* * * *
As Jack walked away from Sarah, he blew out a frustrated breath. Ever since they’d made love by the river, he’d done his best to ignore her. She was not for him, never would be, and it wasn’t fair to lead her on. Since he was twelve, he’d known he’d never marry. Up to now, he’d never questioned the life he’d chosen for himself, but now…what the hell was he doing? He’d half convinced himself he was inviting her to dinner out of companionship and good will. Because he’d be leaving soon, he would give her a pleasant, friendship-filled evening. At the end, they’d say goodbye and shake hands. But how could he manage when just the sight of her made him want her so bad he could hardly see straight?
But he had no choice. The demons that plagued him would never go away. Tonight he’d remain polite, courteous, and slightly distant, and would take care not to lay a hand on the achingly desirable Widow Gregg.
* * * *
After all those months of eating in the open by a campfire, Sarah could hardly imagine what it would be like to dine in a real restaurant again. To her surprise, both her mother and Becky not only approved of her going but helped her get ready. Ma laundered her dress with the purple flowers and mended a small tear in the hem. Becky, who had a knack for fixing hair, piled Sarah’s long, auburn tresses atop her head and pinned them with a jeweled comb which had mercifully survived the Humboldt Sink. Ma even went to town and bought her a new, white-beaded reticule so she wouldn’t have to carry one made of a dishtowel. Now, as she sat in the carpeted dining room of the Alhambra Hotel, she tried not to stare like some starving urchin who’d never seen the inside of a restaurant before. How splendid this was, and so unexpected!
From the moment Jack came to get her, he’d been charming and attentive. She’d been hard put to conceal her excitement, and how her pulse raced at the sight of him, but she’d done her best. They’d had to walk through the saloon to get to the dining room, located beyond the lobby behind double oak doors with finely etched glass panels. At one end of the room, amidst potted palms, four musicians in tuxedos played string quartet selections from the works of Haydn and Mozart. She tried not to gawk at the white damask cloth covering the table, the place settings with their gleaming crystal glasses, delicate china, and sterling silverware. “How very elegant this all is.”
Sitting across, Jack looked pleased. “Glad you like it.”
She’d never seen him look as stylish as he did tonight. He wore the same buckskin jacket but with a white shirt and a wide silk tie horizontally folded into a flat half-bow. Other men in the room were dressed in the height of fashion—long frock coats, four-in-hand neckties, yet none looked more at ease than her dinner companion. “Jack, do you know these men? They don’t look as if they’ve been standing in a stream filling sluice boxes all day.”
“Not all millionaires get that way by finding gold,” Jack replied. “You’ve seen the cost of things. There’s a fortune to be made selling supplies to all these mining towns. It’s a lot easier than breaking your back with a pick and shovel all day.”
A waiter with a white cloth over his arm brought them gold-engraved menus. Epigrams of Lamb—Escalloped Oysters—Fricassee of Chicken—Galentine of Turkey, en Bellavue—Apple Fritters. No bacon and beans tonight! When she placed an order that included Mock Turtle Soup, the waiter asked, “And what would madam like to drink?”
“Water, I guess.”
Jack raised an eyebrow at her. “God forbid you should lose your membership in the Lady’s Temperance Society, but how about a little champagne? It’s a special night.”
What did he mean? What was he planning? She didn’t know, and it didn’t matter. She only knew this was indeed a special night and she would not spoil it by acting the prude. “I’d love a glass of champagne.”
The waiter gave Jack a little bow. “I recommend the Reims Brut Elite, House of Benet.”
“Then the Brut Elite it is.”
* * * *
“That was the best meal I ever ate in my life.” Sarah gazed fondly at the scant remains of a Charlotte Russe so delicious she had to refrain from scraping her plate. During the meal, they’d engaged in nothing but frivolous conversation. She was dying to know what he meant by “special night” but had refrained from asking. She picked up her champagne glass, now half gone, took another sip, and wrinkled her nose. “It tickles.”
Jack grinned back. “You don’t like it?”
“I love it.” She raised her glass again. “To a perfect evening. If only the ladies of the Temperance Society could see me now.”
