Sacred Ground

by Barbara Wood

  For a few Saturday nights now, as Seth had sat with Eliza on the front porch of her hotel, he had sent conflicting signals. One minute he would tell her he was reaching the end of his patience with Miss D’Arcy and that she was costing him an arm and a leg to keep, in the next he would comment on Miss D’Arcy’s perfume, or the charming way she laughed. Eliza knew what even Seth himself did not know: that he, too, was falling under the creature’s spell.

  Eliza hadn’t expected competition for Seth. It was one of the reasons she had come out to California from the East, because women here were outnumbered by men at least ten to one. Even a woman such as herself, who had been “passed over” and was a spinster at thirty, stood a good chance of snaring a great prize like Seth Hopkins. She had been trying for eight months to get him to look at her in a “matrimonial” way, seducing him with jam tarts, meat pies, and praise of his masculine strength whenever he worked the odd repair around her hotel. She never criticized him, even when he wiped his mouth on her tablecloth instead of using his sleeve, or when he belched without pardoning himself. She never mentioned that she thought he should expand his claim onto Charlie Bigelow’s since Charlie wasn’t working his own spot a hundred percent. She didn’t push Seth to higher ambition, like suggesting he would get more gold if he used a sluice instead of a pan— his argument being that those upstream shouldn’t be greedy because those downstream would get nothing. She bit her tongue when he declared all he wanted was enough to live comfortably while every other man in Devil’s Bar was burning to be richer than Midas. Eliza felt she was drawing close to a time when she could plant the seed in his mind that here they were, good friends by now, and helping each other as neighbors should, and how he needed a woman and she could use a man around the place, which only led to a logical conclusion. But now Miss D’Arcy was seducing him with her bright gowns and feminine helplessness.

  “Won’t be long now,” he said as he filled his pipe, “before California becomes a state.”

  “When it does, I hope they do something about all these foreigners coming in. I hear there are Chinamen up at American Fork now.”

  He looked at her. “Aren’t we foreigners, Eliza?”

  Her smile remained fixed. “Of course! I was joking!”

  He nodded and went back to lighting his pipe. “Everyone here came from someplace else. ‘Cept for the Indians. I reckon God created them right here.”

  Eliza said nothing. She loathed California’s natives and thought they couldn’t be gotten rid of soon enough. Thank God for men like Taffy Llewellyn and Rupert MacDougal who went on periodic purges through the countryside. If it were up to Seth Hopkins, Devil’s Bar would be overrun by savages. “Is Miss D’Arcy working out any better?” she asked, reminded of another loathsome creature.

  He puffed the tobacco to life. “I’m in a quandary, Eliza. She comes in a mighty pretty package but she’s completely useless. I’ve tried to show her a few things, but it’s like she’s afraid of the stove. When bacon spatters, she jumps back. She doesn’t want to get grease on any of her fine dresses. And all the raccoons and foxes love my cabin, she throws so much food out. I came home the other night and there was Miss D’Arcy running out of the cabin with the frying pan on fire. She threw the whole lot into the creek. I had to buy a new frying pan from Bill Ostler, and you know what that cost me!”

  He stretched his legs in front of him, crossing them at the ankles. “I’ve never known a woman didn’t know how to cook and sew. Not like you, Eliza. You’re a very capable woman. You don’t worry about being pretty or making yourself look nice. And you appreciate the value of a dollar.”

  Eliza’s lips compressed in a thin line. “Maybe she won’t last long and you will be rid of her.”

  “Can’t see that happening. She’s working off the debt she owes me. And she’s looking for her father. Can’t turn her out on her own. Not with her being so helpless.”

  Eliza wanted to say something about Miss D’Arcy and her helplessness, but instead said, “Are you sure there is a father?”

  He gave her a look of genuine surprise. “Why would she lie?”

  Eliza didn’t respond. How could Seth have reached the age of thirty-two and not know that there were some women who would say anything to get a man to take care of them?

  “In the meantime,” he said, “I suppose I’ll just have to put up with Charlie Bigelow’s snoring, and burnt potatoes for my supper.”

