Anming had turned into Sarah’s invaluable assistant. No longer did she slave in the back feeding wood to the ovens. Sarah hired another down-and-out miner for that onerous chore. Instead, with her unending energy and complete devotion to duties, Anming pretty much managed the dining room by herself. At first, Sarah expected some of the miners might object being waited upon by a “celestial,” as they were called, just as they had with the group of Chinese miners. No one said a word, perhaps because they saw Anming as a servant, not a threat.
Only one of the Chinese miners returned. The tall one, whose full name was Yi Ling, came to the back door every day. Sarah informed him he had every right to come in the front, but in his strange pidgin English he made her understand he would never cause any further trouble. At first, either Sarah or Anming brought his slice of pie to the back door, but Sarah soon realized only Anming could bring that instant beam of pleasure to his gentle eyes. Often they would carry on long conversations in what Anming told her was their native Mandarin. “Ling is from Hunan Province, same as I. Before he came to California, he worked twelve hours a day in a coal mine. He’s lucky to be here. I very much admire him.”
When Sarah teasingly accused Anming of having a romance, the Chinese girl broke into a rare fit of laughter. “Me have a romance? What man would have me with this horrible scar on my face? Ling takes pity on me, and that is all.”
“If you say so.” Sarah wasn’t at all convinced.
Hiram named his new establishment The Bella Union. To Sarah’s relief, he’d found enough wood to construct a solid wall between his saloon and the pie shop with no door between the two. A quick lesson from Jack taught him how to act as banker at the faro tables. He soon found more dealers and a bartender from Hangtown’s many down-on-their-luck miners. The walls were bare. The bar consisted of a few wooden planks resting on sawhorses, yet from the beginning, miners crowded the tables and bar at the Bella Union Saloon. “I can’t believe it!” In a high state of excitement, Hiram celebrated at the end of a highly successful opening night. “This is only the beginning. With enough space, I could add a hotel. Who knows how big we’ll grow?”
Sarah wasn’t sure. There was still that little matter concerning Becky and what she would say when she found out her husband was now the wicked owner of a gambling saloon and bar. So far, he’d chosen not to operate a brothel out back, like most saloons did, but she wasn’t sure how far he’d go. Would he have the courage to stand up to his wife? No time to think of that now. All that mattered was seeing her brother standing tall and proud, despite his crippled leg, with a triumphant gleam in his eye.
Her dilemma over Florrie’s baby stayed on her mind, but the bustling business in the pie shop kept her so busy she had no time for deciding what to do. Jack had gone on another pack trip. Whatever she planned would have to wait until he returned.
One afternoon, on a peaceful, pleasant day in the shop, Sarah and Cedric Purvis were working in the kitchen when Anming burst in and cried, “I must hide!” When Sarah asked what was wrong, she continued, “Hannibal Palmer just came in.” Her little face was distorted with fright. “Oh, Sarah, he knows who I am. What if he tries to take me back?”
Hannibal Palmer. The name struck both anger and fear in Sarah’s heart, but she wouldn’t let it show. “You’re not his slave. He has no right to take you back. Stay in the kitchen. I’ll wait on him myself.” She was about to meet the man who’d ruined Florrie’s life, stolen Florrie’s baby—my niece! Never mind all that, she’d stay calm if it killed her. She smoothed her apron, pushed back a strand of hair, and walked into the dining room.
Three gentlemen sat at a table, their formal attire a sharp contrast to the scruffy clothing of her other customers. When one of the men addressed the tallest of the men as “Mr. Palmer,” he confirmed what she’d already guessed. Of the three, Hannibal Palmer was the one who wore the self-assured look of success. Full head of white hair, piercing blue eyes, finely trimmed mustache. Dressed in a frock coat, matching trousers, and vest, he had a look of authority about him. If she didn’t know better, she’d take him for a judge or some sort of government official—certainly not an owner of brothels, leader of a gang responsible for countless vicious murders.
