The Lost Girl

by Liz Harris

  Copyright © 2015 Liz Harris

  Published 2015 by Choc Lit Limited

  Penrose House, Crawley Drive, Camberley, Surrey GU15 2AB, UK

  www.choc-lit.com

  The right of Liz Harris to be identified as the Author of this Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

  All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher or a licence permitting restricted copying. In the UK such licences are issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency, 90 Tottenham Court Road, London, W1P 9HE

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available

  from the British Library

  ISBN 978-1-78189-263-3 (epub)

  To my husband, Richard, with love and gratitude for his unfailing support

  Contents

  Title page

  Copyright information

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Thank you

  About the Author

  More Choc Lit

  Introducing Choc Lit

  Preview of A Bargain Struck by Liz Harris

  Acknowledgements

  I should like to begin by thanking Choc Lit and my lovely editor. I feel privileged to be published by such a great team of people, and to be part of a group of authors who are so unstinting in their support for each other and in their friendship.

  Before I began The Lost Girl, I was already familiar with the history of the American West, and of Wyoming in particular, having visited Wyoming and also having read a wide range of books prior to writing my first two historical novels set in Wyoming, A Bargain Struck and A Western Heart. However, The Lost Girl was the first novel I’d set in the south west of Wyoming, and it called for research into the tensions that developed between the white miners and the Chinese in that area during the 1870s and early 1880s.

  I’m extremely grateful for the tremendous help given me by Janice Brown, The Rock Springs Historical Museum, Wyoming. Amongst the literature given to me by Janice was the invaluable ‘The Chinese Story and Rock Springs, Wyoming’, written by Henry F. Chadey, Director of Sweetwater County Historical Museum.

  There are many articles on the tensions prevalent during this period and it’s difficult to single out any one article from the many sources I found, but I should like to say how greatly indebted I was to ‘Marriage and the Family Among Chinese Immigrants to America, 1850–1960’ (Phylon: The Atlanta University Review of Race and Culture, Vol. 29, no. 4, 1968, p. 322).

  Once again, I have to thank my Friend in the North, Stella, who reads every word I write, and who never fails to tell me the truth. Such honesty is the sign of a true friend, and I very much appreciate Stella’s friendship and support.

  Thank you, too, to the members of the Choc Lit Tasting Panel – Isabelle, Helen D., Sarah C., Jenny K., Lee, Tina and Bruce – who took the story of Charity and Joe to their hearts and recommended its publication.

  A writer’s life may be a solitary one, but it is never a lonely one if the writer belongs to the Romantic Novelists’ Association. A source of help, support and, above all, friendship, the RNA continues to play a large part in my life. In addition, I derive a great deal of pleasure from my membership of the Oxford Writers’ Group and of the Historical Novel Society.

  Finally, my two sons have fled the nest and are unaffected by the many hours a day that I hide myself away in my study, writing. My husband, however, is not so lucky, and I’m extremely grateful to Richard for keeping our real world running so smoothly while I create a fictional world.

  Chapter One

  Carter Town, Wyoming Territory

  May, 1868

  The cry hung in the air, then slowly died away.

  Joe looked up sharply. That sounded like it came from a person, he thought. He gripped his metal pan tightly, sat back on his heels and listened hard. But all he could hear was the familiar thumping of the mine pump, the chirping of birds and the rasping scream of a red-tailed hawk as it soared above his head.

  Shrugging his shoulders dismissively, he turned back to the river and tilted the pan to let the last of the water trickle over the metal lip and fall back into the river, just like he’d seen his pa do in the days when they’d gone panning for gold together. Gold was heavier than sand and gravel, his pa had told him as they’d knelt side by side at the water’s edge, and flakes of gold would be left on the bottom of the pan when everything else had been washed away.

  But there’d never been any flakes of gold; only mud and stones.

  And finally his ma had made his pa give up prospecting and go and work down the mine that had opened after the railroad had been built, and now he, Joe, was the only person left who was able to go out in the day and look for gold.

  He’d have liked Sam to come out with him, but Sam was twelve, five years older than he was, and had to go to school. He could’ve come out on the days when he wasn’t in school, but Sam just laughed at him whenever he suggested it. He said looking for gold was a waste of time, and he was going to be a miner. Sam went into Carter Town whenever he could and did any job they’d pay him to do, until he was old enough to go down the mine with his pa and the other men. And when there wasn’t any work, he’d hang around the town with his friends.

  So it wasn’t going to be Sam or his pa who found the gold; it was going to be him.

  Joe gave the pan a final shake, changed its angle so that the sunlight fell on the sand and gravel that lay at the bottom, and stared hopefully at what was left.

  Yet again, his hope faded. That was all it was – sand and gravel. There was no glint of gold.

