Henry offered to hire a coach for the evening, something to convey us to Hardwick’s soiree in style and comfort—at my expense, of course. But it turns out there are a limited number of carriages to be hired in San Francisco, and we were too late to schedule the lowliest driver with a dung cart.
“I could take all of you in the wagon,” Melancthon offers when Henry breaks the news to us.
“I would rather walk a hundred miles,” Becky says, “than be bumped around in a wagon like some poor country girl on a hay ride.”
She had enough wagon riding to last a lifetime.
I add, “Plus, it’s better if you aren’t seen with us.”
Melancthon presses his lips tight, making me wonder how much he has guessed. But then he nods, and that’s that.
So we’re going to walk.
As the night falls, we gather in the galley of the Charlotte, dressed in our best finery. For Becky and the Major, that means the same clothes they wore to Jim’s funeral, but brightened with a few decorative flourishes. Becky paces nervously, irritating Baby Girl Joyner. I don’t pretend to know much about babies, but from what I’ve seen, they must be like cats, sensitive to every fleeting emotion of the person who holds them. Before the tiny girl can get too upset, the Major offers to hold her, and both she and Becky calm right down.
Jefferson sidles up to me. “We might have one of those one day,” he whispers in my ear.
“We might have a whole mess of them,” I say. “I just hope we can bring them into a world a little safer than this one.”
“Becky seems to be doing all right with hers,” he points out. “And so will we.”
And that’s a good thing, because the only thing about children I know for certain is that they tend to follow a wedding the way light follows the sun. I reach out and squeeze Jefferson’s hand.
Mary rolls her eyes at us from her seat at the table. She is taking Jasper’s place tonight, since the invitation doesn’t specify names except to say “Leah Westfall and seven companions.” She wears a nondescript dress of brown muslin, and a heavy cloak with a cowl that will hide her face from Frank Dilley.
“You ready for this?” I ask.
She grins. “You know I am.”
Henry wears a suit of deep navy blue, with a bright yellow double-breasted waistcoat. He struts around, waiting for someone to notice. Mary has no patience for frippery, and Becky and the Major are too preoccupied—with the children and possibly each other—so I take pity.
“No peacock ever looked finer,” I tell him.
He straightens, head held high. “I look dashing, don’t I?”
“San Francisco agrees with you.”
“I just wish it would agree with me in a more financial capacity.” He sighs.
Jefferson is trying to fix the narrow tie that he’s added to his shirt.
“It looks like you’re tying a halter hitch,” I tell him. “You aren’t pulling a cow out of a ditch. Here, my daddy taught me. Just”—I slap his hands out of the way—“let me take care of that for you.”
He waits patiently while I undo the horrible knot. He says, “If my da owned a tie, I never saw him wear it.”
“Your da didn’t do a lot of things he ought to have done.”
He flinches.
“I mean, you’re twice the man he ever was.”
“Didn’t take it as a criticism. Sometimes it just feels like I’ll spend my whole life trying to catch up with all the things he didn’t do.”
“You’ve already caught up and run past him,” I say, earning a smile. “Here’s how my daddy taught me: the long end is a rabbit being chased by a fox, and the short end is a log. The rabbit goes over the log . . . under the log . . . around the log . . . and through the rabbit hole.” I make the motions as I talk, tying the knot for him. “Then you slide it up tight, and you’re done. Don’t pull on the rabbit; that’ll make it too tight. Just slide the knot up like this.”
“So the rabbit gets away?”
“Daddy was the type to always pity the frightened rabbit over the hungry fox.”
“Tonight we need to be a rabbit who thinks like a fox.”
“Or a fox who looks like a rabbit,” I say, standing back. “That looks . . .” Sudden shyness hitches my words. “You . . . Jefferson McCauley Kingfisher, I don’t mind saying you’re the finest-looking young man west of the Mississippi.”
He blinks, a little stunned. “And you’re beautiful.”
I shrug. “The best thing about this dress is it’s freshly washed.” It’s an unremarkable calico, blue to match Becky and Henry, the fabric a little faded. “But I don’t mind being a bit ordinary tonight.”
“Lee, there’s nothing ordinary about you,” Jefferson says.
Before I can reply, we’re interrupted by an overly dramatic sigh. Everyone is staring at us. Mary mimes a huge yawn.
“I offer my enthusiastic support for young love,” Becky says. “But can I beg you to hold off on your explorations until tomorrow?”
The Major sits on one of the benches, adjusting the straps that hold his wooden leg—a newer, bulkier design he just finished making. “I think the job that never gets started never gets finished. So let’s get started.”
Becky says, “Exactly my point. Do you have the invitation?”
I grab it from the table and hold in the air. My hand trembles. “Right here.”
The Major hefts Baby Girl Joyner. “Then off we go.”
We are solemn and silent as we exit the Charlotte and close the door behind us—as if we’re still at Jim’s funeral. So much hinges on tonight. There are so many things that must go exactly right.
My hand goes to the locket at my throat, but of course it’s gone. If all goes according to plan, I’ll never see it again, which puts a little ache in my chest. The locket will be nearby for a short while longer, and I reach out with my gold sense toward the Major and discover where he’s hidden it. The steady step-thump of the Major’s gait feels like it could be my own heartbeat.
