Brighter than Gold (Western Rebels Book 1)

by Cynthia Wright

  As they passed the D. O. Mills Bank Building, Katie glanced over at Lim Sung. In a fresh white shirt and loose black silk trousers, he looked alien and out of place. His hair was drawn back into a long queue, which accentuated his high cheekbones, and his uptilted eyes were dark and fathomless. To others he was a foreigner, an outcast to be feared and rejected. But to Katie he was just Lim—her childhood companion, her trusted friend.

  Lim met her gaze and smiled. He couldn’t imagine life without Katie. She was his bridge to the white world, his friend, teacher, and counselor. When they were little children, they had sat under the trellis of morning glory in front of the MacKenzie house while she shared her lessons with him, teaching him not only to read and write in English, but to speak the white man’s language without a trace of his parents’ accent. He would never forget the debt he owed her.

  “Look what my father gave me for my birthday,” Katie said now, holding up her book. “Jane Eyre. It’s a wonderful, haunting romance that takes place in England.”

  Lim grinned as they turned up Washington Street toward the Gazette office. “How can a romance be both wonderful and haunting?”

  “This one is! Charlotte Bronte is a very talented author.”

  “A lady wrote this book?” he exclaimed in surprise.

  Opening the door to the Gazette’s cramped offices, she was about to reply when Gideon Henderson called to her from his desk. “Katie! I’m glad you’re here. I need you to take over Owly Shaw’s duties. He’s ridden over to Murphys to talk to the stage driver.”

  “The stage driver?”

  “Haven’t you heard?” Gideon’s glasses slid down his nose as he sorted through the papers littering his desk, perpetually in search of the one that wasn’t there. “The Griffin robbed the Sonora stage this morning! Took a thousand dollars in gold off one of the passengers, but left the others in peace. He’s the confoundedest stagecoach robber I’ve ever heard of!” As an afterthought, Henderson picked up a piece of white linen from among the papers and tossed it to Katie. “Care for a souvenir?”

  She stared down at the snowy handkerchief, its corner embroidered with the figure of an animal that appeared to be half eagle, half lion. Katie swallowed hard and whispered, “It’s a griffin....”

  Chapter 2

  June 21, 1864

  Carrying a chicken, freshly killed and plucked, and a bag of potatoes, Katie approached the white frame house she shared with her father. Located on a quiet corner of Jackson Street, it was not as grand as some built with gold fortunes, yet she loved it for its cozy charm.

  Beneath the profusion of vivid blue morning glory blossoms that spilled over the porch roof, Katie saw that the front door was ajar. Juggling the chicken and vegetables, she gently pushed open the door with her hip, passed through into the kitchen, and stopped, staring.

  A man stood gazing out the back window, his physique framed by lace curtains and sunlight. Katie took in the damp hair that curled slightly across back of his head and grazed his tanned neck. A freshly pressed white shirt set off straight, square shoulders and a tapering back. The man stood with his hands on lean hips encased in faded dungarees. His feet were bare.

  An unfamiliar sensation rushed through Katie’s body, settling in her midsection as she regarded this vital figure. The image of the curls against the male neck and the line of his shoulders and back burned into her brain. The sack of potatoes slipped from her grasp, rumbling upon impact with the scrubbed floorboards.

  The man turned, and a thoroughly disconcerted Katie met the green eyes of Jack Adams. Before she could speak, he was crouching to retrieve the potatoes.

  “I must have startled you,” he said, glancing up to smile into her eyes. “Your father invited me to stay here, but perhaps he should have consulted with you?”

  “Oh, no....” Katie glanced away, saw the taut muscles in his thighs as he rose slowly, and murmured, “Here? You’re staying here?”

  “If this poses a problem...” Jack set the potatoes on the table which was covered with a cheerful yellow-sprigged cloth. He tried again to capture her gaze.

  “Of course not!” She laughed brightly. “Why would it be a problem? My father and I frequently entertain house guests.”

  “I just thought perhaps I might be the problem. You don’t like me, do you?”