  In despair, he stood up and tossed the silt as far as he could into the creek. There was gold somewhere in the mud at the bottom of the river, he thought, scowling into the clouding water, and he was going to look for it until he found it. His pa was never wrong about things.

  And when he did find it – when he struck gold, as Pa used to say – everything would be all right again, just like it had been wh
en he was very little and they’d lived on the ranch. It would be his gold because he’d found it, but he’d share it with Ma, Pa and Sam. His ma would stop being angry all of the time, and she’d smile again in the way she used to. His pa would be proud of him and thankful he no longer had to go down the mine every day, and Sam would want them to play together. Maybe Sam would even ask him to go into Carter with him and his friends. He’d like that.

  So he just had to find that gold.

  He knelt down again, dipped the pan back into the water and vigorously swirled it.

  And then he heard the crying noise again. He stopped, raised his head, and listened intently.

  Gravel rattled to his right. Startled, he glanced over his shoulder up the gully slope behind him.

  A grey-headed sagebrush sparrow was darting between the pebbles, its tail raised in the air. It saw him, stopped abruptly and stared back, its eyes unwinking and bright. Then it chirruped, flapped its wings and flew off.

  Silence fell again, broken only by the occasional cry of a bird and the muffled noise that came from the mine further down the river.

  It must have been a bird each time, he thought, or a lone prairie dog; it couldn’t have been a person. But he was ready to go home – he’d done enough panning for the day. He’d check the silt that was left behind, and then he’d go back to his ma. He angled the metal pan more sharply to speed up the water draining away.

  As soon as the last of the water had trickled out, he peered closely at the mud in the pan, and he heard the sound again.

  It was louder this time, and closer. And it came from a person, not a bird; he was certain of that.

  His hair prickled on the back of his neck and his forearms.

  And it wasn’t just a cry he could hear – there were footsteps, too. But it didn’t sound like people usually sounded when they were walking. The steps were hesitant, as if someone kept on stopping, waiting a moment, and then started to walk again.

  And that someone seemed to be coming towards him.

  In sudden panic, he clambered to his feet and stared up at the wide blue sky, his pan hanging from his hand, its muddy contents sliding to the ground.

  The sun was almost at its height so it wouldn’t be Pa coming for him – Pa would be in the mine. And it wouldn’t be Sam – he’d still be in town. And it wouldn’t be his ma – she’d have started on the cooking as soon as she’d finished the washing, and she knew he’d come home when he was hungry so she wouldn’t waste time going out looking for him. And it wouldn’t be Indians – everyone said they were long gone.

  The footsteps stopped, and he heard the person cry out again, a cry of pain. Then the walking started again.

  His heart beating fast, he threw the pan to the ground and scrambled up the short distance to the top of the gully. Shielding his eyes from a sun hazed by the grey mist of ash from the mine, he scanned the expanse of dusty white ground, broken in places by sparse clumps of yellow and green sagebrush, anxiously searching for the person whose footsteps he’d heard.

  But there was no one to be seen.

  Biting his lip, he turned right and stared past the row of miners’ houses where he lived to the town that lay beyond. Squinting, he studied the sparse grey wooden shacks and the buildings belonging to the mine; then he turned towards the jagged hills of rock that rose up on the opposite side of the river from the town, peaks grey-white against a blue sky.

  He gave a sudden start and took a step forward. A figure was making its way down the side of one of the hills, heading in the direction of the plank bridge that stretched across the gully, linking the hills with the town.

  Relief washed through him – it wasn’t someone coming towards him after all. It was someone who wanted to cross the river to get to Carter Town.

  He stood still and stared at the figure, amazement growing. The man didn’t look at all like his pa or the other men in Carter. He was wearing baggy trousers – not jeans – and his shirt was hanging loose outside his trousers. Also, he was wearing a yellow hat with a wide brim that sloped up to a point. He’d never seen anyone in a hat like that before. And he was carrying a bundle of clothes in his arms, or maybe dirty washing. But that was the sort of thing his ma would carry, not his pa.

  Maybe he’d come from the Overland Trail, and his horse and wagon had run off so he was heading into Carter to buy another set. Or maybe he was making for the railroad to get on a train. If he’d been walking for a long time, his feet would be hurting because of the hard ground, and that could be why he kept crying out.

  The man reached the bridge and started to cross to the other side, walking slowly, one hand on the wooden rail, the other clutching the bundle of clothes. Halfway across, he stumbled and leaned heavily against the railing, as if trying not to fall.

  Instinctively, Joe started to run towards the man, wanting to help him. Then he suddenly stopped in his tracks, and his hand flew to his mouth. Ma had told him there were bad men around, men who did terrible things like robbing banks and shooting guns at people. The man in the pointed hat might be a bad man, and the bundle he was carrying might be full of things he’d stolen. Maybe he’d even got a gun tucked into his trousers.