“I can carry the baby for a spell,” Mary says.
The Major gives her up gratefully. He puts on a brave face, but I reckon walking long distances is hard on him, especially with a new leg he’s not quite used to yet. I take the lead, with Jefferson walking beside me and everyone else at my back. At the very end of the line, I’m aware of Olive and Andy quietly tagging behind.
Even if I hadn’t been to Hardwick’s house once already, I’d know which direction to go. Hardwick must have the contents of nearly a dozen gold-filled safes at his house, because it’s like a toothache throbbing in my jaw. Blindfold me and bind my hands, and I could still find my way.
But even without my powers, there’s no mistaking our path.
First we follow carriages as they rattle past. Then the carriages stop, jamming together at an intersection, waiting in what is only the slightest semblance of a line. We maneuver through the traffic to the place where impatient guests disembark from their assorted rides and join small throngs flowing along the margins of the street. Lanterns light the street and the gardens beyond the wall. Music swells, a Mexican band playing waltzes in the son jalisciense style, with violins, harps, and guitars. Laughter and shouts of delight rise above the music and float toward us.
A line of people awaits entry at the garden gate. Becky takes the baby from Mary.
“I don’t mind holding her,” Mary says, maybe a little bit wistfully.
“I need something to do right now,” Becky replies, clutching the nameless girl to her chest like a shield.
Ahead of us, several people are turned away—first a group of drunken miners, and soon after, a white man and his Indian wife.
“What if they don’t let us in?” Becky whispers.
“Then we give up this life of crime and get a good night’s sleep?” the Major says.
I glare at him before realizing he’s joking.
“They’ll let us in,” Jefferson says confidently.
“I know the fellows at the gate,” I assure them, indicating Large and Larger. But the baby, sensing Becky’s anxiety, fusses in her arms, so the Major leans over and sings softly to her.
“There was an old woman tossed up in a basket
Seventeen times as high as the moon
Where she was going, I could not but ask it,
For in her hand she carried a broom
‘Old woman, old woman, old woman,’ quoth I,
‘Oh whither, oh whither, oh whither so high?’
‘To sweep the cobwebs from the sky,
But I’ll be with you by and by.’”
The baby giggles and grabs at the Major’s beard; he leans down farther to let her take hold of it. “That’s a silly song,” Becky says, and though her words are judgmental, her tone is soft and her gaze fast on his face.
“My father sang it to me,” the Major says.
He smiles and Becky smiles back, and I don’t say a word, because they are the unlikeliest pair ever, but it seems that slowly and surely they have turned into a pair.
“Hello again,” says Large, as we reach the wide iron gate that provides the only entrance into the estate.
“Did you know you would be working here when I inquired about the party last night?” I ask.
They ignore my question. “Do you have your invitation?” asks Larger.
I hand it over.
“We were told to expect eight,” Large says, checking a list of names.
Larger looks over our heads. “Counting the young ones and the infant, I see eight.”
“I thought the young ones were much younger,” Large says as he considers Olive and Andy.
“Children have to grow up fast in California,” Becky says smoothly.
“That’s the truth,” Larger says, waving us in.
We hurry inside before they can change their minds or get a closer look, and then we all stop short, a little overwhelmed. To our left is a lush garden with creeping vines and spired yucca flowers and a single sprawling oak. Beside the oak, the band plays gaily from a temporary stage as couples waltz nearby. Fires glow inside clay ovens, radiating warmth and inviting guests to gather. Lanterns hang from branches and posts, illuminating gaming tables where people are playing Spanish monte and rolling dice. To the right, the doors are thrown open to the rambling wings of the house. Violin music and laughter flow from the windows.
It’s a wonderland. A place where magic might happen.
And the thing I notice most, that thing that lights me up from all sides, is my sense of gold. I feel like a fly caught in a spiderweb of golden strands. The center of the web is inside the house, where the safes must be stored. But strands shoot out in all directions: at the gambling tables, in every purse and pocket, even near the stage, where the band keeps a collection bag.
A young man in a white shirt and a thin black tie approaches with a tray of drinks. Henry snatches up a glass.
“Dancing and games are to your left,” the young man says, which we can see very well for ourselves. Then he gestures toward the right. “Food and drink are inside the house.”
I follow the direction of his hand. The open double doors frame a familiar profile. The face turns toward us, and the man strides in our direction.
“Frank Dilley,” I whisper in warning.
“That’s my cue to disappear,” Mary says, and she steps away, blending into the swirl of partygoers.
“Olive, Andy,” Becky says quickly, “it’s time to run and play.”
The two of them peel off, their faces hidden by their hats, and disappear into the crowd.
“If you don’t mind, I’ll follow them,” Henry adds, downing his drink in a single gulp and putting the empty glass back on the server’s tray.
I glance around for Helena Russell. She is surely in attendance. We all have a job to do here tonight, and right now, my job is to make sure Hardwick and his crew are looking at me. It’s the only thing I should be thinking about.
