by Caryl McAdoo
“You awake?”
“No. Where am I?”
“Well, it sounds to me like you are, and Daddy wants to see you. He sent me to get you if you were awake. So if you’re talking, then you got to be.”
He filled his lungs. His ribs begged him to stop. To oblige them, he exhaled slowly. By sheer force of will, he pried one lid to crack open. Francy stood in the half-opened door. “Baby girl, where am I?”
“In our new home. Like it? You’re in the cook’s quarters, except we ain’t got no cook yet, so you’re using her room. Do you know how?”
He tilted his head a bit. “What? How to what?”
“Cook!”
Shaking his head ever so slightly, he fell back onto the pillow. “Some.”
“So, you do?”
“What, Francy? Can you leave me alone?”
“Like it! Our new house and the cook’s room. Ain’t it pretty?”
He cracked the same eye again and tilted his head the slightest he possibly could get away with and still see the room. Wallpaper looked new and stylish, nice enough. And the extra-wide woodwork’s fresh off-white paint framed it quite well.
“Sure. Go away now, and let me go back to sleep.”
“I don’t think that’s a very good idea. Daddy’s mad. You best get on up and face the music.”
The door swung all the way open. Jethro Risen himself stood next to his adopted daughter. “Afternoon, Elijah.”
He nodded. “Where’s the water closet?”
“To your right. Come on, Francy. Let’s go put on some coffee. Our guest is going to need it.”
The door swung toward its place.
“Wait. Where’s Clay Briggs?”
“Upstairs, but let him sleep. He’s worse off than you.”
Two dry heaves, then half a cup of coffee later, as he sat Jethro’s new kitchen table, every last detail flooded his soul like the Lord wanted him to remember it all, so he’d never be tempted again. He drained his cup.
“More?” Jethro reached for the dainty little mug.
“Please.”
His partner—except the man was way more—stood, filled the saucerless beaker of porcelain, then set it in from of him. “Care to tell me what happened?”
He inhaled, but stopped short. The pain proved much greater than his need of air. “I’m a fool, Jethro. Just like that dog returning to his vomit, I returned to my folly.”
Quoting the scripture seemed to soften the older man’s countenance. “Elaborate.”
“After my folks got the fever and lit out, well…” He closed his eyes and let his mind’s eye wander back to those awful lonely days. He hated that time. But the word says confess you faults one to another, and he’d never told a soul. “The melancholy hit me hard. Whiskey helped for a time, but…” He rubbed his throbbing temples. Why had he ever taken that first drink? “I hated the next-mornings. Hated it that my work suffered, too.”
He looked away.
“Continue.” Bless Jethro’s heart.
Thankful it was just the two of them, Elijah went on. “One idiotic night, I went with this miner I’d done some work for to China Town. Like the fool I am, I shared a pipe with him.” He looked back.
His friend hiked his chin a bit and raised his brows. “Opium?”
Elijah nodded.
“What about yesterday? You share a pipe with this Clay?”
“No, sir. A rickshaw passed us and turned into China Town. The boy wanted to know about it. I thought…” He looked away again. A fool indeed. Never should have taken another drink. Should have known better.
“What did you think?”
He looked back, studied his coffee cup, mustered some courage, then took in as much air as his sore ribs allowed.
“That one drink couldn’t hurt. Pride, nothing but my pride. Clay ordered a beer, and I didn’t want to admit I had a problem before. ’Course, that one tasted so good, then we had a saki…he’d never tried rice wine.”
“Tell me about the fight.”
“Not much to tell. Wine is a mocker, strong drink raging. Clay and this loud-mouthed miner got into it. I had to help; the guy had forty pounds on him. Then the miner’s friends got involved.”
“Damages were considerable.”
“Yes, sir. Who do I need to see about them?”
Jethro shook his head. “I told the man to send the bill to the bank, and warned Father to expect it.”
“Yes, sir. I’m sorry. Can you forgive me?”