  “You can always come here for a good meal. Fried chicken, biscuits, and gravy. Your favorite.”

  He laughed. “Eliza, you charge an arm and a leg for your dinners.”

  “I would give you a special discount, you know that.”

  “Nope. Wouldn’t be fair to the others who are working just as hard as me. I’d insist on paying the full price, fair and square.”

  Eliza kept her thoughts to herself. There were times when Seth Hopkins’s sense of fairness and honesty galled her. “Well, you are to be praised for doing your Christian duty and rescuing that poor creature.”

  “Being Christian had nothing to do with it. Couldn’t leave her at the mercy of the likes of Boggs. Any other man would’ve done the same.”

  Any other man, Eliza thought, would have brought the creature home and set her up in a gilded cage and gone moony-eyed over her. But not Seth Hopkins. When it came to women, he wore blinders. He had once spoken of a sweetheart back home who ended up marrying someone else. In all of his talk of the girl, Seth never once uttered the word love. Eliza was beginning to wonder if he was one of those men incapable of love. The most a woman could ask from him was loyalty and protection. Well, that was all Eliza expected from a man. She wasn’t sure romantic love even existed, the type that poets spoke of. Men could be silver-tongued when they thought a woman was coming into an inheritance, she recalled bitterly, and then vanish when they learned that she was in fact penniless. No, Eliza preferred Seth’s bluntness. At least she knew where she stood with him. And if they should marry, she wouldn’t even expect to fall in love.

  “Would you like me to try and help? Show Miss D’Arcy some basic cookery?”

  He seemed awash with relief. “Oh Eliza, I would be most grateful! I think Angelique could benefit from the help of an older woman.”

  The face of Eliza Gibbons, who was only five years older than Miss D’Arcy and two years younger than Seth, went hard and her eyes glinted like chips of black coal. But she managed to keep her smile, as she said, “Leave everything to me. I’ll help poor Miss D’Arcy find her way around a stove.”

  * * *

  She couldn’t believe it. She had ruined the potatoes again!

  As she stared at the burnt mess in the cooking pot, Angelique felt tears threaten to rise. How did the other women manage it? She either made the stove too hot or not hot enough. If she paid attention to frying the meat, then the vegetables burned. If she stirred the stew, then the corn bread caught on fire. How was she to juggle everything at once? As she tossed the blackened spuds out back, knowing the raccoons and foxes would make a meal of them later, she pictured what Mr. Hopkins’s reaction was going to be: when she ruined a meal or burned holes in his shirts with the iron, he was never angry or critical. He would simply say, “You’ll learn and do better next time.” Seth Hopkins was the most even-tempered man she had ever known. She couldn’t imagine him almost killing a man. Yet he said he had gone to prison for that very thing. He didn’t seem to have that kind of rage within him. Perhaps the woman he was protecting was someone he loved. Was there maybe a hidden part of Seth Hopkins, a wellspring of passion waiting for the right woman to come along, someone like herself, who understood passion?

  Chiding herself for such thoughts— more and more lately she had found herself daydreaming about Seth Hopkins, his tallness, his strength, his handsome face, wondering even what it would be like to be kissed by him— she returned to the cabin with its dark shadows and musty smells and loneliness. She had driven pegs into the walls and hung her gowns and dresses from them s
o she could work on the stains and the small tears in the fabric. Keeping her wardrobe in pristine condition was nearly a full-time job. It was also what kept her sane.

  Angelique had never thought life could be so hard. She was even starting to develop blisters and raw hands, and her muscles were sore all the time. It was work, work, work with no diversion or entertainment whatsoever. Not even the traveling circus stopped in Devil’s Bar because the camp was too small to be worth their time. And the only piano was in the saloon, where women were not allowed. The only distractions came from Saturday night brawls, the occasional fistfight in the street, or the time the entire camp was wakened in the middle of the night when Llewellyn the Welshman’s moonshine still exploded, or the evening Charlie Bigelow, unable to take one more rendition of Rupert MacDougal’s bagpipe concert, came out with a shotgun, aimed it at the pipes, and said, “Learn ye another tune or I’ll blast ye and that infernal contraption to kingdom come.”