“You deserve it.” Jack’s grin vanished. He drew in a deep breath, as if he was about to perform some disagreeable task. “Ben’s leaving in the morning. He thinks he’ll have better luck in Hangtown. Your father and brother still need me, but soon as I can, I’m leaving, too.”
She went numb inside and had to fight for breath, as if someone had just punched her in the stomach. With more than necessary care, she placed her glass back on the table. When she thought she could speak past the lump in her throat, she said casually, “Hangtown, what an awful name.”
“Yes, isn’t it? It was called Dry Diggins until three men on horseback rode into town with guns blazing. They were hung for their trouble, so the town got a new name.” Jack offered an apologetic smile. “I’ll miss you.”
“You’re going to Hangtown, too?” Amazing she sounded so calm, considering her whole world had just fallen apart.
“Yes, to be with Ben. He’s got some business ideas, so I thought—” He made a wry grimace. “I won’t lie to you. I’m leaving because of you, Sarah.”
The waiter appeared and began to clear the table. Grateful for the extra moments, she tried to put her chaotic thoughts in some kind of order. Above all, she must remember she had her pride and wasn’t going to grovel and beg, no matter what. When the waiter left, she forced her lips into a smile. “You’re leaving because of me? My, my, what bad thing did I do?”
“You know better than that. That night we sat by the river—”
“Oh, really, you remember? I thought it must have slipped your mind.”
He looked away, as if to calm himself and not get angry. “You made me realize a lot of things that night. I’ve had women before, but none like you. I wanted you the moment I met you. Holding you in my arms was—” He bit his lip, as if he was having a hard getting the words out. “I knew I…had feelings for you. Since that night, it’s been torment staying away from you. I’ve wanted you so much, I…” He shook his head, eyes hauntingly dark with some unspoken emotion she couldn’t understand.
This was the first time she’d ever seen him less than utterly sure of himself. She wanted to scream, “If you care for me, why must you leave?” But no, she mustn’t lose her fragile grip on her dignity. “I’m not sure I understand.” Good, she’d sounded reasonable, not desperate.
“You made it clear you don’t want a man in your life.”
Oh, God. Why did I ever say that? “Anything else?”
“You told me you wanted to get to Mokelumne City so you could feel secure again. All you wanted was to read your books, go to church and—how did you put it?—do good works for the sick and the poor. Admirable, and God knows you wouldn’t get that with me.” The expression in his eyes seemed to plead for understanding. “There’s a lot about me you don’t know.”
“You were raised in a brothel. That’s awful. I can’t imagine—”
“Of course you can’t imagine. A brothel is not a home. I know nothing about homes and don’t want to know. I’ve wandered this earth since I was twelve years old, and I’ll keep wandering until the day I die. That’s why I’m leaving, Sarah.” He reached across the table and took her hand. “You’re too fine a woman for me to—”
“Take advantage of, the way you did that night at the river?”
“That’s not fair, and you know it. “
He was right. She wasn’t being fair, but she couldn’t help it. Time
to leave before she burst into tears and disgraced herself. She jerked her hand back and rose from the table. “That was a lovely dinner, Mr. McCoy. I’m leaving. No need to escort me home.”
She shoved her chair back, grabbed her reticule, and marched toward the heavy oak doors. A waiter held one open, and she swept through into the lobby. The noise from the saloon immediately assaulted her eardrums. She quickened her pace. All she wanted was to get to the street and back to her tent where she could let loose a torrent of tears. She walked through the lobby and into the deafening noise of the saloon. Keeping to the side as much as she could, she passed faro and monte tables surrounded by clusters of boisterous gamblers. She passed the long, mahogany bar crowded with men in working clothes whooping, hollering, and drinking whiskey. Across the room on a tiny stage, a company of dancing girls in scandalous, calf-length skirts kicked up their heels to a tinny piano tune. The doors to the street lay just ahead. Almost there.
Loud sounds of an argument came from one of the tables where men were playing poker. She stopped and looked. A bearded man in a dirty slouch hat rose from one of the tables, eyes blazing with anger. He reached for the holster hanging from his belt and pulled out a gun. Josiah Peterson, the man who attacked me. He aimed his gun at a man across the table. The man leaped up, gun in hand, aimed at Josiah. A shot rang out. Josiah fell to the floor, blood spurting from his head.
