Hardwick leads us over to a table shaped like a tub, long and narrow with high sides and lined with green felt. We watch players tossing dice into the tub, and he explains the rules to me—something about a main, a chance, a nick, and so on—but I’m not paying close attention because a tapestry hanging on the wall behind the table catches my eye.
It’s the new seal of California that’s been proposed, hastily embroidered but clear enough to parse. In the background is the sprawling San Francisco Bay. Miners work in the hills around it, hefting their pickaxes. But what really catches my attention is the woman in the foreground. She wears flowing robes and a helmet, and holds a spear in one hand. Like she’s ready for war.
“That’s Minerva,” Becky whispers in my ear. “The Roman goddess of wisdom.” I hear the grin in her voice when she adds, “It’s appropriate they’d choose a woman for the seal, don’t you think? I hope it gets approved.”
I sense Hardwick hovering at my back. The gentlemen around the table shift to make room for us. He greets everyone, waving his golden dice, as more gather around. It’s a split second before I realize he’s started talking about me.
“A young woman lost all her family back home in Georgia and decided to pack up with some of her friends and come west to California to find gold. And she found it! She and all of her friends found gold and established the prosperous town of Glory, one of the jewels of our new state. And this town, with all of its miners and prominent new residents, chose her as its representative. This young lady right here.”
The room grows quiet. Everyone is listening to Hardwick.
“Last Christmas,” he continues, “she came to me in Sacramento and asked for my help establishing a charter for their town, to protect their claims and their community.”
Every eye is on me. I sense disbelief in several, so I lock gazes with them and try to stare them down, each and every one individually. That’s right, folks, eyes right here.
“Now, what can I do to help with a town charter?” Hardwick asks disingenuously. “Yes, I know many of our politicians, but I’m not one myself. But it made me think, maybe I should be. If I really want to help people like this little lady right here, I ought to consider politics. I don’t mean to cast any aspersions on our local leaders. I think they’re the best in the whole United States.”
This brings forth murmurs of “Hear, hear!” and “Right you are!”
“But what America needs right now is not another general, not another tired old politician from the cities back east. What America needs is a true pioneer to lead them. Someone who’s been in the wilderness and knows how things work out here in the West, for a change. So I’m not making any promises, gentlemen—leave that to the professional politicians!”
This earns some laughter.
“But I’m going to head east, and if you see my name on a ballot come the next election, I hope you will give your fellow Californian due consideration.”
Men cheer and clap. Several promise to support Hardwick on the spot, while a few others hint at all the help his new administration will need. If they’re all cut from the same cloth as Hardwick, it promises to be a government of thieves, by thieves, and for thieves.
“That brings me back to our guest here,” he says. “The Golden Goddess. That’s what the miners called her.”
My cheeks flush. Why bring that up? What’s he trying to do? Maybe it’s a warning. He knows what I . . . I shove the thought away as soon as it pops up, concentrating instead on the generously oiled mustache of the gentleman closest to me.
“She represents the opportunity that California provides for all of us—to take our chance, to strike it rich, to make something different of ourselves. I had these golden dice made in her honor.” He rattles them in his hand and tosses them on the table so everyone can see them, then snatches them up again. “And now we’re all going to teach her to play the game of hazard.”
He’s using me as a symbol, a way to further his own ends. It’s disgusting. The worst violation. And yet, every single eye is on me, exactly as I need. “I’ve never played before,” I say sweetly. “So I’ll need everyone’s help.”
Various middle-aged men shout advice, telling me exactly what to do. One fellow with long sideburns and a garish red cravat slides in and slips an arm around me, but I wriggle away like a snake, and Becky steps in before he can try again. I give her a glance of gratitude.
Hardwick pulls out a stack of gold coins and places it between himself and the gentleman acting as the bank. He declares lucky number seven as his main and rolls the dice. The golden cubes bounce off the back wall of the tub—almost too fast to track with my gold sense—and land upright, with three pips and four. A seven. The dealer doubles Hardwick’s money, and there’s a flurry of bets as the viewers wager on his next roll.
This time the dice roll up two single pips.
“Snake eyes,” says the dealer, and Hardwick loses.
The banker collects money and pays out a variety of bets while Hardwick gathers up the dice and rattles them in the cup of his hand.
Manipulating the dice will take a lot of concentration. And maybe I shouldn’t do it with Helena Russell so nearby. But the dice sing to me, so perfect and clear, that I can’t resist. Hardwick rolls them again. I pinch my tongue between my teeth to help myself focus. The dice bounce off the far wall of the table and roll across the velvet. They’re going to stop . . . now! One lands on five, and I take the tiniest split second to continue the roll, pushing it toward the six.
It plops over to a four. I need to be more delicate.
Everyone cheers Hardwick’s success. I force myself to smile.
When my turn comes, I reach into my pocket for my last gold coins. I hesitate before putting them on the table. To keep Hardwick occupied as long as possible, I have to win. I pick a number and rattle the dice in my hand. I’m concentrating so hard on the dice themselves, readying myself to flip them over, that I don’t throw them hard enough, and they never reach the wall of the table to bounce back.
“Can I try again?” I beg, and most folks are for giving the little lady a second chance, so the dealer gathers the dice and hands them back to me for another throw. I hold them up to the baby in Becky’s arms and make a kissing noise. “For newborn luck,” I say.
The baby opens her mouth and tries to eat them, which I take for a good sign.
