The pastor and his wife nodded again, still holding hands as they gazed with pity on the young widow.
Jessica stammered out bravely, "He was shot, my Abner—some lawless rowdy, a professional gambler—over a poker game. A derringer shot right between the eyes.”
She swallowed gulps of air as she cried. Mrs. Webber put a comforting hand on her arm.
"There, there. You needn't go on, my dear," said the pastor.
But she shook her head, "I must, please, I feel . . . I feel it will help me. And you're so kind."
Mrs. Webber smiled then. "Confession is good for the soul. It always helps to unburden yourself of these things."
Her husband nodded.
Jessica Maddox continued, "All I had left from my husband's belongings was a family Bible he left behind, mostly likely because he didn't think he could sell it, and a few decks of cards. I burned the Devil's tools, of course.”
They nodded their approval. She added, "Tucked in the Bible was this." She held out a Deed of Trust to the Lucky Lucy mine. The Webbers exchanged cautious glances. Jessica almost laughed at their expression, but hid it with the rim of her teacup.
She said, "Oh, I know, it's worthless. Still, I would like to see it and maybe try to sell it before I head back to my husband's family back East. It has a bit of land, maybe that somehow could be useful. But not knowing the area, or the people of business here . . ." she trailed off hopefully.
"I shall take you out tomorrow, is that all right?" asked the pastor, gallant man that he so wanted to be.
Jessica smiled, "That is awfully dear of you, but well, you see, I would much rather go alone. It would be like a cleansing, do you understand?”
She looked beseechingly from one face to the other, both of them stern with concern.
Pastor Webber said, "It would not be safe—"
"I must learn to stand on my own," the widow insisted. "At least there will be someone here if I falter and . . ."
Tears came again.
Mrs. Webber said, "Of course, I understand. Jonathan can draw a map, can't you, dear?"
"I don't like the idea," he started, but Jessica held up a placating hand even while the other hand was wiping her eyes.
"Be assured, Pastor Webber, I have protection. My father, bless and rest his soul, insisted that a woman of the West have protection. He gave me a shotgun for a wedding present and taught me how to use it before we moved this way. Abner always considered it a joking matter, but I have to admit it came in very handy for shooting birds and such, which became many a supper when money— Abner so loved his partridge pie.”
She broke off in another sob. Mrs. Webber was at her side instantly, telling her husband to make the map. More tea and sympathy were to come. Finally, as Jessica was about to leave, she had a final request of the kind couple.
"You see if I were to sell— Well, you see, I'm afraid I'm not sure where to start."
"Well, the land office, just a few doors down on the right side of the street from here. I would help, but you see my sermon—I'm dreadfully behind," said the pastor as he pointed to his unfinished work on the map.
Jessica assured them that she was sure of her growing independence, but she did lack knowledge of the town. "And besides, the other side of the street, you see."
"What do you mean, my dear?" asked Mrs. Webber.
Jessica blushed as she leaned over and whispered, "Well, I couldn't help noticing there are saloons, gambling dens between here and there. I wouldn't want to get sideways with the wrong sort. I am afraid I am not a very good judge of character.”
The couple exchanged understanding glances. The young woman had married an obviously weak and unsavory fellow.
Mrs. Webber said, matter-of-fact, "Well, there are a couple of high-rollers in this town, all right.”
At a discrete cough from her husband, she sniffed, "Well, Jonathan, it's true, and the girl has to know.”
Mrs. Webber turned back to Jessica and said, "The land office is where you must start, that is true. They would have any information you would need for selling the claim. Isn't that right, dear?”
Jonathan agreed but didn't look up from his task. His wife continued, "And you certainly won't be heading into the saloons.”
At this they all chuckled. Mrs. Webber continued, "But still, you must watch out for two men in particular who are not above taking a woman in distress for a fool.”
Jessica nodded as the woman named the two hoodlums as Grover Pennbrook and Jerome Hobling.
