The Beginning (Gold Rush Brides Book 1)

by Cassie Hayes

  By the end of the voyage, he’d become a right fine deckhand, and the captain even offered to take him on as paid crew, but he wanted to see what kind of adventures he muster up in the untamed west. The captain understood and sailed back out past the rocky headlands of the Golden Gate on the return trip east.

  Imagine his surprise when, after a stint breaking wild broncos for the rich Californio Mariano Guadalupe Vallejo on Rancho Petaluma, he returned to San Francisco only to see the Providence bobbing in the waters off the waterfront. Turns out it was one of the earliest ships to arrive after news of Marshall’s exciting find wound its way down to the miserable, muddy village. The crew immediately jumped ship and ran as fast as they could to the gold fields. With no crew, the captain was forced to abandon ship as well, and figured he’d might as well try his hand as a miner, too.

  The entire town nearly closed up with employees leaving for the diggings. Jack figured his chances of a lucky strike were as good as anyone else’s so he spent his meager savings on supplies and paid for a seat on the next wagon out of town.

  In those early days, a man could walk down a creek and pick up nuggets of glittering gold, and it didn’t take long for Jack to stake his claim on a nice rich stretch of the American River. He rode it to the bitter end, working from sun-up to sun-down digging and running the grit through a gold washer. It was back-breaking work and he didn’t envy the old men he saw working just as hard as him.

  He’d done more in the last few years than most men did their entire lives, and there was Sam telling him he was just a boy. It rubbed him raw that he would say such things, especially in front of a woman. And even more especially in front of Miss Priss, who already thought so poorly of him.

  He couldn’t erase the image of her, tears streaming down her cheeks, as Sam kicked him out of the house. He hadn’t meant to insult her but the whiskey had gone to his head — or rather, his mouth — as usual. Honestly, he had no idea she could be hurt by anything he said. It wasn’t as if she valued his opinion on anything, much less her.

  But he’d crossed a line, and not for the first time. Sam was always harping on him to do something with his gold, besides waste it on hooch and dance hall girls — maybe he was right. The initial thrill of living it up and throwing his money around was quickly fading. Sure, he had dozens of new friends, but he suspected they would all flit on over to the next lucky 49er as soon as his money ran out.

  What he lacked in his life were true friends. He’d been drifting around the world far too long to have developed strong ties to anyone. He got along fine with just about everyone he worked with but he hadn’t kept in touch with nary a one. How could he, what with his vagabond lifestyle? And until this very moment, he hadn’t given it a second thought.

  Ever since childhood, he’d wanted to live the life of a wanderer and now he was living his dream. So why was he troubled by it all of a sudden?

  He didn’t know and wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

  With a start, he realized he’d been fondling his lucky nugget, perhaps making a wish on it or hoping it would give him clarity. Snorting at such an idea, he tucked it back into his shirt and stood.

  He’d sobered up entirely too much sitting on the wharf and watching the ships bump against each other as swells made them sway to and fro. The cold afternoon sea breeze was dying but he was still chilled to the bone and decided he needed some warming up.

  The odor of tobacco and whiskey slapped him in the face as he pushed through the door of the Eagle Saloon. Over the past few weeks, the saloon had become his favorite haunt. There was a fandango hall right across the street, if he felt like dancing, and other establishments catering to lonely men scattered here and there. He hadn’t felt he needed to become a customer of such businesses, but he was aware that the ladies he ran with were more likely than not to be employees. This never bothered him much, since he wasn’t looking for anything more than a little merriment.

  So his visceral revulsion to Fanny when she sidled up next to him at the bar took him off guard. That afternoon, he’d been pleased as punch to spend time with such a pretty girl, no matter her profession. But her snide laughter when Delilah fell into the street had colored his view of her. For the first time, he saw her for what she really was: a snake in the grass who couldn’t be trusted.

  He couldn’t blame her for it. In a handful of unguarded moments, she’d shared a few nuggets from her past. She’d scraped and clawed and backstabbed to get where she was, and there was little doubt she would continue to do the same for the rest of her life. Even if some rich argonaut swooped down and pulled her from this life, she would forever have only one person’s well-being in mind — her own.

