“But that’s not fair. The Chinese are as entitled as anyone else.”
“The world is full of unfairness.”
Sarah bit her lip in thought. “How fair is it that they’ve stolen my little niece away? Where is Coloma? How am I going to get her back?”
“This isn’t the time for a history lesson, but Coloma’s the site of Sutter’s Mill where James Marshall discovered gold.” A wry smile curved Jack’s mouth. “Thereby turning this country—the world—upside down. It’s on the American River about thirty miles from here. It’s built up even more than Hangtown. Some nice homes, I hear.”
“How soon can I get there?”
Jack thought carefully before answering. “I’ll find out about Hannibal Palmer’s home in Coloma, but it will take a while. Meanwhile, be patient. Do what you can to help Anming. Open your pie shop. If you need me, I stay in a room above the stables back of the store.”
“It’s almost hopeless, isn’t it?” Sarah flung out her hands in frustration. “Even if we find where Palmer lives, what are our chances of getting the baby back? I mean, we can’t just walk in and take her.”
“I won’t lie to you. Hannibal Palmer is a dangerous man. He’s got a gang of cutthroats who consider themselves above the law—that is, what law there is around here. Even so, we’ll give it a try.” Tenderness filled Jack’s eyes. “Take heart, Widow Gregg. You know I’ll do my best for you.”
* * * *
Anming slept through the day. When she awoke, Sarah gave her some nourishing stew, as much as she could eat, and sat with her by the fire. The girl still looked exhausted, yet she couldn’t stop smiling. “I’m so grateful,” she kept saying. Sarah assured her she could stay as long as she wanted. She could sleep in the tent. It was big enough for two. Sarah would find her some clothes. Anming frowned. “I can’t take charity. I must earn my keep,”
Sarah had the perfect answer. “I’m opening a pie shop and need lots of help. If you agree, I’ll hire you to work for me.”
Nothing could have been more gratifying than Anming’s beaming smile of acceptance.
* * * *
Sarah’s Pie Shop opened on a bright sunny morning when Main Street teemed with miners. With its canvas walls and rough-hewn tables and benches, the shop was about as primitive as a shop could be, yet as soon as Sarah tacked the Open for Business sign on a wooden post in front, a line formed. Customers came in a steady stream, willing to wait patiently for a cup of coffee and piece of apple pie.
From the minute Anming arrived at the shop, she never sat down. Well before dawn, she was piling firewood into the huge beehive oven and starting it up. During the day, she was tending the oven, keeping it roaring hot, shoving the pies in, timing the baking and taking them out when done. In-between, she helped clear the tables, mopped the floor, and helped Sarah in the kitchen. Despite Sarah’s urging, she never took a break.
Hiram appointed himself keeper of the money. He stood at the front entrance, taking either a dollar cash from each customer or an ounce of gold dust. So he could measure, he’d constructed a makeshift scale out of sardine cans with silver Mexican reales as counterweights. Sometimes scales weren’t needed. A miner would simply open his bag of gold dust and Hiram would reach in and take a pinch. At the end of the first day, when he counted the receipts, he gleefully exclaimed, “Four hundred ninety-eight dollars in cash and sixty-five ounces of gold dust. At fourteen dollars an ounce, that’s nearly a thousand dollars. We’re rich, Sarah!”
After a strenuous day of baking pies while managing the shop, Sarah was almost too tired to celebrate. Even so, she was walking on clouds. The first day had gone far better than she ever expected. As in Gold Creek, she loved meeting the miners who came from all parts of the world. Their boisterous laughter and passionate talk concerning every aspect of mining for gold filled Sarah’s Pie Shop with a constant aura of excitement. Every piece of pie readily sold. They could have sold twice as many, maybe more. “We’re going to need more help,” Sarah told Hiram. “Then we could bake different kinds of pies, and other things, too.”
“There’s a boarding house just opened up the street,” Hiram said. “We can afford rooms now. What do you think?”