This time my throw goes better. After the dice bounce, I beckon with my fingers, one on each hand, tugging the dice toward me until I get the nick and double my money.
Feeling nervous, I grab my original coins and pull them back to me, leaving only my winnings. A future stake. If I’m going to bet, from now on it will only be with Hardwick’s money.
As Hardwick and I go back and forth, my world shrinks to the volume of two golden dice. At first I make a lot of mistakes, lucky to move the dice at all and make it look natural. But as we take turns, my skills improve, and not coincidentally with it, my luck. Hardwick loses more money than he wins, and I win more than I lose. My focus is razor sharp. Maybe too sharp. Surely Helena can sense what I’m doing.
Becky becomes very tense every time I throw the dice. “I start to see why Mr. Joyner enjoyed the thrill of gambling,” she confides to me in a whisper.
“Henry, too,” I say. “Sometimes it feels good to take a chance on something.”
Though I’m doing my best to make sure no chance is involved. Hardwick has been betting on my throws, and I start betting on his. Even when he wins, I win more. Which deflects attention away from my control of the dice.
After a long winning streak, when I’ve amassed a large stack of coins, Helena Russell says, “I marvel at how lucky the young lady has been. I don’t know that I’ve ever seen someone so lucky.”
Her blue eyes are flecked with violet. Just flecks. What does that mean?
Maybe it means I’ve pushed it too far. Or lost control of my thoughts. I should lose the next round on purpose.
Hardwick pauses before throwing the dice. “Come on, Miss Westfall,” he cajoles. “Bet big. Bet like a grown woman and a true Californian. Give me a chance to win back some portion of the money I’ve lost tonight.”
The crowd is all for this. The bigger the stakes, the more they cheer.
I’m in control of this game now. I push all the coins that I’ve won toward the banker. “Will that do?” I ask.
“Surely the Golden Goddess has something else to add to the pot?” Hardwick says.
I hold up my empty hands. “That’s everything.” Except for my original stake, which I’ll need for the journey back to Glory.
“You must have something more.”
“I’m sorry, but I don’t—”
“What about the deed to the Charlotte?”
My heart stops. “I couldn’t.”
“Surely you don’t plan to stay in San Francisco anyway. You’re going back to Glory soon, right? That’s why you wanted the town charter. You’ll have no need for the Charlotte if you’re not here.”
“Don’t do it,” whispers Becky. “I don’t trust him.”
She’s right. This was his endgame all along.
“But the Charlotte is my home here in San Francisco,” I say, loudly so everyone can hear. “I’ll stay there every time I’m in town. I’ve grown fond of it.”
“Yes,” Becky says. “It’s not Glory, but it’s a home of sorts.”
If I knew, for sure and certain, that I had provided enough of a distraction already, I would walk away right now. But I don’t know, and we won’t get another chance. I have to keep playing.
Besides, my head buzzes with the power I’ve used. The dice are my servants, doing whatever I ask. The crowd is cheering for me to take the risk. “You’re on a winning streak!” someone says. “You can’t lose!” says another. He’s right. With my power, I can’t lose.
“I’ve got this,” I whisper to Becky. And louder, for everyone’s benefit: “I put my whole stake into the Charlotte! What would the good Lord say if I gambled it away?” If I’m going to do this, I have to make a spectacle of it.
“Lee!” Becky pleads.
The governor himself saunters over. “I confess, I’m curious to see the Golden Goddess in action,” he says. In action? My heart takes a tumble.
I glance over at Helena Russell, whose eyes are suddenly the bright, rich purple of royalty. Something is very not right here.
“Dear governor, don’t tell me you believe miners’ tall tales!” Becky says with a laugh, and suddenly all eyes are on her. She spreads her smile around, bestowing it graciously on each besotted businessman. More than me, maybe even more than Hardwick, Becky is suited to this atmosphere, this world. She’s the one who practically glows in the golden lantern light, and I’m grateful for it. It gives me a chance to catch my breath, to calm my nerves.
Which is a good thing, because the governor’s sudden interest, along with Becky’s charm, has magnified everyone’s enthusiasm, and I hear cries of “Golden Goddess!” and “Minerva!” and “It’s your lucky night!”
“But what are you wagering?” I ask Hardwick. “What are you putting at risk?”
“Besides my reputation?” he asks, drawing a laugh from the crowd. “I mean, I’m taking a big risk being seen losing to a little lady, even one as charming as yourself.”
I grit my teeth. “Toughen up, Hardwick. Put something on the table, or I’ll take my winnings and walk.”
This electrifies the crowd. Cheers of “No!” and “Do it!” and “Place a wager!” sound all around us. The crowd presses in tight, waiting to see what happens.
I start to gather my coins.
“Hold on,” he says. He waves over the crowd to one of his servants, who runs off and returns almost immediately with a rosewood cigar box full of gold coins—I don’t need to count it to know it’s twice what I have on the table, worth more than I paid for the Charlotte. Hardwick starts to unload the coins.
He had this box prepared ahead of time, for it to turn up so fast.
“Throw in the box too,” I tell him, my voice shaking a little. “I like that silver inlay.”
“Very well.” He smiles, puts the coins back inside, closes the lid, and sets it on the table. The same servant returns with a piece of paper, and pen and ink. I scrawl out “Deed for the Charlotte,” and sign my name, and now everyone knows what a disgrace my penmanship is. I toss the paper onto the table.
“Will that do?” I ask.
