Veins of Gold

by Charlie N. Holmberg

  Gentry raised the fiddle to her shoulder and sat her chin on its edge. The body was a little wider than she was used to, but the familiar weight on her shoulder stirred a pleasant nostalgia. She found her fingers, and placed the bow on two of the strings, pulling it back slowly for the first chord, then the second.

  The third clashed against the banjo. She winced, cold lancing down her back.

  It’s fine. You’re rusty. She closed her eyes, the banjo player plucking his notes on repeat again, waiting for her. The dancers didn’t seem to notice. Play by heart.

  She kept her eyes closed and repeated the first chord, the second, the third, sliding the pads of her fingers up and down the strings to give them that sour flavor that opened the song. She repeated them, pulled out a long drawl, then plucked an E.

  There it was. She remembered and opened her eyes.

  Her arm came to life as the quick notes of the song rushed through her, the bow pulling back and forth in an almost mad dance, the fingers of her left hand lifting up and down, finding their keys by memory against the strings. She began pumping her heel in beat with the rhythm, drew the bow out long again, and dived back into the quick arpeggios. She moved with the music, strands of hair falling free from her bun and dancing around her cheeks.

  She heard the banjo move into its final measures, and she drew her last few chords. The nearby listeners who had heard the exchange between herself and the fiddler clapped their hands, and Gentry lowered the instrument, again breathless.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “Thank you.” The fiddler gestured to his fiddle. “You want to go again?”

  Gentry grinned and shook her head. “I’m out of practice. My arm already hurts.”

  She handed back the instrument, feeling revitalized, as though all the energy she’d danced out near the fire had flooded back into her. She wondered if this was what the seagulls felt like when they swallowed gold.

  As she walked away, she heard one set of clapping that didn’t match the rhythm of the others, and she noticed Winn, looking golden himself in the glow on the bonfire, applauding her.

  “You’re amazing.” His voice was more awed than amused, and the sound of it drilled down to Gentry’s core. “I didn’t know you could do that. You’ve never played for me.”

  Gentry shrugged, tucking hair behind her ears to give her hands something to do. “My pa taught me, but we sold the fiddle.”

  “A shame. You’re remarkable.”

  She stood a pace from him, the bonfire burning far to her left. It made one of Winn’s eyes gold, while the one in shadow looked brown. It did that to all of him, painting one side bright and splendid, the other calm and cool. On one side Winn was a wizard, a magician, whatever she could call it. On the other, he was a normal man, someone who might live next door. Someone she might have said goodbye to back home.

  His different-colored eyes watched her, free of mirth. His lips relaxed, free of smile. He just watched her, and Gentry couldn’t pull her eyes away.

  She swallowed. “Where do you go? When I don’t see you, I mean.”

  He tilted his head to one side, much like a seagull, and his countenance changed as the magical half of his lips quirked upward. “Wherever the earth calls me. I’m trying to keep it as tame as possible. Waga once said it was my calling.”

  “Who?”

  “I’ll introduce you someday.”

  He truly lived on the breeze, then, in that house of birds. Gentry couldn’t fathom such an existence. “Will you come back to Dry Creek? If Hoss is here, we’ll head back tomorrow morning.”

  “I’d take you myself, but then we’d have to explain things, and I don’t want to explain magic to those who can’t see it. Such a shame.”

  He reached forward and tucked a strand of hair Gentry had missed behind her ear, his touch cooler than her blazing skin.

  “Gentry!”

  Gentry turned, breaking the spell. It took a moment for her mind to pull away from Winn and focus her eyes, but when she did, she saw Rooster waving for her to come down to the fire. He shouted something else, but the music muffled it.

  It was still dark, and Gentry had a little courage left.

  She took Winn’s hand. “Come on.” She let her lips pull into a smile. “I’ve had a long enough rest, and the fire won’t burn forever.”

  Though, as they stumbled toward the flames and Winn pulled her close for another song, Gentry wished it would.

