Of Gold & Blood Series 2 Books 1 & 4

by Jenny Wheeler

  “Left them in a cave?” Graysie thought of the white wolf in her dream. “In a cave?”

  She felt dazed and sick at heart. Did this confirm the babes had fallen prey to the predators? She put her head in her hands and sobbed into them, wracking, soul-baring dry sobs. Eustace hadn’t left her a legacy, he’d passed her a poisoned cup. The Ophir—didn’t they say the name meant ‘rich in gold’?—no longer seemed like a magnanimous endowment from a loving father. It felt like blood money, a paltry trade in guilt, and she was contaminated merely for being alive to receive it.

  *****

  Graysie slouched in her chair, as jumpy as a flea but too exhausted to get out of her sparkly concert gown. The Saturday matinee crowd were going home happy, but at the sound of the rain drumming against the windows she could feel her mood dip, despite the positive reception they’d received.

  It was so unlike her to feel confused, and she didn’t know what was wrong with her. She was elated one minute, anxious and fearful the next. Sacramento loved the Golden Queens. The local paper lay discarded beside her, trumpeting a glowing review, ‘The Golden Queens: Enthusiastic Reception of Talented Artistes in Sacramento Pleasure Palace.’

  For the first time since Francine’s death she felt hopeful. She could find a way to provide herself and Minette with a good life. Harry the impresario was enthusiastic about putting together a wider tour and was pushing for a definite commitment.

  “I can make you both bigger stars than you can imagine—but you have to make the decision by the end of the week. We need to get a fall season booked before winter storms disrupt everything.”

  Graysie’s stomach fluttered like it did before every first night. Could she make life on the road work for them?

  She sighed, poured herself a second cup of tea and turned to the soft-sided brown leather valise where she had stored all of Eustace’s papers. She’d snatched the chance to read through them earlier and wept for the gigantic loss of it all: hers for the father she never knew, and Eustace’s and Elanora’s for the love they never truly shared. Worst of all, for the twins and their unknown fate. She still wasn’t ready to talk about it with anyone but Alycia.

  She finished her tea, folded up Eustace’s letter, and turned her attention to the mine legacy documents. She admitted she really had not taken time to stop and take in the full picture before. Now, with the full bequest documents before her, she did just that and was shocked as she combed through the fine print.

  Her continued ownership was conditional on her making progress with reopening the mine within twelve months of receiving the bequest. If she failed to do that, the mine would pass to Father O’Brien and the parish of St. Mary’s. Graysie twisted a dangling lock of hair around her finger as she considered the implications. She’d already owned the mine for four months. It had taken her that long to relocate to Grass Valley.

  They were moving into fall and then winter, when it would be difficult—maybe impossible—to get men working. A lot of miners drifted back to San Francisco or down south when the snow came in. The clock was ticking, and not just for that night. The heavy drum of rain outside on Second Street brought her back to the present. She needed to get some sleep if she was going to be sensible the next day.

  She got up from her chair and tiptoed into the room Minette shared with Seraphine. Minette lay carelessly on her back, one arm thrown outside the covers. The child was totally at peace, undisturbed by the torrent that was rattling the windows.

  Graysie shivered as she readied herself for bed, rain roaring down the gutters as she turned out the light. A scrappy idea was forming. If the Ophir paid a yield in years to come, maybe she could use it to lay to rest the mystery of her siblings’ fate. Then it wouldn’t be blood money anymore.

  First thing tomorrow she needed to seek a meeting with Basil Stockton and see if he really did have any interest in the Ophir Mine. She didn’t trust Hector de Vile, and she didn’t want him as a business partner, even if he was a senator. She hoped her newly sealed place in the Mountfort family would be enough to claim Basil Stockton’s attention.

  I’d never have stood a chance of getting a meeting with him without that card to play, she thought. As she slipped into bed and pulled the sheet up around her shoulders, she felt a weight of anxiety descend. She’d made tenuous links to a new family, but she’d never felt so alone.