“Not usually,” Hardwick says. With a sweep of his hand, he adds, “But with all these fine Californians to witness, it’ll do just fine.”
Echoes of “Hear, hear!” rise around us.
“This is a mistake,” Becky whispers anxiously. The baby fusses in her arms.
“Maybe,” I whisper back. I’m flexing my fingers under the table, and focusing my thoughts on the gold dice in Hardwick’s hand. “But I’m feeling lucky.”
Hardwick rattles the dice in his hand and then pauses. He glances over his shoulder, beckoning for someone. Helena.
Who is there, as always, watching. She squeezes through the crowd to reach him, and he holds out his fist with the dice. “For luck,” he says.
She leans in, smiles, and—keeping those shining violet eyes on me—blows on the dice.
Ice cracks down my spine.
Everyone is cheering. Hardwick draws back his arm, and I concentrate, waiting for the moment the dice bounce off the back wall of the table. He flings them hard, and—
One die goes flying over the edge of the table, bounces off the banker, and falls on the ground. The banker ducks down quickly and comes up with it. He starts to hand it back, and then pauses.
“One of the corners is smashed,” he says, almost apologetically. “It won’t roll evenly.”
He switched it. I can sense a third die still near the floor, maybe stuffed into his shoe. Or maybe I’m imagining it. There’s so much gold in this room, and none of it as familiar as my locket. I could accuse him of cheating, but if I’m wrong, or if I can’t prove it, I’ll be in even worse trouble. The banker hands the die around the table, so everyone can see that it’s ruined.
“Alas, gold is so much softer than bone,” Hardwick says. “I guess we’ll have to retire these dice and replace them with an ordinary pair.”
My pulse jumps in my throat. “Sure.”
Becky grabs my hand and gives it a squeeze.
Hardwick pockets the damaged die, and the banker retrieves a conventional pair. They’re passed around for inspection, but I can’t focus enough to look at them. My stomach is churning, enough that I might throw up. I’ve played right into Hardwick’s hands again. Hardwick’s and Russell’s. They’ve been steps ahead of me the whole time. Hardwick knows what I can do after all, and he knew I’d use my power to cheat.
He makes a show of shaking the dice again, and pauses to hold out his fist for Helena. When she leans in to blow on the dice, he snatches his fist away, making everybody in the crowd laugh.
He pauses to look at me. “I’ll make my own luck this time.”
I smile, but I’m sure it looks sickly. The dice are undoubtedly weighted to favor his call. There’s not a man in the crowd that would admit to it, though.
Hardwick tosses the dice. Perfectly this time.
I close my eyes as they bounce off the back of the table.
They thump along the felt, rumbling to a stop.
Half the crowd cheers. Half the crowd groans in disappointment.
When I open my eyes again, the banker is pushing the stack of coins towards Hardwick. He picks up the deed for the Charlotte, snapping the corners.
“Oh,” Becky breathes. “This is not good at all.”
“You win some, you lose some,” Hardwick says, waving the makeshift deed, taunting me with my own signature. “Let me give this to the source of all my good fortune this year, the woman who deserves it most.”
With a flourish, he hands it to Helena. She smiles with gratitude, but there’s a tremor at the corner of her mouth, and after she folds the sheet of paper and tucks it into her bodice, she lets her hand linger over her heart for a moment, as if assuring herself the deed is actually there.
“That’s all for me here,” Hardwick says, with a wave of his hand. “If you gentlemen will excuse me, I need to be a good host and visit with the other guests at my party. I return you all to your previous amusements.”
As he turns to go, the governor at his heels, I push through the crowd to follow them. Becky grabs my arm and pulls me back. “Let him go,” she says.
“He played me. He played me perfectly.”
“He knew exactly what you were going to do,” she says.
“Because of his Irish woman,” I growl.
“No,” Becky says, circling around to stand in front of me and block my view. “No, he knew because the two of you were dancing, and you followed his every lead. You let him dictate the tempo and the steps, every step of the way, right up to the end when . . . why are you grinning like a cat that caught the cream?”
“I . . . I can’t say. Or even think it. Not yet.”
Becky’s eyes narrow. “I see.”
Quickly she guides me away from the crowds at the gaming tables to a quieter spot beneath a tree hung with lanterns. From here we have a perfect view through the double door of the proposed seal of California, and Becky stares at it, rocking the baby back and forth.
She says, “In that case, you have to calm down, control your thoughts, keep your eye on the horizon.” The baby yawns, which is the most adorable thing I’ve ever seen. “We still have a ways to go.”
“I know.” I glance around the garden, trying to reorient myself. Hardwick is giving another speech to a different crowd. Henry is still seated at one of the card tables, laughing like he’s winning, or at least having a good time. I see glimpses of Olive and Andy—or rather their hats—in the crowd around the band and dance floor. Maybe Becky should pretend to be more concerned about them.
But Jefferson and the Major are nowhere to be seen. When I turn toward the house looking for them, Helena is walking toward us.
Becky sees her at the same time. Taking hold of my arm, she steers me the other direction. “Let’s go. I prefer to be in polite company.”
“Wait,” Helena says. “I just want a quick word.”
I hesitate. Becky gives me a stern look, then hugs the baby closer as the other woman approaches. “Be careful,” forms on Becky’s lips as she hurries away. “Mind your mind.”
I think hard about grief. Over losing the Charlotte, Jim getting shot, the loss of my parents, now a year gone. Even the empty space at my chest where my locket used to be. Grief is an easy thing to think about. It fills me up, leaving room for nothing else.
