sweep it up. “If you think it’s best,” Becky says.
The morning passes quickly. Miners only linger if they had too much to drink the night before; otherwise, they’re up and away to their claims as soon as possible. Everyone knows the easy diggings will be gone soon, and there’s no time to spare.
A final wave of hungry miners heads our way, and I look up, hoping to see Jefferson, but it’s just Old Tug and his Buckeyes from Ohio. Jefferson must be at his claim already. With our wedding coming up, he’s keen to build his stake.
“Morning, gentlemen,” I call out as Tug and his men find seats. “Coffee?”
Tug wipes at bleary eyes. “Please, Miss Leah.”
“Hard night, huh?” I ask, filling his cup.
He grins through wiry whiskers, showing all two of his teeth. “Won two gold eagles playing cards,” he says.
“Congratulations.”
“Two gold eagles makes me mighty eligible, don’t you think? High time I found a Mrs. Tuggle.”
Not this again.
“It’s a pity I’m already affianced,” I tell him solemnly.
“Oh, not you,” he says with a wave of his hand. “Got my eye on that little China girl.” And sure enough, his gaze follows Mary as she heaps bacon onto plates and wipes up spills with her handkerchief.
I sigh. Poor Mary.
“You think she’ll have me?” he asks.
“I doubt it,” I say.
His eye widen with affront. “Ain’t nothing wrong with me!”
“Course not. But Mary is one of the handsomest girls I ever saw. Also, she’s a woman of intelligence and learning. Did you know she speaks three languages?”
He shakes his head.
“So, I suggest that instead of proposing straight out, you court her. Woo her. Show her what a fine gentleman you are.”
“You think so?”
“I do.” That will give me time to warn my friend. Old Tug has asked every woman he’s met to marry him, starting with Becky Joyner and then me.
“I reckon you might be right,” he concedes. “I don’t want to mess this one up.”
I give his shoulder a pat and move on to the next table.
The Buckeyes eat quickly, but unlike most customers, they scoot their chairs and benches in and take their dishes to the wash station themselves. They tip their hats at Mary, who is elbow deep in the washtub. Old Tug lingers. “Have a fine day, Miss Mary,” he says, with the most earnest, hopeful gaze I ever saw on a fellow.
She looks up from her dishwashing and smiles. “Thank you, Mr. Tuggle. You too.”
After they leave, Mary turns to Becky. “All right if I steal away with Lee for a spell? She needs me. I’ll be back to finish the dishes; I won’t shirk.”
Becky stops scraping the griddle just long enough to give a wave of permission.
Mary grabs my hand and pulls me away from the stoves and the giant awning and into the sunshine. “I’m so glad you wanted to talk,” she says. “I needed a break.”
“Is it awful, working for Becky?”
“No, not exactly,” Mary says. We head toward the creek and then turn upstream. The path is rocky and steep, but well traveled now that so many Glory residents have claims in this direction. “But after the miners leave, it’s just me and Becky and Olive, working in silence. Olive is a sweet thing, but I don’t think Becky cares for me much.”
I’m not sure she’s wrong. “Becky is distrustful of all things unfamiliar,” I tell her. “But she’ll come around.”
Mary shrugs like it’s no big deal, but Mary is not one to share her thoughts easily, and the fact that she did is a sure sign that she is vexed.
“Becky hasn’t been unkind to you, has she?” I ask.
“No. But she hasn’t been kind either. Anyway, what did you want to talk about?”
“Not yet. Once we’re out of earshot of town.”
Mary raises her eyebrows but doesn’t protest.
We continue uphill until we reach a spot where the creek stairsteps down a series of boulders, creating frothing rapids. The sound of the rushing water ought to mask our voices.
I glance around to make sure no stray miners are passing by. “So,” I say. “I have a secret.”
“I’m listening,” Mary says, and she has that unreadable look again, the one I used to find so daunting.
I take a deep breath. Why does this never get easier? “You see . . . I . . . You know Old Tug?” Silently I curse myself for cowardice.