"Hobling works in the land office, you'll have to deal with him. But if you steer clear of the other, you will be all right. Pennbrook is from the South, Georgia, I think, but he is no gentleman," insisted the pastor's wife.
"Are they friends in sinful business then?" Jessica whispered. "They wouldn't try to swindle? I mean . . . "
The pastor told her to never mind, a lady of her obvious gentility need know nothing more. Then he pointed overhead and said, "Trust in the Lord." Then he handed her his hand-drawn map.
Jessica nodded as Mrs. Webber winked. She studied it for a moment; it was not too far out of town. Her head down and her voice low, Jessica asked if she could be favored with just one more kindness.
"Well, what is it, my dear?" asked the pastor genially.
She glanced up through shy, shaded eyes, "Would you say a prayer for my dear Abner? I suffered so from his weak and sinful ways, but do say a prayer for him, please?"
The Webbers warmly assured her they would and asked the young widow to stop by again if she was to be in town for long. She assured them that if the Lord extended her stay, she would see them in church come Sunday.
Jessica sauntered back to the hotel, the midday sun beating down. With the handkerchief dabbing daintily at her throat and temples, she asked the hotel clerk if her bags had arrived with her newly-acquired, but gentle, Southern accent.
He said they had, curiosity overcoming his good manners. "What would you be doing in town then, ma'am?"
She did not answer, only registered and asked the man if he could procure a horse and buggy for her in the morning.
"Yes, ma'am, I suppose I could. Would you be awanting it the whole day then? All by yourself?"
"Why yes, I suppose so I shall," she said. "I would like to see some bit of the country before returning back home to my dearly departed husband's family."
"You should know this is wild country, ma'am. I wouldn't recommend a lady all to herself— “
He left the rest to her imagination, as if to say that anything could happen.
She smiled sweetly, "I will be fine. The pastor has offered to go with me.”
That part was true. She didn't mention that she had refused.
She continued, "I wasn't planning on going out too far, just to some land my late husband, bless his precious soul, left to me when he died and left me all alone. I will be staying for a few days, could you tell me when the tea room opens for supper this evening and breakfast in the morning?"
In her room, Jessica spent the rest of the day going over the land plat she had copied in the territorial capitol months ago. On her bed, she set it beside the map the pastor had drawn. It was close enough; it would have to do.
She looked out the window to the busy street below. It really was lovely country, even if dry and deadly at times.
On the street, movement caught her eye. The shadows were long as she watched a dandy stop outside a saloon. The man was dressed in a gaudy silk suit, his thumbs stretched jauntily in his red waistcoat. At his throat, a matching scarlet cravat glittered with what she assumed was a diamond stickpin.
The waistcoat looked to be of finest embroidered material, a gold watch bob hung dapperly down. The man tipped his hat on occasion as an elderly couple or finely dressed lady stepped by. Clearly pleased with himself and what he had seen of his kingdom, the man slipped inside the Long Draw saloon.
She practiced a few times: "I declare, Mr. Pennbrook, I presume."
Later, as she m
oved past the front desk, Jessica asked the night clerk if he knew who owned or operated the Long Draw saloon. The man looked at her skeptically, but said, "Grover Pennbrook, ma'am. Why do you ask?"
She flashed him an obstinate look, "Is Mr. Pennbrook a Christian, sir?”
The clerk looked alarmed, and Jessica added, "Liquor is the Devil's brew. It turns decent men into heathens.”
With a haughty sniff, she passed into the tearoom for her supper. Jessica ordered beef stew, then treated herself to peach cobbler. Savoring the dessert with coffee, she noticed the other diners staring with disregard as the flashy man entered.
He walked close to her table, winking as he passed. She stiffened, insulted that the man had no respect for her condition of mourning. Pursed lips finished her coffee as greetings from a pair of rowdies in a corner table called to Grover Pennbrook. Then they all turned to glance at her.
Jessica gathered her purse, set the proper change on the table for the extra-charge dessert, and then dabbed again with the napkin. Unknown to her, but heard by everyone else in the dining room, her trim retreating form was appraised and equally admired by the three unsavory men in the corner.