Helena stops a few feet away, near yet wary. An infuriating half smile plays about her lips, as if she’s pondering hidden knowledge. Her gown and jewelry sparkle, her red hair stuns. You almost can’t tell she’s a hardworking mountain girl, just like me.
That’s what centers me.
I don’t want to be anything like her. I don’t want to be the special associate of some man. A trophy to be shown off at all the balls and parties. I just want Jefferson, a few friends, and work that makes me happy.
That’s the difference between me and Hardwick, I suppose, and people like him, too. No matter how much they have, it’ll never be enough. They’ll never be satisfied. I don’t want to always want.
“Thank you for the ship,” she says for an opening sally.
I open my mouth to say something possibly rude and insulting, but Mary catches my eye from across the courtyard. She holds up two fingers. The signal that all is ready.
I laugh.
Helena’s eyes—mere blue—flare slightly, the only indication of her shaken confidence. I nod toward her bosom, where she slipped the hastily scrawled deed. “Enjoy your slip of paper.”
Her next words are cold as ice. “What are you talking about?”
I can’t stop my grin, and I don’t want to. “I don’t legally own that ship. I never did. It’s in a man’s name. Even if I did own the ship, I couldn’t sign away the deed.” I bat my eyelashes. “I’m just a little lady. You see, it’s a matter of coverture—”
“Hardwick will testify,” she snaps.
“No, he’s leaving for New York tomorrow. Going to take his millions and buy his way into a political career. The businessman-become-president. He doesn’t care about the Charlotte. Or you. Unless he’s taking you with him?”
For the first time since I’ve met her, I see panic in her eyes. “I . . . turned down his offer to accompany him to New York.”
“And I don’t own the ship.”
She pauses, sizing me up. “You’re too honorable. You wouldn’t use the same laws that are unfair to you to treat another woman unfairly.”
“Not usually. But I don’t care if you were a poor girl down on her luck who found a way to escape some nasty problems. You allied yourself with a monster, so you don’t get concessions.”
It could be a trick of the flickering lantern light, but I might see tears shining in her eyes. “Seems I backed the wrong horse,” she says.
“Do you see that with your power, or are you just guessing?”
“Neither. I knew justice mattered to you, even before I saw into your mind.”
And there it is at last. All our cards on the table, with not a bluff left between us. She does see our thoughts. I suspected it, acted on that suspicion as if it was fact, and yet her admission still chills me. “You can’t own the Charlotte either, as a woman,” I point out. “You’d have to find a man to hold the deed for you. Someone you trust as much as you trusted Hardwick.”
She shakes her head. “Oh, I don’t trust him at all. I’d never go to New York with him. But you’re right. To do business here, I’ll have to find someone I trust.” She taps a lip thoughtfully.
I admit, it warms my heart a little to know Helena doesn’t trust Hardwick either. Maybe we have more in common than I thought. “I had several people to choose from,” I say. “It was no problem at all, finding someone to hold the deed for me. Trust is a great benefit of having real friends. I highly recommend trying it.”
She glares. “Don’t act so holier-than-thou with me. People like us don’t have real friends.”
This poor woman. “They’ve proven themselves over and over. Whenever I’ve had trouble that my own abilities couldn’t solve, my friends have been there to help me.”
“Your abilities.” She raises an eyebrow. “Power is more like it. Your power is amazing. Like no gift I’ve ever seen.”
I glance around, making sure no one is near enough to hear our conversation. The music of the band provides perfect cover. “And . . . you’ve seen a lot of gifts?” My question is tentative, even though I want with all my heart to know the answer.
“Not a lot. People like us are very rare. Always women, though. I knew a water dowser who could call water. And I’ve heard tell of others. Menders, who could fix things with the touch of their hand. Storytellers who could make you believe any lie was true. Weather witches, who knew a storm was coming even with a clear horizon, or pull a few drops of water from a cloudless sky. I once heard about a healer who could call on her powers to save a mother and baby in a childbirth gone bad. But I’ve never known of any power in the world like yours.”
My breath stumbles. Other women with amazing gifts, people who can change the world around them for the better. “But you can see the future! Read thoughts!”
She shakes her head. “I glimpse them, at best. My mother called them the second sight. Claimed they came from the old country, way back. Mother to daughter. That’s why she packed up the family and came to the States before the potato famine. She saw nothing but death if she stayed.”
“You must have been young.” I need to know more.
“Born on the boat over. Mother said being born on water gave my powers extra strength. Said I drew on a deep well.”
“She’s gone?”
“I saw her death coming, and so did she. We couldn’t stop it.”
My own mama passed before my very eyes. She always hinted about a childhood gone wrong, got angry whenever I used the word “witch.” Now I know she was hiding powers of her own, and something awful must have happened to her in Boston, something I’ll probably never know.
Helena’s eyes darken with memory—whether hers or mine, I can’t know. She turns as if to leave, but I grab her sleeve. “Wait! I have to know . . . how do your powers work?”
She stares down at my hand on her sleeve, and I let go, my face reddening.
“Why should I tell you anything more? We’ve played nice long enough.”
“I’m sorry. It’s just . . . I’ve never met anyone else who . . .”
She turns to go.
“Helena, I will give you the Charlotte.”
She whirls back around.
“Well, I’ll give half of it to you,” I quickly amend. “If you tell me everything you know, and if you stop helping Hardwick right this instant.”