  There had been one bright spot, when a baby was born to the Swensons. Children being such a rarity in this part of the territory, miners came from all around to pay their respects and bring gifts for the child, even Indians came bearing beads and feathers. Angelique had watched grown men weep at the sight of the baby, and the moment was so infused with reverence that it reminded her of the nativity of Jesus (although, later all the men got drunk and tore up the camp with fights and gunfire).

  Most of all she was homesick. She craved chili peppers and tortillas. Her ears ached for the sound of a Spanish guitar. She missed strolling through the immense open-air markets of Mexico City and perusing the pottery, textiles, and unique wood carvings. She wished there were someone to speak Spanish with.

  Picking up the Aztec figurine and curling her fingers around it, its familiar shape a comforting reminder of home, she recited a mental prayer to the little goddess to give her strength, then she kissed the cool jade and replaced it beside her bed.

  “Hello? Miss D’Arcy?”

  Angelique turned to find Eliza Gibbons standing in the open doorway. “Oh! Miss Gibbons!” She rushed forward to draw out a chair and dust off the seat. “You do me an honor. Please, come in.”

  Eliza took in the younger woman’s green satin gown over numerous petticoats, aquamarine gemstones glittering on her earlobes. As if, Eliza thought in contempt, she were ready for a grand ball. But there were smudges of flour on her face and in her hair, and close up one could see stains on the gown that no amount of soap had been able to vanquish. No wonder the creature couldn’t cook. She cared more about the condition of her clothes than feeding Seth Hopkins.

  “I confess to being remiss in calling upon you,” Eliza said as she remained standing. “Mr. Hopkins gave us to understand that your stay here was but temporary.”

  “I thought my father would find me before now.”

  “And now winter is coming. Once the rains arrive, travel is difficult, and communication impossible.”

  Winter! Angelique’s thoughts grew bleak. She would never last a winter in this place.

  “I have interrupted your cooking,” Eliza said.

  “I am hopeless at it. I have caused poor Mr. Hopkins more trouble than I have helped him.”

  “You are making soup, I see?”

  “I try before. But Mr. Hopkins says my soup has no taste.”

  Eliza removed her bonnet. “How are you seasoning it?”

  “Señora Ostler tells me to add two pinches of salt. And so I do, like this.”

  “Just that? Just that two pinches for the entire pot?”

  “Sí.”

  “Then that’s your problem. Mrs. Ostler meant for you to add two pinches for each serving. This is a large pot, ten servings at least. Pour some salt into your hand. There you are. That is what you must put in the pot.”

  Angelique’s eyes widened. “All of this?”

  Eliza smiled. “That’s what will make it tasty. Now let me tell you a little secret that I use in my own cooking,” she said as she reached for the jar of molasses, “and which Mr. Hopkins declares is the best gravy he has ever tasted…”

  Angelique’s hopes were high again by the time Seth came home. He sat at the table and looked askance as Angelique set a plate before him, throwing him a wink that surprised him. He peered at the gravy. Then he brought the plate to his nose and sniffed.

  “There is something wrong?” she asked.

  “This gravy… looks different. Smells different, too.”

  She smiled. “I have added the secret ingredient.”

  He tried the soup first, delivering a generous spoonful into his hungry mouth. A split second later he sprayed it all over the table. Quickly taking a long drink of water and then wiping his hand across his mouth, he said, “What did you do to this soup?”

  She stared at him. “What is wrong with it?”

  “It’s awful!”

  Silence fell, leaving only the buzzing of the flies in the air. After a moment, pale-faced and struggling for control, Angelique placed her hands flat on the table and slowly rose to her feet. “Mr. Hopkins, you rescued me from a terrible fate and I will thank you forever. But this is not a good situation for both of us and I think I must leave.”