  Gentry woke early the next morning to depart for Dry Creek. The ride home was slow, as they had to walk two cows with them. The wagon jostled just enough to make sleeping on the way difficult. She brought with her two new dresses, one for herself and one she would hem for Pearl, some stock groceries from Hannah’s kitchen, and a few extra dollars in her pocket. Hannah threatened to make a scene when Gentry tried to refuse them, but ultimately, she was grateful for the money. She was getting quite skilled at stretching pennies. It would help immensely.

  Gentry noted that Hoss was particularly quiet on this trip, only occasionally chatting to whichever farmhand sat next to him on the driver’s seat. It made Gentry uneasy, and she tried to remember what sort of volume Hoss had had on the way to American Fork. She couldn’t remember. Perhaps he’d been just as quiet and she only noticed it now because of the unspoken words between them. Because of Winn.

  She turned her head to where no one would see her smile save one of the cows and a bell-shaped spirit that crept in the ruts the wheels left behind, sensing her gold, or perhaps Hoss’s. She still felt Winn’s arm around her, his hand pressed against her back. Last night had been the best night she’d had since leaving Virginia.

  The bell spirit followed them for nearly an hour before losing interest and fading into the air, which made the remainder of the journey rather tedious. They reached Dry Creek at sunset, all of them tired and sore. Hoss drove by the Abrams’s home so they could unload Hannah’s charity. Gentry thanked him profusely, and he left with a smile on his face. That was good, at least. She hated the idea of Hoss being angry with her.

  Unfortunately, Dry Creek was too quick to remind her of her responsibilities. Weeds had taken the opportunity of her leave to sprout in the garden, something had spoiled in the kitchen, making the whole house smell bad, and Gentry hadn’t done laundry while in American Fork, so once she and her siblings unloaded their bags, there would be a fresh load.

  She sighed, opened the windows to air the place out, and went to bed, sleeping with a fist around her ma’s locket in case any wild magic snuck into the house for a late-night snack. They, and the laundry, would have to wait until morning.

  Gentry took the long way to the mercantile atop Bounder’s back, Pearl snug on the saddle behind her, letting the horse trot out and get some exercise. Hoss had done as he promised and sent a farmhand to care for her, but Gentry doubted she’d been let out of the stall save to graze. The saddle had been left crookedly on its hooks, just as Gentry had left it.

  Gentry slid off the saddle when they arrived, careful to keep her skirt over her legs. Pearl scooted up on the saddle and took the reins as Gentry jogged to the window.

  “Anything for the Abrams?”

  Mr. Olson, already back at the cubbies, started. “Oh, Gentry. Hello, and yes, I do have something. From that way station we found.”

  Gentry’s lungs filled to bursting.

  He clasped the envelope and handed it to her. “Here you are. Good luck.”

  She nodded her thanks and took the letter, walking around to the other side of the mercantile, where she leaned against its shaded wall. Pearl trotted Bounder over as well.

  “Is it from Pa?”

  Gentry didn’t answer, merely tore the paper open and read. She sighed in relief. “No, but it’s from the way station on the California border. They say Butch Abrams passed through on June 14. Which means he made it safely.”

  She lowered the letter, pinching her lips together. That was a month ago. Surely he would have sent a letter by now if t
he way station responded so quickly. What was keeping him? Perhaps the mining companies paid their workers only once a month. In that case, they would hear from him soon.

  She passed the sentiment on to her sister.

  Pearl frowned. “I hope so. I miss him. He’ll come home in the fall, right?”

  “I don’t know,” Gentry replied. “I’m waiting for him to tell us.” She didn’t think California wintered the way Utah did. The miners would likely work year-round.

  They returned home, and Pearl took charge of preparing supper while Gentry cleaned out the oven. It was dirty business, and her apron only protected her so much. She’d probably have black fingernails for a week.

  Rooster came home sweaty and weary. Hanging his hat, he said, “You wouldn’t believe it.”

  Gentry slipped a quarter log into the oven and wiped her brow. “Believe what? One of the cows turn out to be a bull?”

  “Is Hoss sweet on you?”

  Gentry paused, staring into the oven for a long moment before turning toward her brother. She felt Pearl’s eyes on the back of her head. “What do you mean?”

  Rooster frowned. “You know what I mean.”

