Veins of Gold

by Charlie N. Holmberg

  “Do you see it?”

  “Not birds,” he said. “And the moon is reflecting off the mountain.”

  “It’s magic,” she whispered.

  Rooster chuckled.

  “Watch.” She pulled the necklace away.

  Rooster blinked again. “Where did it—”

  She pressed the locket against his fingers. He turned his head toward her, slowly pulling his gaze from the mountains. Looked down at the necklace. A question wrote itself in the lines of his forehead.

  “It’s magic,” she repeated. “This is what Winn sees. It’s all around us.”

  Rooster swallowed. Moved his fingers from the locket. Touched it again. “What kind of magic?”

  “The kind that lives,” she said. “Unseen, like the wind.”

  Rooster’s stomach grumbled. He pulled away from the necklace. “This place is bizarre, Gentry. Magic?”

  “The quake, the rain. It’s all part of it. It’s the part we don’t see,” she whispered.

  He nodded, accepting it in silence. Winn’s presence and Pearl’s stories readied him for it, Gentry supposed.

  She pocketed the necklace. “Let’s go to sleep.” She walked toward the tub of soaking laundry and blew out the candle.

  In her bed, Pearl slumbering beside her, Gentry planned for California.

  Rooster stayed home from work again the next day, but the lost wages didn’t bother Gentry as much as they normally would have. She’d be seeing Pa soon and setting things straight. She’d imagined all sorts of scenarios. What if he’d sent wages only to have them stolen or lost in the mail? What if he’d been saving them up to send all at once, not realizing how destitute his children had become? Perhaps he had miscalculated Rooster’s pay. Perhaps he wasn’t making enough money to send more than pennies, in which case Gentry hoped he’d simply come home.

  The third day Gentry woke before the sun poked its head over the Wasatch Mountains. She dressed quickly and braided her hair before coiling it at the back of her head—something that would look a little fancier without getting in the way. She washed her face and hurried to the kitchen to start water boiling for oatmeal. She’d cleaned everything the day before, making the house nearly spotless for Pearl and Rooster to enjoy in her absence. She’d even plucked enough thread from her old dress to patch one of her brother’s pockets and stitch a hole in the armpit of Pearl’s favorite blouse.

  Her locket bounced at her collar as she set bowls out for herself and her siblings—would Winn need breakfast?—and noted the fiddle case resting on a shelf in the corner. She hadn’t played yesterday, wanting to get as much work done as possible. Nor the day before that. Her fingers suddenly ached for the pressure of the strings, but music could wait until tomorrow. Tomorrow would be a bright day; Gentry felt sure.

  Rooster was up first, his coloring back to normal. He pulled on a suspender strap and collapsed into a chair at the table. “Any mail come in while I was out?”

  “I didn’t check. Who are you expecting to hear from?”

  Her brother merely shook his head. “Nothing to get excited about. I’m starving.”

  “You’ve eaten like a bird for two days, so I’m not surprised,” Gentry replied, picking up his bowl and heaping a large serving of oatmeal in it. She stirred some flour into it to bulk it up and topped it with a little butter. Rooster dug in. If he noticed the flour substitution or the plain taste, he didn’t remark on it.

  Pearl moseyed out of the bedroom, rubbing her eyes. Gentry served her, then scooped some oatmeal for herself. It was especially bland, but she resisted using more butter. She would work things out with their Pa today, yes, but the sensible part of her warned to keep rationing until answers were had.

  A seagull appeared on the sill of the glassless window at the other end of the house. Gentry shoveled the rest of breakfast down as an ensuing burst of wind rustled through the room, shaking one of the pans hanging by a nail on the kitchen wall.

  Gentry dumped her bowl into the small washbasin and wiped her mouth on her sleeve before hurrying to the door, Pearl on her heels. The sun had brightened already, and a breeze that smelled like the sea wafted over her. Winn walked through a flock of seagulls from the direction of the stables, where Bounder shook her head in obvious dismay at his arrival.

  Pearl darted past Gentry, her oatmeal bowl still in hand. “How long are you going to stay? Is it true your ma’s an Indian? Do you want some oatmeal? But I don’t think Gentry made enough—”

  Gentry flushed and, smoothing her skirt, walked a few steps to meet him. He wore only one earring in each ear. “Are you hungry?” she asked.

