by Deeanne Gist
Her eyes widened. ‘‘You’ve no rooms?’’
Flipping his coattails back, he slipped his hands into his pockets. ‘‘No. Can’t say that I do.’’
‘‘For heaven’s sake. A hotel without rooms.’’ She pulled her glove through her palm then slapped it back again. The simple movement enthralled every man in the hotel.
‘‘I have a room, ma’am,’’ a voice offered. ‘‘You can hitch up with me.’’
Johnnie swung his attention to ol’ Harry and scowled, but the words on his lips died as the lady turned fiery red at Harry’s proposal.
Take the deuce, but he’d forgotten the power of a woman’s blush.
‘‘Well. I . . . I . . . oh. Thank you, but I really just wanted to rent a room.’’
A hundred offers poured forth. She held up her hand for silence.
‘‘A hotel room.’’ She turned again to him. ‘‘Is there a hotel in town that has rooms for rent?’’
‘‘I’m afraid hotels in San-Fran-cisco only offer bunks, not rooms.’’
‘‘Then would you be so kind as to direct me to a woman who might put me up for the night?’’
He rubbed his jaw. ‘‘I’m afraid all the respectable women are up in the mining camps with their husbands.’’
‘‘You cannot mean to tell me there is not one single church-going woman in this whole entire town?’’
‘‘What he says is true, miss,’’ Harry replied. ‘‘You’re the first sunbonnet us fellers have seen in a month o’ Sundays.’’
She frowned. ‘‘Sunbonnet?’’
‘‘That’s what the boys call the respectable women,’’ Johnnie said.
‘‘The, um, other women don’t worry overmuch about their skin and, therefore, do not wear sunbonnets.’’
She hesitated. ‘‘I see. Well, then. Where is the church?’’
‘‘We don’t have one.’’
‘‘You don’t have a church?’’
‘‘I’m afraid not. Not the way you mean. Sunday services are held in the old schoolhouse.’’
She surveyed the bunks along the wall, a slight frown wrinkling her brow.
‘‘What about your shack, Johnnie?’’ somebody hollered. The rest of the room erupted with approval, and before he knew it, his own patrons were showing her the way to his private quarters behind the hotel.
He needn’t have worried, though. She dug in her heels after the first two steps. ‘‘Absolutely not.’’
They all stopped and looked at her expectantly.
‘‘I couldn’t. I just . . . couldn’t.’’
‘‘Sure ya could. Cain’t she, Johnnie?’’
He sauntered forward. ‘‘Well, as it happens, Miss . . . ?’’
‘‘Van Buren. Rachel Van Buren.’’
‘‘. . . Van Buren, I would be honored to lend you the use of my shanty until you can find other accommodations.’’
She glanced toward the door, then back at him. ‘‘But what about your family?’’
He smiled. ‘‘I’ve no family, miss.’’
‘‘Oh. Then where would you stay?’’
‘‘I’m in the process of building a new shack. It’s not totally complete, but enough to where I can bed down in it.’’
She brightened. ‘‘Well, then, perhaps I could stay there instead?’’
‘‘No.’’
‘‘I insist.’’
‘‘And I said no. It’s not finished and would not be suitable.’’
She frowned.
He tried again. ‘‘I’d be hung for sure, miss, if I gave you anything but the best. And my shanty is the best place in town.’’
Nods of approval circulated.
‘‘Sir, surely you understand. I cannot stay in an unmarried man’s—No. I’m sorry. If you won’t let me stay in the unfinished shack, then I’ll just have to find someplace else.’’
Harry stepped forward. ‘‘Where’s yer man?’’
Shadows swept across her eyes. ‘‘My father died of cholera during our passage around the Horn.’’
‘‘It’s right sorry I am about that, ma’am. You married?’’
‘‘Um, no, I’m afraid not.’’
A resounding roar broke forth. Miss Van Buren took an involuntary step back.
Harry scratched his beard. ‘‘Well, then, you’d best be stayin’ right here. Ain’t no man in town you can trust better than this here Johnnie Parker. That is, o’ courst, unless you’d be willin’ to marry me?’’