Inside her own room again, she leaned against the door, taking big gasping breaths. The dark heavy material of her widow's weeds had been overpowering with the heat of the day, and the warmth of the sultry evening did nothing to alleviate the discomfort. Especially now that she had eaten more in one meal than she sometimes had in an entire day.
Jessica decided to remove her torment, careful to set the dress and structured undergarments carefully aside to avoid wrinkle. Stretching and rubbing her newly freed ribcage, she considered the young woman in the mirror.
Her curly auburn hair was tied back severely. She loosened it, then bent at the waist and shook her head, freeing the hair to cascade down in a riotous tumble. She slowly brushed the curls for one hundred strokes, recalling the past day and her future plans.
At the washstand, she rubbed the rice powder from her face, revealing a rosy blush where once had been only the translucent pallor of a grieving woman.
Jessica grabbed a small flask from her reticule, pulled the cork and sniffed at the last bit of brandy.
"Good stock," she sighed, finishing the next to the last swallow.
She corked the flask and tossed it back to bed, then continued to dig in the large tapestry bag. She pulled out a leather-covered box, rubbed her hand over the top lovingly, and then flipped the lid open to reveal shotgun shells and a set of ammunition-loading implements. A velveteen bag held a small bottle of a few small rough-hewn nuggets and fine, precious dust.
Jessica kissed the bottle and cooed to the gold, "My beauties!”
Working precisely, she emptied the shot and gunpowder from two shells, replacing them with gold nuggets, gold dust, and finally, some of the gunpowder. She left a bit of the gold dust in the bottle, slipping it into the pocket of the mourning dress. Returning the other materials to the leather box, she withdrew a sawed-off shotgun.
Jessica carried it with her always. You never knew who would attack an innocent lady going about her business, and that counted for outlaws, rattlesnakes, riled-up natives, and coyotes . . . of all kinds.
The gun barrel had been sawed down to fit into her bag and to make the scatter more deadly. Her grandfather was a gunsmith, he taught his only grandchild well. She pulled apart the working pieces, and then with love, she oiled and rubbed them down.
With the gun loaded with the new shells and back in place in her bag, she rinsed herself off for the night. Jessica toasted the more-familiar woman in the mirror again, gulping down the last drop of brandy. With a sharp gasp and a burning throat, she blew out the lantern.
As promised by the miserable humidity earlier, thunder and lightening tore through the night. Jessica wasn't afraid of thunder, though she did hope the rain showers were only a quick early summer storm. The long, depressing drizzle of the coast often led to days and days of rain she had come to hate in her childhood.
That's why she had come to this territory. Here it was not the same. Usually. But right now, she found the lightening flashes annoying and rolled over, wrapping the pillow around to muffle the sound. That was too hot, and she went to draw the shade. Outside, she saw the light squares cast out open doors of the saloons across the street.
The dandy was standing in front again, and she dodged when he looked up. Jessica reached up with only her hand visible in the window to pull down the shade the rest of the way.
~~~
The next day bloomed clear and lovely, the night's rain washed the dust from the air—the dust that always seem to settle everywhere in any of these mining boom towns. A slight breeze blew down from the still snow-capped mountain peaks, assuring the day would be cooler. Jessica strode from the hotel lobby as best as she could with the heavy carpetbag in hand.
The liveryman asked if she would be all right, but Jessica could see his concern was for his property more than any regard for her. He was also quite curious, no doubt.
She replied by showing her ruffled parasol. "Really quite sturdy for poking and prodding," she said, rapping the side of the carriage. Then with a poke to his ribs, she added, "Excellent for a lady's protection. I don't suppose, do you have a lantern, just in case . . .?"
In case she got lost and ended up wandering around in the dark. He rolled his eyes, but forgot the complaint when she pressed a silver coin into his palm, adding a squeeze with her own dainty hand.