  Forty Eight

  Nathan Russell opened his eyes to wet blackness. He was lying in sand, his body half submerged in water that was slowly creeping up his back. He was soaked to the skin and shivering. His head throbbed. What had happened?

  Then he remembered the boat ride, the head blows. The threat of drowning. He felt a surge of fear and tried to get up. He struggled briefly, then remembered his legs were tied at the knees. He toppled back, overcome with dizziness.

  Joshua’s piteous cries—Daddeee…Daddeee…hung in the wind. He knew his son’s tiny voice could never have reached him, but how many times in the past two years had he been woken by that cry?

  He was back at the Hunter River mouth, standing amongst wailing crowds on Nobbys Head beach, as they peered through tears and sea mist at disaster unfolding before them. A new paddle steamer, a falling barometer, a solicitous captain seeking shelter.

  As the ship attempted the turn past Nobbys Head into river calm, a succession of giant waves rolled over her, extinguished her boiler fires and turned her into a stranded iron whale at the mercy of every white crested surge.

  He’d lost one family then and any chance of building a second was again being swept away. The pain clutched at his insides. He was never to see Graysie ever again. Never to hold her, never to surreptitiously watch the fleeting parade of emotions that skittered across her face when she was unaware anyone was watching her.

  What a fool I’ve been, to discover what’s most important when it’s too late.

  His stomach cramped and he brought his bound wrists up to his face. Even tied tightly as he was, he could lean forward, half spread his fingers and bury his face in his hands. He did that now, awkwardly raking his aching forehead to relieve the painful throb.

  He could bury his face in his hands! What an idiot he was. If he could touch his face, he could gnaw at his bindings with his teeth. Even if it took all night, he would find a way to dislodge this damned gag. And then he’d get his teeth started on his wrist bindings.

  The fear that had paralyzed him vanished, replaced with a passion so strong he felt warmed from the inside. He might have stupidly, blindly refused to see what was right before his eyes, but he knew with a certainty he’d never felt before that if he survived he was going to choose love over fear and do everything in his power to win over Graysie Castellanos.

  He had no idea how long it would be before the rising flood swamped the delta. Four hours? Three? Or maybe even less. But he knew he wasn’t going to stay sitting around waiting to find out.

  It was the work of a few minutes to free his mouth. All he had to do was maneuver his hands up to his face and tug the cloth down. He tasted blood as he dragged to pull it free, but it was soon dangling around his neck. He gulped at the rain-spattered wind, savoring the wet drops in his mouth as he turned his face to the sky and sucked in big drafts of the salty air. In another few minutes he had loosened his blindfold, desperately ripping it clear with his still bound hands.

  He blinked as his eyes were washed clear by the deluge. It felt so good, so clean, to have his eyes and mouth freed, that for a moment he stood and exulted in having come so far.

  Thank God they had tied his hands in front rather than behind. The exultation died in his throat. The boundaries of river and island were merging. Already he could not see where one ended and the other began.

  No time to lose. He sank back down and pressed his wrists against his mouth. He was desperately gnawing at the rope bonds, ignoring the stream of drool that was washed away as he chewed, when he heard a noise more terrifying than a lightning strike—the howl of coyotes, and very close b
y.

  He reared up on his knees and shuffled forward in a praying position for a few strides before falling face first into the water that was pooling around him.

  The last thing he needed was to be taken for some wounded prey, a sitting target for a band of hungry coyotes. He pushed himself back up to a kneeling position and, using his hands as ballast, propelled himself to his feet. With his knees tied, his balance was precarious. At full height, he could see two coyotes, a male and female pair, in a crouching prowl, advancing up the gully, two sets of yellow eyes fixed on him.

  The larger male was in the lead, with the female tucked in behind him, sable gray fur standing on excited end. Even through the rain he could see their teeth gleaming as they loped towards him. And they’d just be the advance party.

  He focused on the male front runner and raised his arms over his head while he gave his best bull roar.