She swallowed and looked back at Johnnie, for confirmation, he supposed. He offered nothing.
‘‘There just ain’t no other place fer a sunbonnet,’’ Harry continued. ‘‘No, miss. It’s either marry up or stay in Johnnie’s shack.’’
The men rumbled their agreement.
She fingered the buttons of her coat. ‘‘I see. Well, then, I suppose, for tonight only.’’ Large brown eyes met his. ‘‘You’re sure it’s . . . proper?’’
Johnnie bowed. ‘‘Absolutely. Right this way.’’
She shook her head. ‘‘I must get my family first.’’
He stopped midstride. ‘‘Family?’’
‘‘Yes. My brother and sister. They’re right . . .’’ She pointed to the door, and as the men parted for her, he discovered a scrawny boy and a lovely girl standing in his doorway looking tired and lost. ‘‘Well, they’re right there. Come, Lissa, Michael. I think I’ve found us a room.’’
But Michael wasn’t listening. Michael had all his attention centered on the nude statue. Fortunately, Miss Van Buren couldn’t see over the shoulders of the men to what was distracting him.
‘‘Michael?’’
He started, turned completely red, then nearly tripped over himself in his haste to get to his sister’s side.
‘‘Michael, Lissa. This is Mr. Parker. He’s the proprietor here and has a, um, shack that will suffice for tonight until another arrangement can be worked out.’’
The children nodded politely. A pair of valises appeared in the clutches of Harry’s hands.
‘‘I’ll take those, Harry.’’ Johnnie turned to the crowd. ‘‘Carry on, everyone. Drinks are on the house tonight.’’
But the usually uproarious group of miners didn’t move. Didn’t howl with approval. Instead, they stood solemn and intent while Johnnie guided the sunbonnet woman and her family to his private quarters behind the kitchen.
chapter 2
The shack had no door. Nothing. Not even a cloth covering. Steps away from the hotel’s threshold and built with the roughest of planks, the structure listed a bit to the left.
Rachel missed Lissa’s abrupt halt, bumped into her back, then had her own heels trodden by Michael.
With a flourish of his hand, Mr. Parker indicated entrance into ‘‘the best place in town.’’
None of them moved.
Glancing from one to the other, he cleared his throat. ‘‘Perhaps I should light a lantern first.’’
He disappeared through the doorframe, and light spilled forth almost immediately. She heard the unmistakable sound of objects being shuffled to and fro before their host reappeared. Again, he indicated entrance. ‘‘Please.’’
She nudged Lissa, and the three of them filed in. Scarcely registering the crackle of the straw-covered floor beneath her feet, she gave the ten-by-twelve room a quick perusal.
A giant bedstead took up most of the room, so solid and heavy it must surely have been pieced together at that very spot. A hodge-podge of materials and old clothing stitched in haphazard fashion formed its tick. No pillows. One small blanket. And a deep indention from where its owner had last slept.
Her gaze shied away and moved to a fireplace built of stones and mud. She’d never seen a chimney finished off inside a room, yet layers of stones, rough sticks, and rude mortar reached clear to the ceiling. The mantel, considered the crowning glory of a parlor back home, was no more than a beam of raw wood covered with strips of readymade tin cans—cut open and laid flat, labels of the
ir former contents still intact.
Mr. Parker had set their valises beneath a window, or rather, a two-foot hole in the wall. He now grabbed some flint and began to light the pre-laid kindling situated in the fireplace. ‘‘The washstand is there in the corner. I’ll show Michael where to fetch some fresh water.’’
Rachel turned to the corner, noting an empty vegetable bowl sitting atop a trunk with a common dining pitcher in place of a ewer. ‘‘I see,’’ she murmured.
A warped piece of wood nailed to the wall held an assortment of books. Fashion plates from magazines hung about the room, offering a bit of decoration. Women with impossible waists and miraculous bosoms dominated the collection.
Michael drifted to a little round table flanked by a pair of spindly chairs, a chessboard decorating its top. Picking up a chess piece, he examined it, turned fiery red, then quickly set the piece down.
Mr. Parker chose that moment to finish his task. ‘‘Do you play chess, Michael?’’
