Rapture's Gold

by Rosanne Bittner

  It was five months later, in the spring of 1896, when the awful news came. Upon hearing of his wife’s untimely death, full of grief because he had not seen her again and in ill health from a fever, Brian O’Toole collapsed when the messenger gave him the letter about Becky. The messenger loaded Brian onto a travois and took him to the doctor in Cripple Creek. Shortly thereafter Brian O’Toole was dead. The doctor wrote a reply addressed to Harmony, who had sent the letter about Becky. In the letter he enclosed a separate envelope marked Harmony Jones—Personal. But once Harmony read the initial letter, she didn’t bother to look at anything else.

  Brian! Brian was dead! She sat alone in the big empty house when the news came—the house where she had spent those early, happy years with Brian and Becky O’Toole, who were so kind to her, who had been like parents. In that house Brian O’Toole had been happy with his beloved Becky, until constant miscarriages had destroyed pretty Becky’s spirit and had driven a wedge between the pair. It had been devastating for Harmony to watch Brian O’Toole walk out of her life to go west. Now he was dead. Dead! No! It could not be! She loved him, needed him, had counted on his return. Again death had claimed a loved one. But would he have returned? Was Jimmie right in saying that he would not have come back? Was it true that he didn’t love her like a daughter? After all, he hadn’t returned in three years, and he’d promised it would be only two.

  Brian O’Toole had abandoned her too, for there was not even a will stating she had any claim to anything he owned, despite how hard she’d worked for the man, despite all she thought she’d meant to him. Jimmie had already affirmed that. A will was something Brian had always meant to take care of but had never drawn up, and now all the property would surely go to Jimmie. Harmony had no right to any of it.

  Her personal grief was only made worse by her awareness of the predicament she was in and by wondering over whether Brian had really cared about her. Was she so unlovable? All she had ever done was try to please people, yet she kept losing them. Again the haunting memory of the night on the docks came to her—the terror, the loneliness, the indecision. As long as Brian was alive, she’d felt confident of his love, certain he would return to take care of any unfinished business. She grieved now, not only for his death but for all the things that meant to her—most of all the renewed abandonment. More than ever she was sure that she could never again trust another human being, that she should never again love for fear of losing, that she would never again rely on help from anyone. It must come from her, and she was right back to the fact that she must have money and property. In those things lay her only power, her only independence, her only strength.

  How long she lay on the bed weeping she wasn’t sure. When her tears finally subsided the sun was setting. She had not gone to the store that day, but had stayed home to clean. Because of her threats, Jimmie had stayed away from the house, taking an apartment of his own. But what would he do now? Brian’s death would change everything. She realized then that she hadn’t even told Jimmie of it yet. Perhaps she should wait. The longer she waited, the better it would be for her; for Jimmie would think Brian was still alive and might come home. That was her last hold on him, except that he needed her at the store, but he was becoming more self-confident, more sure he could handle things himself and didn’t need her anymore.

  She was torn by indecision. She didn’t want to think. She didn’t even want to grieve. She hated crying. What good did it do? Crying made her feel like an abandoned little six-year-old again, and she didn’t like that feeling. Besides, she was angry now—more angry than sorrowful. Hadn’t Brian abandoned her after all, just like her parents?

  She sniffed and straightened, walking out to the dining room, where the envelope marked personal still lay on the table. She stared at it, her heart beginning to pound. Personal! Why had she paid no attention to it before? It could be a will, or some kind of legal paper awarding her money! It could be…

  She grabbed up the envelope and ripped it open.

  “To the attention of Miss Harmony Jones, ward of Brian Howard O’Toole, St. Ann Street, St. Louis, Missouri:” the paper read. “Please be advised that upon the death of Brian Howard O’Toole a claim has been left in your name only, said claim being near Pike’s Peak, a size of one hundred feet (100’) by one hundred feet (100’) and said claim yielding five ($5.00) in gold (roughly) daily from placer mining Wildcat Creek, which runs through said claim, and into Cripple Creek. Please be advised that said claim has never yielded more than the above-mentioned amounts in gold, that no shaft has been dug on this claim and no coyoting has been performed, nor has any mother lode been found to designate the source of the meager gold on this claim; and it is doubted that any mother load of any great value exists.

