Now the desk was clear except for the tray containing a steaming cup of tea, a translucent china plate of neatly arranged raspberries and orange segments, silver cutlery, a linen napkin, and a newspaper folded in half. Wyatt sat down and opened the newspaper with one hand while adding milk and a bit of sugar to his tea with the other. He scanned each column with a critical eye and dipped a gold pen in ink to make notations in the margins from time to time. When he had finished, the tea and fruit were gone. Wyatt checked his pocket watch and, as if on cue, a tall woman with steel-gray hair drawn into a bun appeared in the doorway. She wore a severe brown dress, but her appearance was belied by a fond smile.
“Good morning, Mr. Wyatt. Can I get you anything else?”
He stood, holding the folded newspaper, and returned her smile. “No, thank you, Mrs. Gosling. Is my grandfather in the dining room?”
“Yes, sir. He’s expecting you, as usual.” She paused, as if uncertain whether to deviate from their usual morning dialogue. “The muffins you requested are baking, sir. Would you like one when they are finished?”
Passing her, Wyatt grinned infectiously. “If I’m still here, why not?”
Mrs. Gosling watched her employer walk through the west parlor and enter the dining room. Perplexed, she shook her head and murmured through pursed lips, “Why not indeed?”
Wyatt found Ambrose Summers at the far end of a long, polished mahogany table, sitting under a portrait of John Adams, who had been first cousin to Ambrose’s mother. The family resemblance was noticeable, especially now that the old man was nearing eighty. His thinning white hair was combed neatly back from a face with large, keen gray eyes behind round spectacles, an aquiline nose, a small mouth nearly hidden under a drooping mustache, and round, heavy cheeks that were accentuated by white side whiskers. Like Adams, he was short in stature but generous in girth. Ambrose Summers loved to eat.
“Good morning, Grandfather,” Wyatt greeted him, coming around the table. Bending, he kissed the old man’s pink brow.
“Say good morning to Harriet,” Ambrose reminded him, indicating the exceptionally large gray cat curled on his lap. Harriet looked up expectantly, egg on her whiskers.
“Hello, Harriet.” He pulled a chair up near his grandfather’s. “The two of you are looking quite satisfied.”
Ambrose finished his biscuit, then pushed his plate away and wiped his mouth with a napkin. “Hmm. Well, it was a very good breakfast. Mrs. Gosling never overcooks the yolks.” Harriet seemed to nod in agreement as she began to wash her face. “You’re looking very fit this morning, Jack. Must’ve slept well. I knew you’d feel better after a night in your own bed. And I’ll wager that you’re happy to be back to your regular routine.”
His grandson smiled absently. “Yes, I suppose so. It is good to be home, and to be myself again, and yet... I feel a bit awkward at the moment. I can’t quite say why.... After all, I’ve been happy with my life by and large—particularly with the structure that I’ve been able to maintain. It’s always fit like a glove and I’ve never wanted to disrupt that, yet these past two days I’ve felt rather... confined by the discipline that I have imposed upon myself.”
Summers studied him carefully. “Well, you know that I’ve always thought you went a bit too far in that regard, regimenting your days and so forth, but it was your choice.” He paused to stroke the purring Harriet. “Your life was in disarray for some years, and it was a pleasure to watch you rebuild with such indefatigable determination. But perhaps the time has come to inject a bit more spontaneity into your routine.” With a philosophical shrug, he continued, “Or it may be a simple case of readjustment. You’ve been away for several weeks, living a very different life. It may take some time to settle back to being yourself again.”
“Yes... myself.” He sighed deeply. “Perhaps I’m not entirely certain who that is anymore.”
“Jack, did something else happen while you were away this time? I know that you’re upset about those deaths, but they were not your fault,” Ambrose said firmly, reaching over to pat his grandson’s arm.
“Weren’t they? If I hadn’t held up that last stage, Brian MacKenzie would still be alive.” Jonathan Griffin Adams Wyatt pressed his eyes with taut fingers, then looked around. “Where’s Conrad?”