They ignored her almost completely while she took their orders, not even a friendly nod, as if acknowledging her presence wasn’t worth their time. Involved in an intense conversation, they were using phrases like “damned celestials,” “that claim up Sandy Gulch,” “midnight raid,” “wipe them out.” As she listened, the meaning of their words sunk in. These men were planning to raid a Chinese-owned mining claim in Sandy gulch. There would be no survivors.
When she returned to the kitchen, she reassured Anming that Palmer and his men had no idea she was there. “Nor would they care. All they care about is planning some sort of raid on a Chinese mining claim up Sandy Gulch.”
Anming gasped. “Ling left this morning to join his friends at Sandy Gulch. They’d found a good claim. He was so excited. Oh, you don’t suppose…oh, no!”
Sarah did her best to back off her words, trying to convince Anming otherwise. Maybe she hadn’t heard right. Even if she had heard right, Sandy Gulch, an area known for many rich gold strikes, was staked with hundreds of claims. Most likely Palmer and his gang were after someone else. Anming listened with her usual stoic expression, but it was easy to see she wasn’t convinced Ling would be all right. Obviously, she had feelings for the man with the gentle eyes from Hunan Province.
Cedric Purvis had been listening. When Anming left the kitchen, he dolefully shook his head. “Anming ought to be concerned, what with the way crime’s out of control around ’ere. I came to ’angtown during the first year of the Gold Rush. It’s ’ard to believe now, but back then, there wasn’t any crime. People minded their own business. You could leave a thousand dollars in gold dust in your tent and not worry.”
“But those days are gone now,” Sarah replied.
“Bloody right! Dishonest men started to arrive, from back East, Mexico, Peru, the British penal colonies, all over the world. Now you’ve got theft, swindling, shootings, lynching, and all kinds of violence. You’ve got claim jumpers who’d just as soon slit your throat as not.” Cedric sniffed in disgust. “That’s what ’appened to me. I ’ad a good claim going, at least fifty dollars in gold dust every day. Then I got jumped by a gang of no-good thieves who took my gold and drove me off my claim. They wanted to kill me. I was lucky to escape with my life.”
Sarah had never heard Cedric’s full story before. “That’s terrible. Couldn’t you have called the sheriff?”
“We ’ad a sheriff, but the coward was more interested in saving ’is neck than getting justice for me.” Cedric frowned with concern. “When I see the likes of ’annibal Palmer in ’ere, my blood runs cold. That man is the worst of the worst. Mean, vicious, and ruthless. Now Palmer’s building ’imself a mansion in San Francisco—up on Nob ’ill with the rest of the snobs. It’s all with blood money. That scoundrel ’as built ’is fortune off the claims ’e’s committed murder for, and some of it off those poor women ’e exploits in ’is brothels. Oops, pardon, ma’am. I shouldn’t be talking about such subjects with a lady.”
If he only knew. “I heard he lives in Coloma.”
“’E does, with that ’igh and mighty wife of ’is, but only till ’e gets ’is fancy mansion in San Francisco built. Did you ’ear about the babies?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Those poor women ’e keeps in ’is brothels ’ave babies. Rumor ’as it when they do, ’e takes them away and either kills them outright or keeps them, some say for servants, but I dunno. It could be for a reason far worse than that. Poor little creatures never ’ave a chance.”
Sarah felt the blood drain from her face. Her knees went weak. “I…I had better go sit down.”
“Sorry!” Cedric helped her to the nearest chair. “I should ’ave realized a lady like you is too delicate to ’ear such t
hings, even though those women are only ’ores.”
“Just leave me alone a moment. I’ll be fine.” The room started spinning around. She bent forward and put her head between her knees. She almost lost consciousness but not quite, and soon the light-headedness passed. Cedric hovered over her. “Are you all right, Mrs. Gregg? Did I say something wrong?”
“Of course not, Cedric. I’m fine, really. Get back to work. I’ll just sit here a minute.”