  “Since you are the sole owner of this staked claim, as duly recorded in this assayer’s office as of the fifth day of September, Eighteen Hundred and Ninety-Five, this assayer must be informed forthwith of your intent as pertains to the above-mentioned claim. Please be advised that if notice is not received by the thirtieth (30th) day of June, Eighteen Hundred and Ninety-Six, under the laws governing such claims, and giving you due time, considering distance and circumstances and the fact that you are a woman, said claim will no longer be considered your property and will be up for bids to anyone who wishes to stake it and duly records himself as owner of said claim.

  “I await your prompt reply.”

  The letter was signed Jonathan C. Humes, assayer in the claims office of Cripple Creek, Colorado.

  Harmony put down the letter with shaking hands. A gold claim! A gold claim all her own! So what if it only yielded five dollars a day! To her that was a fortune! She put a hand to her chest. Brian O’Toole had remembered her after all! He had left her his claim! There was no mention of Jimmie! None at all! She read the letter again—and again. She had no idea what placer mining was, or what was meant by digging a shaft or coyoting. And what was a mother lode? It made no sense to her, but that didn’t matter. She had property! And that property yielded enough gold to live on. She had only to learn how to get the gold out, and woman or not, she would do it! For once in her life she had something that was all her own, even though it was over a thousand miles away in an unknown land. It was hers, and as long as she went there and claimed it, no one could take it from her. She had to rely on herself now, herself and no one else. The claim gave her the independence she needed, gave her property and money. Somehow she would work it. She would do whatever was necessary to hang on to it!

  She immediately took out some paper, her eagerness and determination overshadowing all grief, all fear, all reasoning that a young girl alone could not go into a wild land and work a gold claim. Never in her life had she had something that was just hers. She composed a letter, stating her intent to come to Cripple Creek and claim Brian O’Toole’s property and declaring that she would work the claim herself. She sat back then and read the letter before folding it and putting it into an envelope. She would see that it got into the mail the very next morning.

  She reread the assayer’s letter. Yes. There was no doubt. The mine or claim or whatever it was belonged to her alone. Brian O’Toole had loved her after all. Perhaps the only reason he hadn’t come home sooner was that he’d hoped to strike a richer claim before returning, wanting his Harmony to have all that he could give her. She had to believe that. She needed to believe it.

  Rising, she threw on her cape, and picked up the letter from the doctor about Brian’s death. She stuck the assayer’s letter up under her dress into her undergarment. She did not want Jimmie O’Toole to get his hands on it. What if he destroyed it? Then she decided to do the same with the letter of reply until she could mail it in the morning. She had already cried herself out. Brian O’Toole was dead, and nothing would bring him back now. All those she loved had abandoned her or died, and she was left alone, to fend for herself however she could. With her Colorado property she would do just that. She went out the door and hailed a carriage to take her to
the supply store, where she knew Jimmie would be working late. Her heart raced, her cheeks were flushed with victory.

  Several minutes later the carriage pulled up in front of the store, and she hurried inside to find Jimmie taking inventory. He cast her a scowl.

  “Fine time to come to work,” he told her. “I’ve worked my fingers to the bone today.”

  “Good,” she replied. She watched him a moment, unable to be so cruel as to throw the news at him without feeling. “Jimmie, I have bad news,” she said quietly. “You’d better sit down.”

  He frowned, setting down his tablet and pen. “Brian?” he asked.

  She nodded. “A letter came to the house today, from a doctor in Cripple Creek. Brian…collapsed when he heard about Becky. He died a few hours later.”

  Jimmie just stared at her a moment, and to her surprise, he didn’t look at all upset. His eyes scanned her rudely, and a faint grin swept across his mouth. “Well. I’ve had enough talks with our attorney to know what that means. I am now sole owner of this store and the warehouse and the house.” He looked her over again. “And you.”