“Elijah just went up to draw his bath, so you can speak freely. Jack, my dear boy, I must urge you to confide in me. I’ve sensed that something has been bothering you ever since you arrived home, and it will only gnaw at you if you keep it inside.”
“You’re right, of course, Grandfather, but I’m not even certain myself exactly what’s troubling me.” He raked a hand through his hair. “I’m due at the Morning Star offices in ten minutes—”
“The newspaper will wait for you,” Ambrose replied calmly. “You’re the owner and editor. And here’s a chance to bend your routine a bit.”
Wyatt’s smile of surrender failed to reach his hooded eyes. “You know, it all was so simple in the beginning. When Conrad ran off to the foothills to make his fortune, and then was tricked out of his claim by Van Hosten, all I sought was some justice. And perhaps a bit of the excitement that seemed to be lacking in my own life since I had straightened it up so meticulously.” He sighed again. “God only knows how Conrad would feel if he knew what I’ve done, especially since I counseled him to put the experience behind him and not seek revenge.”
“Well, you’re twelve years older than he. It’s only normal that you’d be protective of your brother.”
“Perhaps, but Conrad’s twenty-one now. I have to let him fight his own battles sometime, don’t I?”
“Jack, you’re straying from the heart of the matter,” Ambrose said, eyeing him shrewdly.
“Am I?” He smiled without humor. “I suppose I’m just trying to unravel things in my own mind, to understand where and how the line between Jack Adams and Jonathan Wyatt became so blurred....”
“Ah. Is that what’s happened, then?”
Jack stared back, then raised his eyebrows. “I believe so. As you know, when I first disappeared to the foothills last autumn and became Jack Adams and the Griffin, I was careful to keep moving so that no one would gain more than a fleeting impression of me. I formed only passing acquaintances. The stage robberies were perfectly executed, and I suppose I should have left my revenge there. Not gone back this summer. I told myself that I had to, though, because of all that I’d learned about Van Hosten and Rush. My mission had grown far beyond avenging Conrad’s loss. I believed that someone must continue to fight the heavy hand that Rush and Van Hosten had clamped down over the southern mines. The people of Columbia couldn’t afford to take the risk, but the Griffin could.”
“You sound as if you’ve taken a second look at your motives,” Ambrose remarked, rubbing behind Harriet’s ears.
“Yes, but it’s only left me more confused. Perhaps I also went back because I liked being Jack Adams, and I missed it. I enjoyed the feeling of being stripped of my possessions, my status, and the structured discipline of being Jonathan Wyatt. I justified my masquerade by reasoning that I was righting wrongs as the Griffin.” He unclasped and clasped a pearl cufflink. “Now, however, I see that I was deluding myself. Someone was bound to get hurt one day. One might argue that the world is better off without Harold Van Hosten, but I did not have the right to remove him from this earth.”
“Jack, it was an accident—”
“An accident that occurred because I chose to play God. If I had stayed out of it, Brian MacKenzie would still be alive.”
Ambrose hazarded a guess. “You knew this MacKenzie fellow well?”
Wyatt nodded slowly, then met his grandfather’s compassionate gray eyes. “Yes. Another mistake, I suppose, looking back now. Brian owned a saloon in Columbia, and I came to town at a point when I was beginning to really enjoy my new identity. He extended a hand of friendship to me, and I accepted it. It was a line I shouldn’t have crossed. I stayed in his home, I began to feel comfortable in Columbia... a
nd the beginning of emotional bonds for Jack Adams created an inevitable conflict.”
“He had a family?”
Jack consulted his watch. “A daughter. Kathleen.”
“I see.” They were silent for a moment. “I suppose that you feel very guilty and responsible for her plight now?”
“Of course!” he shot back harshly. “She’s only twenty, and although she’s self-sufficient, she’s now an orphan just the same. She and her father were very close, and of course she blames the Griffin for his death.”