For a long time she sat quietly, alone, recovering from the shock of the little cockney’s words. Either kills them outright or keeps them, some say for servants…. Why had she waited so long? Why had she cared more for her own concerns than her sister’s child? But wait, Hannibal Palmer was here. She could talk to him right now. She leaped to her feet and rushed into the dining room. “Oh, no,” she muttered. The table was empty.
One of the customers overheard. “They’re gone, ma’am. I heard them say something about heading back to Coloma.”
That settled it. Come tomorrow, Jack or no Jack, she was going to Coloma, and when she got there, she’d rescue her sister’s child.
Chapter 18
In deepening twilight, Jack unpacked the last of the mules and led the animals to the stables behind the store.
“Jack?”
He looked around. She was picking her way toward him, carefully lifting her skirt, a wise precaution in a stable yard. “Sarah? What are you doing out here?”
“I’ve got to talk to you.” She came close. She wasn’t smiling. “I’ve got to go to Coloma, and I want you to come along.”
“What about Hiram?”
“He’s much too busy running his saloon.”
“When do you want to go?”
“Tomorrow, early. Here’s what’s happened…”
When she finished relating Cedric’s horror story about the babies, she asked, “So, can you go with me? If you can’t, I’ll go alone.”
Was she crazy? The trail to Coloma was far from safe. No trail was safe these days, what with bandits, thieves, wild animals and God-knew-what-else lurking along the way. My God, woman, did you honestly think I’d let you go by yourself? “He gave a casual shrug. I’ve got nothing better to do. Sure, I’ll go. I’ll get you a horse.”
She smiled with relief. “If we ride hard, maybe we can get there in a day.”
“Maybe.” Or maybe not. What a shame the now-virtuous Widow Gregg might be forced to spend a night alone in the wilderness with Jack McCoy, notorious gambler, ne’er-do-well drifter and man who loved her so much he’d be hard put to remember they were just friends.
* * * *
Thoughts of confronting Hannibal Palmer and his wife lay heavy on Sarah’s mind as they took to the trail the next morning. Even so, she couldn’t help but enjoy the bright sunshine, crisp, pine-scented air, and a trail that took them through thick growths of Ponderosa pines, past blooming mock orange bushes ten feet high covered with pretty white blossoms, past fields of wildflowers the colors of the rainbow. Jack rode Bandit. She rode a mare named Star, not as good a horse as Rosie, but perfectly fine. Aside from a just-in-case bedroll, she’d brought what she considered her best outfit for visiting. Her new, rose-sprigged calico dress was carefully packed in her saddlebag. She adored the bonnet she’d just bought at the General Store. Made of straw braid, trimmed with green and white moiré ribbon, it suited her perfectly and sat in its place of honor, carefully attached to the saddle behind her. Jack had specially ordered food for at least two meals from the El Dorado Hotel and packed it in his saddlebags.
Once they got underway, Jack had remarked, “I can’t guarantee we’ll see Palmer. What if he isn’t home? Chances are he won’t be.”
“Chances are his wife will be home, don’t you think?”
“No guarantee.”
“That doesn’t discourage me in the least. If the wife isn’t home, I’ll wait.” Nothing was going to stop her. She would not be discouraged, no matter what. “Actually, I haven’t worked out a plan yet. I have no idea what I’ll say.”
From Bandit’s back, Jack raised an eyebrow. “Maybe it’s time you gave it some thought.”
“It will all work out.” Because it had to. She’d figure the details later.
At noon, they stopped and ate fried chicken and potato salad in the middle of a field of wildflowers. Jack produced a flask filled with brandy and poured a small amount into two tin cups. “To get us through the afternoon.”
Sarah sighed with contentment. This was like a picnic back home, only better. What could be more enjoyable than sitting in a beautiful meadow, stomach comfortably full, spot of brandy sliding deliciously warm down her throat, her companion the man she dreamed of at night, never mind the rest. She could almost wish it wasn’t going to end soon. “Will we get there by nightfall?”
“I don’t think so. With this rough terrain, the horses won’t make more than twenty miles.”