  Winn flashed her a smile that nearly liquefied her knees. “I already ate, but thank you for offering. Both of you.” He put his hand on Pearl’s head and ruffled the hair pulled back into a sloppy bun. “And I’m afraid I’m not staying long. This trip will take us a full day, give or take.”

  Pearl frowned. “Why does only Gentry get to go?”

  Gentry frowned. “Do you really want to pick through all the miners in California yourself?”

  “Yes.”

  “Unfortunately”—a seagull pecked at one of his bootlaces—“I don’t have the strongest arms in the territory and fear I can’t carry two women at once. This does involve a bit of carrying.” He winked at her, and Gentry looked away in hopes that neither he nor Pearl would see her ears turn red.

  “But,” Winn continued, “I promise you and I will have an adventure all our own soon enough. A very socially acceptable and appropriate one.” He glanced back to Gentry at the last sentence. “Shall we?”

  “One moment.” Gentry hurried back into the house, where Rooster was putting his bowl in the sink. She pulled on her bonnet and gathered her small bag of things—just in case—and turned back for the door.

  “Sure this is safe?” Rooster asked.

  She smiled, and it felt as genuine as one of Winn’s. “I promise I’ll be safe.”

  Rooster dug into his pocket and pulled out a folded paper. Gentry didn’t recognize it—it must have been from Hoss’s home. “Give Pa this letter from me, if you would.”

  Gentry took the letter and nodded. “I will.”

  Rooster nodded, and Gentry hurried back outside. Winn bent over and whispered something to Pearl, who widened her eyes. “Really?” she asked, but Winn didn’t answer, only straightened and looked at Gentry.

  To Pearl, Gentry said, “Make sure Bounder gets some exercise today.”

  Pearl nodded, hesitated, and walked back to the house, glancing over her shoulder almost every other step.

  Winn offered his elbow, which Gentry took, and he led her to the stables, the seagulls waddling after, a few taking flight to catch up. Before reaching Bounder, Winn dropped his elbow and let his hand slide down Gentry’s arm until his fingers entwined with hers. Shivers like dulled needles buzzed up her arm, and she bit down on a girlish grin.

  He pulled her behind the stable. “The especially windy way will get us there faster,” he explained. “I’m afraid that’s the only way to make it there and back before the neighbors can gossip.”

  Gentry’s heart quickened, remembering their journey to the Egret, the ear-splitting tornado of birds, the protective and almost intimate way Winn had held her to keep her from falling. Taking a deep breath, she nodded. “That will be fine. I’m ready. Thank you, so much, for this. Do you think . . . do you think we’ll find him?”

  Winn’s countenance fell a fraction. “I’m sure we will.” His change of expression, albeit slight, nagged at the back of Gentry’s thoughts, but she dismissed it.

  Releasing her hand, Winn turned toward her and took her bonnet strings in hand, tying a second knot in the bow under her chin. The action warmed her under the morning sun.

  “Don’t want it falling off.” His voice had gone soft.

  Her eyes dropped to his lips, remembering their kiss. Wondering if he would kiss her again. Clearing her throat, trying to think of something to say. “You would loo
k good in spectacles.”

  Winn blinked and laughed. “Spectacles?”

  Gentry shrugged. “Not many people do, but . . .”

  “Hopefully I’ll never need them. Ready?”

  Gentry nodded. Winn led her away from the stable. Without a verbal command, the gulls took to the air and flew toward them, circling them in a cyclone of pale feathers. Their wind pulled on Gentry’s skirt. Winn pulled her close. She put her arms around him, looping them under his arms with her hands on his shoulders. His encircled her waist. The gusts grew stronger, and the birds blurred. Gentry shut her eyes, and as her feet lifted from the earth, she felt Winn’s lips against the skin below her ear.

  “Trust me,” he whispered, and they rose into the morning together.