“I thought it wasn’t yours to give,” she snaps. But she can’t hide the sudden hope in her eyes.
“The gentleman who holds it in trust for me would give it away on my word, no questions asked. Look into my mind and know it to be true.”
She is silent a long moment, studying me, considering. Her eyes glow violet, and I wish I could see what she was seeing.
“I even know someone who could hold it in trust for you,” I coax. “Someone who would never go behind your back.”
At last she says, “I believe you.”
“Do we have a deal?”
She glances over her shoulder, as if Hardwick might suddenly appear in the gardens. Then she says, “We have a deal.”
All the air leaves my body in a rush. “So,” I say, grinning. “Tell me how your power works!”
She shrugs, seeming more resigned than happy with our new arrangement. “Let’s say a fellow, like your friend Henry, comes into Hardwick’s gambling den to win some money. I get glimpses of him—his intent, his need, a direct thought if it’s strong enough, sometimes a peek of him at the end of the night. Maybe he’s got all the chips, maybe he’s about even, or maybe he’s flat broke and crying into his mead.”
“How does that help Hardwick?”
“I steer him toward the tables with the losers and away from the winners.”
I think back to the first time I met her, with Becky in the law offices. “You saw Mrs. Joyner coming with Henry in disguise to claim her house? That’s why Frank Dilley was waiting for us.”
She smiles. “Yes. One of my clearer visions.”
“But you can’t change the future, even when you see it?”
“I tried. My mother and I both tried.” Bitterness tinges her voice. “I’ve learned to accept what I see, work with it instead of against it. Good men or bad, it doesn’t matter—luck flows downhill. There’s no point in fighting upstream against it.”
The Charlotte notwithstanding, she’s giving everything away more freely than I expected. Maybe she’s lonely. Maybe she’s as eager as I am to talk to someone else with witchy gifts. I nod toward the gambling tables. “So what do you see for my friend Henry tonight?”
“Oh, Henry’s going away broke, but you don’t need to buy him a drink. He’ll be perfectly happy.” She pauses. “And I’m not sure why.”
“Because he’s always happy. It’s his nature.” I glance over my shoulder to look at Henry and smile.
And freeze instead.
Tom is strolling through the tables with an arm around Mr. Keys, who staggers drunkenly. Together, they are singing loud enough to drown out the band.
Henry laughs out loud, delighted to see Tom in his cups. He stands to say hello.
But this is my cue. Henry doesn’t know this part of the plan. He could ruin everything. I need to reach Tom before Henry does.
I pick up my skirts and run. “Tom! Thomas Bigler!” Becky once used some choice words, and I mine my memory for them. “Thomas Bigler, you no-good, rotten, pusillanimous snake!”
The shocked crowd parts to make way for me. Henry sinks back down to his seat. I reach Tom and shove him in the chest.
“Hello, Lee,” Tom says. Mr. Keys shrinks away from us both, eyes wide.
“Don’t ‘Hello, Lee’ to me,” I shout. “I can’t believe you work for that scoundrel Hardwick. Not after everything he did to us. He just took the roof right from over our heads. Becky lost her house because of you! Jim got shot because of you!”
I keep advancing on him as I talk, grabbing and pushing, grabbing and pushing, until he has to grab me in return just to keep his balance.
I can’t stop now. “You sold us out. You told Hardwick that Becky and Henry were going to pick up her house from the customs officer!”
“Don’t blame any of those things on me,” he says. “A man has to earn a living.”
Party guests gather to watch the show, and a few good Samaritans try to intervene, gently coaxing us apart. Tom and I elbow them back.
“You don’t have to work for him,” I snap.
We’re all tangled up, and I’m right in his face, close enough to feel his breath on me. But it’s the last thing I get to say. Hands pry us apart, and rough knuckles on my collar drag me back and fling me to the ground.
Frank Dilley looms over me, Mr. Keys at his side. Tom stands beside them like a brother-in-arms, yanking down his vest and checking his pockets.
“You can’t talk to Mr. Hardwick’s employees that way,” Dilley says. “Now get to your feet, so I can throw you out on the street where you belong.”
First I smooth my dress and pat my pocket, noticing that all my coins are gone—even the original stake I painstakingly preserved. I take my time rising as the crowd presses in, every eye on us.
A baby’s cry penetrates the din. Becky appears, angry infant in her arms, and stands over me like a shelter in a storm. “You can’t treat a young lady that way,” she says.
“Lee Westfall ain’t no lady,” Dilley says. “Way I remember it, she prefers to wear pants.”
“You’re just steamed because I wear them better than you.” Dilley raises his hand as if to strike me, but Hardwick arrives, giving Dilley pause. Becky helps me to my feet.
“There’s no need for trouble here,” Hardwick says.
I back into the crowd, until there’s no room to back away farther. Several hands reach out to steady me, and I’m not sure if they’re trying to be helpful or just looking for an excuse to lay hands on a young woman. I glare at Hardwick. “You’re not content to rob me, you have to threaten me, too! You’re a lowdown thief.”
“Miss Westfall, you can’t be a guest in my home and impugn me with that kind of language,” Hardwick says very reasonably.
“It’s not impugning if it’s the truth,” I shout. “You’re a thief! You sell land that isn’t yours. You kick people out of houses they paid for. You steal people’s most treasured possessions, the things they shipped to San Francisco, and then sell them at auction.”
“Miss Westfall,” Hardwick says. “I’ve done nothing illegal.”
