by Deeanne Gist
On all sides of the square, throngs of men hurried about. The tangle-bearded long-haired miner just in from the diggings counted his dollars by the thousands while the cleanly shaven easterner had expended his last cent in getting here.
A shot rang out, its bullet whistling over the heads of those in the street. The newcomers ducked instinctively. Those who had been here a month or more paid no more attention to such trifles than they would to the hum of a mosquito.
An argument in front of the El Dorado captured Rachel’s attention.
‘‘Why, we haven’t had a good hangin’ here for months.’’ The miner spat a wad of tobacco into the square.
‘‘Wall, that last hangin’ was a few pence short in the shilling. The most brummish pardner in town is always the first to holler, ‘Hang him.’ ’’
‘‘Tain’t so. Only them that deserves it swing from the noose.’’
‘‘All my eye and my grandmother. Why, the fellers pullin’ on the rope might just as well be on the other end of it. It’s all a matter of who hollers first.’’ The man pressed a fat finger against one nostril then bent over and blew out a wad of phlegm from the open nostril. ‘‘Why, a’one of us could start running after Dick here, hollerin’, ‘Hang him! Hang him!’ and these loafers would pour out of the tents and string him up without givin’ him a chance to speak fer himself.’’
Scratching his belly, his friend pursed his lips. ‘‘Well, I say we test yer theory, Tedder.’’ He turned to the boy beside him. ‘‘What do say, Dick? You wanna play hare to us hounds for, oh, fifty apiece, boys?’’
While the youth named Dick took another swig of whiskey, his companions measured out their dust and poured it into the boy’s pouch. He handed over his liquor and started across the Plaza at a lively pace. His friends followed, shouting, ‘‘Hang him! Hang him!’’
No fire bell could have cleared the bars more effectively as every tent and shack emptied at once. Covering her mouth, Rachel watched the boy race up Washington Street and disappear from her view as he cut across Dupont, only to reappear at Clay when a group of revelers captured him and slipped a rope about his neck.
Had Tedder not caught up with them and interfered, Rachel knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that that boy would never have seen the dawn. She sagged against the wall.
Where is Lissa, Lord?
The temporary excitement created a reckless atmosphere as the drunken, yelling, pistol-firing men celebrated their brush with bloodletting.
Afraid to linger in the alley when the mob’s lust for violence reached such dangerous heights, she returned to the shanty.
Sitting at the table, she rested her head in her hands and prayed without ceasing. Before the hour was up Michael came through the door, his cheek swollen, nose bloodied, and lip cracked.
‘‘Michael! Oh heavens. What happened?’’
He looked at her, tears pouring from the eye that wasn’t swollen shut. ‘‘It’s Lissa. Sumner has made her his without marrying her first.’’
Rachel gasped. ‘‘By force?"
‘‘No,’’ Michael choked.
chapter 12
Rachel shook her head. ‘‘No, Michael, no. You must be mistaken.’’
Anger contorted his face. He picked up a chair and threw it across the room. It crashed into the wall before splintering and falling to the floor. Grabbing another, he raised it above his head.
‘‘Michael! Stop!’’
He didn’t stop, but with tears pouring down his cheek, he threw the table, the ewer, the bowl.
Pressing her back against the wall, she covered her mouth. ‘‘Please,’’ she whimpered.
The front door banged open. Johnnie bounded in, wrenching the trunk from Michael’s grip. Michael whirled around and, shoulder down, barreled into Johnnie, carrying him to the wall and pinning him there.
Johnnie tossed the trunk in his hands out of harm’s way. Michael swung at him aimlessly.
‘‘Nooooo!’’ Rachel screamed.
She ran to Michael and tried to grab his arm. Instead, his elbow caught her in the collarbone, knocking her to the floor.
The men froze.
Johnnie dropped beside her. ‘‘Are you hurt?’’
She raised herself up on her elbows. He helped her sit up. Michael crumpled to the floor, cradling his head in his hands.
Getting onto all fours, Rachel crawled to him, wrapped her arms around him, and cried. For him. For her. For Lissa.
‘‘What happened?’’ Johnnie asked.
She could only shake her head.
