Mara came to the end of the sidewalk and stared down at the ocean of slimy mud that stretched between her and the other side of the street. Various crates and boxes, and anything else that wouldn’t sink, made a temporary bridge across the quagmire. But deep pools of muddy water from the downpour the night before had already submerged some of the makeshift supports, leaving gaping holes in the roughly made crossway.
Mara glanced back at Portsmouth Square and the post office, where hundreds of people were milling about as they impatiently waited their turn to find out if any long-awaited letters had arrived. Twice a month, when the Pacific Mail steamers sailed into the bay, the crowd would grow to over five hundred. Mara didn’t know why she had gone down there. She knew there would be no letter from Brendan. But she supposed she hadn’t given up hope.
Since parting so abruptly at the end of the summer, Mara had not seen Brendan. He had spent the autumn and winter months somewhere up in the Sierra Nevada searching for his gold mine. He’d been gone such a long time that every so often she wondered whether he were still alive. Mara thought of the inhospitable winter months she and Paddy and Jamie had spent in San Francisco with the rain and fog, and icy winds that never seemed to die down. At least they had a roof over their heads. But how had Brendan fared up in the high country? Poor Brendan. Mara remembered some of the horrendous stories she’d heard about life in the isolated mining camps. Drinking and gambling were the standard forms of amusement when the inclement weather kept the miners holed up in the village of tents and huts. That would be the worst life for Brendan. He would enjoy both to the fullest and probably manage to get himself involved in a fight or two. When in his cups, Brendan was not apt to guard his tongue. Nor was he above dealing from the bottom of the deck. In the mining camps, where there were no representatives of the law to carry out justice, the miners had found their own ways of dealing with cheats.
Her gloomy thoughts were interrupted as she warily eyed two drunken miners stumbling across the muddy street, heading toward where she was standing. One had a pair of suspenders holding up his baggy pants, as well as a thick leather belt around his waist with the butt of a six-shooter stuck underneath. There wasn’t much of his face visible beneath the wide brim of his sloppy hat and the thick beard. Both men were wearing the high boots and red flannel shirts favored by miners. The other had, besides a holster and gun, a large bowie knife suspended from his wide belt. They seemed oblivious to the light drizzle as they slipped and slid their way across the mud. Their carefree voices were raised in a merry song, albeit off tune, that they seemed determined to serenade the town with, in rambling, disjointed verses.
A bully ship and a bully crew
Doodah, doodah,
A bully mate and a captain too,
Doodah, doodah day.
Then blow ye winds hi-ho
For Californ-y-o.
There’s plenty of gold so I’ve been told
On the banks of the Sacramento.
Oh around Cape Horn we’re bound to go,
Doodah, doodah,
Around Cape Horn through the sleet and snow,
Doodah, doodah day.
I wish to God I’d never been born,
Doodah, doodah,
To go a-sailin’, round Cape Horn,
Doodah, doodah day.
As they caught sight of Mara watching them with her contemptuous golden eyes, they quickly broke into another song:
Hangtown gals are plump and rosy,
Hair in ringlets, mighty cozy,
Painted cheeks and jossy bonnets—
Touch ’em and they’ll sting like hornets!
With wide, satisfied grins they came closer to stand gazing up at her. Their bloodshot eyes traveled over her neat figure wrapped securely in the tobacco-brown cloak trimmed with wide strips of pale gold ribbon around the hem and arm slits. As Mara glanced away in disinterest, her profile became etched against the soft brown velvet brim of her bonnet.
“’Tis the fairest creature in all Fran Sancisco!” one of them cried as he bowed low, nearly falling to his knees in the mud. “’Twould sheem ash though I,” he paused, frowning for a moment, then smiled triumphantly, “George Abraham West, could be of some asshistance to the lovely lady.”
“I think not, thank you,” Mara replied coolly.
The spokesman’s friend gave a hoot of laughter at her snub, elbowing his friend in the ribs as he mimicked Mara’s haughty refusal. “‘I think not, thank you.’ Well, I’ll be damned if she ain’t a lady, that one,” he chuckled, “and mark my words, mate, she knew the man fer her when she set them bonny eyes on him.”
With that sure statement, he stepped in front of his open-mouthed companion and introduced himself as he pulled his grimy hat from a headful of matted hair of unknown color. “Freddie Watson, ma’am, born within spittin’ distance of Bow bells, but more recently of Sydney, Australia,” he explained with a knowing wink, “due to a slight misunderstanding with the law.”
Quite a misunderstanding, Mara thought as she noticed his battered features and the crafty look in his eyes. He moved even closer and Mara could smell the whiskey fumes that seemed to permeate his clothing as well as his insides.
“How about you and me, luv, finding us someplace nice an’ warm,” he suggested, the look in his eyes turning lascivious as he added, “I ain’t seen a piece as fancy as you since bein’ transported from London. Got plenty o’ gold in me pockets, luv, so ask yer price.”
Mara turned away from the two drunken lotharios with an expression of repugnance crossing her features.
“Knew her man, did she!” the cockney’s friend guffawed loudly. “Knew him for the wenching rascal that he is, I’d say.”
