Bound for Eden

by Tess LeSue

  Oh, thank heavens for ghastly old Mrs. Bulfinch! Now Georgiana wouldn’t have to interview another pale, clean, nice man! At least not until tomorrow . . .

  And maybe before then, she could hunt the brute down, and she wouldn’t need to face tomorrow at all, she thought hopefully. She stole a glance at the saloon. It was a shame ladies weren’t allowed in there, or she would have headed straight over the road and through the doors.

  “May I escort you into supper?” Mr. Dugard asked hopefully.

  Lord, no!

  “I’m sorry,” Georgiana said, skipping out of his reach before he could take her arm, “but I really must collect the children.”

  If she could get through the knot of hopefuls on the porch, that was. They were milling about, just waiting for a chance to speak to her; each and every one of them was holding his hat politely in his plump, clean hand and giving her an earnest smile. They were a horrific sight.

  She’d never moved so fast in her life. She grabbed her bonnet and dilly bag and was out the front door and off the porch before anyone could so much as make a move in her direction.

  She took a deep, grateful breath of dusty air as she plunged down the street. She’d been cooped up in that parlor all day, with its smell of desiccated rose petals and burned coffee. Mrs. Bulfinch didn’t hold with open windows: too much dust. After today, Georgiana was sure she would forever associate the smell of mummified roses with the smell of disappointment.

  She’d met at least two dozen men today, and not a single one of them was suitable. They’d be eaten alive out west! Just imagine if they met Kid Cupid or the Plague of the West on the trail! They’d probably faint dead away. No, she needed someone who could get her safely to her son . . .

  The thought of Leo took any trace of sunshine out of the day. Her son, her eldest . . . all alone out there with those horrible men . . .

  Don’t think about it. You can’t afford to think about it. You have to keep moving.

  He was safe so long as they needed her signature on that deed. And she was on her way. Soon, she thought desperately. Soon I’ll be there. She felt the two thousand miles between them like a searing pain. Goddamn Leonard for taking the boy with him. And double damn him for dying and leaving her baby stranded on the other side of the country, twelve years old and all alone, held hostage . . .

  Don’t. Don’t think about it.

  Georgiana was sweating but felt icy cold, even though she caught the full flood of afternoon sun as she headed to Mrs. Tilly’s to get the other children. Leo was tough, she reminded herself. Of all the children, he was the most resilient; he’d had to be, he’d been the man of the house since he was knee high. His father would swan in and out of their lives for years at a time, telling Leo to look after his mother, and it was something the boy had taken to heart. He wasn’t one to cry or feel sorry for himself. She used to watch the way he kept his head high and his expression brave every time his father left, and the way he’d comfort her and the younger children, and her heart would break for him. Her eyes welled with tears. Her poor boy.

  It was just one more disaster in Leonard’s long line of disasters, and he wasn’t even here for her to rage at. This was precisely why she would be choosing her next husband with her head rather than her heart. Her next husband would protect her children and not abandon them (or kidnap them and take them two thousand miles away from her); he would be frugal and sensible and not sell the rug out from under her; he would be predictable and reliable and not flit from place to place with no thought of building a home for his family. If she had to give up hopes of marrying a man she was attracted to, she would. After all, what real use was attraction? And she was certainly happy to give up any idea of a love match. Love had caused her nothing but pain.

  * * *

  • • •

  “DID YOU FIND your Prince Charming, then?” Mrs. Tilly asked her hopefully, when Georgiana stepped through the front door of the Tea Rooms. “I saw that nice Mr. Dugard heading over to the hotel. He’s a handsome-looking man.”

  “Yes, he is.” Georgiana pulled a face as she let Mrs. Tilly usher her to a table by the window and pour them cups of tea. The older woman also put out a plate of strawberry tarts and immediately popped one in her mouth.

  “And he’s a capable man,” she said as she brushed crumbs from her lip. “He used to run a furniture store in St. Louis.”

  “He might be capable enough for St. Louis, Mrs. Tilly,” Georgiana sighed, “but he didn’t look anywhere near capable enough for the wilds. I can’t imagine him fording a river or shoeing a horse.”