My hand goes to clutch Mama’s locket, but of course it’s gone. I stride toward Frank as if my knees aren’t suddenly wobbling and my heart suddenly pounding. “Thank you for the invitation,” I say brightly. “Lovely party.”
Frank pretends I don’t exist and approaches the Major, glaring down his nose at him. Like he regrets not killing him after the buffalo stampede. Like he might go ahead and correct that mistake right now.
“You showed up,” Frank says glumly.
“I thought you’d be glad to see me,” the Major replies. “After all, the invitation was delivered by your own hand.”
“I can’t figure out what drives you, Wally. I guess an old cripple like you is only good for doing women’s work and watching children. I’d kill myself before I’d ever do a skirt’s job.”
The Major smiles at Frank, but the corners of his eyes are as serious as a gunshot. “Dilley, you’re neither strong enough nor smart enough to do a skirt’s job.”
“The Major is the cleverest carpenter in all of California,” Becky says. “And he does the work of ten men. We couldn’t get by without him.”
Frank ignores her too. “We never would have made it across the desert if you were in charge of the wagon train,” he says.
The Major’s smile disappears. “If I’d stayed in charge, we all would have made it across.”
Becky opens her mouth but changes her mind about whatever she was going to say. Frank is one of those men who can’t feel big unless he’s making somebody else smaller. And suddenly, it’s like a click in my mind, the way everything settles into place. Frank is lonely. He wanted us here. He needed familiar faces, people he could put down so he could feel better about himself.
“I’m sorry for you, Frank.” The words rush out of my mouth before I can stop them, but I decide I don’t want to stop them. “You were in charge of the wagon train, and you couldn’t keep it together. You worked for my uncle Hiram’s mine, and we know how that went. Now you’re working for Hardwick, and he’s going to leave you behind when he goes to New York. You aren’t good enough for anything or anybody.”
He puts his hand on his gun. “I was good enough to put your friend Jim in the ground.”
And just like that, my pity turns to anger. In fact, I’m so angry now that tears start leaking from my eyes, but a show of tears is probably a good thing.
Jefferson steps forward before I can reply. “You’re a murderer, Frank Dilley. Plain and simple.”
Frank opens his mouth, taking a menacing step toward us, but he’s interrupted by a cheerful greeting.
Hardwick approaches, arm in arm with Helena, who is resplendent in a blue velvet gown. With her auburn hair and pale white skin, she’s the colors of the American flag. I focus hard on my anger at Frank, then the scents of beeswax candles and spiced cider, the flickering lanterns and the swirling people.
“Miss Westfall. I was hoping I would get the chance to see you toni—” Hardwick notices Frank’s fuming gaze and the hand on his gun. “Go on, Dilley, get out of here.”
Frank practically snarls, but he shoots one more angry glance at our group, then strides casually away toward the house, as if that was his plan all along.
“Some dogs you have to keep on a leash,” Hardwick says.
“And when the dog bites people anyway?” I ask.
He shrugs. “In one more day, that dog won’t be my problem.” Hardwick indicates his companion. “You remember my associate, Miss Helena Russell.”
We exchange wary nods. Her eyes glitter in the lantern light—merely blue right now. “Pleased to see you again,” I lie. “May I introduce my friends . . .” I look around, but Jefferson and the Major have wisely made themselves scarce. “My friend, Mrs. Rebecca Joyner.”
Becky curtsies. “We’ve had the pleasure of meeting once before, Mr. Hardwick, Miss Russell. In the law offices on Portsmouth Square. I was trying to recover possession of my house.”
“And did it all work out?” Hardwick asks.
“That remains to be seen,” she says.
Hardwick reaches into his pocket and pulls out a pair of solid gold dice. He rolls them in the palm of his hand. I can sense their weight and balance. They are perfect. Beautiful.
“I had them made especially for this evening’s festivities,” Hardwick says. “Can I persuade you to try your hand at hazard?”
I eye the golden dice. It would be an interesting test of my skills. But I tamp that thought down as soon as it occurs to me. “Hazard? No, thank you, I’ve faced enough hazards on the road from Georgia to California, and a few more since I arrived.”
He has such a patronizing smile. Very like my uncle’s when he was eager to explain the world to me. “Hazard is the name of a dice game. I think the origin of our common use of the word comes from the game, and not the other way around.”
It’s a trap. I’m sure of it. The trap is even called “hazard,” which ought to be a warning sign, like the church bells ringing when there’s a big fire. But my job tonight is to keep as much attention on me as possible, especially from Hardwick and Helena.
I glance around. Jefferson, the Major, Olive, and Andy are nowhere to be seen. Henry sits at a monte table with the governor and other high rollers. Becky and I are alone. “What do you think, Becky?”
“I think Mr. Joyner loved gambling even though he was never any good at it, and lost far more often than he won.”
“But he did love it, right?” I turn back to Hardwick. “I’ll give it a try. But you’ll have to teach me how.”
Something about Hardwick’s triumphant smile sets my belly to squirming. He tosses the golden dice in his hand. Helena’s eyes gleam; does she already know how this will end?