  The flight was longer than it had been when Winn and Gentry went to the Egret. Such a thing was to be expected, but by the time Winn’s birds set them down, Gentry’s arms, neck, and back cramped something fierce, and her head spun like she’d been twirling all morning. She sank to the earth on her knees, eyes shut, and took deep, slow breaths. Don’t throw up in front of Winn. Not in front of Winn. Oh God, please help me not to lose my breakfast.

  “Sorry,” he said after a long minute. “I forget it takes getting used to. I usually go slower for these distances, but—”

  “It’s all right.” She opened her eyes and blinked. The ground was dry and dusty. Had she left the desert at all? “Just . . . one moment.”

  She pulled her bonnet off—it had protected her hair, at least—and leaned over, inhaling, exhaling. She stretched her neck and rolled her shoulders. She was supposed to repeat this again tonight?

  Gentry took in her surroundings. Lots of hills. Green hills, brown hills. No giant peaks like in Utah Territory. Were they really in California?

  Winn helped Gentry stand. “Don’t want to plop down in the middle of San Francisco.” He wore a sheepish grin. Sheepish didn’t look natural on him, yet Gentry found the expression endearing. “It’s a bit of a walk.”

  “I could use a walk.” She followed him down the hill and around another. The exercise loosened her muscles, and as they crested yet another hill, she caught the familiar scent of the ocean. Grabbing her skirt in two handfuls, Gentry jogged up the subtle path on the hill, passing Winn. Something deep in her gut fueled her limbs, and she reached the peak quickly.

  San Francisco.

  It stretched before her, hugging a wide bay that opened into the endless ocean. How Gentry had missed the ocean. Buildings of all sorts speckled the earth—houses and mills and shops and others she couldn’t identify, not from so far. Men on horseback trotted through the streets. Wagons full of barrels and slides, women holding children’s hands. Tents had been pitched even between houses or near the river. The city had the messy terrain of Utah and the crowds of Virginia, like the two had mixed and tumbled to the edge of the ocean. The air was a little cooler here, and while the air itself smelled earthy, the early afternoon breeze carried a salty freshness that made Gentry ache for Virginia.

  There were so many people. Gentry squinted and peered toward the river, where the bulk of the crowds congregated. Wasn’t gold first found in those waters?

  Winn caught up to her and held out his hand as though presenting the prize hog at the fair. “Abracadabra. California.”

  A laugh escaped Gentry’s throat—an airy, crackling sound, like it had been sitting on her diaphragm all morning, waiting for a crack to release. “You’re amazing, Winn.” She couldn’t catch her breath, taking in all of this. Pa was down there, somewhere. “Imagine what people would say, knowing they could fly across the states and territories as you do.”

  “Better they don’t know.” His hand touched the back of her neck and pulled on the chain of her necklace. “Look.”

  Gentry touched the pendant, then scanned the city once more, taking in the buildings, the people, the hills, the bay. Nothing. No shimmers, no wild magic. It was positively normal.

  “They’ve run from this place,” Winn said. “The ones that can.”

  “That can?”

  “We’d be in a mite of trouble if entire hills tried to up and leave, hm?” he asked, but there was sadness in his eyes.

  Gentry nodded and released her necklace. They took in the view a moment longer, but Gentry hadn’t come to marvel at the gold rush. “Where should I start? Looking for my father?”

  “The Boston Company is northwest of here.” The slightest frown pulled on his lips. “Not far. You did say Boston Company, right?”

  Gentry nodded. Moths began to flutter between her ribs, but they didn’t keep her from noticing the droop in Winn’s expression. So subtle. Had she not seen him so often, she wouldn’t have noticed it.

  She swallowed and gripped the strap of her small bag. She started down the path leading into the city, Winn following.

  There were more tents Gentry hadn’t seen from up on the hill and several stores selling shovels and pans and slacks, all for prices that made Gentry’s eyes bug. Winn directed her down one street and then another. They passed a hotel new enough that it had no chipped paint or weathering on its sign, and the smell of bread and frying oil wafted through the window. Gentry’s stomach gurgled—it would be about lunchtime, but she had a biscuit and some carrots in her bag. She’d eat them soon enough.