  Georgiana flushed as Mrs. Tilly looked pointedly at Georgiana’s silk skirts and heeled slippers.

  “It’s a wonder you want to go at all, if it’s so fearsome.” Mrs. Tilly clucked as she sipped her tea. “You’d be better off keeping the little ’uns here. We have a school and lots of nice men.”

  Ugh. Nice wasn’t what she was looking for.

  “I’m committed to going to California, Mrs. Tilly,” Georgiana said firmly. “That’s where our land is. Leonard built us a house in the lovely little town of Mokelumne Hill.” Or so he’d said. “It has a wraparound porch and enough bedrooms for the children to each have one.” She’d believe it when she saw it. But that’s certainly what he’d written in his letters. “And my son is there.” Oh no, there went the tears again. Georgiana fumbled for her handkerchief. She hated crying in front of people, but these days the tears just erupted. She could be perfectly serene and then, bang, she’d be crying. She had to stop thinking about Leo. She couldn’t afford to be crying all the time; there’d be time for crying once he was safe.

  “Oh, you darling love.” Mrs. Tilly was welling up in sympathy. “How insensitive of me! I’m sure your people are looking after the lad, but I know how a mother feels.”

  Georgiana just wanted the whole moment to end. She didn’t want comfort or fuss—it didn’t do any good. She just wanted to get on with the whole ordeal: get the husband, pack the wagon and get on the trail. The sooner she got on the trail, the sooner she could get to her son. Crying solved nothing at all.

  “How were the children today?” she asked, desperately trying to change the subject as she blotted her eyes.

  “Energetic.” Mrs. Tilly didn’t quite meet Georgiana’s gaze.

  Georgiana stood. “I should get them out of your way, it’s getting late.”

  “Oh no!” Mrs. Tilly looked a touch panicked. “Finish your tea first. And have one of the tarts, the children helped make them. They’re with Becky, they’re fine, no need to worry.”

  “I really should feed them.”

  “They had some tarts less than an hour ago.” When Georgiana didn’t sit, Mrs. Tilly got to her feet too. She was looking a trifle anxious, Georgiana thought. Her stomach sank. Oh dear. What had the children done now?

  There was a clanging sound from the back of the house. Georgiana saw Mrs. Tilly flinch.

  “Now don’t be too mad at them!” Mrs. Tilly cautioned. There was the sound of something breaking, and Georgiana turned on her heel and made for the kitchen. “They’re high-spirited boys!”

  The devils looked up with wide-eyed innocence as she threw open the door to the kitchen. Their faces were white with flour. Even her daughter Susannah, the sensible one, was covered in powder from head to foot.

  “Mama!” two-year-old Wilby shouted, holding out his pudgy hand. Pasty, white sludge oozed between his fingers. “Glue!”

  “Oh my.”

  The stuff was everywhere: dripping from the wall sconces, blobbed on the bench tops, splattered across the windows.

  “Well,” Georgiana said, aiming for calmness, “aren’t you all very clever, discovering the recipe for glue.”

  “Glue!” Wilby shouted again, before shoving his hand in his mouth.

  “William Bee! Don’t eat that!” Georgiana pulled his hand from h
is mouth and got glue and slobber all over her glove. She eyed it distastefully. Mothering really was a messy business. This was only her second month without a nanny, and, she had to admit, she was struggling.

  “He can eat it,” one of the twins (Phineas?) said impatiently. “It’s just flour and water.”

  Georgiana cleared her throat.

  “It’s really Becky’s fault,” Mrs. Tilly said quickly in defense of the children.

  “My fault!” The girl was outraged. She popped up from in front of the stove, which she’d clearly been scrubbing vigorously. She was a mix of soot and glue. “How is this my fault?”

  “I told you to watch them,” Mrs. Tilly scolded. “You know what they’re like.”

  Georgiana blanched. If she’d been a better mother, this never would have happened. You know what they’re like. Wild. And running wilder every day. They certainly hadn’t been like this when Mrs. Wyndham, the nanny, was still around.