She smiled and said, "The Lord protects foolish women, and the pastor knows which way I'm going."
He snickered and said, "Amen, ma'am. Have it your own way." Then under his breath, "Women like you always do.”
He was tossing the coin in the air as she prodded the horse forward.
It took almost an hour to reach the old mine—partly because of the poor map the pastor had drawn, but also because flash floods, normal around here, had disrupted the road in a few places. Jessica had to get out more than once to lead the horse over, nearly dragging the carriage when the wheels would not do on the rough track.
Eventually, she got to the right place: Jessica had an instinct for these things. She pulled the lantern and the carpetbag down with her.
Looking about, she might be the only person in creation. She drew a bottle of lemonade from her bag and took a long drink of the lukewarm liquid. It was a bit too sweet too.
She sighed, and set the bottle in the shade, wishing there was a spring. Cool water would be better, when liquor wasn't handy. No sense wasting time. The last thing she needed was for a search party to come after.
She lit the lamp, then carefully picked her way into the gaping mouth of the mineshaft. With the lantern held as high as possible, she looked around the cramped space. She was not a tall woman, but still had to crouch in the low cavern.
It was perfect.
The lantern light caught the glittering facets of fool's gold. She smiled as she gathered a few impressive stones into her bag. Then setting down the lantern on a ledge, she pulled out her shotgun. She cracked it open: all was well. When she snapped it shut, the sound echoed back.
She called out, "Hello."
Hello . . . Hello . . .
A chill went up her spine, and Jessica glanced back to the entrance. This was always the tricky part. There was usually no escape route if something went wrong.
Couldn't be helped. Don't be faint-hearted, she told herself.
She selected the target with care. If she didn't pick just the right spot, the dust could be lost in the shadows. And worse, the cavern roof could cave in. She didn't need for this place to be her tomb, and Lord only knows who would ever find her again.
With her legs now set at a wider stanch to catch the repercussion of the blast, Jessica took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and fired both barrels into the wall of the mineshaft.
Not waiting at all for any thunderous response from the mountain, Jessica grabbed the lantern and lunged toward the entrance,
hoping not to trip or bump her head.
After a few minutes, convinced of no cave in, she returned. The air was still hazy with dust and it would take a while for her ears to stop ringing. She held the lantern to the wall to examine the dull sheen of gold specks now smiling back.
Jessica pulled the small bottle from her pocket. Closer to town, she would scatter the remaining gold dust around her already-dusty skirts. In the sunlight, the tiniest gleams would wink on the stern black skirts of her widow's weeds.
Smiling, she pulled the cubic iron pyrite, also known as fool's gold, from her bag to examine the rocks in the sunlight. Her other grandfather was a miner; she knew the look of the real stuff well enough.
"How lovely!" she exclaimed in a childish voice, then laughed heartily.
Rummaging around the buggy, Jessica found the picnic lunch she had requested and moved to the shade near the mine shaft. She grabbed the lemonade, and sipped.
Yes, it was pretty country around here.
Fried chicken, a biscuit, an apple—what could be better? In the quiet under the tree, she wondered who had made the mine in the first place. Disappointed? Dead now? Rich now? Who knew?
"Just another hole in the ground."
She gave the horse the apple core, and then dumped the bag and lantern into the rig. Pulling herself up carefully, the Widow Maddox headed back into town. The drive would be hot in these cursed rags, she thought owlishly.
Over an hour later, in the land office, Jerome Hobling was looking at the stones with dismay. "Well, like I told you, ma'am, this here's iron pyrite. What we call Fool's Gold, begin' yer pardon. It's purty, but it ain't worth a cent."
He appreciated the frail young beauty before him, but still, he couldn't give her something for nothing. She wasn't the first to be deceived, that's why they called the stuff Fool's Gold.
"But it's so pretty, just as I imagined gold to be. Are you absolutely sure, it's so much like my mother's jewelry. And here, look at my wedding ring."
A Little Romance: Stories for Hopeful Hearts Page 30