‘‘Um, yes, sir. Um, some. I’m, um, I’m not very good at it, actually.’’
‘‘Well, we’ll have to play us a game.’’
Michael nodded, looking as if he’d swallowed his tongue.
‘‘If there is nothing else, then, Miss Van Buren, I really need to get back to the hotel.’’
The fire popped, though its warmth had not yet permeated the shack. Rachel summoned the energy for a polite smile. ‘‘Of course. You’ve been far too generous already. I don’t know what to say nor what we would have done.’’
He nodded. ‘‘Not at all.’’
‘‘Michael? Why don’t you go ahead and have Mr. Parker show you where to fill the ewer.’’ She lifted her brows. ‘‘If that is acceptable, that is?’’
‘‘Certainly.’’
Michael grabbed the pitcher and followed Mr. Parker out the doorway, the contrast between brawny man and skinny boy striking Rachel anew and reminding her again her young brother was quite without a father to guide him in his ways.
The unique blend of their voices, one deep, one all over the scale, drifted into oblivion before the sisters turned to each other.
‘‘There’s no door and no window covering,’’ Lissa exclaimed. ‘‘Whatever are we to do?’’
‘‘I guess we’ll be safe enough. At least that seemed to be the consensus.’’ Rachel eyed the open doorway and window. ‘‘It might be prudent to look for a spare cloth to drape over them, though.’’
‘‘Was the shack leaning or was it my imagination?’’
‘‘Shadows, I think.’’
‘‘Um.’’ Lissa scrunched up her nose. ‘‘The chimney’s inside the house.’’
Rachel looked at the mess of mud and stones. ‘‘Well, not entirely. The flue still goes up through the roof, and it looks to be working properly.’’
‘‘But have you ever?’’ Lissa moved to the fireplace, examining the tin-covered mantel. ‘‘Seems your Mr. Parker is partial to peas.’’
‘‘He’s not my Mr. Parker and it was extremely kind of him to offer up his room.’’
‘‘Is his family back east?’’
She began to unbutton her coat. ‘‘He’s unmarried.’’
Lissa blinked. ‘‘But look at that bed. Why, all three of us will easily fit on it. Whatever would he need with such a large bed if he hasn’t a family?’’
Frowning, Rachel studied the mammoth structure. ‘‘I’m not really sure, but I’m too tired to think.’’
She considered the window without panes or drapes, the entry without door or lock. She bit the inside of her cheek. The safety and security of her family now rested on her shoulders. And the best she could do was rely on a total stranger.
————
Something was different. Rachel opened her eyes to sunshine and a room that didn’t sway like a ship. All came rushing back. The muddy city, the appalling excuse for a hotel, the rough patrons, the decadent statue, the young boy who lost his fortune, the hotel owner who held it.
A bit confounding, that. A man who would fleece a young boy of gold, yet would give up the use of his home to a pitiful group of orphans.
She noted Michael at some point had moved to sleep by the fireplace, leaving the bed to Lissa and her.
The articles of clothing they’d tied together and draped over the doorway lay in a heap on the floor, as did the ones by the window.
She tucked the covers up about her neck. The cabin looked even more pathetic in the light of day, though the fire chased the chill from the air. Michael must have stoked it then fallen asleep at its hearth.
After putting off the inevitable, she finally edged her feet to the ground, scurried to the washstand, and splashed water onto her face. Its frigid temperature stole her very breath but removed the last vestiges of sleep.
Retrieving her hanky, she patted the water from her cheeks, lips, eyes, and forehead. She still couldn’t quite fathom a washstand with no towel, but such was the case.
She glanced at the open entry. Covering it up again would require help, and she hated to wake Michael just yet. Moving to a corner of the room, she managed to put her garments on without exposing anything of importance, all the while cringing at having to once again wear yesterday’s mud-caked dress. Slipping out the doorway, she tied her bonnet strings and made her way back to the hotel.
Mr. Parker sat in the small kitchen that separated the hotel proper from the back door. He looked different this morning. A blue flannel shirt, dark cotton trousers, and high boots replaced the fancy attire of last evening. So absorbed was he in his newspaper he didn’t appear to have heard her approach.