“Yes.”
“He’s sweet on you. He might ask you to marry him. Didn’t want you to be caught by surprise.”
Her face brightens. “Maybe I ought to encourage him.”
Not the answer I expected. “Mary! He’s vile!”
She nods. “Yes. All men are vile.”
“No, they’re—”
“Lee, I know a lot more about men than you do, and trust me, they’re all gross, disgusting creatures. But Tug is nice. Maybe the nicest man in Glory. He never grabs me or threatens me or treats me like I’m not a person. He could stand to bathe more, but he always picks up his dishes, and he leaves me generous tips.”
“Huh.” I consider defending Jefferson, who is the opposite of vile, but I decide I’d rather not argue. “I hadn’t pegged you for the marrying kind.”
She gives me a look that would curdle cream. “Because of my previous occupation?”
“No! You’re just . . . I guess I don’t know.”
“Well, I haven’t decided if I want to marry or not. But if I do, it will be to a kindhearted fellow like Tug. Is that what you needed all this secrecy for? To tell me about him?”
“No.”
Mary crosses her arms. “Out with it, Lee.”
I sigh. A breeze sends a gust of waterfall spray, and as I wipe my wet face with the end of my scarf, I say, “So . . . remember my uncle? How he kidnapped me? Forced me to help with his mining operation?”
“I was there, remember?”
“Right. Of course.” The end of the scarf twists in my hands. Twist, twist, twist. “Before that, he killed my parents. Took over the homestead. And after I escaped, he chased me across the continent.”
Mary peers into my face. “I always thought his obsession with you was mighty peculiar. I mean, you’re his niece, but still.”
“It was more than that. And Mary, you have to swear up and down and sideways that you won’t tell another soul what I’m about to tell you.”
“I’ll swear no such thing. You either trust me or you don’t.”
I glare at her. She is determined to make this difficult. “Fine. Here it is. I can find gold. Not like a miner. Like a witch. I have a . . . power.”
Her black eyes fly wide as she blurts something in Chinese.
“What? I don’t know what you just said—”
“Something my mother would have whipped me for saying. Are you serious, Lee? You are serious, aren’t you. You’re not funning me at all.”
“I’m not funning you.”
Her sudden smile could light up all of California. “Show me!”
“Wait. You believe me?”
“Of course. You may be daft sometimes, naive in the ways of men, but you’re not a liar. And it makes sense. All those rumors about the Golden Goddess . . .”
“Yeah. Those.”
“Show me,” she says again.
I’ve had to prove myself before, so I know just what to do. I reach behind my neck and unclasp my locket. I hand it to her, chain and all.
“I’m going to turn around and close my eyes. Hide the locket somewhere, and I’ll tell you where it is.”
“All right.”
I turn my back to her, extending my gold sense. The locket shines like a beacon in my mind, a spot of warmth and light. Only a few seconds pass before I say, “Don’t put in your pocket, Mary. That’s too easy.” Mary gasps. “Hide it somewhere more interesting.”
A moment later, I hear scuffling, scraping of rocks, a bootheel digging into the ground.
“Okay, find it,” Mary says breathlessly.
My back is still to her, but I can sense the locket just fine. I roll my eyes. “It was clever of you to make all that racket, but the locket is still in your pocket.”
“No, it’s not,” she lies.
In answer, I imagine invisible fingers wrapping themselves around the locket. I picture them clenching into a fist, lifting the trinket into the air.
Mary blurts something in Chinese again. I turn around to find her gaping at the locket, a shiny bit of gold floating in the air before her, chain dangling.
But this is a new trick for me, and I can’t keep hold of it for long. My mental grip weakens fast, and the locket plummets to the ground. Slowly, almost reverently, Mary crouches to retrieve it, brushes off dirt and pine needles, and offers it to me.
I put it back around my neck, where it belongs.
“Who else knows?” she asks.
“Jefferson, of course. The Major. Becky and the children. The college men. Hampton.”