  Face them down. Don’t let them think you’re easy meat.

  They kept advancing, undeterred.

  Nathan bent down and scooped water up in his tied hands, sweeping it in their direction with a deep growl, “Get outta here. Get out…” His throat felt raw and bloody but he kept on.

  He sprayed the water several times to get them to back off, but with the rain pelting down around them, he wasn’t having much effect. They broke into a little run as they pointed their noses down and came in for the attack.

  He jumped backwards—the only way he could move with his knees still tied—and was surprised to see that this sudden movement seemed to frighten them. They halted their forward rush.

  On instinct he took a risk and jumped towards them, bobbing up and down and growling like a grizzly, deep and imperious.

  Go on the offensive. Don’t appear weak.

  As he jumped, a branch that had been washed along in the current bumped against his legs. Without taking his eyes off the coyotes he swooped on it as he landed in a jump and grabbed it with both hands, brandishing it as he rose up, poised to jump forward again.

  There was a mountain-splitting crack of lightning overhead, and a tree trunk near the coyotes split in two in a blazing charge. The heavens had coordinated a two-pronged assault.

  The coyotes turned and fled.

  The energy rush he’d felt under the threat of having his throat ripped out drained away as quickly as it had come, leaving him weak and light-headed. But the suck of cold water creeping up his legs brought him back with a start. The faint-hearted would not survive.

  He had to keep focused on escape. He redoubled his efforts to chew through the rope that bound his wrists. Luckily he’d had the presence of mind to bunch up his fists when they’d tied him and now, when he flexed his hands, he had wiggle room.

  With an increasing sense of desperation, he gnawed at the ropes, at the same time opening and closing his hands. Getting his teeth in the right position was difficult, and progress was slow. He could feel the water creeping up his legs.

  Another bolt of lightning cracked and fizzled overhead. Some bushes off to his right flared up in a shower of sparks, the fire instantly doused by the rain. He swung his gaze back to the tree that had been struck earlier and saw it was still smoldering.

  He half jumped, half stumbled the short distance to the stump and began searching desperately through the rubble for a fire brand—a branch or piece of broken-off trunk that was still burning. He was impervious to the sting of hot coals. He could taste the salt of sweat mixed with rain water in his mouth. And then he found something he could use.

  At the base of the tree, a half-burned meadow grass fish trap lay smoking. It had probably been stored here, tied to the tree, for future use by salmon fishermen—either from the local Miwok people who, though much reduced in numbers, still fished the river, or from a settler using a traditional trap.

  How it had been fastened was no longer clear. Only one side of the horn-shaped trap remained, the rest was black ash, but caught deep in the curved neck end was an antler handled knife with an obsidian tip. Perhaps in his haste to get back to firm land in the face of the storm, the fisherman had overlooked it.

  With a triumphant howl, he bent down and picked it up with both hands. He shuffled to an elevated area where he could slump down with his back against a marshy mound of rushes and draw his knees up to his chest.

  It was awkward, very awkward, angling the knife downwards with the restricted movement of his tied hands. He cut his trousers several times, scoring his skin as he positioned the knife to cut the leg bonds, but he kept going feverishly.

  After several attempts and the loss of precious minutes, he got the obsidian blade braced in the right position against the rope, and within half a minute, his legs were free.

  Now for his hands. He transferred the knife to his teeth and clenched so hard he thought he’d shatter them. Once he had the knife firmly held, he brought his hands up to the blade and delicately started sawing at the rope binding.

  He worked patiently, attacking the rope as close as he could manage to the section he had gnawed. It seemed like a lifetime, but it was probably only ten minutes before he had his hands free as well. His jaw ached from the exertion. He staggered around, stamping his feet, swinging his arms like windmills to loosen his shoulders and soothe the tight cramps that gripped him.