  “You flatter yourself, Mr. Adams. I have no opinion about you one way or the other.” She put the chicken on the table and crossed to get a pot from a cupboard under the pine dresser. Glancing back, she saw that his eyes were twinkling. “As it happens, I have more important matters on my mind.”

  “Indeed?”

  “Yes. The Griffin has struck again!”

  “Your tone of voice seems to indicate that this is dramatic news. Isn’t the Griffin just another stage robber?”

  Katie’s eyes widened with disbelief as she opened the back door. “Don’t you read the newspapers, Mr. Adams? But then, maybe you can’t read at all. Most of the miners of my acquaintance are not intellectually inclined.”

  “Oh, I can read,” he replied laconically. “A little.”

  “Well, perhaps you should consider practicing with the Columbia Gazette.”

  Smiling, Jack followed her into the neat backyard. Bordered by a white picket fence, it boasted a row of fruit trees and tidy flower and vegetable gardens. Katie paused to cut yellow roses, then bent beside the small plot of fresh herbs.

  “Are you hoping that I’ll enlighten you about the Griffin?” she asked, not looking up as she broke off fragrant sprigs of tarragon.

  “Miss MacKenzie, don’t make me beg for the favor.”

  She stood, her cheeks pink, and found him gazing at her in a way that made her uneasily aware that he was a man and she was a woman. Nervously, she turned and walked back into the house.

  “The Griffin is very different from the other stage robbers, Mr. Adams. There has been an air of mystery which has surrounded his every move ever since he first stepped in front of the Sonoma stagecoach last autumn.” Katie put the tarragon in the pot with the chicken, lit the stove with practiced ease then sat down and handed Jack a paring knife. They both peeled potatoes as she continued. “It’s said that the Griffin is a gentleman. He’s clean, well-spoken, and has never resorted to violence.”

  “The mystery, I gather, must be that the drivers continue to turn over their gold to such a peaceful soul,” he remarked in ironic tones.

  “Well, he does carry a rifle, but it has never been fired. He wears a long linen duster and a hood with holes for his eyes. When the stage comes into view, he steps out of the trees holding his rifle and says, ‘Would you mind stopping for a moment, boys?’”

  “Do you suppose the Griffin cares if they do mind?”

  “Well, no, obviously not, but people are absolutely intrigued by the idea of a hold-up man with breeding. It’s said that he often appears to be rather amused by it all, and he’s displayed rare consideration for his victims. In fact”—Katie leaned closer, lowering her voice in conspiratorial tones—“the real mystery is what the Griffin is after. So far, he has only robbed stages containing either Aaron Rush or Harold Van Hosten as passengers, and he only takes their money and valuables.”

  Jack’s brows elevated slightly. “Rush and Van Hosten. Aren’t they the owners of the big mine near here?”

  “That’s right. They aren’t well liked. They bought out a lot of claims for prices well below their value and then used hydraulic equipment to get the fortunes still hidden in the limestone and marble. Miners who have settled here with families are now forced to work in the Rush Mine for miserably low wages. They hate Rush and Van Hosten. Some speculate that the Griffin actually might be one of those miners... except that he doesn’t behave like any miner I’ve ever seen in these parts.”

  “Hmm...” Jack leaned back in his chair and stretched out his legs. “Perhaps the Griffin just doesn’t like their looks.”

  Katie gave him a dubious look as she rose to add the potatoes to the pot. �
��Don’t you think, Mr. Adams, that there must be a bit more to it than that?”

  “What? Revenge? You said he only takes their valuables. What about the box?”

  “Well,” she allowed, “he has taken that once or twice, but always later some of the poorest families in town have found envelopes of money under their doors. Needless to say, the Griffin’s legend has grown, and he’s become something of a folk hero in Columbia and the surrounding towns....”

  “Ah!” Jack laughed huskily. “The Robin Hood of the Sierras. He keeps none of his ill-gotten gains for himself?”