  Jack took a stool at the bar ordered a shot of rotgut at which Fanny wrinkled her nose.

  “Why you buyin’ that cheap hooch, Jack honey?”

  “Reminds me where I come from, Franny. Don’t you find remembering your past helps keep you honest for the future?”

  “How many times I gotta tell ya, it’s Fanny? And no. I spend every day of my life tryin’ to forget where I come from. I ain’t got no cause to try to remember. What’s gotten into you, Jack?”

  She tried to hook her arm through his but he pulled away. His skin crawled at her lightest touch and he wanted her as far away from him as possible. But she was a smart gal and wasn’t about to let a wealthy fish get away so easily.

  Standing next to him, she pressed her body against his and ran her fingertips up and down his arm. This was supposed to arouse him but all it did was irritate him. He just wanted to be left alone, but she kept prattling on about everything and nothing.

  “Franny, it’s been nice knowin’ ya but it’s time our friendship came to an end,” he said, digging in his pocket and flipping her a coin. “Here’s $20. Consider it severance pay and go bother someone else.”

  With that, he turned his back to her and ordered another shot. That was the first time he noticed Aidan sitting next to him. The Irishman gave him a wink and a smirk but kept his mouth shut as Fanny sputtered in rage.

  “How dare you treat me like a common whore, Jack Dalton! I’ll have you know I could get any man in this saloon, and there you sit treating me like trash! You coulda had it good with me, Jack, real good. Now you’re gonna die a lonely, bitter old man with only his money to keep him company — if you can even manage to keep hold of that!”

  She stomped off in a huff toward a crowd of people at the other side of the room. Looked like they were playing cards from where he sat, but he had no interest in joining them. His brain was muddled from having so many people mad at him that he could barely think straight.

  “Blast ‘em all t’hell,” he mumbled before tipping back another shot of rotgut.

  “Aye, blast ‘em!” cried Aidan merrily. “Wait, blast who?”

  Jack shot him a side-eye. “All of ‘em.”

  “Hurrah!”

  They sat in silence — Jack brooding, Aidan cheerful — and examined the wall of bottles filled with amber liquor behind the bar. Finally Aidan broke the impasse.

  “Whas’ gotchya down, Jack?”

  Jack ran his finger around the rim of his empty shot glass, trying to organize his thoughts. He finally just shrugged.

  Aidan nodded as if that explained everything. He ordered two more shots and placed one in front of Jack.

  “Well, as me ol’ da always said, here's t’women's kisses, and t’whiskey, amber clear. Not as sweet as a woman's kiss, but a darn sight more sincere!”

  For the first time in what seemed like days, Jack’s face broke into a grin and he tipped back Aidan’s shot.

  “Your father sounds like a wise old fella, my friend. What else has he got to say?”

  “Oh, loads. But what might apply t’you t’night? Only one comes to mind. Lie down wit dogs and you’ll rise wit fleas.” He shot a pointed look at Fanny’s retreating figure, one red eyebrow rising comically.

  Jack busted up laughing. “No truer words, my friend!”


  With the tension eased, they fell into comfortable conversation. “How’s that sorehead Kimble treating you?”

  “Oh, Jack, y’know. He’s a crotchety ol’ bugger but wit my bum leg, I’m not cut out fer da diggin’s nor any kind of manual labor. So I smile at his barbs and secretly curse him when his back’s turned.”

  Jack knew Aidan’s toothy grin belied his true feelings. Kimble treated him like a dog. He wished he could help his friend but Aidan would never take charity.

  “But ‘nuff ‘bout me, Jack. How’s dat saucy wench I saw you wit today?” Aidan had a mischievous glint in his eye that Jack didn’t like one little bit.

  “Well, as you so kindly pointed out a minute ago, I’m tired of rising with fleas.”

  As Jack chuckled at the joke, Aidan’s gaze grew sharper. “Not that one. T’other one. Dat li’l lass dat come in t’do business with ol’ Kimble.”