The whole room erupted into chaos. One man punched his fist into the face of another. Women screamed. Men shouted, shoved, and swung their fists. A dark, foreign-looking man yelling in some unknown language leaped on a table brandishing a knife. Sarah’s breath caught in her lungs. Must get out of here. She tried to fight her way to the doors, but before she could, someone’s fist struck her on the forehead and sent her flying against one of the tables. Suddenly she found herself flat on the floor, surrounded by groups of shouting, brawling men who didn’t know she was there and wouldn’t care if they did know. If she stayed there, she’d surely get trampled. She pulled herself to her hands and knees and tried to crawl, but got nowhere. Panic swept through her. She curled into a ball, hands protecting her head, and waited to get shot, trampled, or stabbed.
Two firm hands circled her waist, lifted her up, and placed her on her feet. Jack. Amid the jostling crowd, he swooped her into his arms. Holding her close, he shouldered his way through flying fists and falling bodies to the wide-open doors and down the steps. When they reached the wooden sidewalk, he set her down. “Are you all right?”
Between shallow, quick gasps she managed, “I’m not sure.” She didn’t know if she was all right or not, only that she’d never been so frightened in her life.
He stepped back to take a look. “Anything hurt?”
She pressed her hand to her forehead and brought it back. Blood. Not a whole lot, but blood, nonetheless. “I got thrown against a table. It hurts a little, but not bad.” A strand of hair hung over her face. She reached for the jeweled comb. It had come loose. The tresses Becky had so carefully piled atop her head hung in a tangle down her back. “I’m a mess.”
He took her arm. Gruffly he said, “Let’s get out of here.”
“Did you see Josiah Peterson?”
“He’s dead.”
He said nothing more as they started walking back to camp. Was he angry? She had no idea what he was thinking. Her best guess was her temper tantrum in the dining room had so disgusted him he could hardly wait to get her home and off his hands. The camp lay in darkness when they arrived, all silent except for an occasional dog bark. They reached her tent. She started to turn in, but his firm grasp of her arm prevented her. “What are you—?”
“Don’t talk.”
They kept on. He was leading her toward the river—toward the isolated area where he’d pitched his tent. When they reached it, he stopped at the entrance. “Go in. I’m going to fix that cut.”
His voice was so commanding she wouldn’t dream of arguing. Inside, a bed, small chest of drawers, and table made up the tent’s furnishings. He took a match from the table and lit the kerosene lamp that hung overhead. “Sit on the bed.” She dutifully sat and watched while he took a piece of cloth and dipped it in a pail of water. He bent to dab the cut on her forehead. “Hurt?”
“A little. Not much.” Her heart pounded, not from the excitement of the brawl but because he was so close she could feel his body heat. So close, yet so very remote. Judging from his unreadable expression, he could be tending the wound of a stranger. He must be very angry.
“It looks all right now. It doesn’t need a bandage. You’ll be fine.” He disposed of the cloth, sat beside her on the bed and turned to face her. “Do you want to leave?”
His question caught her so by surprise she had to gather her thoughts before she asked, “Do you want me to leave?”
“No.” His expression softened. His steady gaze bore into her in silent expectation. Suddenly he shook his head. “I don’t have any right to do this. What was I thinking? It’s just that you’re so… I’ll take you home.”
If she had any sense, she’d leave, get home and to bed. A quiver surged through her veins. I want him. Pride be damned. Dignity be damned. Consequences be damned. Her heartbeat throbbed in her ears. With a ferocity that astounded her, she yearned for the touch of his hands, the warmth of his flesh. “No, I don’t want to leave.”
