by Deeanne Gist
‘‘If you will just place it here on the table, I will do it,’’ she said.
He put the concoction and a fresh piece of flannel beside her. She dipped the cloth into the cup and touched it to her palm.
Sucking in her breath, she paused. He grabbed her fingers, knelt in front of her and blew on the place the witch hazel burned.
She tugged on her hand. He held it more firmly as he removed the cloth from her other hand and continued to dab on the liquid.
She bit down on her lip, her eyes blinking rapidly.
‘‘Sting?’’ he asked.
She nodded.
He blew some more. When each blister had been treated, he reached for her other hand.
She hid it beneath the folds of her skirt. ‘‘I will do it.’’
Easily uncovering it, he held firm her wrist and turned it over. ‘‘I’m not making an indecent proposal, Rachel. I am putting witch hazel on your cuts.’’
‘‘It isn’t proper,’’ she whispered.
He dipped the cloth into the cup, lifting the corners of his mouth. ‘‘Why are you whispering?’’ he whispered.
She thinned her lips and yanked, ineffectively, against his hold.
He winked and applied the cloth to a particularly raw blister.
She gasped. He blew.
When he finally laid the cloth down, he looked up to find silent tears escaping from the corners of her eyes.
He sat back on his heels. ‘‘Ah, Rachel. I’m sorry.’’
She swiped her face with the back of her hand, smearing the tears across her cheek.
Removing a handkerchief from his pocket, he dabbed at the moisture on her face. She reached up to do it herself, but instead of relinquishing his hold, he moved his hand so that it cradled hers.
She stilled, leveling the full force of her liquid brown eyes on him. He felt their impact clear down to his toes.
‘‘Why didn’t you stop when you realized the shovel was blistering your skin?’’ he asked.
‘‘I had a job to do.’’
‘‘It could have waited until we had a baton. I don’t want you to do something like that again. When you have need of a certain item, just tell me and I will see that you receive it.’’
Like a puppeteer and a puppet, he guided her hand with his, and together they wiped the tears from her face. He followed each stroke with his gaze, cataloging her prominent cheekbones, the hollows beneath, and the jaw that culminated in a softly rounded chin.
He paused and lifted his thumb, catching her lower lip.
She jerked, shoved back her chair, and surged to her feet.
He stood. Slowly. Not missing the cinched waist and the curves it heightened, though he never allowed his attention to linger. Only to capture. So that later, when he was alone, he could take the images out and examine them in his mind as he longed to do now.
‘‘If you will excuse me?’’ she asked.
He stepped back.
She all but flew out the back door.
————
‘‘Is it straight?’’ Rachel asked, touching the gold brooch pinned to her collar.
‘‘It’s drooping a little to the left,’’ Lissa responded. The girl had brightened at the prospect of a day off, giving Rachel a momentary reprieve from her sister’s petulance.
Rachel lifted her chin, released the delicate latch, and tried again. They had no mirror, making such simple tasks ten times harder than they had to be.
Lissa finished tying her bonnet, then shooed Rachel’s hands away. ‘‘No, that’s even worse. Let me.’’
With tongue held between her teeth, Lissa pinned on the piece of jewelry, then leaned back to inspect it. ‘‘There.’’
‘‘Thank you, dear. Michael? Are you about ready?’’ Rachel reached for her shawl, then turned to find Michael resting his long legs atop a chair, ankles crossed and hands hooked behind his head.
‘‘I’ve been ready.’’
She raised one corner of her mouth. ‘‘Well, come on, then.’’
Standing, he grabbed his coat from the back of the chair, shrugged it over his miner’s garb, and opened the door for his sisters.
The three of them headed to the square, the girls’ muslin delaine dresses collecting brown goo with each step.
Canvas sheds and half-finished buildings with goods stacked in front of them stood on every side of the Plaza. Nestling in the southwest section of the muddy knoll, a forlorn looking schoolhouse had its door thrown open for Sunday services.
Several yards north of the school, a tall flagpole fronted a long one-story adobe building used as the customhouse.