  Jack was floored.

  “Miss Priss?!” he laughed. “I think we’d better switch to better whiskey, Aidan. That rotgut is rotting your brain, too!”

  “Oh, really? I musta been seein’ tings this afternoon when you was huggin’ her in your arms like your one true love.”

  “I wasn’t hugging her, Aidan! She fell and I was helping her up. She is my neighbor, after all. I couldn’t very well stand there laughing at her, like that stupid girl Franny.”

  “I tot her name was Fanny.”

  “Oh, who cares! Shut up now and tell me what’s going on over there.” Jack nodded at the group of people Franny — Fanny — had joined. She kept shooting him hateful glances over her shoulder as she rubbed up against one of the men at the table.

  “Dunno. Jes’ got here m’self,” Aidan said. He turned to the barkeep. “Hey, Dick, whassup wit dat game? Seems feistier than usual.”

  Dick leaned onto the counter, his hands busy drying a glass. “Started out as a normal game of poker but then Frank Browne joined in and the stakes went crazy high. He’s doing well enough to stay in the game but if he don’t stop buying rounds for the house, he’s gonna run out of gold before he loses the game. Not that I’m complain’, mind you.”

  “Frank Browne?” asked Jack. “As in, Franklin Browne, the new printer in town?”

  “Printer? I dunno ‘bout that, but ever since he pulled in, he’s been making his way around to all the gambling hells. Some days he wins at euchre, the next he loses it all at faro. Looks like he musta won big somewheres, ‘cause he came in with a big bag full of gold coins.”

  Jack saw red. “Yeah, he won big, all right.”

  There was no doubt in his mind that Browne was using Delilah’s money to fund a gambling and drinking spree. Why didn’t she listen to him about Browne? He’d heard the gossip, and if Fanny knew the man, he couldn’t be all that upstanding. It was all Jack could do to refrain from going over and beating the scoundrel to a bloody pulp.

  “Wus’ wrong now, Jack?”

  A wave of cool resolve washed over him and a smile slowly twisted his lips upward. Slapping his friend on the back, he jumped from his stool and rubbed his hands together.

  “Aidan, I suddenly have a hankerin’ for a little poker.”

  Chapter 6

  Delilah was up early the next morning, her nerves and excitement twisting her stomach into such a knot that no food would be able to penetrate it, no matter how much Sam admonished her that she needed breakfast. She sipped some of his truly terrible coffee and ran out the door before anyone else woke up.

  Dinner had been tense the night before. After Sam kicked Jack out of the house, all the other men had treated her gingerly, like she might break. She was stronger than that, so she hated that they’d seen her cry. Especially over the words of some drunken fool like Jack.

  She still had no idea why she teared up like she did. By the time she went to bed, she’d convinced herself that it was because she’d had a long, hard day, full of ups and downs. It was only natural that some of the pressure that had been building up inside her would need to be released.

  As she lay on her narrow cot, she was acutely aware that Jack wasn’t in the room next to hers. The canvas walls did nothing to keep out sounds, and she’d become accustomed to the gentle sigh of his breathing when he was asleep.

  Her room was at the end of the hall, butted up to Sam’s room, which had a proper wall, but still she could hear his snoring. It woke her up some nights and only the soothing sound of Jack’s breathing could ease her back into slumber.

  But she wouldn’t admit that his absence contributed to her fitful night of sleep. No, it was nerves, plain and simple. And as she made her way to F. Browne Printers & Stationers, she was grateful that Jack hadn’t been there because the last thing she needed was to be berated on this day, the day her business would officially launch.

  Approaching Mr. Browne’s storefront, Delilah noticed a sign in the window that she didn’t remember from the day before. As soon as she was close enough to read it, she froze, her heart racing.

  CLOSED! UNDER NEW MANAGEMENT!

  Bile rose in her throat and threatened to exit in the most humiliating way, so she turned and ran around the side of the building into the alley. For the second time in as many days, she felt as if she might faint right there in the tiny wedge of space between buildings. A few deep breaths helped ease the nausea back down, and she was able to collect herself.