‘‘Where’s Lissa?’’
She laid her cheek against Michael’s bowed head. ‘‘I don’t know.
Michael said . . .’’ She sucked in a shaky breath.
‘‘Michael said what?’’
Raising her gaze to his, she tried to focus, but tears washed her vision. ‘‘He said Mr. Sumner has turned Lissa into his kept woman. I have to find her, Johnnie. I have to bring her home. Tonight.’’
‘‘No,’’ Michael croaked. ‘‘I don’t want you out there.’’
She stroked his hair. ‘‘Do you know where they are, love?’’
‘‘No.’’ His reply was muffled and strained. ‘‘I don’t know where. But the man who told me said terrible things about Lissa.’’ He looked up then. ‘‘I knocked the words right down his throat, Rache. I did.’’
‘‘Shhh. Shhh.’’ She smoothed his cheek with the back of her hand.
‘‘You were right,’’ he said. ‘‘I am a lousy protector.’’ Tucking himself up into a ball, he rolled to the floor and covered his head with his arms.
‘‘No, Michael, no. You are a wonderful brother and provider and protector. It is not your fault.’’ She stroked his arm, his side, his leg.
Eventually, his body relaxed as heartbreak and exhaustion rendered him oblivious to the fact that he had fallen asleep, boots and all.
‘‘I must go and find her,’’ she whispered.
Johnnie bent down on one knee. ‘‘You cannot. Where would you go?’’
She closed her lids for a moment but received no relief from the ache in her eyes. They felt as if they’d been scraped with sandpaper. ‘‘I will start at the countess’s.’’
He gave her elbow a gentle squeeze. ‘‘Under no circumstances will you go there again, Rachel. I mean it.’’
She could not believe her body had any more tears to produce, but evidently it did. ‘‘I must. She is my responsibility.’’
He was shaking his head before she’d even finished her sentence. ‘‘No. Let me go. I will find her.’’
‘‘She is my sister.’’
‘‘And you are my friend. What kind of man would I be to let you do such a thing? It isn’t safe. It isn’t practical. It simply isn’t an option. And besides that, Michael needs you.’’
She struggled to her feet and retrieved a blanket from the bed, then draped it over Michael, tucking it securely around him.
‘‘You will go tonight?’’ she asked.
‘‘Yes.’’
‘‘This very minute?’’
He touched her chin. ‘‘This very minute.’’
————
Johnnie had heard Sumner had built a house that morning. It was one of those prefabricated iron ones purported to be grooved in such a manner that all parts of the house, roof, and sides, slid together, making it possible to assemble in a day’s time.
He stood in front of the twenty-by-fifteen-foot structure on a lot elevated well above the business part of town. It was supposedly a prime piece of real estate, free from dust and overlooking the harbor. But darkness swallowed any view other than the twinkling tents blanketing the hills below. Looking at them, he hadn’t realized until now how much the city had grown.
Taking a deep breath, he approached the door and hammered his fist against it. ‘‘Sumner? It’s Parker. Open up.’’
No response. He hoped in spades this was the right house. He banged against the door once more. The wi
ndows shook, the metal clanged.
‘‘I’m coming. Don’t knock the thing down.’’
The door swung open, and muted light from some distant spot in the house outlined Sumner. Mussed from sleep—or something else—the card shark stood before him in trousers, bare feet spread. ‘‘What do you want, Parker?’’
‘‘Where’s Lissa?’’
He blinked a moment before a knowing grin curved across his face. ‘‘Jealous?’’
Johnnie curled his fists but kept them at his side. ‘‘Tell her to collect her things. I’m taking her home.’’
Sumner propped a shoulder against the doorframe and crossed one foot over the other. ‘‘This is her home.’’
‘‘You married her, then?’’
He harrumphed. ‘‘Not likely.’’
‘‘Then she’s leaving.’’
Sumner cocked his head, scrutinizing Parker. ‘‘I might be willing to share her after a time. But for now, I think I’ll keep her to myself. When I’m ready to spread the love a little, I’ll be sure to give you first dibs.’’
Rage churned inside Johnnie. A noise sounded down the hall. A moment later the door widened to reveal a thoroughly tousled Lissa wrapped in a filmy silk robe.