They climbed the stairs of the school and entered the one-room affair. According to Mr. Parker, it had opened a year ago this month, when San Francisco was a quiet little town with a scattering of families and children. But when word came that gold had been discovered, the schoolmaster deserted his post and headed straight for the diggings. The majority of residents evidently did the same.
Dust covered the shelves, the seats, the stove, the teacher’s desk. Everything. But the rectangular room’s wooden frame sheltered them from the breeze whipping off the ocean; its solid roof, from any weather they might experience.
Wind whistled around the walls and men rose to their feet while the Van Burens silently wove between a row of chairs toward the middle of the room. As they settled, dust motes swirled in the sunlight pouring through the east windows.
A thick film of grime covered the leaded glass, and from her seat Rachel had a muted view of the City Hotel down on the corner. She ran a surreptitious glance throughout the room and spotted Soda, but not Mr. Parker.
A thin ragged man carrying a Bible went to the front. Without an introduction of any kind, he broke into song, wrapping the schoolhouse with ‘‘My Faith Looks Up to Thee.’’
Rachel started slightly upon discovering such a glorious sound could pour forth from such a puny man. He stood straight and tall, his pointy chin bobbing and swaying with every note. Though his worn frock coat looked as if it had been slung across a valet stand rather than a set of shoulders, his booming voice quickly drew a crowd from outside, several of whom added their voices to the Reverend’s.
‘‘While life’s dark maze I tread,
And griefs around me spread,
Be Thou my guide.’’
Rachel closed her eyes, absorbing the words as they poured into her heart, then joined her life’s blood in transporting them to every vein, vessel, and extremity before returning to her heart, only to be pumped throughout her body again.
The song ended and, for once, all was still.
‘‘Your favorite rule in arithmetic is that of loss and gain,’’ the frail man thundered. ‘‘Yet what has a man profited if he shall gain the whole world and lose his own soul?’’
The motionless quiet of the crowd drew Rachel’s scrutiny. All were men. All were grubby, young, and in their prime. With intensity and intelligence, they had fixed their attention onto the preacher as he offered them more than just words from God’s Book; he offered them life.
She returned her focus to the reverend, his impassioned delivery warming her. Washing her. Renewing her.
The benediction drew near and he closed his Bible, tucking it underneath his arm. ‘‘There will be divine service here next Sabbath—’’ he paused, a suggestion of a smile flitting across his face— ‘‘if, in the meantime, I hear of no new diggin’s.’’
Rachel’s jaw slackened and she almost forgot to bow her head for the closing prayer. After the service, all waited for the preacher to step outside. The men closest to Rachel and Lissa introduced themselves, asking where the girls were from. Fortunately, no one asked for their hand in marriage.
As the crowd dispersed outside, the greater portion headed to Mr. Parker’s hotel, the rest to the Bella Union saloon.
Rachel’s eyes widened. Surely the gaming establishments were closed on Sundays. But no, a tinkling piano tune picked up where the hymns had
left off, wafting from nearby canvas walls and reaching ears that moments before had been receiving the Word of God.
From the school yard, Rachel watched men enter Johnnie’s hall with enthusiasm and pouches full of gold, while one stumbled out with an empty bottle of liquor and, most likely, an empty soul to match.
Swallowing her disappointment, she lifted her skirt and moved to greet the preacher. Men bowed and tipped their hats as she and her siblings passed.
‘‘Good morning, Reverend,’’ she offered.
He turned, a smile lighting his face. ‘‘Well, now, what have we here?’’
‘‘If I may present myself and my family to you, sir?’’
‘‘Of course, of course.’’
She made the proper introductions and spoke of her wish to meet other women in town.
‘‘I’m afraid there aren’t any, my dear. Now, I know of a few here and there that have passed through town with their husbands before going up to the mines, but I couldn’t tell you where they eventually ended up settling.’’
Before she could question him further, a stir within the square distracted her. She caught her breath as three ladies in exquisitely made gowns and fashionable headdresses made their way across the Plaza.
