If anyone can help us, it’s Tom, and Becky holds her head high and marches into the law office, me following behind.
It’s the same size as the Custom House, with comparable furniture and decor, but that’s where the similarities end.
Instead of orderly lines, calm voices, and every nationality, I see only well-dressed white men, smoking cigars while talking over one another. The song of gold is loud—the main chorus comes from the bank next door, but notes of it sing from fine pockets around the room. Voices suddenly crescendo to threatening shouts, and I tense, ready to grab Becky and run, but laughter follows a split second later, accompanied by hearty slaps on shoulders.
“There’s Tom,” Becky says. He’s been tromping around the city half the day, but I don’t see a speck of mud on him. Though he dresses plain, it always seems he rolls out of bed in the morning with his hair and clothes as neat and ordered as his arguments.
We walk over to join him, and he acknowledges us with a slight, perfectly controlled nod.
He’s one of the college men, three confirmed bachelors who left Illinois College to join our wagon train west. Compared to the other two, Tom Bigler is a bit of a closed book—one of those big books with tiny print you use as a doorstop or for smashing bugs. And he’s been closing up tighter and tighter since we blew up Uncle Hiram’s gold mine, when Tom negotiated with James Henry Hardwick to get us out of that mess.
“How goes the hunt for an office?” I ask.
“Not good,” Tom says. “I found one place—only one place—and it’s a cellar halfway up the side of one those mountains.” Being from Illinois, which I gather is flat as a griddle, Tom still thinks anything taller than a tree is a mountain. “Maybe eight foot square, no windows and a dirt floor, and they want a thousand dollars a month for it.”
“Is it the cost or the lack of windows that bothers you?”
He pauses. Sighs. “Believe it or not, that’s a reasonable price. Everything else I’ve found is worse—five thousand a month for the basement of the Ward Hotel, ten thousand a month for a whole house. The land here is more valuable than anything on it, even gold. I’ve never seen so many people trying to cram themselves into such a small area.”
“So it’s the lack of windows.”
He gives me a side-eyed glance. “I came to California to make a fortune, but it appears a fortune is required just to get started. I may have to take up employment with an existing firm, like this one.” Peering at us more closely, he says, “I thought you were going to acquire the Joyner house? I mean, I’m glad to see you, but it seems things have gone poorly?”
“They’ve gone terribly,” Becky says.
“They haven’t gone at all,” I add.
“They’ll only release it to Mr. Joyner,” Becky says.
Tom’s eyebrows rise slightly. “I did mention that this could be a problem, remember?”
“Only a slight one,” I say with more hope than conviction.
“Without Mr. Joyner’s signature,” Becky explains, “they’ll sell my wedding cottage at auction. Our options are to buy back what’s ours, which I don’t want to do, or sue to recover it, which is why I’ve come to find you.”
If I didn’t know Tom so well, I might miss the slight frown turning his lips. He says, “There’s no legal standing to sue. Andrew Junior is of insufficient age, and both his and Mr. Joyner’s closest male relative would be the family patriarch back in Tennessee. You see, it’s a matter of cov—”
“Coverture!” says Becky fiercely. “I know. So what can I do?”
“There’s always robbery.”
I’m glad I’m not drinking anything, because I’m pretty sure I’d spit it over everyone in range.
“Tom!” Becky says. “Are you seriously suggesting—?”
“I’m merely outlining your full range of options. You don’t want to buy it back. You have no legal standing to sue for it. That leaves stealing it or letting it go.”
This is the Tom we’ve started to see recently. A little angry, maybe a little dangerous. I haven’t made up my mind if I like the change or not.
“I’m not letting it go,” Becky says. “Just because a bunch of men pass laws so other men who look just like them can legally steal? Doesn’t mean they should get away with it.”
We’ve been noticed; some of the men in the office are eyeing us curiously. “How would you go about stealing it back, Tom?” I ask in a low voice, partly to needle him and partly to find out what he really thinks.
He glances around, brows knitting. “I suppose I would get a bunch of men who look like me to pass some laws in my favor and then take it back through legal means.”
I laugh in spite of myself.
“You’re no help at all,” Becky says.
He holds up his hands as if in surrender. “I’ll give it some thought, make some inquiries. There may be options I haven’t considered.”
The front door bangs open; conversations stop.
“Miss Leah Westfall!”
My hackles go up as a tall man strides into the room. His white hair and bushy sideburns frame ax-sharp cheekbones and a wide, smug mouth. He’s dressed immaculately, with gold buttons on his dark jacket, a gold pocket-watch chain, and a gold-knobbed cane in his left hand. His right hand clutches a cigar, which he puffs with obvious pleasure.
James Henry Hardwick. Though he’s only a councilman in Sacramento, some say he’s the richest man in California at the moment, and the power behind the powers.
An entourage follows him into the room. The first is a small, mousy fellow with the tiniest nub of a chin, who stands so close to Hardwick you’d think they were tied together. A ring heavy with keys hangs from his belt loop, tugging down his pants. He carries a large leather bag, which he shifts from arm to arm. A fortune in gold is piled inside that bag; it knocks on my skull like an undeterred suitor.
