Everything seemed in place. Probably, he had just slipped the money inside. What difference did it make, anyway? Even if he had seen the map, he hadn't taken it.
She counted the money again, a bitter smile touching her lips. He had come to her in the night, but not to make love or say good-bye, only to pay for past services. After all, hadn't he once proposed that she could be either his doxy or his wife?
Perhaps, she told herself, she should be grateful. Now she could pay her way to San Francisco and have something left over.
Then with a jolt, she thought of something that really made her blood boil.
Francie.
The prostitute Cord had been expecting the first night they had met, sent to service him in exchange for his taking five hundred dollars off a gambling debt.
She stared at the money.
It was degrading enough to know he felt he owed her, but worse to contemplate he considered her worth only half of Francie's fee.
Never had she felt so degraded.
Had he been there, had he dared give it to her in person, she would have thrown it in his face. No doubt that was why he had sneaked in. It was his way of soothing his conscience for the way he'd used her and then dumped her, the bastard.
Tucking the bills back in the Bible where she'd found them, she took out the faded orchid.
For long agonized moments, she held it in her open palm. Then, as though she could destroy the memories of those nights in his arms, she began to crumble the crisp petals between her fingers.
As the brown bits and shreds fluttered to the floor, she watched them through a veil of tears.
* * *
Two days later, with less than a hundred dollars left after paying for the expensive passage from Sacramento, Jaime arrived in San Francisco and was instantly bedazzled by the teeming city.
She looked from the harbor, crowded with ships from everywhere in the world, to the tall buildings looming in the distance, and wondered dizzily what to do. She'd thought of nothing else, day or night, and still had no plan.
She saw the old man watching her from where he sat on the porch of a dilapidated-looking warehouse. He seemed harmless, and she was not about to approach any of the younger dock workers with their rude leers and suggestive remarks.
As she drew closer, she saw he was whittling something that was beginning to look like a ship. "Excuse me." She greeted him pleasantly, shading her eyes with her hand against the blazing late-afternoon sun.
A grin spread across the bearded, wrinkled face. Josh Becker could not recall ever seeing such a comely lass in all his sixty-nine years. Hair the color of the precious ore that had been his mistress till old age caught up with him, eyes the color of the Caribbean seas he'd once sailed as a lad. Truly, she was a sight to behold. "Well, now, what can I do for you, lassie?"
"My name is Jaime Chandler." She introduced herself.
"I'm Josh Becker."
"Pleased to meet you," she murmured politely before going on. "I'm afraid I don't know anyone in this town, and I was wondering if you could help me with some information."
"If I can, I'll be delighted." He patted the empty chair next to him. "Get out of that sun and tell me all about it."
And she did so.
He listened with interest to how she was trying to locate her father, who was living in Drytown the last she heard from him. "Well, now, your daddy must be a prospector. Can't think of no other reason he would have been in Drytown." He paused to snicker. "Never did figure out how it got its name. It sure won't due to a lack of neither water in the creeks or booze in the bars.
"It's over in Amador County," he went on, "about forty miles southeast of Sacramento, near Sutter's Creek."
"Named after the same man that built Sutter's Fort?"
"That's right, and after John Sutter stomped away mad when his empire fell apart after his workers ran off to the goldfields, things around the creek kept on growing. For a while, anyway. But I remember Drytown. I surely do...."
Leaning back in his chair, the old man closed his eyes, as though by shutting out the present he could take himself back in time to younger days. Dreamily, he murmured, "I remember the dance hall at the Exchange Hotel. The floor was all slicked down by bales of hay shoved around, and the dancing always went on till three in the morning. They'd take up a collection to pay the orchestra. By four o'clock, the sun was startin' to rise. I was prospectin' then, myself, and it was all I could do to take pick and pan and head out to my diggings. But it was worth it. All that music and dancin' and lovely ladies. It was heaven to spend a night like that. It surely was."
His eyes flashed open as he returned from his golden days. "It ain't like that no more," he said sharply, almost angrily. "Placer diggin' wore out six or seven years ago, and then there was a big fire that about leveled the town. How long ago was it your daddy was supposed to be there?" he asked suspiciously.
"Going on two years."
"If he was still prospecting, he was wasting his time. But maybe you just thought he was diggin' there. Likely he was around Pokerville and Plymouth. They're still getting rich around them camps."
Jaime had a sinking feeling. What if her father's investment in Mr. Lavelle's mine had paid off, and he had been able to deep-pit mine but hadn't found the mother lode and just gave up? There was no telling where he would be now. All at once she knew her only chance was to talk to Mr. Lavelle, in hopes he could point her in the right direction.
Josh hoped she was not planning on going to Drytown and said as much. "It's a day and a night by stage from here to Sutter's Creek, and that's a long trip for a wild goose chase. Where'd you come from, anyhow?"
"Missouri."
He looked at her and shook his head in sympathy. "I hope you didn't come all that way for nothing, but if all you got to go on is knowing he was in Drytown two years ago, I'm afraid you did."
