In the Land of Gold

by Angela Christina Archer

My body shivered from the cold air.

  I turned down a couple more streets, finally halting to glance around at my surroundings.

  In the abundance of buildings around me, only one possessed lit windows glowing in the darkness—the town bar, and its inviting aroma tickled every devious thought in my head.

  For the first time in the last few days, clarity slapped me in the face.

  I was going to enjoy a drink and no one could stop me.

  A few men chatted at one of the many wooden tables in the room. They glanced at me as I strolled through the door, but returned to their conversation when I parked my rump on one of the stools at the bar.

  The bar top, an old slab of wood, dampened the sleeves of my dress. It had obviously seen many years of spirit-induced patrons enjoying their uninhibited nights.

  Of course, none was my concern. Even if I had no control over any and every other facet of my life, in this moment, in this bar, I did. So, what did I care of ruined dress sleeves?

  Mother wasn’t around to attack every single choice I chose. Anne wasn’t around with her fake concern or ludicrous notions I needed some sort of resolution, or needed to know a man better than I already did.

  Lastly, Christopher wasn’t around to force his opinion upon me regarding my actions, treating me like some incompetent child.

  “What’ll it be, Miss?” the bald bartender asked as he wiped the outside of a glass with a faded blue towel. His plump roundness made him look shorter than he really was, and his kind eyes calmed the twinge of nerves whispering in my ear that I had made a huge mistake.

  “Whiskey…please.” My hesitation and shy voice amused him, and in a blinding second, I’d embarrassed myself.

  Why did I lack conviction every single second of every single day?

  The bartender set a shot glass in front of me and filled it, spilling a few drops. I grasped the glass and downed the whiskey in one gulp.

  The brown liquid hit my throat like a fire poker, burning every inch all the way down to my stomach. I coughed and sputtered, grabbing my throat with my hands. Surely, flames would burst from between my lips.

  “You’re not from around here, are you?” the bartender asked with a smirk on his face.

  “I’m in town for a funeral.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.” He paused for a moment and cocked his head to the side. “You want to settle up your tab?”

  I ignored the bartender’s raised eyebrows, and tapped the glass to motion for a refill. “I will when I’m done.”

  The second shot burned again, but I fought the urge to cough and motioned for him to fill the glass a third time.

  The burning had ceased, but the warming in my stomach, however, made me wonder if perhaps my idea to drown my sorrows had been too hasty. I motioned for him not to fill the glass again. He shrugged his shoulder, set the bottle in front of me, and sauntered off.

  “So what’re yeh hiding from?” A deep voice with a heavy Irish accent, from behind me somewhere, invaded my thoughts.

  “I beg your pardon?” Turning to face the speaker, I spun a little too far in the chair, and the room pitched and rolled.

  The unshaven ruggedness of the stranger’s chiseled jaw line exaggerated his perfect, broad smile. In my whiskey-induced haze, his devilish grin nearly knocked me off my stool.

  With piercing, dark brown eyes, and black messy hair, his utter deliciousness captivated me.

  “What’re yeh hiding from?”

  Not in the mood for casual conversation, I desired nothing more than to tell him to leave me alone. To shout at him for approaching a woman he didn’t know and asking such a ridiculous, personal question, but the coy, seduction in his voice stopped me. He left me breathless, and for a brief second, the absurd thought of kissing him crossed my mind—annoying me even more.

  What is wrong with me? I can’t kiss a stranger. I’m a betrothed woman.

  “What sort of a question is that?” I asked.

  “Apparently, one yeh don’t want to answer,” the Irishman laughed as he sat on the barstool next to mine. “Only two types of women walk into a bar and get drunk within the first five minutes. One type is looking for male company,” he paused and gave me a wink. “And the other is hiding from something she doesn’t want to face.”

  “I’m not drunk,” I snapped. “And, I’m not the sort of woman who is looking for male company.”

  He laughed again. “No, I didn’t think yeh were.” He leaned in to whisper the last word, and the gentle roll in his voice over the letter ‘r’ sent a chill down my spine.

  “I’m an engaged woman.”

  “Are yeh now? Well he’s a fortunate lad, then. Isn’t he?” the Irishman glanced over one shoulder and then the other. “I’d love to meet him.”

  I cleared my throat. “He’s not here.”

  “And, here I thought most men wouldn’t be too keen on their fiancée coming into a bar late at night all by herself.”

  “He doesn’t know I’m here.”

  My cheeks flushed, burning with embarrassment.

  Why on earth did I just say that?

  The Irishman smirked and glanced at me out of the corner of his eye. His expression amused.

  “So, what’re yeh hiding from?”

  I ignored his question and motioned for the bartender. “What do I owe you?”

  “Your drinks are already paid for, Miss,” the bartender glanced at the Irishman sitting next to me.

  Please, no. Please, please, please, no.

  “You’re welcome,” the Irishman jeered, winking at me and nudging my shoulder with his. “The name’s Flynn O’Neill. Miss…”

  “Miss-I-can-pay-for-my-own-drinks.” I reached for my handbag. Absolute horror struck me the moment I realized I’d run out the door without grabbing my purse.