  “Well, yes, I suppose so—” She broke off in midsentence. “This is ridiculous! I don’t need to defend the Griffin to you. I am not saying that I think he’s a hero, but you see, I’m a newspaperwoman for the Columbia Gazette,” she said proudly. “I have been privy to all the details of these hold-ups. I wouldn’t be human if I weren’t a bit intrigued.”

  The corners of his mouth twitched in amusement. “Confess now, Miss MacKenzie. Aren’t you the least bit caught up in a romantic dream about this outlaw? Perhaps you’re hoping that the Griffin will rob the stage you’re riding and carry you off instead of the box!”

  Katie’s cheeks burned as she whirled on him. “How dare you say such things, even in jest? And, for the record, I do not have romantic dreams!”

  “You don’t?” He feigned astonishment.

  “Just how long do you intend to remain in Columbia, sir?”

  The sound of his laughter was almost seductive. “I hate to disappoint you, Miss MacKenzie, but my business shouldn’t take more than a week.”

  She walked over to the table and set down a white earthenware pitcher filled with roses. “That long? I am disappointed.” Then, her long braid swishing off to one side, Katie swept from the room, the sound of Jack’s low laughter ringing in her ears.

  * * *

  Nightfall did not bring peace to the town of Columbia. Instead, men of all shapes and sizes clad in flannel shirts of red or blue filled the saloons, fandango halls, and bawdy houses lining Main Street. A mixture of tinkling piano tunes and raucous voices filled the night air, invading even the parlor of the relatively secluded MacKenzie house.

  Katie sat curled on the faded tapestry sofa, an oil lamp glowing near her elbow and Jane Eyre open on her lap. Usually she feasted on the chance to read in solitude, but tonight her mind wandered restlessly. Supper was ready, but neither her father nor Jack Adams had come home. Jack had gone out soon after she retreated to the parlor with her book, his only farewell a maddening smile in her direction as he went out the door. Although Katie found herself brooding about their conversations and the intensity of her own reaction to him, she finally decided that it was his sudden invasion of her territory that caused her to feel unnerved. If she could just avoid his eyes, it would be simpler to maintain her distance.

  Katie tried to read again, but her thoughts drifted back to the Griffin. What sort of man was he? Jack Adams would laugh if he knew of her secret feeling that the Griffin was a true gentleman at heart, reckless yet fair and compassionate. She imagined that he held up stages because he was righting a wrong. He had probably traveled widely... and was dangerously handsome...

  “Pardon me if I’m intruding again—”

  She looked up in surprise to find Jack Adams leaning against the kitchen door, his hooded eyes watchful in the half-light. “I didn’t hear you come in!”

  “I used the back door. You shouldn’t leave it unlatched, Miss MacKenzie. Someone less friendly might drop by uninvited.” A current of amusement drifted into his husky voice. “The Griffin is at large, you know... but then, perhaps you would enjoy a nocturnal visit from him.”

  She pressed her lips together and tried to smile. “Your concern for my safety is touching, Mr. Adams. However, it is not only unsolicited but unnecessary. I am perfectly capable of looking after myself.”

  Jack approached and, bending, touched her tight smile with a fingertip. “Careful!” he chuckled. “You might hurt yourself.”

  “Are you here to annoy me or is there a logical reason for this mid-evening visit? If it’s supper you want...”

  “Am I annoying you? It’s hard to be certain—”

  Katie cut him off with an cool stare, then stood up and smoothed her skirts.

  “All right,” He wore an expression of mock contrition. “I’ll behave myself. I’ve come over from the saloon to deliver a message from your father. He’s too busy to come home for supper and asks that you bring a plate over to him.”

  Katie went past him into the kitchen and assembled a fragrant dish of chicken and vegetables, then covered it with a napkin. Turning, she discovered Jack standing behind her. “Must you lurk so often?” she burst out.

  His brows shot up. “You’re the first woman who’s ever asked that of me,” he said in tones that suggested he was flattered. “I’ll try to comply... if you’ll make a plate for me, too.”

  Exasperated, Katie shook her head. “I think you’re capable of doing that yourself, Mr. Adams. And I won’t mind a bit if you stay right here to eat your supper.” With that, she picked up the covered dish and swept out the front door.