With a quick intake of breath, he pulled her roughly, almost violently to him. “Ah, Widow Gregg,” he whispered in her hair with a voice that shook with passion. Next she knew, she was on her back on the bed and he was settling kisses on her forehead, cheek, the hollow at the base of her throat. He groaned beneath his breath when his strong, hard lips took possession of her mouth. She threw her arms around him and pulled his hot, hard body close to hers, reveling in the taste, the scent and feel of him. His mouth never left hers as his hand stroked a slow, increasingly delightful path from her waist to the curve of her breast where it rested, sending a wave of warmth pulsing through her. Breathless, her heart racing, she yearned for more. You fool, she told herself before a throbbing began, deep in the center of her being, and she surrendered to the unrelenting demands of her hot, fierce desire.
Chapter 9
By the time Sarah got up in the morning, Pa and Hiram had already left for the diggings and Ma and Becky were cleaning up after breakfast. Since Sarah was usually the first one up, she wasn’t surprised when Becky jammed her fist to her waist and declared, “Well, well, our little princess is finally awake.”
Ma greeted her with a smile. “Good morning, how was dinner at the Alhambra last night? Did you have fun?”
Oh, indeed I had fun. Sarah helped herself to a cup of coffee. “It was a lovely evening.” The less said the better.
Becky peered at her closely. “What’s that bump on your forehead? Did you hurt yourself?”
“I fell. It’s nothing.”
“When did you get home last night? It must have been awfully late.”
Shut up, Becky.
Ma spoke to her daughter-in-law. “Let’s get these dishes put away, shall we?” She sent Sarah a knowing glance. “I’m sure your sister-in-law could do without all the questions.”
Thank you, Ma.
As the morning went by, images of her passionate night with Jack swirled in her head. Her knees kept going weak. She had a hard time concentrating on the simplest of tasks. This was ridiculous. She must get him off her mind, but how? On the trail, she was laboring all day just to survive and never had time to daydream, but now they were settled in camp, she didn’t have much to distract her. And it didn’t help that her annoying sister-in-law was always around, always watching every move she made. By noon she had the answer.
* * * *
Mrs. Beatrice Amelia Butler was scrubbing tables when Sarah walked into The Miners’ Heaven Restaurant. “My, stars, it’s Sarah! Do sit down. Did you come for that job?”
“Yes, I did, Mrs. Butler.”
“Call me Beatr
ice. When can you start?”
“How about today?”
Sarah loved her new job. Dressed in a fresh white apron over one or the other of her two dresses, she and young Li served breakfast and supper to a crowd of famished customers. In between meals, she helped with the cleaning and cooking and usually had time to slip home for an hour or two. The restaurant didn’t provide such luxuries as a menu, so there was no taking of orders. Her job couldn’t have been more simple. In the morning, she carried platters piled high with scrambled eggs, bacon, sausage, and pancakes to the tables, along with plates of sourdough bread and bowls of canned fruit, usually peaches. At night, she carried platters of hash, stew, fried pork chops, whatever Beatrice Butler chose to prepare in her makeshift kitchen, along with bowls of boiled potatoes, cabbage, or some other vegetable, and more sourdough bread. Dessert depended on Beatrice’s whim, maybe apple pie, plum pudding, or spice cake. For a beverage, the men drank tea or coffee in the morning but at night indulged in mammoth glasses of beer.
Her customers were far from being all rowdy troublemakers. They came from many walks of life: physicians, lawyers, merchants, teachers, farmers, even a priest or two. When news had spread of the amazing discovery of gold at Sutter’s Fort, they all dropped whatever they were doing and rushed to California to make their fortune. At night they came in the restaurant exhausted. Just to reach the gold-bearing streams, they climbed through unfamiliar wilderness, up steep hills, down sheer vertical canyon walls, crossed over huge boulders while pushing aside tangled brush, bushes, and the occasional poison oak or ivy. When they reached their claim, they stood for hours in icy cold water panning for gold or shoveling gravel into the sluice boxes. “Gold is heavier than water so it sinks to the bottom,” a physician from Illinois explained to Sarah. “So you scoop gravel and sand into the pan nearly to the top, fill it with water and swirl the pan with both hands. You keep swirling and swirling while all the water gradually splashes over the side. If you’re lucky, a nugget of gold awaits you at the bottom. If not a nugget, you might find gold dust or flakes.”
Wagon Train Sisters (Women of the West) Page 10