“And she doesn’t know that you are the Griffin.”
Jack stood up suddenly and paced across the dining room. “No, she doesn’t know! And frankly, I’m not sure just who the hell I am, either!”
“Did you offer to take care of her?”
“Yes! I tried to bring her home with me, for God’s sake!”
“I see,” Ambrose said quietly.
“She’d have no part of me. She intends to run the saloon without her father and go on writing her pieces for the Columbia Gazette and insists that she will be just fine alone.”
“But you don’t believe her?”
“Oh, I believe her all right, but how do you think I feel, knowing that I’m responsible for the death of the one person she truly loved and trusted?” He stood over his grandfather’s chair, hands clenched into fists.
“Well, I’m confused by your intensity. Is it just guilt that you feel, or something more?”
Jack looked away. “All I know is that I can’t go back. The Griffin died with Brian MacKenzie, and I have to get on with my life here. I’ve done enough damage in Columbia.”
Ambrose patted his grandson’s arm again. “Just give yourself some time. You’ll sort this out—I’m sure of it. And don’t be too hard on yourself. You acted without malice.”
Wyatt closed his eyes against the burn of tears, then gazed down at his grandfather. “Thank you for the advice, sir. Perhaps now, I’d best be off to the Star, owner and publisher or not. Tell Conrad I’ll see him tonight. Genevieve is joining us for dinner.”
He was leaving the dining room when Mrs. Gosling appeared with a plate of fragrant raspberry muffins. “Won’t you be having any after all, sir?” she asked.
“No. Give them to Harriet.” Jack continued on into the entryway and drew on his fawn gloves. Opening the front door, he called back, “And, Mrs. Gosling—please don’t bake any more. You know I never eat muffins.”
* * *
“Well, gentlemen, it appears that we’re finished. It’s been a constructive day.” Jonathan Wyatt shuffled some papers and stood up behind his desk. The fourth-story windows behind him overlooked California Street which was noisy with the traffic of horse-drawn carts and pedestrians, not to mention the construction of larger, taller buildings, like the one housing the Star’s offices. The 1860s was proving to be a decade of new prosperity for San Francisco as the city profited from the silver boom in Nevada.
Edwin Murray, the city editor, stayed behind as the other editors filed out the door. Round and bald, he had a sweeping red mustache that twitched whenever he was excited. It was jumping now. “Mr. Wyatt, could you spare me a few moments of your time?”
Jack checked his watch, tucked it back into his waistcoat pocket, and smiled. “After everything you did to keep the paper running smoothly while I was away? Of course.”
“It’s never the same without you, sir. This is a ship that needs its captain, although I must say that you have chosen a fine and loyal crew. Everyone worked together for the common good in your absence.” Murray smiled broadly. “We’re all very happy to have you back, though, sir.”
“I’m happy to be back.”
“You’re looking very well, Mr. Wyatt. You must have gotten plenty of sun in Nevada.”
“There is a lot of it at this time of year.” Jack came around his desk and perched on the front edge. “What was it you wanted to discuss with me, Edwin?”
“It’s about Samuel Clemens.” Murray’s mustache twitched again. “He often writes under the pseudonym Mark Twain. He was staff reporter for the Morning Call until recently—”
“I’m familiar with his work, and I’ve met the man once or twice. He did some fine writing in Nevada, before coming to San Francisco. Impressively droll.”
“Well, sir, his talents were never used properly on the Call. They discharged him while you were away, which turned out to be quite fortuitous for us. Now Clemens has resumed his pen name and is working independently, selling stories about life in San Francisco. I would like your permission to hire him to do a series for us.”
“What theme did you have in mind?”
“My inclination is to give him free rein. I have a very strong feeling about this, sir! I think the man has a gift for capturing the essence of a place and its people with great wit and style. Anything he would write for us would be an asset to this paper.”
Jack rubbed his eyes with one hand, then gave the city editor a weary smile. “You have my blessing, then, Edwin. Make Mr. Clemens a fair proposition and relay his response to me.” He stood up. “If he accepts, arrange a meeting between us.”