  “Yes, but what makes you ask it?”

  Rooster shook his head. “You’ll see soon enough. Pretty sure he’s heading over.”

  “Now?” Gentry moved to stand and smacked her head on the oven lip. She bit down a curse and resisted rubbing the spot with her grubby fingers. Wincing, she stood and added, “Did you invite him?”

  Rooster shook his head in the negative, his lip twisted down.

  “Rooster, tell me.”

  “I don’t even know what to say,” he responded, more confused than anything else. “At the bonfire, I thought Winn—”

  A firm knock sounded at the door.

  “Bother,” Gentry mumbled, finding a half-clean rag, wetting it, and scrubbing it over her fingers.

  Rooster opened the door. “I didn’t break something, did I?”

  Hoss laughed at the other side of it. “If you had, I would have knocked harder. Your sister here?”

  “Which one?” Rooster asked, but he opened the door the rest of the way.

  Gentry brushed loose hair back with her one clean hand. “Hoss! We weren’t expecting you.” She cast a quick, hard look at Rooster.

  “I know I’m interrupting, and I apologize.” He held a box about the length of Gentry’s arm in his hands. “I only mean to be a minute.”

  Gentry wiped off her other hand and gestured to him. “Please, come in. You’ll have to excuse me, I was cleaning out the oven.”

  “You look just fine,” Hoss said with a half smile. He came in, and Rooster shut the door behind him.

  Pearl, eyeing the box, asked, “What’s that?”

  “This is a gift.” He set the box on the table. “A family gift. For Butch too, when he gets back.”

  He added the last sentence hastily, almost as though he were guilty of something.

  Gentry glanced to Rooster, hoping to read something on his face, but he wasn’t looking at her. “Hoss, you give us so much already—”

  “I wanted to. You’re good folk, and you should have one.”

  The words confused her. She waited for Pearl, ever the excited one, to move forward and open the box, but she stayed planted by the oven, and Rooster was no help, so Gentry approached it, hoping Hoss wouldn’t notice her nails.

  Swallowing, she pulled back the thin wooden panel and gasped.

  There, on a bed of paper, lay a fiddle and bow.

  Her eyes went wide, her mouth dry. She reached forward to touch the instrument, then drew her hand back. “Hoss, where . . . ?”

  “Saw you playing last night,” he said, suddenly sheepish, which was an odd manner for such a large man. “I know Butch played too. Didn’t realize how much you loved it. I bartered with the fiddle player. Turns out he had more than one; this was his son’s before he quit.”

  The light gleamed off the fiddle’s gloss. Gentry gave in to temptation and grasped its neck, pulling it from the box. She cradled the familiar weight of its hollow body. How much would this have cost?

  “It’s too much.” She choked the words out. “Rooster and Pearl, they don’t play—”

  “We can listen, though,” Rooster murmured. “Was saying just the other day I missed music.”

  Pearl danced. “We can write to Pa and tell him!”

  Gentry’s gaze fluttered down the length of the fiddle, her heart doing somersaults. She knew what this was. She knew why Rooster had asked if Hoss was sweet on her. She had ridden right next to this box on the wagon and never known . . .

  “I—we—can’t accept this. It’s too grand a gift, Hoss.” Despite her words, she couldn’t peel her fingers from the instrument.

  “If you don’t, it’ll sit unused in my attic,” Hoss insisted. “I don’t ask anything in return, Gentry. Only that you take it.”

  The gloss of the instrument shone in the light coming through the windows. “Thank you,” she whispered, holding the fiddle to her chest. “This means . . . so much. Thank you, truly.”

  Hoss grinned and nodded. It made her skin feel too thick. How could she manage such a debt to him? He claimed not to want anything in return, but how could an unmarried man like himself offer such a heartfelt, expensive gift and not expect anything in return? Yet already Gentry knew she would cry if he did take it back. Part of her spirit had already tied itself to the fiddle’s strings.

  She forced herself to relinquish the fiddle, setting it gently on the table. “You must stay for supper. We’ll have enough. I insist, if you haven’t already . . .”

  “I would love to,” he said. “Very kind of you.”