  She smiled right back at him. Whatever pity she had felt in telling him of his brother’s death was gone. “No, Jimmie. You do not own me. I own myself—and a gold claim.”

  He paled to an alarming white, and his eyes narrowed. “What are you talking about?”

  “Brian left me sole title to a gold claim. And I intend to go to Colorado and take it over. It’s my property, and it yields five dollars daily. If I’m lucky, it will come to more than that.”

  He stepped closer, the little crimson dots on his white cheeks betraying his anger. “He wouldn’t do that! If he struck gold he’d have left it to me!”

  She smiled. “There was no mention of your name in the letter I received from the assayer.” She reached into her handbag and held out a piece of paper. “Here. This is the assayer’s address. If you doubt me, you are free to write to him and find out for yourself. I do not intend to show you his letter. It’s mine. And I have already replied that I am coming to claim the strike. You can have the store and everything else. My savings will finance my trip to Colorado and pay for the supplies I will need when I get there. I need nothing more from you, Jimmie O’Toole.” She turned to leave.

  “Wait!” he called out. “What…what about the store? The books?”

  She smiled haughtily. “If you don’t know how to handle this business by now, Jimmie, you deserve to lose it. I have done all I can to keep it going, and I would have done more if you had been kinder to me. But I’ll not forget the night you attacked me, nor the fact that you have not shown any remorse for Brian who gave you all that you have. I have no feeling for you; therefore, I do not care whether you keep this store or lose it. Do what you will. I am going to Colorado.”

  She turned again. “You can’t go out there and pan for gold!” he yelled. “You’re only seventeen! You’re a girl! You don’t know anything about panning for gold! You don’t have anybody to help you. You’ll never survive!”

  She turned back again. “I’ve survived so far, haven’t I? I’ll manage.” She opened the door.

  “I hope you die on a mountain!” he growled at her. “I hope a grizzly attacks you, or claim jumpers rape and murder you! I hope there’s no gold left when you get there! Bitch! You’ll come crawling back to me, that’s what you’ll do, if you don’t die out there!”

  She grinned. “I would much prefer to die under a grizzly’s claws. Good-bye, Jimmie. I’m going home to pack and I’ll stay at a hotel tonight. The house is yours. Everything is yours, just as you wanted.”

  She walked through the door and closed it, reentering the carriage. Nothing mattered now—nothing but getting to Colorado and claiming what was hers. She was truly on her own from here on, and never again would Harmony Jones trust anyone, love anyone, depend on anyone but herself. Yes. That was truly all she had—herself…and a gold claim in Colorado.

  Chapter Three

  So…it was done. She was on her way to Colorado. Jimmie O’Toole could have his supply store! Someday she would be richer than Jimmie O’Toole, richer than most people. She didn’t need a man pawing over her, she didn’t need parents to take care of her. She could care for herself. She hated depending on anyone, and she hated men who thought all women should be available to them. No man would use Harmony Jones that way!

  It was then she noticed someone new had boarded the train. He sat across from her, and his appearance fascinated her. Surely he was one of those cowboys she had read about—men who herded cattle, captured mustangs, and broke horses. They were wild, roamers, she’d always heard. This one must have got on board at the little town where the train had stopped for breakfast, or he had been in one of the other cars. At any rate, she had not noticed him before.

  She stole quick glances at him out of purely childish curiosity, for he did not wear a suit and vest like the other men on the train. He wore high boots that were well worn and dark blue pants of a strong-looking material. The clean calico shirt that adorned his very broad shoulders was tucked into his waist which was encircled by a wide leather belt that held a beaded sheath in which a huge knife rested. A holster containing a gun with a polished mahogany handle also hung from his belt, and a wide-brimmed hat lay in his lap, held by very big hands that looked as though they had done hard work. His white shirt was decorated with blue designs, and at his neck he wore a bright blue scarf, which accented the very blue eyes that were suddenly looking back at her.