“Even the children?”
“They’ve seen some hard things since leaving Tennessee. They understand consequences, and they know to keep quiet.”
“Well.” Mary gazes into the distance. The damp air is chilly here by the rapids, making me shiver. A raptor screeches from far away, and I look up, expecting to see one of California’s giant condors, but the sky is a bright blue bowl of emptiness. “Thank you for telling me,” Mary says finally. “For trusting me.”
“You should understand, Mary, that being my friend is dangerous. My uncle murdered to get his hands on me, to control what I can do. You have a right to know what you’re in for.”
Mary waves it off. “California is nothing but danger. I expect being your friend might also be . . . useful . . .” Her mouth forms a little O. “That’s why Hampton’s claim is doing so well! And Jefferson’s. And yours. Lee, you’re going to be rich. If you’re not already . . .”
I know that gleam in her eye. I’ve seen the fever take people a thousand times.
“Don’t worry,” she adds, as if reading my thoughts. “I won’t tell anyone. And you don’t have to help me get rich. Though . . .” She waggles her eyebrows. “It wouldn’t hurt if you put in a good word for me with Becky. She should pay me more.”
I laugh. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“I’d better get back to the dishes before Becky—”
“Lee! Mary!” comes a high little-girl voice. It’s Olive, running toward us, skirts in her hands to keep them out of the mud. “Ma needs you again.”
“What’s wrong?” I ask, just as Mary says, “Everything all right?”
“It’s the peddler,” Olive says, gasping for breath. “He’s here. And Ma got a letter.”
“From the Robichauds?” I say excitedly. “The Hoffmans?”
Olive shakes her head. “From a stranger. In San Francisco.”
I have no idea what that means, and my excitement slips away like water through a sieve. Letters ought to be exciting. Joyful, even. But as Mary and I follow Olive back to town at a jog, an uneasy feeling tingles the back of my neck.
By the time we reach the Worst Tavern, several of our friends have already gathered. The Major is there, bouncing the unnamed Joyner baby on his knee. The college men—Jasper, Tom, and Henry—have their heads together at the other end of the table, reading Becky’s letter. Jefferson and Hampton arrive just as Mary and I do, little towheaded Andy at their heels, followed by the dogs, Nugget and Coney.
Everyone else must be out perusing the peddler’s wares, because we have the tavern all to ourselves.
Jefferson grins when he sees me. Already, a smudge of mud sweeps across his brow, and his temples are slick with the sweat of hard work. The sight makes me happier than a lark in a meadow. I grin right back.
“We’ll have to move fast,” Tom tells Becky from his place at the table. “Seems as though the letter took a while to find you, and your cargo won’t be stored much longer.”
“What do you mean?” I say. “What’s going on?”
“It’s my house,” Becky says. “The one my late husband had disassembled and shipped across the Panama Isthmus. It arrived in San Francisco some time ago, and a letter to Andrew asking him to claim the cargo just now reached us.”
Jefferson sidles over so he can put an arm around my shoulders. I lean into him. My head barely reaches his jaw now, and I decide I like that just fine.
“So what are you going to do?” Mary asks.
Becky raises her chin. “I’m going to get what’s mine, of course.”
“You sure it’s worth the trouble?” the Major asks gently. “You earn so much each day with your restaurant, and you have a sound cabin already.”
Becky’s eyes soften. “I do. And I’m grateful for all of it. But that house has sentimental value. And it comes with other items of worth—some furniture, a few heirlooms. It would be a final courtesy to Mr. Joyner to lay hold of it all and pass it along to his children someday.”
“Well, that’s good enough reason for me,” the Major says.
“Ba!” says the baby girl in his lap.
“I would dearly love to see San Francisco,” Henry says. “My claim has done fine. I could take my stake to the city. Get a job as a tutor.”
“Maybe this is a good time to set up my law practice,” Tom says.
Jasper says, “I’d love the opportunity to study with a city doctor for a while.”