A beautiful auburn-haired woman follows. She steps around the fellow with the keys, and slips her hand through Hardwick’s elbow. She wears a green dress—a full crinoline skirt with flounces, a bodice that makes her waist look unbreathably narrow, and a low-cut neckline that makes you forget about her waist. She smiles on the room like a queen bestowing graces, and I can tell from the gazes of most of the men in the law office that Becky and I have all but disappeared.
Hardwick’s two bodyguards follow last, and that’s when I discover my stomach can sink even further, right through the floor.
Frank Dilley.
My uncle’s right-hand man. Former right-hand man. The no-good snake who kidnapped me last fall. I’d heard that Frank had died during the insurrection at the mining camp a couple months past. In fact, it was Hardwick himself who told me as much, that lying Cain.
The right side of Frank Dilley’s face looks like melted wax—likely he’ll never grow hair there again. When he sees me, his left hand drifts to the revolver at his waist.
“Frank,” I say, trying not to let my voice quaver. “I heard you died.”
“Still alive and kicking,” he says. “No thanks to you.”
And because sometimes I can’t control the meanness in my heart, I say, “You’re looking better than ever.”
Hardwick laughs. “Well, isn’t this almost a family reunion?”
I glance around, half afraid I’ll see Uncle Hiram. If Hardwick lied about Dilley, maybe he lied about my uncle being gone, too. Maybe I ought to run like blazes.
Hardwick steps toward me, and his associates trail in his wake like a school of fish. “I was on my way to the bank when I recognized Mr. Kingfisher outside, and I knew you wouldn’t be far away. Of course I had to divert my path to join yours. It’s not everyone who gets the better of me in a deal!”
He says it condescendingly, like me dealing with him was adorable and sweet . . . but there’s a fire in his eyes that makes my belly squirm. A moment ago, I had been invisible to the men in this office. Now every eye is turned toward me. A few are merely curious, but not one of them is kindly.
Hardwick takes a puff on his cigar and blows a huge cloud of smoke in our direction. His breath is wet and sickly sweet with tobacco.
“Mr. Hardwick,” I say, more as an acknowledgment, and falling just short of a greeting. “I didn’t expect to see you with Dilley. You told me he died.”
“Well, we thought he had! His men hauled him to the mission, where, with care and prayers, he made a miraculous recovery.”
“Praise the Lord,” Frank Dilley says.
“You still working for my uncle?” I ask Dilley flat out.
“You didn’t know?” he says. “Westfall is halfway to Australia by now.”
No reason for him to lie about that, and the relief almost buckles my knees.
Becky is bristling beside me. “We were about to be on our way.”
“No need to hurry,” Hardwick says. “What brings you all the way down from—what was the name of that little camp of yours—Charity?”
“Glory,” I answer, and I regret it as soon as the word slips my mouth.
“Glory be!” Hardwick chuckles. “That’s right, Glory. What brings you all the way down from Glory?”
The beautiful auburn-haired woman leans over and whispers in Hardwick’s ear.
“Excuse me, I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure,” Becky says, and I know she cannot bear to have anything whispered around her. “I’m Mrs. Andrew Joyner, lately from Glory, but before that from Chattanooga, Tennessee.”
“Mr. James Henry Hardwick, at your service, Mrs. Joyner. Allow me to introduce my newest associate, Miss Helena Russell.”
He makes “associate” sound like a fancy word for something I don’t quite understand.
“At your service,” Miss Helena Russell says, with a tinge of the mountains in her voice. Nothing about her is the least bit servile, but up close, I can see how the makeup and fine clothes cover a life of labor. Her skin is weathered and freckled. The wide sleeves of her dress fail to conceal forearms corded with the kind of muscle that comes from carrying milk pails and swinging axes. She may be dressed as stylishly as Becky Joyner, but she has more in common with me.
We pass introductions all around, and I’m still looking for a convenient way out that doesn’t include fighting past Frank Dilley when Hardwick doggedly returns to his original question. “You never did say what brings you to San Francisco, Miss Westfall.”
“No, I didn’t,” I reply. “What brings you?”
He laughs, and I wonder what puts a man like him in a good mood. Maybe it’s the lady standing at his elbow. “I’m here for the same reason you are,” he answers.
“You lost your home and family and had nowhere else to go?”
“I came to make my fortune.”
He’s already taken thousands from us, which seemed like a fortune at the time, but now, sensing all the gold of San Francisco—even just in this room—I know he has bigger ambitions. “And how are you going to do that?”
“Any and every way I can,” he says, nodding to himself. “Any and every way I can.”
“And that includes taking advantage of men like my uncle.”
Another puff on his cigar, while he considers this. “I didn’t know you cared about him. In fact, our agreement led me to believe that all you cared about was being free of him.”
“I care about the people he robbed to pay you. I care about the people he hurt trying to get rich, in order to make you richer.”
“You didn’t come out of the affair too badly. You somehow ended up with enough money to pay all his debts.”
My hands start to tremble, and tears well up in my eyes. I was kidnapped and force-fed laudanum. Dressed up like a doll for my uncle’s amusement. The Indians had it worse; I watched them beaten, starved, murdered. “We still haven’t received the charter for the town of Glory,” I blurt, just to get the images out of my head.