She allowed herself a precious moment to study the cozy little alcove. It wasn’t a conventional kitchen, of course, though cast-iron pots, frying pans, and Dutch ovens lay strewn across the stove. The room—hardly big enough to turn around in—held cheek-by-jowl preserved meats, a bag of beans, a pork barrel, and a heap of clean clothing. The overwhelming odor of what must be coffee assaulted her nose. A far cry from the soothing smell of Papa’s brew.
Shoved against the wall, the dining table was nothing more than a semicircular board laid on top of a sea chest, surrounded by three chairs, none of which matched. The top of the table had cleats to hold the dishes so they wouldn’t slide off—not because it was a seafaring table, but, she assumed, because the slope of the floor was so terribly uneven.
Mr. Parker, sitting in one of the chairs with a tin mug in one hand and a newspaper in the other, must have sensed her presence. He looked up, stood, and bowed. ‘‘Good morning.’’
‘‘Forgive me. I didn’t mean to disturb you.’’
‘‘Not at all.’’ He folded his paper and snagged another tin cup out of a candle box. Before she could protest, he filled the cup from the coffeepot at his elbow and offered her a seat.
She really needed to secure passage back home, but the man had been more than generous—with her, anyway. So she settled herself down as best she could. ‘‘Thank you.’’
Reaching for a jacket from the heap of clothing on the floor, he shrugged it on and sat down beside her. The wrinkled jacket did little to disguise the breadth of his shoulders and the strength in his arms.
She disliked taking refreshment with a man minus the protection of a chaperone but had been forced to do so since her father’s death. And Mr. Parker, with his dark, curly hair and square, angular jaw, exuded a kind of raw masculinity that enthralled and intimidated all at the same time.
She warmed her hands around the perimeter of her cup, her mother’s admonitions repeating themselves within her mind.
The man of ‘‘perfect manners’’ is calmly courteous in all circumstances, reliable as a rock, judicious in every action, dependable in trifles as well as large affairs, full of mercy and kindness, affectionate and loving. His brain must be as fine as his heart.
There had been no such man on the ship . . . after Father died.
Mr. Parker lifted his cup to his lips, swallowing some of its contents w
ithout ever taking his eyes from hers. ‘‘You slept well, I trust?’’
‘‘Yes. Thank you. And you?’’
‘‘Fine.’’
Silence. She braved a sip of the black brew. Never had she tasted anything so ghastly. Eyes watering, she swept the room with a glance, looking in vain for evidence of sugar or cream.
She set her cup down. Both started to speak, both stopped, both started again. Mr. Parker indicated her with a nod of his head. ‘‘Please.’’
‘‘I was just saying my family and I will be purchasing tickets for our passage home this morning. So rest assured, you won’t be inconvenienced any longer.’’
‘‘There aren’t any ships going out.’’
‘‘Your pardon?’’
‘‘Once the vessels arrive, the crews abandon ship in favor of searching for gold.’’
She pursed her lips. ‘‘And how long does that take? A couple of days?’’
He harrumphed. ‘‘No, miss. The easy gold is gone. All that’s left will require months and months of back-breaking work and, even then, there are no guarantees.’’
Frowning, she tilted her head. ‘‘But the papers back home said one simply needed to go up to the hills, pick the gold out of the streams, and within a few days, a fortune could be accumulated.’’
‘‘Where’s home?’’
‘‘Elizabeth, New Jersey.’’
‘‘And do all the good people of Elizabeth, New Jersey, believe everything they read?’’
She stiffened. ‘‘President Polk verified the rumors.’’
‘‘He may have verified the rumors that gold had been discovered. And, I will admit, that just after the discovery up at Sutter’s Mill, the gold lay like pebbles in the stream. But that was the exception, not the rule.’’
She twirled her hand in the air dismissively. ‘‘Well, the availability of gold is neither here nor there. It is the ships that I am interested in, and never have I heard of a port where ships travel in only one direction. Why, it’s simply too preposterous to even consider.’’
He said nothing. Just took a sip of coffee, his light blue eyes, with a knowing look, studying hers.