What a wonderful idea. The next day, they stored the wagon, arranged for the oxen to be fed, and rented rooms in Mrs. Keller’s Boarding House. Sarah found herself in heaven with a room of her own and someone else preparing all the meals. The boarding house had refused to accept Anming, but she solved the problem by sleeping nights in the Pie Shop.
Finally, Sarah could indulge herself. In Mokelumne City, she’d replaced the two tattered dresses she’d worn from Indiana with two “serviceable” dresses that weren’t the least fancy. Now she bought three bolts of the finest fabric at Jack and Ben’s store, found a local seamstress, and ordered new dresses made. The day she entered Sarah’s Pie Shop in her new, full skirted, cotton calico, she felt like a queen. She wished Jack would come in so she could twirl around, show him the pretty pattern of tiny roses, slightly scooped-out neckline, tiny buttons down the front and full sleeves, all of which made her look her best, and very pretty indeed, if she did say so.
A week after they opened, Sarah’s Pie Shop had its first crisis. The usual crowd of miners, all of them white, was sitting at the tables when a small group of Chinese walked in. An immediate, angry stirring brought Sarah from the kitchen. At one of the tables, a husky young man with long, unkempt blond hair, dressed in grimy miner’s clothes, leaped up and shouted, “Get them coolies out of here.” A roar of approval arose from his fellow diners.
Sarah was dumbstruck. She looked toward Hiram who stood at the front door. He called, “They paid their dollar,” and gave her a helpless shrug.
How strange these men from faraway China looked with pantaloons so wide they resembled petticoats, short, loose garments on top, stiff bamboo hats, and long braided queues hanging down their backs. All but one young man, taller than the rest, looked so frightened they were ready to bolt. The taller one stepped forward. Showing no fear, he bowed in her direction and said what sounded like, “Pay dollah, wantchee catchee pie.”
Sarah could hardly hear him over the shouts and catcalls. She was about to ask him to repeat his words when Anming appeared, took one look at the young man, and began speaking in a tongue that had to be Chinese. When they finished, she turned to Sarah. “He says they won’t leave. They paid their dollar, and they want their piece of pie.”
From the door, Hiram called, “I’ll give them their dollar back, Sarah. We don’t want trouble.”
The men at the table were still hurling insults at the Chinese, if anything louder and angrier. The Chinese appeared ready to flee, yet were hesitating because the taller one had folded his arms in a gesture of defiance and appeared to be standing his ground. Sarah had no idea what to do. If only Jack were here, but he wasn’t. She could run next door and ask Ben to help, but no, she didn’t dare leave now. Only one solution. She should take Hiram’s advice—give the Chinese their money back and get them out of here. But what had the Chinese done? Why should she give in to a bunch of bullies?
She smoothed her apron, pulled her shoulders back, and strode to the noisiest table, the one where the blond-haired man still hurled his insults. She directed her remarks to him. “I’m afraid I must ask you to leave.”
The man’s jaw dropped in amazement. “Me leave? Ma’am, those coolies are less than human, and you expect me to go?”
Sarah softened her stern expression. She tipped her head and inquired, “What’s the problem, sir? Are you afraid of them?”
The man’s jaw dropped even farther, if that was possible. “I—I—hell no! I—”
“Here’s the problem. These men”—she gestured toward the Chinese—”have all paid for their pie. That means they have every right to be here, same as you.”
The man was still sputtering. Before he could reply, Sarah went on, “I’m going to clear a table just for them. They wi
ll eat their pie at their table, and you will eat your pie at your table. You will not speak to each other. You will not look at each other. They won’t bother you, and you won’t bother them. That’s a reasonable solution, don’t you agree, sir?”
The blond man’s expression of high indignation faded fast. “Well…I suppose we—”
“Thank you, sir, it’s settled then.” Sarah gave him a brisk nod. Without another word, she turned and quickly cleared off one of the tables. Heading back to her kitchen, she waved at the Chinese. “You can sit down now!”
Not until she got behind the curtain of her makeshift kitchen did she press her hand to her pounding heart and breathe a huge sigh of relief. Her first crisis. She’d solved it, and without help from anyone. A very nice feeling indeed.