  What now? In the sheeted rain he’d lost any sense of direction. Where had they come from, and where would it be best for him to head? He wondered for a crazy minute whether the fisherman who had left the trap and knife might have a boat somewhere nearby as well. He dismissed the idea as soon as it came to him; if he did he had probably used it to get away himself.

  But a fisherman’s presence in the vicinity indicated that the edge of the river ran pretty close to here, though it might be hard to pick out with the general flooding. On that hunch, Nathan began following a muddy wandering thread leading away from the burnt out tree, winding through banks of marshy reeds and around occasional larger bushes into the gray curtain of rain.

  He had to watch where he was going. It was still dark and he had no idea how long it would be before a new day dawned. He was shivering all over, his soaked shirt and trousers drawing his body heat as fast as he generated it. He was cold, and he was ravenously hungry.

  If I don’t find shelter and food soon, I’m going to be in a bad way, whether I get off this damned island or not.

  The track, such as it was, gradually became submerged in deeper and deeper water. He could no longer see where any path might lead, he accepted with a lurch of his heart. The water level had risen from his calves to his thighs as he walked on.

  I can’t just keep walking. I’ll end up walking into the river in flood. Not a good idea.

  As if to confirm his thoughts, he felt the tug of current around his legs. Scanning the dimmed-out gray horizon, he thought he could make out little white caps of river water, roiling in a left to right direction in front of him.

  As if to confirm he was at the river’s edge, a large dead pine log went floating by no more than ten yards from where he was standing, its skeletal branches outlined like eerie arms.

  And then out of the mist he saw a vague shape. A salmon dinghy loomed up out of the haze. He could make out two men on board. One was rowing while the other stood at the bow on lookout.

  He began yelling and waving and they turned his way.

  The next day he could remember little of that boat ride back to the city and a dry hotel. The fishermen had been transporting an injured child struck by a tree in the storm. It was his good luck that a medical emergency had driven them to make the hazardous journey.

  More than once he was convinced they were going to capsize in the fierce torrent, or be holed by rogue logs and sink, but the amazing skills of the boatmen had seen them through. He dragged off his wet clothes, fell into a dry bed, and slept.

  Forty Nine

  Sunday, July 26

  He was standing on a beach, desperately searching the line of breaking waves, but for what? He could feel sun,
warm on his face; melodic birdsong echoed from nearby scrub, and a reassuring smell of fresh eucalyptus wafted on a light offshore breeze. All was right with the world except… he had a leaden sense of doom as he scanned the breaker line over and over again… watching… watching … but what for?

  A hand gripped his shoulder. A man’s hand. Broad and firm. It squeezed in a friendly fashion along the ridge of his collar bone. He jerked upright, arms rigid, mind disoriented, and bewildered.

  Seb’s handsome tanned face bent over him, and the hand went from his shoulder to the top of his head. He ruffled his hair with brotherly affection.

  “You’re usually up with the birds, brother! Don’t tell me you’ve had a hard night?”

  Nathan’s mind was still racing. Where was he? What was he doing? He screwed his eyes tight shut. He was in bed in a cheap Sacramento boarding house. And after the nightmare of the day before, he was still alive. He opened his eyes again, taking in the room.

  Seb hastily withdrew his hand and hesitated, rocking on the balls of his feet, before taking a slow step back.

  “Sorry. Didn’t mean to give you a fright. Are you okay?” His keen hazel eyes searched Nathan’s face.

  Nathan rubbed his eyes and neck, took a deep breath. “Yes, yes. All good.”

  He drew the sheet up around his armpits and swung his legs over the side of the bed. “Except for the little matter of nearly getting wiped out yesterday, I’m just fine.” He hugged the sheet to his chest and scratched his eyes to wake up. “Martens’s goons just about did for me down on the river.”

  “What the hell? What are you talking about?”

  Nathan stood and stretched, surprised to find that apart from a few bruises and scratches he felt pretty good.

  “Man, I’m glad to see you. Let me have a quick wash and get some clothes on and I’ll tell you all about it over coffee. How on earth did you find me?”