“Of course. Now how is it that you’re back from Texas so early?”
Elijah would have preferred to return to bed, but instead, he shared stories of his time at the Buckmeyers’ and why he invited Clay Briggs to return with him.
“Interesting. Shame Mary Rachel wasn’t here to hear it all, but then she’ll want more detail.” Of course what woman didn’t relish every bit of news from home? “And…” Jethro grimaced. “In my opinion, you should be telling Henry about your past, too. Next time you see him. Don’t put it off.”
For a long while, Elijah didn’t respond. The man had only asked whether he believed and had been baptized.
Never questioned him about his life before he’d met Brother Paul and turned it all over to the Lord. “Suppose you’re right. May the Lord have mercy on my soul.”
Jethro chuckled. “So I take it you found Mary Rachel’s father as advertised?”
“Oh, yes. And more.”
The miner’s fist crashed into Clay’s jaw. He stumbled, righted himself, then turned as he drew back. The man had vanished. Instead, Gwendolyn stood before him.
“You going to hit me, Clay Briggs?”
“No, of course not. Never.” He retreated a step.
“You say you love me, yet you ran off to San Francisco.”
“I had to, sweetheart.”
“Don’t be calling me any of your pet names. Off having your grand adventure, sailing on steamers, drinking whiskey and brawling, and I saw you ogling that sporting lady. You going back tonight to see her?”
“No, Gwen. I’d never….”
“Well, Clay, you might as well. I’m marrying Braxton Hightower.”
“No, you can’t.” He sat up. His head exploded, forcing him back down. “Gwendolyn?” He reached out, but she wasn’t there. Only a dream. That’s all, just a bad dream. She loved him. He’d seen it in her eyes at the Donoho. Henry wouldn’t let her marry that chowderhead dandy, but what if she ran off? Like Mary Rachel.
Wait. He rolled over and spied his surroundings. Where was he?
Oh, man…in big trouble for sure, no matter where… Least no bars held him in. Good thing Ma lived more than fifteen hundred miles away—way—back in Texas. He raised his head. The pounding in his temples forced it back down.
His stomach roiled. Bile came halfway up his throat, burning, then hovered, threatening eruption.
Best find the outhouse. He slid off the bed. A sledge pounded his head as he stumbled toward the door.
A water closet? Where was he?
No answer came, only the contents of his stomach.
The retches finally stopped, leaving a horrible taste, but his mouth suffered nothing compared to the pain in his head. And pulverized ribs. No brother had ever hit him as hard as that miner.
Him and his big mouth. He eased out and surveyed the room. His steamer trunk, the one Elijah bought for him in New Orleans, sat on a short table or stool at the foot of his bed.
Was it some fancy hotel?
After washing up at the sink with running water, he eased into a clean shirt and fresh britches, then figured once he found some coffee, he’d be almost human again.
Humph.
His door didn’t have any numbers, neither did any of the others in the hall. He put one foot on a stair, then the other. On each descending step, he hung on tighter to the rail.
At the bottom, he followed his nose and voices through two rooms. Elijah sat across from what had to be Jethro Risen. Clay had heard so much about Mary
Rachel’s second husband, seemed like he knew him.
“Hey, Clay, there you are. Want some coffee?”
“Please.”
Jethro Risen waved his partner back down, then got a cup for the young man who, according to Elijah, was head over heels in love with Gwen. Handsome enough.
Well, he would be again once the swelling went down and the bruises vanished. He swallowed the mirth that threatened to erupt as full-blown guffaws.
Wouldn’t do him laughing at these two’s misery. But then the Word said a man reaped what he sowed. The boys sure had themselves a bumper crop coming.
He handed Clay the coffee, then faced his partner. “That teamster delivered the ten cases of hose you bought in New Orleans.”
“Good. If they work like I think, we can double—maybe even triple—production at the mine.”
“What did we have to give for them?”