And that’s the crux of it, isn’t it? The law is always on Hardwick’s side.
I glance at Tom, who gives a barely discernable nod. He has dealt with my stash of coins, and it’s finally time to play my final card. I say, “You’re a thief just the same. And you invited all these people here tonight”—I swing my arm around to indicate every judge, businessman, and politician in the crowd—“to rob them one last time before you leave town. Did you think no one would notice?” There. I’ve planted the seed. It will be up to Henry to water it and make it grow.
“Friends, friends, I apologize,” Hardwick says, addressing the crowd. “Clearly she has had too much to drink. A little beer and little gambling are too much for any lady to handle.”
People laugh politely, even though anyone nearby can tell I’m sober as a funeral. “I haven’t touched a drop of your cheap watered-down booze.”
“Clearly you brought your own,” Hardwick says, getting a few more laughs. He’s so slick, nothing sticks to him. It’s like watching water slide off a duck. “One of the great things I love about California is its egalitarian promise. Everyone who wants to work hard and earn their way can rise to the top. It will make this the greatest state in the Union. Unfortunately,” he pauses to give me a pitying look, “some people try to gamble their way to riches instead, and end up losing everything.” He beckons Frank with a wave of his hand. “Please escort the two ladies to the gate. Round up their other friends as you find them, and see them out as well.”
Frank grins, reaching out like he means to take us by the collar, but I slap his hand away. “We’ll go quietly. Don’t you dare touch us.”
“I was growing tired of this party anyway,” Becky says, rocking the baby against her shoulder. “It’s hard to find common interests with such low company as yourself.”
“If you want low company, I can put you both in the ground,” Dilley says, resting a hand on his gun.
“You might get away with shooting a man at an auction,” I say. “But not even Mr. Hardwick will protect you if you shoot a woman in his garden.” Henry sure is taking his time. I trust him to know the exact perfect moment, but waiting is nerve-wracking, nonetheless.
“Don’t try me,” Dilley says. The music and chatter have stopped. Everyone watches as he escorts us to the gates at gunpoint. Large and Larger guard the entrance, and as usual, they appear to be suffering from an excess of boredom, at least until they see us coming. Not that they move, or rise from their chairs, but I think, in the light of the lantern, that I see their eyebrows go up.
“Where are your brats?” Frank asks Becky.
“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she says.
“Your children. The guest log says they came with you.”
“Well, they’re not here,” she says.
“They’re very curious children,” I say, just to stall. “They could have wandered anywhere. You should probably go look for them.”
Finally, a high, operatic tenor rises loud and clear over the garden, from the direction of the gaming tables. “I’ve been robbed! Help!” the voice sings. “My gold is gone, stolen right out of my pockets! Check your pockets, everyone.”
Henry is overdoing it somewhat, but before I can worry, his cry is followed by a second, unfamiliar voice. “My watch is gone!”
There’s a sudden babble. Frank Dilley turns to Large and Larger. “Lock the gates. No one leaves until we’ve got this solved. Especially not these two troublemakers.”
Frank takes off to investigate.
“So, are you enjoying the party?” I ask Large and Larger as the commotion in the garden grows louder.
“It’s starting to get interesting,” says Large.
“But I don’t expect it to last,” says Larger.
“Somebody would have to be really stupid to steal anything at one of Mr. Hardwick’s parties,” Large says.
“They’d be sure to get caught,” Larger agrees.
I lock eyes with Becky, but I decide not to say a thing. I try to clutch my locket for comfort, but of course it’s not there anymore.
One of the waiters runs up to the gate, a young man with his collar undone and his tie loose. “Are you all right, young man?” Becky asks.
“One of those nights,” he answers. To the two guards, he says, “Mr. Hardwick says you must run and fetch the sheriff. There’s been a theft, and he wants it solved and the thief punished.”
Large looks at Larger.
“Do you feel like running?”
“I don’t get paid enough to run.”
“Me neither.”
Larger stands and opens the gate. “You better go and fetch the sheriff,” he tells the waiter. “You know all the details anyway.”
The young man starts to protest, but Larger put his hand on his Colt revolver. “Sure,” the waiter says quickly. “I can do that.”
After he dashes through the gate, they drag it closed and lock it again. I ask, “Do you mind if we go see what’s happening?”
“Just don’t try to leave through this gate,” Larger says.
“Because then we’d have to stop you,” Large says.
“And it feels like that could take some effort,” Larger adds.
Becky and I stroll back toward the crowd, which has gathered around Hardwick’s porch. The general sentiment seems to be anger and suspicion, with everyone giving the side-eye to everyone else. Hardwick himself stands in the doorway, backlit by a fire in the hearth of the room behind him, while various prominent men deliver complaints. The governor points to the missing pocket watch at the end of his gold chain. The wife of a senator complains about her absent necklace and bracelets. A judge wants Hardwick to know that his pocket has been picked clean of golden eagles.
Hardwick is doing his best to calm everyone down when Mr. Keys appears at his shoulder to whisper something in his ear.
“I can’t hear you,” Hardwick says.
The whole crowd falls silent just as Mr. Keys, still clearly tipsy, shouts, “We have a problem inside—someone broke into one of our safes!”
The timing could not be better, and it’s hard to resist clapping. For once, luck is with us.
Hardwick follows Mr. Keys into the house, and the crowd surges forward. I make sure I’m near the front as we push in and chase him through the house to a large storeroom behind the kitchen. Eleven safes stand neatly in two rows against the wall. Being this close to that much gold is nearly enough to make my knees buckle.