That was the key part of my agreement with Hardwick at Christmas. We’d pay off my uncle’s debts, and Hardwick would use his influence to get us a town charter so we could govern ourselves.
“California isn’t a state yet, my dear, and the wheels of politics grind slowly.” His grin is slow and satisfied. “And sometimes those wheels require additional amounts of grease to keep turning.”
Additional grease? “You’re saying you’ll need more gold.”
He scowls, and he glances around the room at the assemblage of lawyers. “This isn’t something we should haggle over in public.”
My whole body is tense, like a bent spring. “That’s not fair.”
He puffs himself up like a cock ready to cry doodle-do. “Sweet girl, you’ll learn. Life’s not fair.”
“Then we’re honor bound to make it fair,” I snap.
He laughs at that, a genuine belly laugh, and it’s like a slap in my face. My cheeks flush hot, and I look toward the door, hoping for a swift, easy exit, but the doorway is blocked. It’s Hampton, striding inside.
I gasp. Because right behind Hampton is someone I thought to never see again: Jim Boisclair.
He made it to California after all. He’s really here.
Jim was a good friend of my daddy’s back in Dahlonega, a free Negro and store owner who helped me run away from my uncle the first time. I’m so happy and relieved to see him that I barely keep myself from giving him the hug of his life. In fact, I’m so overcome that it takes a moment to realize the whole room is as silent as the grave, and every single person in it is now staring at Hampton and Jim.
“I didn’t know you were in San Francisco,” I say cautiously.
He gives me an unsmiling nod, and there’s an awful lot in that nod I’m not sure I understand. His eyes sweep the room warily, like he just stepped into a snake pit. “Glad to see you safe and hale, Miss Leah,” he says, but his eyes are on everyone but me.
Jim had been a free man in Georgia, and he found enough gold in the rush there to set up a general store. There’s a lot more to his story than I know, but I trust him with my life, and if he’s wary in this place, then I am, too.
“Found him at the post office,” Hampton says, waving an envelope. “Needed someone to read my letter to me.”
“Good news?” I ask with false cheer.
“My freedom papers!” Hampton says, with another flourish of the envelope. “It’s all official, but still no word on Adelaide.” His voice is tight, and I know exactly why. It’s tempting fate for two Negroes to walk into an office like this, even free ones. We need to leave, and fast.
“I don’t want to intrude on another happy reunion,” Hardwick interrupts, sounding bored. “So I’ll take my leave. It was a pleasure to see you again, Miss Westfall.”
The pleasure is all his. “Until we meet again, Mr. Hardwick.” And as soon as I say it, I know I’ll be seeing him again as surely as water fills the Pacific Ocean.
The conversation officially over, I take Becky’s arm and start walking toward the door, herding Hampton and Jim before me. The air in the room feels like a clothesline about to snap.
Tom follows behind me. As we pass Hardwick, Miss Russell leans over to whisper in his ear again. He replies, “Are you certain?”
We’re only a few feet from the door and escape when Hardwick calls out. “Mr. Bigler—a moment of your time.”
We freeze. “Tom,” I whisper, meaning to follow it up with a don’t.
Tom turns, his face expressionless. “Mr. Hardwick?” he says.
“My lawyers tell me that they’ve never seen a tighter, cleverer contract than the one you wrote for Miss Westfall at Christmas. I would like to discuss the temporary application of your considerable talents to a venture of my own.”
I don’t want Tom to do it. I’m shaking. Surely he can tell? As surely as I sense his stature swelling huge with pride? All the attorneys in the room are now evaluating Tom, trying to determine if he is a potential ally or a new rival. Strange how all that scrutiny directed at me moments ago made me feel small.
At least no one is staring at Hampton and Jim anymore. Becky leans in and whispers. “Go on, Tom. It can’t hurt to listen. Maybe you can find a way to do something about my house.”
“Perhaps I can,” he says quietly. “I’ll rejoin you later at the hotel.” And then, louder, “I’m delighted to see what I can do, Mr. Hardwick. Perhaps some of the gentlemen here can lend us some chairs to talk.”
Chairs scrape across the wood floor, and a dozen voices compete to invite the conversation into their own space.
Hampton, Jim, Becky, and I go to leave, but Frank steps in our way and blocks the door. “I would have saved myself a heap of hurt if I just let you die in the desert,” he says.
“The way I recall,” I say, “you did leave us to die in the desert, and Therese Hoffman paid the price.”
Becky adds, “And then one of your men killed Martin.” Her voice quakes with the effort to hold back tears. “You know what would have saved you a heap of hurt? Not fighting against us every time. Choosing to join us even once.”
He doesn’t have an answer for that, and the rest of Hardwick’s school of fish is moving toward a desk at the far corner of the office. Frank sneers at me. Or maybe he smiles. The burn on his face makes his expressions hard to parse. Finally he lets us be and hurries off after his new boss.
We flee out the door and out into the cold winter light, and it feels like emerging from my uncle Hiram’s mine all over again. I breathe deep, as if the sea salt air can cleanse my soul, but I can’t stop shaking.