  “Don’t speak of kindness to me, Hoss Howland.” She eyed her brother. “Rooster, would you put this somewhere safe?”

  “You have to play!” Hoss chuckled.

  “I will. I will, after we eat.” She chewed her lip, trying to think of something to do. Light the fire. She could do that. But as she knelt back to the small pile of wood, Hoss insisted he do it, so she merely stood back and watched, picking soot from under her nails, her fingers cold.

  “When is Butch heading back?” he asked once he finished, wiping his hands on his trousers.

  “I . . . we haven’t heard from him,” she answered.

  “Yeah,” Pearl chimed.

  Hoss’s brow lowered. “Still no word? That’s odd.”

  It relieved Gentry to have someone else think so.

  Hoss’s gaze settled heavily on her. “If you folks need help . . .”

  “Oh, no, we’re fine,” Gentry lied. “Pa made sure we’d be all right before he left.”

  The fib tasted bitter on her tongue. She pointedly did not look at the ledger behind her, the one with all the numbers for their declining household. She heard it whisper the digits to her if she held her breath.

  “All right,” Hoss said, “but let me know if I can help. I’m happy to.”

  “I know.” Gentry swallowed a sigh and nodded to cover it up. “You give Rooster work, and that’s help enough.”

  “That’s not help, that’s paying for a job well done.” Hoss lifted a hand as though to touch Gentry’s arm, maybe her shoulder, but switched direction suddenly and instead ran over his beard. “So,” he said, “what’s on the menu?”

  Gentry woke a little early the next morning, dressed, and got the oven heated for the day’s meals. She heard Rooster get up, caught the sound of his suspenders snapping. Pearl would probably be squirming under the covers, trying to get as many extra minutes of slumber as she could.

  Gentry set the box on the kitchen table with care and reverently slid its lid away. She had tuned the fiddle last night and even found rosin at the bottom of the case, but she plucked each string again, turning the pegs in tiny increments until she heard the clear notes: G, D, A, E. After applying a little of the rosin to her bow, she played a slow version of “My Love Is But a Lassie.”

  Rooster came o
ut of the bedroom, and Gentry expected him to comment on the hour, but he only smiled at her.

  There was music in the house again.

  Though Gentry had lost her fiddle calluses and her fingers were still sore from the bonfire, she played one more song before hurrying to breakfast, ensuring Rooster had something to eat before heading to work. Pearl poked her head out just as Rooster left, rubbing sleep from her eyes. She frowned at the smell of oatmeal, again, and ducked back inside to dress. Sighing, Gentry returned to her fiddle and played “Come Thou Fount of Every Blessing.” Oatmeal was cheap, though they only had salt and a little butter to season it. No cinnamon and sugar like Ma used to make.

  An off-beat percussion interrupted the second verse. Gentry stilled the bow, realizing it had been a knock on the door. She looked out the window—the one that still had glass in it—and wondered at the hour. Had Rooster forgotten something and locked himself out?

  She hurried to the door and opened it. Her heart plummeted to her feet and bounced back again.

  “Winn!” A dozen birds pecked about the property behind him.

  Winn smiled, elbow leaning on the door frame. “A lovely tune beckoned me. Didn’t you say you sold yours?”

  “I, uh, someone gave this to me.” She stepped aside to let him in, relieved that the house was tidy. Winn raised a brow and eyed the fiddle on the table. Smoothing her skirt, Gentry asked, “What brings you here?”

  “A trip,” he answered vaguely. He studied his magic-built wall for two seconds before saying, “You’re so talented, Gentry. I can’t even read music.”

  She flushed. “It’s not hard; I could teach you.”

  “Maybe not. I’m more of an appreciator than a creator. Who is the benefactor?”

  Gentry glanced at the fiddle neck still clutched in her hand. She suddenly felt like she sat in a confessional, with no screen to separate her from the priest. “I . . . our neighbor, Hoss, gave it to me. The one Rooster works for.”

  “Stick pull.”

  She nodded.

  Winn ran his hand down his chin and neck. “Nice enough fellow.” A frown tugged on his mouth.