  The night air was cool. Katie, having forgotten her shawl in the drama of her exit, hurried down Jackson Street and had turned onto Main Street when she sensed that someone was following her. She quickened her pace, but the feeling persisted. Finally she looked over her shoulder and recognized Jack’s shoulders silhouetted in the moonlight as he walked toward her carrying his own covered plate.

  “I should have known it was you!” she cried in relief.

  His teeth flashed in a smile. “Was I lurking again? I didn’t mean to, but for some reason I thought that you preferred to walk alone.” He nodded toward his plate. “Your father suggested that I join him for supper.”

  Katie sighed and nodded, and they walked the rest of the way to the saloon together. Jack seemed interested in the activity that spilled into the street from Darling’s Dango Hall and the saloons lining Main Street, while Katie tried to pretend she didn’t notice. Her own father’s saloon was one thing; she had grown up with it, and the patrons always treated her with deference under the stern gaze of Brian MacKenzie. However, Katie looked with mild disgust upon the boisterous, drunken goings-on that took place elsewhere in Columbia.

  As they approached MacKenzie’s Saloon, she noted with satisfaction that there was neither raucous laughter nor shouting going on inside. Jack held the swinging door for her and Katie entered to sudden pandemonium.

  “Happy Birthday!” everyone shouted. Stunned, Katie surveyed the sea of grinning faces. There was her father, pink-cheeked and beaming behind the bar, and Lim Sung, his dark eyes sparkling with pleasure. Lim Sung’s father stood amidst a group of bearded miners, and many of her neighbors were present as well, including Victoria Barnstaple, a talkative sparrow of a woman who had been Mary MacKenzie’s best friend.

  Victoria hurried forward to embrace the speechless girl. “Why, I do think we surprised you, dear! Are you pleased?” She took the dish from Katie’s hands and passed it to Jack without looking at him. He set Brian’s plate on the bar, got a fork for himself, and retreated to a corner table to eat his own supper and watch the celebration.

  Katie had intrigued him from the moment he’d first seen her that afternoon at the bar, her scrubbed, pretty face bent over Jane Eyre. She piqued his curiosity not only because she was an incongruity in the gold country—especially in this saloon—but also because he soon realized that Katie possessed a unique mixture of personality traits, many of which were rare in the women of his acquaintance. She was independent, intelligent, capable, adult beyond her years in many respects—all due, Jack supposed, to the responsibilities she had assumed after her mother’s death. In addition, Katie was blessed with a lovely face and form. With those qualities, she could have become the toast of the Sierras by this time, attracting men of quality from miles around. It was entirely possible that she could have married a ric
h man from Sacramento or even San Francisco. Yet Kathleen MacKenzie claimed that she did not yearn for romance, love, or marriage. Passion, it seemed, stirred not within her breast.

  Jack smiled slightly as he stared across the saloon and pondered the enigma that was Katie. She seemed slightly ill at ease as she stood among the group of well-wishers, as if she were embarrassed by this display of affection and uncertain how to respond. Mrs. Barnstaple and the few other women who had deigned to come into the saloon tonight for Katie’s sake were clad in fine dresses with wide-hooped petticoats, and they wore their hair in carefully arranged ringlets or smooth chignons. By contrast, the guest of honor’s frock of faded calico and her long, lone braid seemed strikingly inappropriate. Jack took a last bite of chicken, pushed his plate away, and wondered whether Katie’s apparent lack of interest in her appearance and in men was evidence of courage—or cowardice.

  Having opened and admired an array of modest gifts, Katie was now gazing at the cake that Mrs. Barnstaple had baked for the occasion. “It’s really too pretty to eat,” she remarked, touching one of the candied violets that decorated the smooth white icing.

  “Don’t be silly, my girl!” Brian exclaimed, handing her a knife.

  “It’s even prettier inside,” Victoria encouraged her.

  Katie winced as she cut into the elaborate confection, discovering that bright candied fruit studded the interior. “Oh, my, it’s much too beautiful! I’m embarrassed that all of you have gone to so much work on my account.”