  He gave her a startled look. “Leave! I just wanted to know what you did to this soup. It tastes—”

  “It tastes wrong. Everything I do is wrong. It shall never be better.” She walked with straight-backed dignity to the upended keg beside the bed, picked up the pink jade goddess, looked at it for a long moment, then came back to the table and gently set the statuette down. “This is the payment for my debt,” she said softly. “This is worth more than I owe you. But I pay it so we are even. I shall go to Sacramento on the stagecoach when it comes through in three days.”

  * * *

  There wasn’t one of her gowns that didn’t have at least one small stain. She had tried so hard to keep them nice but it had been impossible to protect them from grease and gravy, coffee and juice, soot and dirt. Aprons had been no help, and Bill Ostler’s store didn’t stock adequate spot removers. When she got to Sacramento, she planned to devote her energies to restoring her beautiful wardrobe.

  As Angelique carefully laid each dress in her traveling trunk, she tried not to think of the man she was leaving. Seth was in her dreams and her waking thoughts day and night, sometimes he appeared as a gentle rescuer, other times he was a passionate lover. When had he crept into her heart? How could she not have seen it coming?

  Seth had stayed away for the past three days, and so when she heard footsteps outside, her heart jumped. But it was only Bill Ostler, looking in. “Heard you was leaving, Miss. I would have come by sooner but the missus is down with a cold. Been up all night with her.” She noticed the shadows beneath his eyes and the high color on his cheeks. “Too bad you’re leaving, Miss D’Arcy. You’re the best thing to happen to Seth. He could do with some good luck. Did he tell you he spent time in prison?”

  “He told me. He nearly killed a man, he said, who was beating up a woman.”

  “Did he tell you the man was his own father and that the woman was his mother? Old Man Hopkins knocked her so hard on the head it nearly blinded her. That’s when Seth decided it was time to end his father’s reign of terror. He didn’t repent. That’s why he was given hard time in the penitentiary. Say, could I trouble you for some water? My throat is terribly sore.”

  She gave him a cup.

  “Well, good-bye, Miss D’Arcy. It’s been a pleasure.”

  She was just tying her bonnet beneath her chin when Seth finally appeared in the doorway. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days.

  He took in her traveling clothes, the bonnet and gloves, the trunk by the door, ready for the stagecoach, and he said in a tired voice, “I’ve been doing some thinking these past three days.” Taking her hand, he placed the jade talisman in it, curling her fingers over the little Aztec goddess. Then he brought out the ledger and tore out the page titled Angelique. “I made a mistake bringing you here. I didn�
��t know how hard it would be for you. I didn’t know how different the world is where you come from. Well, you know where I am. When you find your father, he can come repay the debt. But I don’t hold you to it.” He looked around. The cabin seemed bleak. She had removed all the color, even the calico curtains from a window that didn’t exist. “I’ll go to Sacramento with you and make sure you find a decent place to stay.” He pressed a hand to his forehead.

  “Are you all right, Mr. Hopkins?” she asked in sudden concern, remembering Bill Ostler.

  “To tell the truth, I’ve felt better. Charlie Bigelow’s caught himself a cold real bad. I think I might have some of it. If I could just sit down for a minute…”

  She pulled out a chair and gave him some water. “How long have you felt this way?”

  “Two, maybe three days. I thought it would go away, but it seems to be getting worse. And now my head—”

  “You should lie down.”

  He didn’t argue, and when he rose from the chair he faltered so that she put her arm around his waist to steady him.

  “I’ll be okay,” he said as he settled his head on the pillow. “Just need to close my eyes. You’d better go on out. The stage will be here soon. Tell them there’ll be two passengers.”

  She watched as he closed his eyes, then she removed a glove and placed her hand on his forehead. Seth was burning with fever.

  She thought of Bill Ostler and his wife. She remembered the peach farmer eight days ago, and the vision she had had of the camp falling ill.

  She glanced toward the doorway. The stagecoach would be coming through in a few minutes. And then Seth groaned, and it was a sound of pain.

  Removing her bonnet, she drew a chair to the bedside and sat down. Fifteen minutes later she heard the stagecoach creak and rattle down the street. She remained at Seth’s side.