  She reddened deeply, angry that she had bothered to look at him at all. Surely he thought she was a loose woman who was giving him the eye, when on the contrary she was not even looking at him as a man or even as a person, but rather as a curious object she had never seen before. But how would she ever explain that? She stared back out the window, determined not to look back for a long time so he would know she had only been curious. But the memory of his face, of that one quick look, stirred something in her she did not understand. She tried to ignore the odd, quick flutter she had felt when she’d met his eyes. His face was rugged and tanned, and from what she could remember in that quick glance, handsomer than that of any man she had ever set eyes on, if she would call any man handsome. She had long ago determined that no man would ever be attractive to her, and that she would never, ever, desire a man. It was not that she had such a feeling for this one. It was just that she had never seen one dressed as he was and wearing weapons, or one with eyes quite so blue set in a face quite so perfect. She wanted to look again, out of sheer curiosity, but could not bring herself to do it for she was sure his own eyes were still on her.

  She felt suddenly overdressed for the country into which she was headed. She wore an expensive green velvet skirt and jacket, the jacket short and tight fitting flattered her lovely shape. Her blonde hair was coiffed into sweeping curls that were set off by the elegant velvet hat she wore. At her neck the neat white ruffles of her silk blouse filled the space between the lapels of her jacket, and at her throat a lovely broach decorated the blouse. It had been a gift from Becky O’Toole long ago. Her high-button shoes were shiny and black. She suddenly wondered if people would laugh at her when she disembarked at Cripple Creek. Surely in such a wild town full of itinerant miners, a young, inexperienced, fancily dressed girl from St. Louis would be out of place.

  She stared ahead although she still couldn’t get a good view of the western horizon. Then she saw the dark shadow again against the western sky, and suddenly white peaks. The mountains! She leaned forward, her gaze intent now. They must be gigantic, for their tops were covered with snow and this was the first of June! Her heart pounded with anticipation, hope, fear, doubts. What was she doing coming to this land? What awaited her out there?

  “Where you headed, cowboy?” a voice asked nearby. It startled her, and she looked up to see a conductor standing near the stranger with the gun and high boots, looking at a ticket.

  “Cripple Creek,” came the deep but gentle voice.


  Harmony’s heart raced harder. He was going to the same place she was! What a small world it was after all. She stared at her lap, pretending not to listen.

  “Another gold-seeker?” the conductor asked with a laugh, punching the ticket.

  Harmony dared to glance in the man’s direction again, and he was flashing a wide, handsome grin, his teeth white and even, his blue eyes dancing. Thick, sandy hair was combed in neat waves away from his face, but a few little curls hung over his forehead.

  “I’m not that crazy,” the man replied to the conductor. “I wouldn’t waste my time scratching the earth for something I might never find. I’ve seen plenty of men die or go home in broken despair after searching for gold. I make my money an easier way.”

  The conductor chuckled. “You a gambler?”

  “No, sir. I work for a supply store, and the man I work for is thinking of raising good sturdy pack horses, sent me to Arriba where a man I know raises the best. I’ve got a valuable thoroughbred stud and a good sturdy roan broodmare on board. I’ll be getting off at River Bend and will herd them straight west from there instead of going on into Denver.”

  The conductor nodded. “Well, sounds to me like you’ve got a more dependable means of income than panning for gold, I’ll say that. Me, I’d just as soon have a good, steady job. You look more like a cowboy, than a man who’d work for a supply store.”

  The stranger shifted in his seat, and Harmony glanced at him again. He was a big man. She guessed that if he stood up he would be a good six feet tall. He looked uncomfortable in the seat, and he stretched one long leg out into the aisle so he could unbend it.

  “Not so much use for trailherders anymore, thanks to the railroad,” he answered. “Some ranchers still need cowboys. But it’s hard for me to stay in one place. With this job I do a little traveling, supplying miners. I go up and down into the mountains and back to Cripple Creek. And I meet a lot of people.”