While Elijah justified his rather expensive purchase, Jethro marveled at the transformation in the younger man.
Contrite before, once he launched into his explanation of why he spent so much on the hose and how he planned on using them at the mine, seemed his aches and pains all but vanished, and a confidence that belied his years took hold.
“Enough said, proof will come in the doing. And it isn’t like you haven’t earned the right to spend our money however you see fit.”
Like he could at last relax, Elijah eased back in his chair. “Thank you, sir.”
Again, Jethro stifled his mirth. If he had a mean streak, he’d mention the coming confrontation with Cecelia’s father just to see how his partner reacted, but he himself had dreaded his own trial by the man’s fire.
So instead, he turned his attention to young Mister Briggs. Could be—if Elijah was right—this boy might be his brother-in-law come next spring.
“So you’re in love with my wife’s sister?”
The boy nodded. “Yes, sir. With my whole heart, and for over four years now.”
“Why’d you agree to come west then?”
Clay filled his lungs then smiled. Or was it a grimace? Jethro wasn’t quite sure with the boy’s lips so swollen. “You, sir, and Elijah, maybe even Mister Moses Jones some.”
“Me and Moses? You left that beautiful young lady you love to come see us?”
“Yes, sir, and…well…you see… I’m the baby, and my Ma…oh, Lord. Truth is she about smothers me. And Pa…well…him and the brothers lets her. Guess it keeps her off them. Anyways, I figured if I was out here with y’all, you and Elijah –”
“Stop right there.” Jethro held his hands up. “First off, if you plan on getting past Henry Buckmeyer, then you need to always think before you say a word. About anything at any time.”
“Yes, sir. Elijah said you and Wallace Rusk were the only two men alive who’d done just that. And that Captain Rusk backed into it ’cause of Levi Baylor and him rangering together.”
“First of all, never ever underestimate Wallace Rusk, either. But yes, he and I are the only two. So guess our Elijah here’s number three, and he tells me you’re his choice for Gwendolyn.”
“Yes, sir. I hope so, sir. Any way you could help will be boss, sir.”
That exact moment, Gwendolyn sat at her writing desk struggling to find the precise words she needed. An afternoon shower had cooled the house enough to bear being upstairs with the door shut.
If only she and CeCe hadn’t pestered Daddy to go see Clay and Elijah off. But she had, and she’d given him false hope.
But now she had to tell him.
She crumpled the last draft and retrieved another leaf.
That was it. No way around the facts. No two pages of boring news. No nothing but the truth, tell him what’s in her heart.
The quill paused over the inkwell like it refused to be party to the bad news that compelled her to write. She set the feather down, reread Braxton’s latest letter, steeled her hand, and dipped the tip into the poisonous liquid.
August 6th, 1853
Dear Clay,
Hope this letter finds you well and safely arrived in San Francisco. Did you give Mary Rachel my love?
Stop it, put your heart on the paper and be done with Clay Briggs for once and for all.
I’ve come to know something I must share…from my
heart. You see, I love Braxton. As soon as he and I can
convince Daddy that the Good Lord truly fashioned us for
one another, I have agreed to wed him. So we will be
married. Probably before you ever even get back to Texas.
So I wanted to let you know there’s no hurry in returning, and not let you continue thinking I’m here waiting as that would be less than honest and certainly not one bit fair to you. I saw your folks at church on Sunday—except your pa, he stayed home. Not feeling well, your ma said. The rest were all fine.
Your mother acted as though she was upset with me. Most likely because she said you haven’t written her either, and well, guess she thought you’d been writing me every day. Thinking how you supposedly loved me… I don’t know if you professed your love for me to her. I can only assume…but then I also assumed you’d write.
Anyway, after I let her know I haven’t heard a word from you either, she acted sorry for my sake.
Clay, somewhere out there, a girl is waiting on you. She’ll be perfect, but I advise that when you meet her, you do not run off halfway around the world and leave her alone. She’ll be right for you, but that woman is not me. I once thought so, but know now for sure and for certain.