Every man they passed bowed and stopped to speak with them in respectful tones. Rachel’s heart sang. Women. Oh, praise be.
She met Lissa’s delighted expression and quickly turned back to Reverend Taylor. ‘‘Why, sir, there are some now. Would you be so kind as to introduce us?’’
The reverend drew up his lips. ‘‘Miss Van Buren, those particular, uh, ladies, are not of a, uh, respectable nature. I suggest you just head on home.’’
Rachel blinked and returned her attention to the women in question. Their outdoor gowns were at the very height of fashion, well within the confines of propriety. Skirts and bodices were flounced and trimmed—one with lace, one with velvet, the third with pearls.
Their ensembles were modest and in excellent taste. Their flowered and puffed headdresses came straight from pictures Rachel had seen in Godey’s Lady’s Book.
She could not imagine that the men would treat them with such respect and deference if they were indeed women of ill repute. No, she had seen for herself what those women looked like. Loud colors. Spangled shawls. Loose camisoles.
The reverend must be mistaken. She opened her mouth to say as much when one of the women caught Lissa’s eye and thoroughly perused her. Lissa curtsied.
Clearly amused, the woman raised an eyebrow and whispered something to her friends. The group turned toward the two sisters.
Rachel felt her back straighten. The calculated and proprietary gleam incorporated into the women’s eyes set her heart to pounding.
‘‘Lissa,’’ she said quietly. ‘‘Come.’’
Lissa didn’t move, clearly captivated with the fetching picture the finely attired women made.
Rachel touched her arm. ‘‘Come on. We must depart from here.’’
Lissa turned. ‘‘But look at them. Why, they look as if they came straight from the tea parlors of home.’’
Rachel threaded her fingers through Lissa’s.
The reverend cleared his throat. ‘‘That is one thing you must become used to here in California. Dress does not make the man— or woman. Lawyers, doctors, and scoundrels alike dress exactly the same and share the same ambitions. You’ll find that women who dress so fine are not often of the churchgoing sort.’’
‘‘But why?’’ Lissa asked.
He smiled gently. ‘‘Because God-fearing women haven’t the time to dress in such a fine manner, my dear. They are too busy feeding their families and attending to their duties at home.’’
————
Swinging down from his horse, Johnnie felt conspicuous in his go-to-meeting clothes. Why hadn’t he simply worn his cotton trousers and flannel shirt?
He had no desire to pursue a permanent relationship with a woman, but he had missed the companionship of a female who was interested in something other than how much gold she could lift from his pockets.
Of course, all sunbonnets wanted marriage. So he’d have to tread very, very lightly and make sure she understood their relationship was strictly business.
He needed someone to save his trees. They’d cost a cock and a hen to import, and watching them die gave him such a feeling of impotence. He had to do something. Even if it meant employing Rachel’s help.
He wrapped his mustang’s and the mare’s reins around the hitching pole and headed down the alley. He’d scoured the city for a sidesaddle, paid a ridiculous amount for it, then told Adams down at the livery to have his horses ready for a Sunday outing.
Johnnie reached the door Michael had installed on the shanty and paused. What if she was wearing a calico? What if he stood here in his courting clothes and she stood in there dressed for outdoor labor? What if she didn’t have on a calico? What if she wore her courting clothes?
He needed to run over to his cabin and put on his flannels. What was he thinking to wear such a getup when the last thing he wanted to do was go courting?
But it had been as natural as breathing. When you picked up a lady on a Sunday afternoon, you wore your Sunday clothes. The thought held him paralyzed a second too long, and Michael opened the door.
‘‘Mr. Parker? What are you standing out there for?’’ he asked. ‘‘Did you have something for me to do?’’
‘‘Uh, no. Nothing today, Michael, thanks. Is your sister home?’’
‘‘Which one?’’
‘‘Miss Van Buren.’’
Michael smiled.
Johnnie relaxed his shoulders. ‘‘The elder, please.’’
Michael stepped back. ‘‘Come on in.’’
Johnnie crossed the threshold.