  Trying to act as casually as possible, she sauntered up to the storefront window and peered through. All the furnishings and machinery were still in place but the door was locked and there was no sign of movement inside.

  This had to be a mistake. Mr. Browne wouldn’t have taken her payment knowing he was selling the business. Perhaps he was the new management and she simply hadn’t noticed the sign yesterday. That had to be it.

  The barber next door was sweeping the leavings of his trade into the street when she approached him.

  “Excuse me, sir, but do you happen to know if Mr. Browne might be opening soon?”

  He glanced at her with rheumy eyes. “Who?”

  She pointed to the print shop. “Mr. Franklin Browne, the printer? Do you know when he normally arrives?”

  The old man shrugged. “Don’t know him, really. Won the place in a card game a few weeks back. Don’t think he ever printed a thing while he owned the place. Figgered it was just a matter o’ time ‘fore he closed up shop. Oh, and look at that sign. Musta gave it up yesterday.”

  He shrugged again and went back inside, firmly closing the door on her and any further inquiries. Panic choked her, but instead of fainting or vomiting, her entire body started shaking.

  It was in that state that she wandered the streets of the gritty, growing town but she was barely aware of her surroundings. After an hour or more, she found herself back on the front step of Sam’s house, normally a ten-minute walk from where she started.

  Sam was in the kitchen, cleaning up the dishes from breakfast. His beaming smile faltered when he saw the look on her face.

  “Dell, what’s wrong? You look downright wamble-cropped! Here, sit down.”

  She searched Sam’s face for an answer, knowing she wouldn’t find it but desperate for any clue as to what happened.

  “He’s gone,” she finally whispered.

  “What? Who’s gone?”

  “Mr. Browne, the printer. He’s gone. He took all my money yesterday and today there’s a sign in the window and he’s gone. I don’t know what to do.”

  Sam stared at her agog. He gripped her shoulders so firmly it was almost painful and leaned down to search her face.

  “What do you mean he’s gone? He’s gone?”

  It was all she could muster to nod mutely. Her heart was broken, her dreams dashed. She’d given Browne every piece of gold given to her. How would she repay all those men? How would she tell her father and his advertisers? She would never be able to earn enough to pay them back, even if she scoured every creek bed in the Sierra for gold.

  Sam jumped up and paced the room, sh
outing obscenities and curses on the head of one Franklin Browne. He finally calmed enough to realize what he’d been saying and rightly blushed.

  “I’m sorry to say such things in front of ya, Dell, but I’m just so cottonpickin’ mad right now.”

  Tears spilled down her cheeks unheeded, spattering into dark stains on her lap. Her breath hitched in her throat as a sob escaped her lips. As if the dam had broken, she started sobbing uncontrollably. Sam wrapped her in his arms and patted her head like a little girl.

  “Hush now, it’ll all work out, Dell, you’ll see. Just watch, it’ll all work out.” He kept repeating that and petting her head until she quieted.

  Pulling a handkerchief from the back pocket of his saggy cotton trousers, he dried her eyes, then shoved the piece of cloth in her hands and patted her cheek.

  “At times like these, I like to take a nice long walk,” he said, standing and stretching his back.

  “I…just…had…one,” she hiccupped.

  Nodding, he stared out the tiny window that overlooked the bay, one hand absentmindedly scratching the back of his neck.

  “Mayhap, mayhap. But I think you’ll feel better if you take a walk down to the pond.”

  “Pond? What pond?” She’d been there months and he’d never mentioned anything about a pond, nor had she seen one on her many walks around town.

  “Follow the trail out the back door down ‘round the bluff. There’s a little pond there and some rich son of a gun or ‘nother built a gol-darned fountain smack in the middle of it. After Mabel died, I went down there a lot. Peaceful. Good place to think. And to make a wish.”

  Her heart ached for him, just as it did every time he spoke of his beloved wife.

  “Did your wish come true, Sam?”

  He shrugged and continued to stare off into the foggy gray.

  “For a long time, I didn’t think so. But…mebbe. We’ll see.”