But his friend wasn’t listening as he stared in drunken anger at the slender caped figure starting to move away. “Too bloody good for the likes o’ Freddie Watson, are ye? I’ve seen plenty o’ yer type in London, so damned high and mighty, crossing to the other side o’ the street when they sees me comin’,” he spat, an ugly glint in his eye. He put one booted leg up on the edge of the sidewalk and made a grab at the hem of Mara’s cloak, only to find himself falling wildly backward, a booted heel in the middle of his chest.
He struggled to rise in the slippery mud, a bellow hovering in his throat until he noticed the quietness of his friend. Following that fellow’s fixed gaze, he stared up in bemused cowardliness at the rest of the six-foot-five body attached to that boot.
“Speaking of crossing to the other side of the street, gentlemen…” the stranger suggested in surprisingly quite tones, but then a man the size of a mountain seldom needed to raise his voice.
Mara watched in silent satisfaction as the two wretches picked themselves up and widened the distance between themselves and the giant. Mara turned to her rescuer. Looking up at the big man, a half-smile curving her lips, she said, “Now they certainly knew their man.”
The big man smiled in appreciation, his broad face split with a widening grin of unholy amusement. “A man my size can usually bluff a smaller man.”
“Well, thank you very much,” Mara said with a warm smile.
“My pleasure, ma’am. Now if I may be of assistance to you,” he said hesitantly, “I believe you wanted to cross the street?”
Before Mara knew what he was about, the big man scooped her up effortlessly and was striding purposefully across the muddy thoroughfare. Mara gazed incredulously into his face, not sure whether she should be outraged or thankful. But as Mara’s eyes met his clear blue ones, she relaxed, instinctively knowing she had nothing to fear from this man. He was dressed well enough in a pair of light gray trousers that looked newly bought and a dark blue frock coat worn over a somewhat gaudy, tartan-check vest. His thick blond hair was shiny, if a bit shaggy, and he sported a magnificent blond mustache of stunning proportions. Mara’s eyes traveled on down his ruddy-complexioned face, taking in the strong line of jaw and the thick neck that proudly supported his leonine head.
He set Mara
down carefully on the wooden boards of the sidewalk after staring hard at anyone unfortunate enough to be standing nearby. He reminded Mara of an overgrown watchdog.
“I think I’ll be all right now,” she reassured him. “I’ve been in San Francisco long enough now to know how to protect myself, especially with my little friend here,” she added with a dangerous gleam in her eye. She pulled open her purse to reveal the small, pearl-handled derringer tucked within.
The big blond’s blue eyes narrowed in thoughtful surprise. “Yes, ma’am, I can see that he would speak loudly and in your favor. But it’s always good to know you’ve a friend around,” he continued easily, “Though I reckon you know how to use our little friend there.”
“Indeed I do,” Mara replied lightly as she pulled shut her purse and began to move through the crowd. She felt a hand cup her elbow as the big man escorted her along the congested sidewalk, his bulk automatically clearing the way ahead. “I really can take care of myself,” Mara told him as she craned her neck upward to see his face.
“Well, I’ve nothing better to do, ma’am. Thought I’d just see you to wherever you were headed,” he explained with a wide grin. Mara couldn’t help but respond warmly.
“Thank you,” she said softly, smiling slightly as he glared at someone unwise enough to step in front of them. He was certainly a strange mixture of brawn and gentleness, Mara thought in amusement as they turned up Clay and moved away from the busy plaza and the big gambling saloons and hotels that lined it. Mara finally stopped before the plain doors of the boardinghouse in which they had been rooming. “This is where I shall leave you. Thank you again, and good-bye.”
The big man glanced around curiously at the unassuming, two-storied wood and brick building. It was definitely a respectable house.
“I was pleased to be of service to you, ma’am. If you ever need me, the name’s Karl Svengaard, but my friends call me the Swede.”
“I’ll remember that,” Mara said, her golden eyes full of laughter as she smiled up at him. Then, with a slight nod, she turned to enter the boardinghouse.
The Swede quickly held the door open for her and called in after her, “I’m staying at the Parker House on Kearny.”
Mara glanced back at him patiently. “Good-bye, Swede.”
The Swede stood staring at the closed door a minute before turning and walking back down toward the plaza. Now there was a fine-looking woman, he thought. She was different from the brazen and coarse females who usually walked the streets and haunted the gaming halls, and yet she wasn’t one of the strait-laced, sunbonneted women who’d come out across the plains to pioneer in the new land. No, the Swede speculated, she was definitely different. Maybe not respectable, but certainly a lady, and unfortunately not for him. She was more Nicholas’s type, he thought with a grin as he imagined the Creole’s green eyes meeting hers. Well, Nicholas would have to find her for himself. The Swede chuckled as he entered the saloon on his left, the loud music and laughing voices beckoning him inside and out of the cold wind.
Mara shivered as the door closed behind her. The hall was only slightly warmer than outside with draughts whistling in from the many cracks and ill-fitting boards.