  The trek was a long one, but Gentry didn’t complain. Didn’t talk much, either, not knowing what to talk about. Not wanting to gush the whirlwind of thoughts in her skull at Winn. Where was Pa? Would he look different? Would he be happy to see her? Why wouldn’t he be happy to see her? How would she explain coming to San Francisco? What did Rooster’s note say? Did Pa stay in a hotel or in one of those tents? Had he found gold?

  Why hadn’t he written?

  The city changed where it met the river. Log houses half the size of Gentry’s bedroom scattered the banks. There was one mill and another structure that appeared to be some sort of fort. Everywhere in between was spotted with tents. Small manmade canals looped off the river, directing water away. A few men used long rakes to stir the river bottom and bring it close to shore, as though they were afraid of getting their feet wet. Others stood shoulder to shoulder around long troughs, shaking pans of mud. Others stood in the shallows of the river, walking along or filling buckets, turning over the soaked earth with shovels.

  So many people. Was there so much gold to be had?

  Winn gestured ahead, to the fort. Troughs surrounded it, connected to make a great angled slide for sifting gold. Men in work clothes—some in just their long johns—surrounded the thing, barely making space for a woman to walk. There weren’t many women, but there were some, likely attending their husbands. Gentry didn’t see anyone wading into the river itself.

  A ways behind the fort, people had built some sort of mining shaft into one of the hills.

  Straightening her back, Gentry searched the crowd for her father, but she didn’t recognize anyone. Instead she found someone sitting on a rock with a pan and marched to him.

  “Excuse me. I’m looking for Butch Abrams. Do you know him?”

  The man lifted his eyes. He looked to be about Pa’s age. His skin was darkly suntanned, and he was missing one of his front teeth. He glimpsed her up and down before answering, “Can’t say I do.”

  “Do you have a foreman? Someone in charge?”

  The man lowered his pan and looked over the other workers. “Methinks you want Mr. Webber, but God knows where he is. Might try the doctor. He knows most everybody with our folk.”

  Gentry nodded. “Where might I find him?”

  “Charlie’s probably in there.” He tilted his head toward the fort. “What did you say your name was?”

  Gentry merely replied “Thank you,” and went on her way. Winn met up with her halfway to the fort.

  “I need a Mr. Webber or a man named Charlie, the doctor,” she said.

  Winn nodded. “Are you sure it was Boston Company?”

  She paused. “I’m certain. Why?
”

  Winn shook his head. “No reason.” He offered his hand to help Gentry over one of the shallow canals. They approached the side of the fort—there were hooks and nails all over the wall, likely for hanging things at the end of the day. A ladder and a trowel remained.

  “Can I help you?”

  Gentry turned at the voice, spying a man coming down a set of stairs that ran up the outside of the building. He was dressed far more sharply than any of the workers, with a well-trimmed, salt-and-pepper beard and bowler hat. His inquiry stiffened the air between them, but it wasn’t entirely unfriendly.

  Gentry turned toward him. “Yes, please. I’m looking for a foreman or perhaps the doctor.”

  “Mmhm.” The man adjusted his hat and glanced to Winn. He looked a little too long—Gentry wondered if Winn’s eyes had flashed gold or if, perhaps, he looked familiar. “And why would you be needing either of them? Mr. Webber is busy and off-site, and the good doctor only sees to the Boston Company. He doesn’t do house calls.”

  Gentry straightened and squared her shoulders. “I’m searching for one of the employees—Butch Abrams. Is he here?”

  “Butch Abrams,” the man repeated. He frowned, eyed Winn again, and said, “This way.”

  He opened one of two doors on the ground floor of the building. Gentry followed, Winn behind her. The room within was wide and sparsely furnished. It had windows, but Gentry still had to blink several times before her eyes adjusted to the dimmer light. The man—after checking his pocket watch—crossed the room to a long, narrow table pushed against the wall. Books and ledgers littered it. He sifted through the clutter until he found a particularly large ledger. He flipped through it, read a few pages, flipped back.

  “There’s no Butch Abrams working here, miss.” He still scanned one of the pages.

  Gentry’s heart sank. She clutched her hands together, forcing herself not to wring her fingers. “I’m sorry, you must be mistaken. Butch Abrams is my father. He set out to work for the Boston Company in May. He made it to California.”