  I didn’t have any money.

  “Are yeh certain yeh can?” Flynn mocked, taking a sip from his beer mug.

  Swallowing my pride, I stood and gritted through my teeth, “Thank you for the drinks,” then I marched for the door, holding my breath in hopes the attempt would help me walk straight.

  “Wait.” He called after me, but I ignored him. “I never meant . . . to offend yeh, Miss. Wait, please.”

  With my hand on the knob, I hesitated for a second and then faced him one last time, spinning a little too fast and gripping the knob tighter for balance. Even in the distance, his strikingly handsome face knocked the breath from me.

  “You never offended me,” I said flatly.

  He raised one eyebrow. “Aren’t yeh gonna tell me yeh name?”

  I shouldn’t tell him. Why tell him? It’s not like I will ever see him again, so why should I even consider it?

  He smiled another perfect smile, confusing my thoughts and melting my hesitation.

  “Cora Colton.”

  His smiled vanished, and he cleared his throat.

  All interest disappeared into an indifference that darkened his eyes. He snorted, more annoyed than amused, and he groaned under his breath then slammed his beer glass onto the bar. Before I could say a word, he stood and strode away from me with an odd anger in his step.

  I fled through the door and dashed toward Anne’s house, lecturing the fool inside me for the rash choice I had made. Defiance never played the smartest of decisions, and tonight was no exception. What was I even thinking?

  I wasn’t, and such was my problem.

  The more one pulls on a thread, the easier it unravels. While most people are gentle and desire to leave the stitch alone, or to mend it as best they could, I only pulled on mine more.

  Arriving out of breath, I tiptoed up the path, praying the light in the window was left on for my benefit and not because Anne was awake.

  I cringed
as the door to Anne’s house clicked shut louder than I thought it would.

  “Cora, is that you?” Anne called out from the kitchen.

  I groaned. “Yes.”

  “I was worried you got lost.” She leaned against the archway as she dried her hands with a dishtowel.

  “I apologize for causing you concern. Such was not my intent.”

  “It’s all right. I understand why you left.”

  “Well, I suppose I’ll turn in for the night. Tomorrow will be long with the funeral and all.”

  “Cora, wait,” she said before I could take my first step. “Please, I don’t wish to argue with you. I only wanted to get to know you. Maybe even have a relationship with you, my step-daughter.”

  The sadness in her eyes twisted in my stomach. The situation was no more her fault than it was mine. Two innocent people dragged into the mess between a husband and wife.

  The Irishman was right all along. I was hiding from something—a lot of things, actually. Two of which were in Seattle, and while one was here in Tacoma, it certainly wasn’t the one standing in the room with me.

  It was sitting on the bed in white envelopes with bright red ink written across the front.

  “I don’t wish to argue, either. Maybe it’s time I should finally read Father’s letters.”

  Chapter 5

  Back at Anne’s home after Father’s funeral, I reveled in the silence. A nice change from the crying and sympathetic wishes I’d endured the whole morning from countless strangers. Their words meant to bring comfort only reminded me how little I really knew my father.

  John Colton played poker and was quite good—winning nearly every game he ever played against all of his many friends. He worked hard every day of his life, the model employee staying late—sometimes without pay—and beginning the day before dawn. He did all he could to provide for Anne.

  Described by the ones who knew him, he helped anyone in need whether they were a friend or a stranger—the exact opposite description Mother had bestowed upon me, for all these years.

  He had an infectious laugh and a charisma that made everyone in the room want to be near him. A benevolent man who everyone loved, and a gentle caring soul who gave piggy back rides and sang songs to his friends’ children.

  “Those children mourned him more than I did today.” I stared out the bedroom window, aware of Anne’s presence hovering over my shoulder.

  She settled amongst the pile of crumbled, dry, and stained yellow envelopes scattered across the bed—each one full of hopes, dreams, and confessions.

  Words expressing his feelings, how he missed me, prayed for my forgiveness, and how he longed to see me, or to even receive a response—a response he never lived to see.

  Mother returned every one of them unopened, and never told me of their existence.

  “Children?” Anne asked.

  “Two little children of one of your acquaintances . . . I cannot remember their names. They cried for him more than I did—his own daughter.”

  “They knew him well,” Anne whispered.

  It was as though she believed the lack of volume in her words would somehow spare my feelings.

  “Yes, I suppose the shame shouldn’t be my burden alone, not when Mother only told me lies. In hating him, she robbed me of so much I can never get back. She manipulated my opinion of him, broke my emotional connection to him, and suffocated my love for him, all with her lies.”

  “I’m so sorry, Cora.” Anne’s voice cracked on her last word as she wiped her tear-streaked face.

  “It’s not your fault. And, I shouldn’t even discuss it on such a day—I’m sorry too.”

  “No, no, you have every right to feel anger for what she’s done.”