As she stood there fumbling to remove her gloves and bonnet, she became aware of the proprietress of the boardinghouse standing quietly at the back of the hall. As she caught Mara’s gaze, she smiled, softening the harassed look on her thin face as she closed the door to the kitchen behind her and came forward.
“Good afternoon, Miss O’Flynn,” she greeted her. “Here, let me help you with that.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Markham,” Mara sighed as the woman helped her remove her heavy cloak.
“Please, I wish you’d call me Jenny,” Mrs. Markham asked. “I feel like I know you better than anyone else in this fool town. After all, you have been here longer than any of my other boarders.”
“Thank you, and my name is Mara. You’re welcome to call me by it if you wish,” she invited the other woman who couldn’t be more than four or five years older than she was. Mara had often thought if Mrs. Markham would smile more, she would be quite an attractive woman. Of course, she didn’t have much to amuse her, working from dawn until midnight trying to run a boardinghouse and raise her three young children. Mara shook her head. Jenny Markham hardly looked old enough to be the mother of that trio of roughneck, gamin-faced boys ranging in age from three to seven. With her fine-boned face under that incredible mop of tousled red hair, she seemed so young and innocent, as if she shouldn’t have a care in the world.
Now Jenny Markham’s eye avoided Mara’s in embarrassment, her face flushing uncomfortably as she held Mara’s cloak in her work-roughened hands. “Well, I’d be mighty honored, Miss O’Flynn, but for some reason it just don’t seem right to be calling a person by their Christian name when they’re a paying guest,” she explained, shrugging her shoulders as she smiled shyly. “But I hope you’ll call me Jenny still.”
“Of course,” Mara said with a cynical smile curving her lips as she accepted her cloak from Jenny, who seemed to be flustered as she saw the expression in Mara’s tawny eyes. “If you’ll excuse me, I want to take these sweets to Paddy.”
“Oh, Jamie stepped out for a short spell, Miss O’Flynn,” Jenny Markham called after her. “She took Paddy and a couple of my boys along. She said something about buying some new boots for the boy.”
“That’s right, I forgot they were going,” Mara remembered.
“Ah, Miss O’Flynn,” Jenny spoke suddenly. “I was just fixing myself a cup of coffee. If you’d care to join me…well, I’d sure like that.”
Mara stared down at her in puzzlement. As she thought of the tempting coffee, she nodded her dark head in assent and followed her hostess into the room that served as a dining hall for her boarders. A long table that could probably have seated at least thirty or forty people stretched almost the length of the room, while a long bench ran the distance on each side. In the middle of the table were stacks of plates, cups and saucers, and cheap silverware.
A tray with an earthenware coffeepot and two matching cups and saucers and an unmatching sugar bowl had been placed on the end of the table near them. A plate with several small slices of cake had been added as well, and it was to this that Jenny Markham gestured in embarrassment.
“It’s the last of the set. Most all of it except for a couple of plates and cups got broken on the trip out here, along with most everything else. I thought maybe you wouldn’t mind having coffee in here, and maybe we could talk while I’m setting the table,” she said hopefully.
Mara nodded and sat down with a curious look on her face. It seemed as though Jenny had been expecting her.
“I was hoping I’d see you when you came back in,” Jenny answered Mara’s silent query, “and we’d get this chance to talk. My smallest one is sleeping and most of the other boarders are out right now, so I’ve got a few moments for myself.”
“Talk about what?” Mara asked as she waited for Jenny to pour the dark, freshly brewed coffee.
Jenny looked down into her cup thoughtfully, obviously ill at ease. “Just now when I said I’d rather call you Miss O’Flynn,” she began, looking up frankly into Mara’s golden brown eyes, “it wasn’t because you’re an actress, or that you work down at the Eldorado.”
Mara’s eyes began to warm a little as she listened to Jenny Markham’s awkward explanation.
“I admit that when you first came here seeking rooms,” Jenny said nervously, “I didn’t think the kindest thoughts about you.”
“I had gathered as much,” Mara commented dryly as she took a sip of coffee.
Jenny’s dark blue eyes traveled over Mara’s elegant figure, not missing the pearl buttons closing the front of Mara’s bodice jacket of dark brown velvet, or the edging of fine lace around the collar and cuffs. She made a wry face as she looked down at her own plain wool dress and practical apron. “I guess I was partly jealous. You’re so pretty, and dress so fine, that I nev
er gave myself a chance to like you. I thought you’d have a lot of men friends calling, and be real uppity. But no one ever comes to call on you, and I seldom see you with a man at least until today,” Jenny corrected herself as she remembered the curly blond head that had been stuck inside the door with Miss O’Flynn.
“The gentle giant,” Mara laughed as she remembered her rescuer. “He came to my assistance and rather handily routed two amorous drunks from my path. He says he’s called the Swede.”
Jenny smiled in understanding. “Even with my brood of redheads tagging along, I get proposals of marriage on nearly every street corner. I suppose if you’re looking for a husband, it’s the best place to be, but for us who’d rather be left alone, the shortage of females is a hazard. Besides, they just want someone to wash their shirts and fix them a decent meal. Do you know some of them actually send their dirty linen all the way to China to get washed?” Jenny demanded incredulously.
Laurie McBain Page 26