I stare at the college men, my heart sinking. “So . . . you want to leave Glory?” We traveled across a whole continent together, and I can’t imagine the place without them.
“Maybe,” Henry says.
“Just temporarily,” Jasper says, with a pointed look at his friends. “I’m not giving up my claim.”
But Tom grasps Henry’s hand with his own, and some kind of understanding passes between them.
Hampton reaches down to scritch Coney behind his long ears. “I wouldn’t mind heading to San Francisco, see if there’s any word of my wife, Adelaide.” With Tom’s help, Hampton arranged to buy his wife’s freedom. We’re hoping to hear the sale has gone through and she’s on her way. It’s probably way too soon—it takes months for letters to find their way back east—but you can’t blame a fellow for being optimistic.
Becky turns to Jefferson and me. “What about you two? Any interest in a trip to San Francisco?”
“I don’t want to give up my claim,” Jefferson says. “I’m about to be a married man!”
“Tug and the Buckeyes could work your claims while you’re gone,” Tom suggests. “In exchange for keeping a percentage of what they find. They’ve proven themselves hardworking and trustworthy. I could even draw up some quick contracts.”
“I suppose that would work,” Jeff says. “Lee, what do you think?”
“I think . . .” I take a deep breath. Mama and Daddy were originally from Boston. They used to tell me about the sea, about water that stretched farther than a body could gander, a color that’s the most perfect deep blue in the world. “I think I want to see the ocean.”
“Then it’s settled,” Jasper says.
“Wait, Becky, what about your restaurant?” I ask. “You have so many customers that—”
“I’ll do it,” Mary says, and we all look at her. “I can do it,” she insists.
Becky taps a finger to her lips, considering, sizing up the girl.
“I might need to hire a little help,” Mary adds, “but I can keep the place running.”
“Very well,” Becky says at last, and Mary grins from ear to ear.
“We should leave soon,” Tom says. “Maybe even tomorrow. I don’t know what they do with unclaimed property, but if Becky doesn’t act fast, it could get dumped into the bay. Or even stolen.”
We work out a few more details, but it’s settled in no time. The Joyners, the college men, Hampton, the Major, and Jefferson and I are all headed to San Francisco. The Buckeyes and Mary will stay behind to keep things running smoothly.
When our meeting comes to an end, Jefferson and I head out toward our adjacent claims, walking hand in hand, the dogs at our heels. I’m already rich. My stash of gold pieces and nuggets and dust is fit for a king. Still, I want to find as much gold as I can today, because who knows what our journey will bring?
“There’s another reason I want to go to San Francisco,” Jefferson says after a stretch of silence.
“Oh? Something you didn’t want to say in front of everyone else?”
“That James Henry Hardwick fellow. Doesn’t he have holdings there?”
We had some business with him over Christmas. We paid him a tidy sum for his services, and while he made good on his word to get rid of my uncle once and for all, he still hasn’t fulfilled all the terms of our agreement. “You’re thinking of the town charter he owes us.”
“Yep. If we don’t get that straightened out soon, the people of Glory have no protection. The town could just . . . go away.”
Together we leap over a small rivulet, onto a rocky embankment that marks the boundary of Jeff’s claim. “I thought you didn’t care about owning land and all that fuss.”
“I don’t. But Glory is bigger than me. It’s a safe place for a lot of folks now.”
“A sanctuary.”
“Exactly. A sanctuary. So maybe we can find Hardwick, remind him he still owes us that charter.”
I frown. “He gives me a bad feeling.”
“Oh? Why?”
“He uses tricky words and fancy deals and shiftiness. Like my uncle. I prefer a straight-up fight.”
Jefferson laughs. “Well, maybe we’ll learn to fight differently. Anyway, going is the right thing. It’s fitting.”
“What do you mean?”
“Once we get to San Francisco, once we see the ocean, we’ll have really gone all the way across the continent. I mean, it’d be a pity to come all this way and not finish the journey.”
I squeeze his hand. “Then let’s do it. Let’s finish the journey.”