  Georgiana bit her lip. What would Mrs. Wyndham do in this situation?

  “How was I to know they’d make glue while my back was turned?” Becky complained.

  This never would have happened if Mrs. Wyndham had been here. That was the whole problem.

  “Well, your back shouldn’t have been turned. Don’t think I don’t know where you were. I saw Fancy Pat’s horse tethered up outside. And I don’t know how many times I have to tell you that you’re throwing good after bad, consorting with the likes of him.”

  “His name’s Pierre,” Becky said, sounding more outraged by the minute. “It’s French.”

  “Now, now,” Georgiana interrupted, still striving for calmness as she surreptitiously looked around for something to wipe her slobbery glove on. “It’s hardly Becky’s fault.” She turned a stern look on her children. Only Susannah had the good grace to look shamefaced.

  “They promised me they’d clean it up before you came in, Mrs. Smith,” Mrs. Tilly said hurriedly. “And really there’s no harm done.”

  “See,” the other twin said (was it Philip? Surely a good mother would be able to tell them apart), “she doesn’t mind.”

  Georgiana shot him a black look. “My dear Mrs. Tilly . . . and Becky . . .” It was proving difficult to keep her voice even. “The children and I would like to take you to supper to make this up to you. Please. If you’d like to go and freshen up . . .” She cleared her throat dubiously as she took in Becky’s filthy face. “The children and I will get your kitchen in order. And then we’ll all go out for a nice meal.” Georgiana peeled off her slobbery glove.

  “Oh no!” Mrs. Tilly sounded scandalized. “I can’t let a lady like you scrub my kitchen.”

  “Oh, don’t worry,” Georgiana said grimly. “I won’t be the one doing the scrubbing.”

  “You don’t need to, Becky can—”

  “Becky can get scrubbed up for tea in no time,” Becky said quickly, cutting Mrs. Tilly off midsentence. She wriggled out of her apron and hung it on the back of the kitchen door on her way out.

  “Please, Mrs. Tilly.” Georgiana tried to smile at her. “It would be our pleasure.”

  Mrs. Tilly looked dubious but nodded and retreated. She paused at the door. “They were perfect angels for most of the day,” she said weakly.

  “Were you?” Georgiana asked once the door swung closed.

  “We’re perfect angels now,” Phin said, rolling his eyes. “We’re only not angels if you don’t like glue.”

  “Indeed.” Georgiana felt ill as she looked at the paste smeared in lumps all over the kitchen. “How does one clean glue?”

  “Vinegar,” came a muffled voice from behind the kitchen door.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Tilly! We’ll see you in an hour for supper!”

  There was a pause and then they heard footsteps retreating down the hall.

  “We could let Wilby lick it all up,” Philip suggested.

  To Georgiana’s dismay, Wilby didn’t look entirely unhappy at the prospect.

  “Listen,” she said, thinking fast, “if you can get this place clean by the time she comes downstairs for supper, I’ll buy you rock candy from Cavil’s Mercantile in the morning.”

  “How much rock candy?”

  “More than you deserve. And if you don’t get it clean, I’ll tell Mrs. Bulfinch that you’ll help her wash her unmentionables tomorrow. It’s laundry day at the hotel.”

  “You wouldn’t!”

  Of course she wouldn’t. And of course Mrs. Bulfinch wouldn’t either. But the twins didn’t need to know that. “Just test me.”

  Maybe parenting wasn’t so hard. She watched as they hurried to grab mops and buckets. They were the only good things Leonard had ever done in his life, she thought fondly, as she watched their curly dark heads bent over the concoction of vinegar and water they were brewing in the sink. They were working the water pump madly. With any luck, they could clean up the mess without destroying Mrs. Tilly’s kitchen. Georgiana tugged off her other glove and set to work helping them. She didn’t have much experience scrubbing kitchens, or . . . well, anything. But now that her trust fund was exhausted and they had no more money for servants, she guessed she’d just have to learn.