‘‘Rachel, it’s Mr. Parker. I’m going outside.’’
The boy slammed out the door, leaving Johnnie high and dry.
She was standing by the fireplace, wearing some green thing with a pouffy skirt, a waist so small he could encircle it with one hand, and tucks going all across the bodice in such a way that he could hardly pull his gaze up where it belonged.
But direct it he did, and when it connected with hers, breathing grew difficult. Her cheeks glowed, her lips parted, and those blasted tucks on her bodice moved upward with every breath she took.
Say something. ‘‘You ready, then?’’
She jerked. ‘‘Yes. Of course. Well.’’ She turned to her sister. ‘‘You’ll be all right, Lissa?’’
Lissa sat at the table, a book in her hands, legs crossed, one foot swinging. She gave him a knowing look. ‘‘Guess I will. Sure you don’t need a chaperone?’’
Rachel frowned, fingering the brooch at her neck. He could see Rachel thought that just maybe she did.
‘‘I’ve only two horses,’’ he said. ‘‘We’ll be fine. But if you like, I can have Michael walk up to the place. He knows where it is.’’
Rachel’s expression smoothed. ‘‘Yes. Let’s. That would be . . . good. Very good.’’
She picked up a cloth-covered basket and he opened the door then looked back at Lissa.
Lissa waggled two fingers. ‘‘Have fun.’’
————
Michael had stopped to admire the horses. He now held the mare’s head and the food basket while Johnnie grasped Rachel’s waist and lifted her into the saddle. Yards of green cloth bunched against his chest and the horse’s rust-colored hide. A whiff of vanilla replaced the musky smell of animal for barely a moment.
Rachel hooked her right knee over the saddletree, arranging her skirt and petticoats down her mount’s left side.
He swallowed. The fabric outlined her unbelievably long legs. He’d have to lengthen the stirrup.
He hesitated, eyeing the piles of green fabric and the long, long legs between him and the stirrup bar. Taking a deep breath, he placed a hand against the saddle flap and rode it up to the stirrup bar, hid- den beneath Rachel’s dre
ss, petticoats, and thigh. He heard her quick intake of breath as she moved her leg so that it rode just inches from his hand without making contact.
‘‘I need you to walk up to my place on Market Street, Michael,’’ he said, careful to keep his voice level.
Michael pulled back from nuzzling the horse’s head. ‘‘What for?’’
‘‘Your sister is uncomfortable being out there alone.’’
‘‘Alone? Aren’t you going?’’
Grasping the buckle, Johnnie pulled it down and away from the saddle until he could easily reach it. He released the breath he’d been holding and pushed Rachel’s skirt to the side. Her leg settled back against the horse.
‘‘Yes, I’m going,’’ he replied.
‘‘Then why do I need to go?’’
Lengthening the leather, Johnnie wove it through the buckle, then impaled the boy with a stare. ‘‘Your sister wants you to go, so you go.’’
Michael looked every bit the fourteen-year-old when he turned pleading eyes to his sister. ‘‘Oh, come on, Rache. It’s Sunday and I was just going to, well, do nothing. I’ve toted and lifted and dug and nearly killed myself these last couple of days. Please don’t make me go all the way out there. He just wants you to look at his trees. What do you need me for?’’
Leaning forward, Michael unknowingly played his trump. ‘‘Besides, if I go out there with you, then Lissa would be all alone. You don’t want that, do you?’’
Johnnie jerked the strap, testing it.
Rachel sighed. ‘‘No, of course not. You’re right. I’ll be fine. You have fun. But do keep an eye out for Lissa.’’
Michael released the horse and reached up to give his sister’s hand a squeeze. ‘‘Thanks, Rache. I will.’’ Making good his escape, he set the basket on the porch and ran back down the alley.
Wrapping a fist around the strap, Johnnie’s hand retraced its route against the saddle’s flap, sliding the buckle back up. Rachel adjusted her leg.
He tried to concentrate on the suppleness of the saddle’s leather but instead felt heat emanating through the yards and yards of pliant cotton wrapped around young, firm limbs.