The largest safe, from Owen and Son, Bankers, stands with its door wide open and its shelves completely empty. Almost two hundred thousand dollars in gold was held in that safe. An unimaginable amount. And now it’s all gone.
I grin in spite of myself.
“Is there something amusing about this?” Hardwick asks me. His voice cracks, which widens my grin. He’s finally losing his composure.
“I told you to stay by the gate,” Frank yells when he spots me.
“You didn’t, actually. You just said we couldn’t leave—”
An unfamiliar voice hollers, “Look at all those safes! If Hardwick has so much money, why’d he steal from us?”
“Thief!” someone else shouts.
“Yeah, thief!” I chime in.
Hardwick raises his hands. “Hold on, friends. The sheriff will be here any moment, and we’ll sort this out. Now, please, please, all of you go back to the parlor. We have wine, whiskey, hors d’oeuvres . . .”
California is still too new and wild for people to ignore free food. A bit mollified, we all wait, crowded inside and around the front of his mansion, until Sheriff Purcell storms in, accompanied by several deputies.
Somehow, I thought he’d be larger. Imposing. Instead, the sheriff is of medium height and weight, with curly light brown hair turning to gray. He has a hornet’s-nest-poked-with-a-stick kind of look about him, thanks to his unkempt hair and beard, which bodes either very well or very ill.
“You have some nerve, hauling me down here,” Purcell says to Hardwick.
A puzzled look flits across Hardwick’s face. “Perhaps we should discuss the situation in private.”
Purcell glances around, noting all the familiar faces in the crowd. “No, I think I’m fine discussing it in front of witnesses.”
“Something has upset you,” Hardwick observes.
“You left me with a colossal mess after the auction yesterday. I’m still sorting out all the complaints!”
“What complaints?” Hardwick seems truly baffled, and I’m not ashamed to say I don’t feel sorry for him in the least.
“Theirs and mine,” Purcell says. “Their complaints are that you sold a bunch of property that was already owned by other people. I’ve got two sets of owners for all these different plots of land lined up in my office, wanting a resolution.”
“Thief!” someone shouts behind me. Jefferson’s voice, unless I miss my guess. Whispered echoes of “thief” ripple through the crowd.
“That’s not what I . . . that’s not right,” Hardwick says.
“No, James, it’s not right at all. My complaint is that you set the prices for the last auction so low that my office’s cut of the proceeds is just a fraction of what we need this month. I’m going to have to let deputies go, because I can’t afford to pay them, and that’s on you.” Purcell sticks a finger in Hardwick’s chest.
“That’s a lie,” Hardwick says furiously. “I chose those prices myself.”
“So you admit it’s your fault,” Purcell says.
“I admit nothing,” Hardwick says. “But if you help me figure out who the thief is tonight, I promise I’ll make it right with you.”
“Your promises are worth squat,” the sheriff says.
This is working out far better than I had hoped or dreamed.
The governor steps forward and rests a hand on Purcell’s shoulder. “What about my promises? Help us find the culprit tonight, resolve this situation, and I will make it right with you.”
The sheriff’s outrage melts away like a spring snowfall. “Yes, sir,” Purcell says. He waves over some deputies. “Make a list of everything that’s been stolen, and then start searching everyone.”
This process moves quickly, more quickly than I expected, because the party is no longer any fun, the whiskey is no longer flowing, and people are eager to wrap up this problem and leave. When my turn comes, I report that I’ve lost a few five-dollar pieces, and a quick search of my pockets and purse turn up empty. I’m herded toward a group of folks who have already been searched.
“Miss Westfall?” asks a voice.
I look up to see the governor again. “Hello, sir,” I say, wondering if the sheriff really had the gumption to search the governor, or if it was all a pretense. “This is a terrible situation.” I hope my face matches the solemnity of my voice.
“I’m sure you remember when we first met,” he says.
“In Sacramento, at the Christmas ball,” I offer.
“You were already the Golden Goddess, but a goddess without a realm. Did you receive a happy resolution to your problem that day?”
“No, sir, I did not,” I answer. “Me and the miners of Glory, we raised all the gold we had, and gave it to Mr. Hardwick, who promised to make sure we had a town charter. Something that would protect our claims, and protect our right to govern ourselves. Only it turned out he made a promise he couldn’t deliver.”
“I’m getting the impression that he has made many promises he’s incapable of delivering,” the governor says, his face grave.
Everyone is jumping ship now, even Hardwick’s closest associates.
The governor’s scrutiny becomes intense, making me fidget. “You’re still interested in that town charter, I presume?” he says.
My breath catches. “Yes, sir. Naturally, sir.”
“Good to know,” he says noncommittally.
Frank Dilley drags two small forms by the scruffs of their necks, and throws them to the ground at the sheriff’s feet. It’s Sonia, the pickpocket, and her little towheaded companion, Billy. Naturally, I’m shocked to see them.
“I caught these two lingering near the gate,” Frank says. “I recognized them for cutpurses who hang around the docks. If anyone is guilty of theft, it’s them.”
People in the crowd draw back from the two as if they’re infected with measles. Sonia looks up at the sheriff, eyes wide with innocence. “That’s not true, sir. We just came for the music and the food.”
“I was hungry,” Billy adds, with his sad puppy-dog eyes.