  2

  “WHAT ARE YOU doing here?” Matt snapped when Deathrider joined him outside of Cavil’s Mercantile. “I told you I’d bring the doctor to you.”

  Deathrider looked like his name personified. He was greyish white and waxy and his eyes had the unfocused stare of someone who was using up all his energy just to stay conscious.

  “No beds,” he grunted.

  “What do you mean, no beds?”

  “The man at the saloon said there are no beds.”

  Matt felt like punching something. This last month had been the most hellish month of his life. He’d been holding on to the idea that things would get easier once they got to Independence, but so far that just wasn’t the case.

  “Is this because you’re an Indian?”

  Deathrider shrugged. His usually proud frame was hunched over, curved around the gunshot wound.

  “Because Sam should damn well know better.” Matt unbuckled his saddlebags. His old gray donkey Fernando gave a cranky hee-haw. Matt pulled his ears absently and then hefted the saddlebags over his shoulder. He was bone-tired from being on the trail and the last thing he needed was trouble finding a bed. “C’mon,” he growled, “let’s get you somewhere comfortable while I rustle up the doctor.”

  “Sam!” he bellowed as he pushed into the dark saloon. “What’s this I hear about you not having a bed for me?”

  “Well, look who it is,” the bartender said. He spat tobacco juice into a spittoon so full it made a wet sloshing sound as the stream hit. “You’re late. You said you’d be here by the end of March.”

  Matt always stayed at The Lucky Star when he was in town. Mostly because it was the only place that didn’t run whores. Matt didn’t like whores. They made him uncomfortable. And he didn’t want to stay in a bunkhouse; he wanted his own room, away from other people. Matt didn’t care much for people.

  He nudged Deathrider into a chair.

  “I had a room for you at the end of March,” Sam told him.

  “We got held up.”

  Matt saw the way Sam’s eyes slid over Deathrider.

  “We?” There was another slosh as Sam spat his juice.

  “This is my friend.” Matt emphasized the word friend. Hell, after the winter they’d just been through together, Matt was tempted to call him “brother.”

  “He said you don’t have rooms for us.”

  Sam shrugged. “I don’t. I ain’t in the business of keeping rooms empty when there’s money to be made. I don’t know if you’ve heard, but there’s a gold rush on.”

  Matt grunted. He’d more than heard; he’d had a busy few months at the end of last year finding the fools lost on the Siski
you Trail from Oregon down to California.

  “They’re piled four deep up there,” Sam told him, jerking his head at his rooms upstairs. “And you’ll find it’s the same everywhere. Town’s bursting at the seams. On the upside, you should do a roaring trade putting together your train this year.”

  This would be the fifth year in a row Matt was taking a train on the trail. As always, he was dreading it. He didn’t know why he did it to himself, except he was good at it and he couldn’t think of much else he would rather be doing. It paid well, but Matt didn’t really need or want the money. He’d sort of just fallen into it when his brother Luke had given it up; it was either stay home and be a third wheel in the house with his brother and his new wife, or find something else to do. He’d tried running cattle with his brother Tom for a while, but he found he hated cows even more than he hated people, if such a thing was possible. At least with the wagon trains he got to ride out by himself a lot. People tended to stay in a neat clump and did not have to be herded the way cows did. But they complained a lot more than cows.

  “Are you telling me there ain’t a single bed in town?” Matt felt more than ever like punching something. He didn’t fancy another night sleeping rough.

  “’Fraid so. I can sell you a drink, though.”

  “I bet you could,” Matt said sourly. But there wasn’t much daylight left and Deathrider needed seeing to.

  “Forget the room, we’re taking you straight to the doctor,” he said, hooking his arm under Deathrider’s armpit and yanking him to his feet. He didn’t miss the way his friend was soaked through with cold sweat.

  “Doc’s moved since you were here last,” Sam called. “He went and got married. He lives next to The Grand Hotel now.”

  Matt grunted his thanks and half dragged his friend out into the street. Deathrider’s Indian dog was waiting outside for them, his ears swiveling madly. He wasn’t happy. “Don’t worry, Dog, we’ll get him some help.”