Please don’t hate me, and I’ll always be…
Forever your friend,
Gwendolyn Bell Buckmeyer
She held the single page up, and waved it slightly, pondering, until past time enough to dry. But, instead of folding it and placing it into an envelope, she opened the desk drawer, and laid it on top of the stack.
Had she really shared her heart with him? Did she truly love Braxton? She’d known Clay her whole life.
Writing it made her shaky inside…and sad.
Once she’d been certain he was the one.
Why had he run off to California with Elijah? The turkey buzzard. Gone and left her there alone. And then not bothered to write. How dare he value her so unworthy of his thoughts or time.
She stood and walked to her balcony. If only she knew for sure.
How could she?
Why Lord, did they both have to run off?
Chapter Seventeen
The next morning while Gwen and her sisters helped Mama May boil the laundry, she vacillated over sending the letter to Clay, then in the end, decided it could wait. Wasn’t like Braxton had come back.
Mercy though—as her father was want to say—the man could definitely pen a moving letter, and so many thrilled her.
What a stroke of genius him sending her that poetry book. Once she figured out his true feelings for her encoded within the pages, she loved him even more. But what difference did any distance make?
New Orleans might as well have been as San Francisco; gone was gone. Still, at least he worked on a worthwhile project, while she had no idea of Clay’s goings-on.
Still, not one word from him.
Even raising money during the day for the Sisters of Mercy and spending his evenings helping the Nuns care for the poor orphans and widows, Braxton found the time to write faithfully once a week.
The convent spent their every dime out of compassion for their parishioners so devastated by the fever.
What a good man her beau proved to be, helping them.
Another black mark against Clay. He was off playing in the gold fields like a ten-year-old with Elijah, while Braxton helped those less fortunate. That’s what Daddy would do. Her Louisiana man valued and deserved her hand so much more.
“Come get me, Mister Hightower. I’ll happily work right alongside you.”
“What did you say?”
Gwen looked across the wash pot. “Oh.” She chuckled. “Didn’t mean to
say a word out loud. Only thinking about Braxton. How different he is from Clay Briggs.”
Bonnie glanced over her shoulder, then leaned in resting on her stir paddle. “I don’t know, Sister. If it were me, I’d pick Clay for sure and certain. He’s twice the man of that dandy.”
“You can’t say that!”
“Sure can to. Just did.”
“But you don’t know any such thing. You’ve been sweet on Clay forever, and don’t think I haven’t noticed. But he’s nothing but a plow boy. Braxton’s a gentleman.”
“Mama and Daddy don’t think so.” She glanced back again, then leaned in even closer. “Yesterday when we were playing hide and seek, I hid in the hayloft, and they came into the barn just chatting up a storm.”
Her baby sister grinned, like she wasn’t going to tell her what they spoke about, or exactly what they said.
“Go on.” Ooops. Miss Jewel glanced up from where she sat snapping beans into her lap. Had Gwen been too loud?
The little know-it-all looked over her shoulder again then smiled. “They’re concerned about Braxton sending you so many letters and gifts. Him being such a scoundrel and all.”
“Did our stepmother call him that? Or Daddy?”
“Both of them.” The big brat smirked an exaggerated nod then leaned back and made a show of stirring the wash.
She wanted to twist her ear until she took it all back, but… Mama May walked toward her cradling her medium-sized tummy. Why had she gone against Gwendolyn and sided with her pigheaded father?
A mother knows more how it is. But then May had never been a mother before Crockett was born, even though way past old enough.
To hear Henry Buckmeyer tell it, no man would ever be good enough for any of them. If only her stepmother would be a voice of reason. Mother or not, she knew the ways of a woman, and should’ve helped convince Daddy.
But no, instead, she’d swallowed a big dose of his stubbornness.
Wasn’t fair.
Never had a grandmother…then losing her mama right after her tenth birthday.