"There's something else. He was doing business with a man here in San Francisco named Stanton Lavelle." Her voice trailed away as she saw the strange look that came over his face. Warily, she asked, "What's wrong? Why are you looking like that?"
"Stanton Lavelle," he all but whispered, as though he did not dare speak the name out loud. Then, with a frown, he said brusquely, "You won't have no trouble findin' him."
He pointed toward the buildings beyond. "That was once the high-tide line. Now it's called Montgomery Street. You'll find a bunch of jerry-built banks and brokerage houses there. Keep on going till you get a block inland, where you'll come to a slope above the bay. That's called Portsmouth Square. That's where the finest hotels, the best restaurants, and the plushest saloons and billiard halls are located.
"And that, lassie"—he touched the tip of his knife to the brim of his hat in a gesture Of finality—"is where you'll find Mr. Stanton Lavelle, or somebody that'll point you to him. He used to have an office in the Port Hotel building, but I don't know if he still does. Fact is, I hear he don't stay in the city like he used to. He built himself a mansion out of an old Spanish mission by the sea, farther north. Spends most of his time there since he got shot at a few times."
"Shot at?"
"He's got money and power, but he ain't exactly held in high esteem, Miss Chandler, for reasons I won't go into. Not fit conversation for a lady."
"Well, all right," she said finally. "I'll go into town and try to find him. But who do I ask?"
"Anybody." He laughed, as though enjoying a private joke. "You won't have a bit of trouble. All you gotta do is mention his name."
She thanked him, and he wished her well, and she hurried toward the rising buildings.
Finding her way to the Port Hotel, she paused outside the red-brick building to go over in her mind once more what she planned to say to Mr. Lavelle when she met him at last. She had considered the possibility his mine might not have paid off, and if that were the case, and her father had refused to turn the map over as pledged for his investment, there could very well be hard feelings.
Well, she de
cided, taking a deep breath and mustering all her courage, the time had come to find out exactly what the situation was.
There was no one else around, and she started toward the double brass-plated doors, excitement flowing.
Just then, a bedraggled man reeking of whiskey bumped into her and apologized. "Oh, lady, I'm sorry, so sorry. Didn't mean to hurt you, I truly didn't."
"I'm all right, really." She took a step backward, thinking what a pitiful wretch he was.
He looked at her with red-rimmed eyes and took off his tattered hat to hold it in his hands. "Could you help a starvin' man, lady? That's why I fell into you like I did. I'm weak. Can't remember the last time I ate. About to pass out, I am. Just a pittance, anything, please."
Jaime really had nothing to spare herself but could not refuse him. She set her satchel down, opened it, and took out the lace handkerchief Jerusha had given her as a farewell gift. She had wrapped the rest of her money inside.
She took out a bill and was about to hand it to him when all of a sudden he snatched the handkerchief from her and took off running down the street.
"No," she screamed, waving frantically, picking up her satchel to chase after him. "Please, don't. It's all I've got, all I've got in this world…"
Tears streamed down her cheeks as she ran, but by the time she reached the corner, which he had rounded only seconds before, he was out of sight.
Chapter 17
The hotel manager made clucking noises of sympathy but scolded. "You never should have let him see your money. Miss Chandler. Sometimes the temptation is just too great. The safest thing to do with beggars is ignore them."
The policeman who had finally responded to her angry shouts had said the same thing, and Jaime repeated her earlier response. "I felt sorry for him."
"And now I feel sorry for you," the manager offered perfunctorily as he wondered what he was supposed to do with her. The police had brought her to the hotel, after she told them she was on her way inside when she was robbed. There was nothing they could do, they said, except make a report. There was little if any chance of catching the robber or getting her money back.
Jaime sat rigidly, staring out the window and thinking how she really should have known better, but at the time, had only wanted to help a starving stranger. Now, ironically, she might have to resort to begging herself.
The manager appraised her appearance and wrinkled his nose ever so slightly. Although she was quite pretty, she was obviously not of the upper classes. Her dress was clean but had seen better days. He suspected the robber had stolen what money she had, and the worn satchel she held on her lap contained all her belongings. Compassionately, he said, "I can arrange for you to stay here tonight as our guest, and tomorrow you can contact your family and make other arrangements."
"That's kind of you. Actually, I hadn't thought about where I'd stay."
He lifted his brows. "Then why were you coming to the hotel?"
"I was told I could find Stanton Lavelle."
The manager began to shuffle papers around on his desk, not looking at her as he said, "Mr. Lavelle vacated his offices here some time ago."
Was it her imagination, she wondered, or did she detect a sudden air of hostility? "Could you tell me where he moved?"
He waved his hand airily, "Who knows? The last I heard, he had sequestered himself in that fortresslike cliff house of his."
Her curiosity was whetted. "But why did he leave?"
"I'm really not at liberty to say. I don't think my superiors would want me discussing the personal problems of our business tenants. Let's just say there was an unfortunate incident, and the hotel thought it best he vacate." With eyes narrowed, he asked bluntly, "What did you want to see him about?"
She saw no reason not to explain that her father had entered into a venture with Lavelle a while back, and since he was the only contact she knew her father had in San Francisco—in all of California, actually—she felt Lavelle was her best hope of locating him.