  “But, do I desire that right?” I snorted an irritated laugh. “Cheated of so much, a part of me wants to know if there was more I didn’t know, and yet, a part of me loathes the fact that I know all that I already do.”

  “If one is blind, one can’t see the pain they escaped. Of course, at the same time, if they are blind they also miss the joy that could outweigh the pain.”

  “Exactly.” I spun around to face her. “I would have rather known Father and dealt with the distance and ultimate loss, than deal with the utterly devastating regret left at my feet by Mother’s actions.”

  A knock at the front door drew our attention. As Anne left the room, I turned back toward the window, crossing my arms.

  Stolen memories replaced by jaded judgments proved horrible in their own right. Mother’s own greed and pride consumed her in a way that her only daughter was nearly destroyed by the dark feelings of worthlessness. She wanted me to never love my father, only her.

  “Cora?” Anne called out as she inched open the door and peeked in.

  “Yes.”

  “Mr. Tillman is here to meet with you. He is your father’s attorney, and he needs to discuss your father’s last will and testament with you.”

  “Um, all right.”

  Confused, I followed Anne into the kitchen. A tall, thin man perched on the one solid chair at the table as he combed through a briefcase full of papers.

  Through his spectacles, his eyes appeared overly large, like those of an owl, and the dark mustache above his lip resembled the bristles of the old broom Anne used to sweep her kitchen floor.

  I took the slightly wobbly chair across from him and settled onto the cushion, my spine straight and my hands folded in my lap.

  He nodded in my direction, but continued to separate papers. Occasionally, he set one or two pieces of parchment to the side as he grunted and adjusted his glasses, which kept slipping down his thin nose.

  “I’m very sorry to hear of your father’s passing, Miss Colton,” he finally said.

  “Thank you.”

  He set the briefcase on the floor, withdrew a pen from the inside pocket of his stone gray blazer, and adjusted his glasses again.

  “Did your father ever mention what he planned to bequeath to you in his passing?”

  “No, actually . . . we never really . . . ” I bit my lip. Mr. Tillman certainly didn’t need to know the family drama. “No, he did not.”

  “About a year ago, your father acquired a gold claim deep in the Yukon Territory up in Dawson City, Canada. His last will and testament states that upon his death, the deed to the claim will advance into your name as the official owner.”

  A what?

  Was I hallucinating? Underneath the table, I pinched my forearm. Surely, this must be a dream. To my amazement, the kitchen, Mr. Tillman, nor I disappeared.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “He bequeathed the deed to the claim, to you. Your father made very specific instructions as to the dividing of his assets between you and Mrs. Colton.” Mr. Tillman laid a few papers on the table, slid them across the surface, and handed me his pen. “If you would please sign here, here, and here, then I’ll be on my way.”

  I gaped at him, then at the papers. I opened my mouth a few times, but clamped my lips tight before any words slipped past them that I might ultimately regret saying.

  Mr. Tillman’s expression appeared tired and a little annoyed. Surely, the questions in my mind were written all over my face. Not meeting my eyes, he glanced repeatedly from the papers to the pen.

  He wouldn’t have the answers I so dearly needed. He was only my father’s lawyer, paid to do a job, and had nothing more to offer me.

  I grabbed the pen and signed my name on the three documents. Before I could set the pen down, he scooped up the papers, stuffed them into his briefcase, and handed me an envelope.

  “Your deed, Miss Colton.”

  “Thank you.”

  “It was a pleasure to meet you.”

  “You . . . too . . . ,” I stuttered, not abl
e to take my eyes off the envelope.

  Seconds after he left, the front door clicked shut, and Anne stepped into the kitchen. With hesitation in her footsteps, she rounded the table, then took the seat Mr. Tillman had just vacated. My eyes locked upon the envelope laying on the table, too frozen with disbelief to look at her.

  Canada? No, don’t think about it.

  “Cora?” Anne asked as she leaned forward and rested her elbows on the table.

  I held up my hand and looked away from her for a second, calming myself with deep breaths.

  “A gold claim.” Three simple words slipped past my lips, yet I couldn’t take them back. Neither could I deny their significance.

  Anne slid an envelope across the table and tapped on it. “Read this.”

  I glanced at her, and nodded. Withdrawing the paper, I unfolded a letter and began to read the contents.

  My dearest Anne,

  Today, I bought our claim and while the excitement keeps me joyous, my only regret is you aren’t here to share it with me. I dream of you every night and miss you every day. How I would love to take you into my arms at this very moment, but alas you are too far away. Know that I’m sorry for that. I only mean to make a life here for us. I was also thinking about Cora today. How I would love the chance to see her too, and talk to her. Tell her all of my adventures. Maybe one day I will get my wish. I added her name to the deed should anything happen to me for I know you would never wish to live here on your own. The thought is actually quite amusing when I think about it. Of course, I don’t know how she will feel about the asset either, but I want to do this for her. She deserves the world. I should be able to return home to you shortly, my love. I cannot wait to see you and hold you once again. Know that you are my life, and the reason my heart beats in my chest. I love you always and forever.