Johnnie pinned his gaze to Sumner’s. ‘‘I’m here on behalf of her sister. I don’t want to fight you. But I’m taking her home.’’
‘‘I’ll not go with you, Mr. Parker,’’ she said. ‘‘So don’t waste your time. If you take me by force, I’ll simply come right back.’’
Sumner slid an arm about Lissa’s waist and cinched her up against him. His hand rode up, down, and around the girl’s side.
Johnnie studied her face for signs of distress or regret. It may have been dark, but anybody would be able to tell she exhibited neither. Just the opposite, in fact. The poor disillusioned thing was clearly in love with Sumner.
‘‘Rachel’s beside herself,’’ Johnnie said. ‘‘She wants you home.’’
‘‘It’s too late,’’ she replied. ‘‘The deed’s been done.’’
O Lord. ‘‘If you come with me now, we can shove all this under the rug. So get your things and let’s go.’’
She didn’t so much as twitch. ‘‘Tell Rachel we’re going to be married.’’
‘‘Is that so?’’ Johnnie quirked a brow at Sumner. ‘‘And when might that be?’’
‘‘As soon as Merle can arrange it.’’
Johnnie returned his attention to her. ‘‘He’s lying.’’
Her only response was a patronizing smile, as if he were some slow-witted child who had no power within his brain.
‘‘If it’s to be a speedy marriage,’’ he said, ‘‘then why don’t you come on home tonight and marry him tomorrow?’’
Sumner and Lissa exchanged an intimate look. ‘‘Actually, we’ve already spoken our vows to each other and to God,’’ she said. ‘‘Saying them to the preacher is really nothing more than a formality.’’
‘‘It’s a lot more than a formality.’’
She shook her head. ‘‘Not to me, it’s not.’’
Sumner gave Johnnie a knowing smile.
‘‘What am I supposed to tell Rachel?’’ Johnnie asked.
‘‘Tell her to come by for tea. I’d love to show her my new house.’’
‘‘You know she can’t do that. Not unless you have a marriage certificate.’’
Sumner patted Lissa on the hip. ‘‘Well, we’ll just have to make it all nice and official, then. Won’t we, love?’’
She smiled.
‘‘Someone beat Michael up.’’
Lissa sucked in her breath. Johnnie knew it was a sorry thing to do, but he could think of nothing else to jar her out of this fairy-tale world she had manufactured.
Concern filled her eyes. ‘‘What happened?’’
‘‘Somebody said something ugly about you.’’ He let the impact settle for a mere second. ‘‘You can’t ask Rachel to worry about you and play nursemaid to Michael both at the same time. She needs you. Michael needs you. Now, get your things.’’
She bit her lip. He could see she was vacillating. She looked up at Sumner.
He kept his pose casual and his touch gentle but narrowed his eyes. ‘‘It’s our wedding night, Lissa. You walk out of here and all bets are off. Not only that, but I’ll make sure what’s left of your reputation is in shreds by this time tomorrow. You’re mine now. You’re not going anywhere.’’
That’s it, Sumner, let her see your true colors. Johnnie glanced to see her reaction, but instead of anger, the girl’s face softened and filled with pleasure. What a naïve, stupid, empty-headed chit.
She snuggled closer to Sumner and turned back to Johnnie. ‘‘Please tell Michael I’m sorry and I hope he feels better.’’
With that, Sumner pushed away from the doorframe. ‘‘Night, Parker.’’ He pulled Lissa back into the entry and softly closed the door.
————
Rachel slipped into bed beside Michael.
‘‘Lissa?’’ he croaked. ‘‘Rachel?’’
‘‘It’s me,’’ Rachel whispered.
‘‘Did Johnnie find her?’’
‘‘Yes.’’
‘‘Did he bring her home?’’
‘‘No.’’ She felt around the bed with her hand until she found his. She entwined her fingers with his.
‘‘Are you all right?’’ she asked.
A long pause. ‘‘No,’’ he whispered.
Tears slipped from the corners of her eyes. ‘‘Me neither, love. Me neither.’’