The manager chose his words carefully, as he did not want to get too involved in any dealings concerning Lavelle. Taking pen and paper, he began to draw a crude map, explaining as he did so. "This will show you the way to his estate. It's not hard to find. The road runs right along the beach. You'll need to rent a horse and cart, though, since it's nearly five miles."
Handing her the map, he started to get up. "Would you like me to make the arrangements? If you hurry and leave right away, you can make it there before dark."
"No. But thank you."
With an inward groan, he sank down and waited for her to confirm his suspicion she was destitute.
She did so. "I'm afraid I don't have any money. That man took all I had. I'll have to take you up on your kind offer for lodging, and then I'll start walking first thing in the morning."
He was quick to protest. "I can't let you do that. Suppose the hotel pays for the cart and horse? It's about the same price as a room." Dear Lord, he just wanted to be rid of her. Strangers looking for Lavelle could mean trouble.
She did not hesitate to accept. "But only with the understanding that once I find my father I'll come back and repay you. I'm not the sort to take charity."
"Yes, yes, of course." He was already on his way through the door to make arrangements to get her out of there.
* * *
The trail did wind close to the beach, and Jaime marveled at the breathtaking scenery. Once outside the city, she saw there was a constant succession of coves and crescents. A line of sand dunes, low and rolling and fringed with bushes and low-growing reeds, lined the sandy stretches. High bluffs rose abruptly from the water's edge.
It was a world of beach and bluffs, with green tufts of grass and wildflowers creeping. The blue-green waters glistened in the late-evening sun as the waves broke softly in snowy masses of foam.
She saw fishing boats drifting and passed a few huts along the way, but for the most part it was a long and lonely stretch. With a shiver, she commanded herself not to think of having to return alone, at night, if Mr. Lavelle did not take her to her father or offer her hospitality till morning. Her quest was not without risks, she knew, but there were no other options. Had she not lost the rest of her money, she could have used the hotel as her base and made day trips to search for her father. Now, she found herself truly desperate.
She also tried not to think of Cord and blame him for her plight. So what if he did consider her no better than a whore? She was not his responsibility and never had been. Yet to think of him provoked anger and bitterness, so she concentrated instead on the beauty of the moment at hand.
At last, the road trailed over a rocky headland projecting across the beach. Beyond, she could see a path leading from the sand. Bordered by a short stone wall on each side, it curved and disappeared into the rocky bluff. Gazing upward, she saw what could only be Stanton Lavelle's cliff house. It hung out and over the boiling sea, which at that point crashed wildly against the sharp, jutting cluster of rocks directly below.
The trail narrowed, but Jaime was able to maneuver the cart and horse between the walls. As she crested one point, she could see a wider road leading to the front of the house, for those traveling away from the beach at high tide.
But the massive structure could not really be called a house, she decided, staring in awe at the three-story structure reaching to the clouds above. Built by the Spanish for Franciscan fathers to convert the Indians, it did resemble a fort. And below, scattered about on the massive bluff, were adobelike structures with red-tiled roofs, constructed for other Spaniards to live in as they worked the lands around so long ago.
As she climbed yet higher, she could look eastward, away from the ocean, at rolling grasslands with cattle grazing. There also appeared to be acres of vineyards. Mr. Lavelle had obviously taken over the old farms the Indians had been taught to work.
With the lush valley on one side, the honeyed sea on the other, and the magnificent mission looming above, Jaime felt she had entered a
world found only in storybooks.
But her feeling of enchantment ended abruptly when she rounded a curve to see a bearded man, with angry black eyes, standing in the middle of the path.
Jerking back on the reins to bring the horse to an abrupt halt, she met his challenging gaze uneasily.
He was holding a rifle but did not point it as he gruffly informed her, "Senor Lavelle did not tell me he was expecting a guest. Go back the way you came."
Fighting for composure, she responded, "I'll do nothing of the kind. It doesn't matter I'm not expected. If Mr. Lavelle is any kind of a gentleman at all, he'll not turn a lady from his door, especially with night approaching. And you go tell him that," she finished with a curt nod. "I'll wait here if you prefer, but I assure you I pose no threat to anyone."
He continued to stare at her insolently for a moment, then, with a grunt, he turned and disappeared around another bend in the trail.
He hadn't told her to wait, but Jaime decided it was best she did. He might be waiting to shoot her if she made a move and would swear later his warnings had been ignored.
After what seemed forever, he returned. "The guards at the house said he is eating dinner, and they don't dare disturb him, but if you go on up there, they will give you a lantern to help you see the way back to town."
"Oh, how kind," she muttered sarcastically, popping leather to start the horse moving onward. She had news for all of them, by God, because Stanton Lavelle could leave his precious dinner long enough to tell her if he knew her father's whereabouts. Surely that wasn't asking too much.
Darkness was rapidly descending, and as she drew closer, she could see lights coming from the massive stone building. In front, before two massive wooden doors, there was a courtyard. There, two other guards waited, as uncooperative and suspicious as the first man she had encountered.
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