“Then I guess we’ll be sleeping under the stars tonight.”
“Looks that way.”
Oh, my God.
They stopped for the night in thick forest by a cold, fast running-stream. Enough food remained that they didn’t bother with a fire. They washed it down with brandy and sat facing each other on soft grass by the stream, watching the sun disappear behind the mountains to the west.
The anxiety that earlier had tied Sarah’s stomach in knots had disappeared. “Nothing like riding a horse all day to make you forget your troubles.”
Jack smiled back. “I’m glad, considering tomorrow you’ll be taking on a madman.”
“Do you think I’m crazy?”
“I think you’re a brave woman who’s willing to sacrifice her own safety for the sake of a child she doesn’t even know.”
She didn’t answer right away, basking in the glow of his flattering words. She enjoyed looking at him as he leaned casually on one elbow, that charming smile on his face, his long, tough body stretched out across from her. Throughout the day, he couldn’t have been more patient and helpful. Just now, when they stopped for the night, he unsaddled the horses, got them watered, fed, and hobbled for the night while making it all seem effortless. If she hadn’t insisted on laying out their dinner on the hotel’s small linen tablecloth, she wouldn’t have lifted a finger. Not like when she was married to Joseph.
“What are you thinking?” he asked.
“Did I make a face? I was thinking of my late husband. Not a pleasant memory.”
“Sorry.”
“Oh, but I have many pleasant memories, not of Joseph, but my childhood.”
“So tell me.”
It seemed a perfect night for reminiscing. As the full moon rose and a million stars started twinkling, she told him about her happy childhood in Fort Wayne, Indiana, how close her family was, how they hardly ever argued. Then came Pa’s earth-shattering decision to pack up and head west, followed by the awful shock when her sister disappeared. “Florrie wasn’t lovable. She was an awkward and difficult child, and that’s why I think I loved her all the more—just because no one else did. When I saw her in that brothel…” Sarah closed her eyes. “What’s to become of her? She thinks it’s all a party and it’s…it’s…”
“I know,” Jack answered softly. He’d listened attentively to her every word.
“You told me once you were raised in a brothel.” Oh, no! She’d spoken without thinking. He was always so secretive about his past, and she didn’t mean to pry.
Jack sat straight, poured the remnants of the brandy into his cup, and drank it down. He looked up at the moon, as if seeking a decision from above. He looked back at Sarah and began in a calm, almost deadly quiet voice, “I told you my mother was a prostitute, and that is true. She worked in a brothel on Rum Alley in Five Points.” His lips twisted into a sour grin. “Not the finest neighborhood in New York. It was an old, rotted building, dark and dank, full of rats and cockroaches.”
“You actually lived there?”
“You did?”
He nodded grimly. “My mother had no time for sympathy. If it hadn’t been for—” He stopped to control a tremor in his voice.
She waited. If he didn’t continue, she wouldn’t press him. “Shall we change the subject?”
“Do I shock you?”
“No. I have the feeling you’ve never told anyone what you just told me.”
“Good guess.”
“You don’t have to say anymore.”
His shoulders relaxed, as if he’d just made a decision he was fine with. “Her name was Jenny. She was a whore, just like my mother, but that’s where the resemblance ends. My mother was a hard, brittle woman. Life had been cruel to her. Her bitterness showed in her face and the way she treated me. I can never remember her smiling. I can never remember her once saying a kind word. But Jenny…” He smiled, remembering. “Soft blue eyes, long, blond hair, and she always smelled of lavender. She wore those silk robes with the flowers, the ones the Chinese wear. Sometimes she’d bend over a bit and the robe would open. I was only a boy, but I’ll never forget those tantalizing glimpses. Of all the women in that place, she was the only one who cared about a little boy whose home was a brothel. I never went to school. She’s the one who taught me how to read and write, and just about everything else I know. I never asked, but she must have come from a good family. How she ended up in a brothel in Five Points, I’ll never know.”
Wagon Train Sisters (Women of the West) Page 19