“Search us, sir,” Sonia says, holding up her arms. “You won’t find anything.”
“Well,” Billy says. “I’ve got a couple sausages in my pocket. But they’re small sausages. And some cheese.”
“Billy!”
“Search them,” the sheriff tells his deputies, but their careful patting down, including a search for any hidden pockets, turns up only lint-covered sausages, smooshed cheese, and a slice of dried apple.
“They’re clean,” the deputy reports. He wrinkles his nose. “Well, not clean, but they don’t have any valuables on them.”
“How’d you get into the party?” the sheriff asks. “Climb over a wall? Sneak in?”
“We came right in through the front gate,” Billy says earnestly, as he sticks the cheese and sausages back in his pockets, and shoves the browned apple slice into his mouth.
“That’s the honest truth, sir,” Sonia says. “We came with an invitation from Mr. Dilley, here.”
“Frank?” Hardwick says, his voice hard.
“That’s a damn lie!” Frank answers.
“We’ve searched all the guests and the grounds,” one of the deputies reports to the sheriff. “The stolen items are nowhere to be found.”
“Then maybe we should search inside the house,” the sheriff says.
Helena sidles up to him. “You won’t find anything in there,” she says to him. “Nobody’s been in the private quarters, except Hardwick and his staff.”
She must have sussed out part of our plan. I give Helena a grateful look. All I demanded was that she stop helping Hardwick, not that she help us instead. But I’ll take it.
“It’s true,” Hardwick says. “No one has been inside the private wing.”
“You’d swear to that?” the sheriff answers.
Hardwick opens his mouth. Closes it. The trap has been set, and he has no answer.
The sheriff and deputies go from room to room. After only a few minutes, a cry reaches us from one of the bedrooms. Footsteps hurry to investigate. The sheriff and his men return carrying the governor’s gold watch, the senator’s wife’s ruby bracelet, and a handful of other items.
“We found the jewelry under the mattress,” he says. “It’s all there.”
They lay out everything on a long serving table. The last two items are an iron key, which I would bet money fits the open safe in the storeroom, and the burned fragment of a safe ledger, still smoking, as though just rescued from the cinders.
“Whose room is along the west wall?” the sheriff asks. “The one with red velvet curtains and the beehive fireplace?”
Hardwick stares at Frank. “Where’s the gold, Dilley? Where’s the gold from the safe?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Frank says.
“That was Frank Dilley’s room,” Hardwick says. “And the key and ledger match a very specific safe. I want to know where he put my two hundred thousand dollars.”
“I never stole anything you didn’t tell me to steal,” Frank sneers as the deputies close around him.
“So you’re saying it wasn’t your fault?” the sheriff prompts. “Hardwick ordered you to steal the jewelry?”
Silence. Frank looks back and forth between Hardwick and the sheriff.
“Don’t take the fall for Hardwick,” I tell him.
Everyone in the room is listening closely. It’s so quiet you could hear a flea sneeze.
I see the exact moment Frank makes his decision. “Yes. Hardwick made me do it.”
“That’s a lie!” Hardwick yells.
Quicker than a blink, Frank draws his gun and aims it at Hardwick. Someone shouts a warning. The deputies tackle Frank, and the gun fires into the ceiling, raining plaster onto Hardwick’s head.
Hardwick’s face goes from terrified to controlled in the space of a breath. He has the poise and presence of a leader. A president. “Please claim your items, people,” Hardwick says, his face white from plaster dust, but just as composed as you please. “I’m very sorry for the problem here tonight.”
“You’re only sorry you got caught,” I say. There’s no proof Hardwick did it, just the confession of a desperate man. But my words are bound to be repeated.
We gather at the gate. Becky is there waiting, along with a couple of droopy heads hiding under Olive’s and Andy’s hats. The Major stands beside them, rocking the baby in his arms. She’s sleeping hard, with one hand tangled in his beard, and a thumb jammed firmly into her mouth. Jefferson and Henry show up just as I do. I scan the crowd for Mary and spot her clearing empty platters from a refreshment table, making herself useful as always.
Guests stream past us, muttering that the only thing Hardwick is sorry for is finally getting caught.
“It’s just as well Hardwick is leaving,” the governor tells someone. “He won’t be our problem anymore.”
Jefferson and I exchange a grin.
“Well, for once, we had a spot of luck,” Jefferson says.
“Yep,” I agree. “Thanks to Helena and Frank.”
“Could it have gone any better?” Becky adds, and she can’t keep the glee from her voice.
The sheriff and his deputies come by, dragging a kicking and protesting Frank Dilley by his elbows.
“So it was him?” asks Larger.
“What’s going to happen to Dilley?” asks Large.
“He’ll be treated the way we treat any other thief,” the sheriff says. “After he tells us where he hid all the gold coins from Mr. Hardwick’s safe.”
I can’t help thinking about the gallows standing in Portsmouth Square. Or the way they cast a shadow over the spot where Jim was shot, where he lay bleeding in the mud. “He has legitimately earned anything this city can dish out,” I say. “Right?”
The Major says, “If Frank swings, I won’t be shedding any tears.”
“If he had swung earlier, a whole lot of good folks would still be alive,” Jefferson says.
“This is a good night,” Henry assures me. “We did a good thing.”
But there are ten full safes sitting in Hardwick’s storeroom, holding close to two million dollars’ worth of gold. And he has a ship chartered to take him to New York, along with his fortune. “We aren’t done,” I say. “Not quite yet.”