Chapter 17
Late the next day, after the last customer left, Jack came into the pie shop. He’d been on a buying trip to San Francisco and brought back a load of goods for the store. Not easy, considering they went by ship to the port of Stockton, then on to Hangtown by pack mule. “Come sit at a table,” he told both Sarah and Hiram. “I’ve got a proposition for you.”
What now? Sarah was more than curious. “I hope this has nothing to do with investing in a gold mine.” She was only joking, although rumors abounded concerning gold mines being “salted” with gold nuggets and sold to the unwise.
“This is a different kind of gold mine.” Jack addressed Hiram. “Along with everything else, I brought back two faro tables. I can easily sell them to one of the local saloons, but I thought maybe you’d be interested.”
“In gambling tables?” Sarah asked in an incredulous voice.
Jack smiled amiably. “Hear me out. There’s still space next to the store we leased and haven’t used. We can build an extension to your pie shop—another big room walled off by canvas. Build a little bar. Install the faro tables and maybe another for monte. One for poker, too.”
Sarah stared aghast at Jack. “You’re seriously saying we should open a gambling establishment?”
Hiram had listened with rapt attention. “Let’s hear him out.”
Sarah struggled to find words. “You know what Ma and Pa would say about gambling.”
“This may surprise you,” said Hiram, “but in this part of the world, gambling’s an honorable profession.”
“He’s absolutely right,” Jack said with quiet emphasis. “There’s no stigma attached to running a gaming table or two, as long as they’re honest. Look around you. The streets are full of men who’ve found gold—maybe an ounce of gold dust, maybe enough wealth to last a lifetime. They come into town, all of them, and what are they looking for?”
“Whiskey, women, and a gaming table,” Hiram replied.
“Absolutely right. They’re hell-bent on gambling. If they don’t go to your tables, they’ll go someplace else, so why not you be the one to rake in the profits?”
Hiram broke into an elated smile. “I like your idea, Jack. I could do it, you know. I’m good at figures, and I’ve got a good head on my shoulders. I’ve been waiting for an opportunity such as this, just didn’t quite know what it was. By God, I know I could do it.” He turned to Sarah. “What do you say?”
Sarah laughed. “My brother, the owner of a gambling hall? Oh, Hiram, I don’t believe this!”
Jack said softly, “He needs this, Sarah.”
He was right. Like her, Jack knew how her brother badly needed something to boost his sagging confidence. How clever he’d thought of a gambling hall. She hadn’t seen Hiram this enthusiastic since before that awful day he fell off the wagon and crippled himself. That settled it. If a couple of gaming tables could give him a new interest in life, make him feel more of a man again, especially in the eyes of his wife, she was all for it. They’d deal with Ma and Pa later. She addressed Hiram. “I would want more than just a canvas dividing the gambling tables from the pie shop. We can put a door in-between, but if you’re going to install a bar, it must stay locked. I most certainly wouldn’t want any drunks staggering into my pie shop. Is that clear?”
Any doubts she may have had were swept away by Hiram’s whoop of delight.
After her brother left, Jack asked her to stay. “I’ve got more information about Hannibal Palmer.”
There went that leap of her heart again. “You found out where he lives?”
“I did. Anming was right. He’s built a new house in Coloma. Lives there with his wife, Isobel. I rode by. It’s a big place, pretty fancy, and it’s guarded.”
“Do you know if the baby is there?”
“It’s Hannibal Palmer’s home. That’s all I know. Maybe she’s there, maybe not.”
Florrie’s baby—her own niece—living with strangers. She fought to control her rising anger. “What do we do now?”
“I don’t know. Palmer outright stole that baby, but he likely can get away with it. California’s a state now, but we don’t yet have the laws to handle such matters. We’re still pretty much living in a lawless land.”
“I can’t think what to do, other than walk up to their front door and ask for the baby back.” She tried to smile. “Somehow I don’t think that will work.”
“Probably not, but it might be worth a try. At least you’ll know what you’re up against. There’s no rush. Think about it. I’ll take you to Coloma whenever you want to go.”
“How long would it take?”
“For thirty miles? It’s rough terrain, so I’d say a day and a night if we go by horseback.”