————
Rachel slammed the door behind her and leaned against its wooden bulk, clutching the brown parcel to her chest. Dust motes swirled in the empty shanty.
Marriage. Johnnie said that scoundrel had promised Lissa marriage. Rachel pushed herself up off the door. And if that’s what he’d promised her sister, then that’s what her sister was going to get.
Moving to the bed, she dropped the parcel on top of it and stared. She had fired question after question last night when Johnnie had returned. He’d answered all but one.
Under no circumstances would he reveal the location of Lissa and Sumner’s love nest.
Too dangerous, he’d said.
Nothing you can do, he’d said.
She grabbed a knife, sliced the twine encircling the package, and carefully folded back layers of brown paper until the contents spilled forth. She picked each one up and spread it across the coverlet.
Head scarf. Felt hat. Cloth purse. Red flannel shirt. Corduroy pants. Under waistcoat. Underdrawers. Revolver pistol.
A fortune. It had cost her a fortune, but where one’s treasure lies, so lies one’s heart. And what greater treasure than her precious sister?
So she’d spent a huge chunk of the gold she had been saving so painstakingly. And she’d have spent twice as much if it meant saving Lissa.
She wasn’t exactly sure when the idea had come to her. Sometime between the church service this morning, the Sunday promenade of the fancy women, and the cleaning up of the shanty.
Michael would not talk, nor would he let Rachel coddle him. He had attended church—swollen eye and all—helped her restore their shanty to a semblance of order, then left to haul goods from the wharf to whatever establishment was paying him.
Johnnie had headed out to his property, and for the first Sunday since arriving in San Francisco, she would not accompany him. Not unless he told her where Lissa was. He refused.
She carefully refolded, restacked, and rewrapped her purchases, tying them off with the twine, then slipped them under the bed. She’d wait until Michael had left for the evening and until the men of this town had imbibed a little too heavily before carrying out her plan.
————
Work boots slapping against the dirt, hair hidden inside a head scarf, and hat pulled down to her brow, Rachel wended her way from the wharf to the plaza. The smell of fish and filth clung to her and her newly purchased clothes.
She hoped she hadn’t overdone it.
Hitching up her trousers, she readjusted the pistol strapped to her waist. The weapon and her purse of gold were the only clean things on her entire body.
She’d expected the pants to feel restrictive and clinging, but they were surprisingly accommodating, allowing a freedom of motion that actually inspired her to add a bit of swagger to her step.
Rubbing shoulders with men of every color, size, condition, and strength, she labored to keep all expression from her face as depraved curses and ribald jokes hounded her ears.
Noises from the direction of the plaza beckoned with tricksters at every bend now, plying their trades.
‘‘Here’s the place to git your money back,’’ shouted one. ‘‘The veritable string game. Here it goes. Three, six, twelve ounces no one can put his finger in the loop.’’
Afraid to make eye contact, she shouldered by without finding out exactly what ‘‘the loop’’ was.
Newspapers from two months before were selling for a dollar apiece. A lariat-swinging vaquero performed for a drunken audience.
She rode the wave of those around her into the El Dorado. The large tent housed a massive bar with four young men in shirtsleeves and collars dealing out drinks to thirsty customers lined up three deep.
The men may as well have been a swarming mass of ladybugs migrating to their annual clustering spot, so tightly were they packed into this pit. She could not obtain so much as a glimpse of the gamblers sitting around tables or the cards that held them enthralled.
Glasses jingled, curses abounded, and in a distant corner, two violinists scraped furiously on their instruments. How on earth would she ever discover the whereabouts of Lissa’s lover in this mess? Inch by inch, the pack with which she moved made its way to a large table covered with a stained blue cloth.
A demure, well-dressed man looking every inch a respectable banker faced a group of dirty, drinking, smoking miners shouting out their bets between swills of spirits.
‘‘I won two ounces on the deuce. Take off two o’ them air buttons,’’ roared a thin-faced watery-eyed man.
The dealer shuffled.
‘‘Hold on!’’
Rachel heard the shrill voice but could not locate its owner until a curly-haired boy whose chin barely cleared the tabletop plopped a weighty buckskin bag on a card.