  Joe put his thumb in his mouth, and stared hard at the man, wondering what to do. He didn’t look like a bad man, even if his clothes were funny. But he’d never seen a bad man so he might be wrong.

  As he stood hesitating, the man straightened up and started walking again. A few steps from the Carter end of the bridge, he paused, gave a loud cry and bent low over the clothes he was carrying. Hugging the bundle to his stomach, he crumpled on to the wooden planks. Before Joe could move, he’d rolled under the railing, slipped over the edge of the bridge and had disappeared from sight.

  Flinging himself forward, Joe sped across the ground as fast as he could.

  Reaching the bridge he saw the man lying halfway down the gully, face down on his stomach. The parcel of clothes had rolled further down the slope and had stopped at the water’s edge.

  He crouched on the edge of the bridge, jumped down and ran to the side of the man. As he neared him, he saw that the man’s bare feet were red and swollen, and had been cut on the rock-strewn ground.

  ‘Mister,’ he said, leaning over him and shaking him. ‘You okay, Mister?’

  The man didn’t move.

  ‘You okay, Mister?’ he repeated more loudly.

  Still the man didn’t move.

  He pulled off the man’s hat, and his eyes opened wide at the sight of the long plait of black hair that had been wound up inside it. His hands hovered momentarily above the man’s left shoulder, then he caught hold of the shoulder, pulled hard to roll him on to his back, and stared at the man’s face.

  Only it wasn’t a man’s face – it was a woman’s.

  And a woman who looked ill, with her skin a yellowy colour and scratched from the gravel, and with her eyes open wide, staring at him. He frowned; he was sure he’d seen people before with eyes a funny shape like the woman’s, but he couldn’t remember when or where.

  ‘I’m Joe, ma’am,’ he said, and he shook her hard. ‘Say somethin’.’

  But the woman remained silent, and she didn’t move.

  Glancing down the length of her, he saw that the front of her trousers was drenched in blood.

  Panic welled up.

  ‘Ma!’ he screamed. ‘Ma!’

  He stood up, spun round and started to clamber up the side of the gully at speed.

  A faint cry from behind stopped him.

  He looked back at the woman in surprise. He’d thought she might be dead. He stared hard at her – she sure looked dead, being that colour, and he was certain she hadn’t moved. Yet he’d definitely heard her cry.

  The cry came again, stronger this time, more insistent. But it didn’t come from the woman – it came from the bottom of the gully. It was the cry of a baby.

  His eyes flew to the bundle she’d been carrying.

  His feet slipping from under him, he
slid down the gravelly slope to the edge of the river, the crying loud in his ears. Reaching the pile of rags, he tore the outer dirty white shirt from around the bundle. A smaller bundle, wrapped in a tightly wound shawl, lay inside. A tiny wooden animal, painted the colour of gold, with black stripes drawn across its back, was pinned to the front of the shawl, holding it closed.

  Pricking his fingers in his haste, he undid the pin, unwound the shawl, and drew in his breath in a gasp: a baby stared up at him.

  It was the littlest baby he’d ever seen, with eyes the same shape as its mother’s.

  Crying loudly, the baby kicked its legs in the air. Then its cries died away and it made a funny noise in its throat, a whimpering sound. Joe stared at it in amazement.

  The piece of cloth wrapped around the baby’s tummy looked wet, and it smelt. He wrinkled his nose. ‘I’m gonna take you home to Ma,’ he said, nodding reassuringly at the baby. ‘She’ll look after you ’cos your ma’s real sick.’

  He slipped the animal clasp into the pocket of his jeans, wrapped the shawl back round the baby as best he could, and stood up, holding the baby tightly in his arms.

  ‘I’m gonna go for my ma,’ he told the woman when he reached the place where she lay. ‘She’ll know what to do.’ And he continued climbing slowly towards the bridge, the baby in his arms.

  Reaching the bridge, he carefully placed the baby on the wooden plank closest to him and pulled himself up by his arms. Then he picked up the baby again.

  It gave a slight sigh.

  ‘Don’t be afraid baby,’ he said, smiling down at it. ‘I’m takin’ you home.’

  Chapter Two

  ‘She’s mine. I found her so she’s mine.’ Joe tightened his grip on the side of the wooden box sitting in the centre of the table. ‘I’m gonna keep her.’

  The baby whimpered. He glanced quickly into the box and patted her cheek.

  Standing with her back to the store-closet, her arms folded in front of her, Martha Walker stared at her son in irritation. ‘You’re not thinkin’ clearly, Joe. You’re seven years old. You can’t look after a newborn baby – or any baby, for that matter.’