Spend the night with Jack? Alone, in the wilderness? That would never, never work. Up until now, she’d managed to stick with her “just friends” declaration, but just barely. The thought of those times they’d made love still did strange things to her insides. Did he know what she was thinking? Her eyes locked with his, but his dark depths were unreadable. “We would be alone?”
“I suppose, unless you want to bring someone along to chaperone.” His mouth curved into a barely discernable smile. “But that won’t be necessary. I haven’t forgotten we’re just friends.”
She ought to feel grateful. Instead, all she felt was an odd twinge of disappointment. But that was stupid. Once and for all, she’d better accept the fact that Jack would never get serious, never settle down. But if he was such a wanderer, why was he still here? She tipped her head and inquired, “I’m glad you remember we’re just friends, but I’m curious. Up to now you’ve been a drifter. That’s the way you like it, or so you say. You can’t stay in one place more than a few months, yet here you are a respectable store owner in Hangtown. I don’t see any signs you’ll be leaving soon. Am I mistaken?”
Jack gazed at the ceiling, then down at the floor. “You ask a good question. I’m not sure of the answer. All I know is…” He stood abruptly. “Got to go.” He leveled a long, hard gaze into her eyes. “Widow Gregg, I’m not sure if you’re the best thing that ever happened to me or the worst.”
Before she could answer, he was gone.
* * * *
After Jack left the pie shop, he walked next door to Longren & McCoy’s General Store and found Ben working behind the counter. His partner took one look and inquired, “What’s wrong? You look like you swallowed a bullfrog.”
Jack ignored the humor. “Do I look like a respectable citizen of Hangtown to you?”
“Well, now, I suspect you want me to say you’re not. You’re a man who still goes his own way—picks his own battles and listens to no one—lives by his own rules, so to speak. Is that what you want to hear?”
“Could be.”
Ben shook his head. “Trouble is you can’t have it both ways. When we opened this store, we never talked about being responsible citizens, but that’s what it amounts to, don’t it? You’re putting down roots whether you like it or not. I’d wager you didn’t give it much thought. You figured you’d try it for a while and then be on your way to your next fine adventure, same as always.”
“I suppose
.”
“Then here comes the widow. You didn’t expect that, did you?”
Ben’s shrewd perception stopped him cold. He wished he’d never asked. “I don’t know what I expected.” He turned and started for the door.
“Maybe you better figure it out,” Ben called after him. “She’s a pretty woman, and that ain’t all. She’d have every man in town after her if she so much as crooked her little finger, but she don’t because she likes you.”
Jack paused at the door and threw his final remark over his shoulder. “I have no further interest in her.”
Ben’s whoops of laughter followed him out the door and down the street. Ben could go to hell. Time for me to sell my half of the store and be on my way. He’d thought about it often enough but had been dragging his feet. He’d done enough dithering. Maybe he didn’t know where he was going, but the one thing he knew for sure was he must get out of Sarah’s life, even though he loved her so much he’d lay down his life for her. He could never make her happy, would be doing her a favor if he left and never came back. Yes, time for Jack McCoy to move on. Not quite yet, though. He’d promised Sarah he’d help get Florrie’s baby back. He’d do his best to help her. Soon as he did, he’d be on his way.
* * * *
The next few days were so busy Sarah hardly had time to think. Jack and Ben installed another beehive oven in the back. She could now bake at least twice the number of pies but only if she had more help. She was lucky to find Cedric Purvis, a down-and-out Englishman who’d lost his claim, but didn’t say how. A feisty little cockney from London’s East Side, Cedric was working in a bakery when he heard the astonishing news about the land of gold. He spent his last farthing on a ticket, sailed halfway around the world, and ended up in Hangtown. Now, half starved and broke, he was happy to accept a job in Sarah’s Pie Shop. From the start, he proved so competent in the kitchen that Sarah now had time to spend on other things besides paring apples and rolling out pie crusts. Her menu expanded. Customers now had a choice of three kinds of pie, plus milk or coffee for a beverage.
Wagon Train Sisters (Women of the West) Page 18