“Yes, sir! Thank you, Mr. Wyatt!”
“No need to thank me. You know that I’m not in the business of dispensing favors. I expect results.” Jack patted the shorter man’s plump shoulder and gathered up a pile of galley proofs to scan later that evening. “Now I have to be going. Miss Braithwaite is expecting me.”
Murray’s mustache twitched again as he watched his employer head out the office door. “You wouldn’t want to keep a beautiful woman like Miss Braithwaite waiting, sir!”
Jack glanced back over his shoulder and arched an eyebrow. “I’m certain that she would strongly agree with that sentiment. Good night, Edwin.” He made his way past the desks of other editors and reporters, personalizing each farewell. Then, as he ran lightly down the four flights of stairs, Jack experienced a keen sense of liberation. Unfortunately, it was short-lived: emerging onto the board sidewalk, the first thing he saw was the elegant black carriage belonging to Genevieve Braithwaite. Behind the driver, resplendent in red-and-white livery, a lovely face peered anxiously from beneath the leather carriage top.
“Jonathan!” the young lady exclaimed the instant she saw him.
Jack felt as if he were walking through a tunnel as he approached the carriage. Leaning in, he forced a smile as her slim arms wound round his neck and her face filled his vision. “Hello, Genevieve—”
“What sort of a greeting is that after an absence of two full months?” she asked, pretending to pout. “For heaven’s sake, get in and kiss me!”
Seeing no alternative, Jack complied. Genevieve was a lissome blonde with a flawless porcelain complexion and long-lashed hazel eyes that slanted upward slightly at the corners. Any man would judge it pleasurable to kiss her and she was certainly responsive. Jack had been able to maintain a detached attitude toward their relationship since its beginning nearly a year ago; now, however, Genevieve was a diversion that no longer amused him. In fact, at that moment, holding her in his arms in the back of the carriage felt more like a duty than a diversion, and Jack was in no mood to pretend otherwise.
Genevieve thrust her tongue into Jack’s mouth while one of her hands found its way under his jacket, caressing and exploring. The carriage had started up California Street, bound for the Wyatt mansion, and when the left rear wheel caught in a crack in the plank-paved thoroughfare, Jack pretended to have been jarred from Genevieve’s embrace.
“Sorry, darling,” he murmured, disengaging completely and glancing down to straighten his clothing. “In any case, this really isn’t quite the proper time or place, is it?”
“Well, I’m sure I don’t know,” she replied petulantly. “What is proper when two people have been separated for two months? I must say, I’m surprised at you, Jonathan. I anticipated a far more manly and passionate greeting....”
Wyatt cocked an eyebrow and smiled slightly. “Indeed?” With
maddening equanimity, he shifted his position. If Genevieve was hoping that he would be spurred to kiss her again with new enthusiasm, she was doomed to disappointment. Instead, he gazed out at the crowds and vehicles that milled around them, and seemed to forget her presence.
“I might almost suspect that you took a lover during your travels,” she persisted.
But Jack didn’t hear her. “Look over there!” he said suddenly. “Isn’t that Samuel Clemens? Driver, stop. I want to have a word with that man—the curly-haired one without a hat.”
The carriage wound through the traffic and drew up near a young man walking along the sidewalk. Jack called a greeting and emerged from the carriage to extend a hand to Samuel Clemens.
“Mr. Wyatt?” Clemens cocked a dark-reddish eyebrow, his gaze sharp with interest and surprise. “This is an unexpected pleasure....”
“I wasn’t certain you’d remember me—”
“I see that modesty is a facet of your celebrated character, Mr. Wyatt.” The younger man smiled wryly, his wide mouth partially hidden behind a full mustache. “Surely you realize that anyone working in newspapers in this city today stares each time they pass you on the street. I’d be a colossal fool if, after scheming for most of the winter to attend a party where we might be introduced, and then winning that introduction, I now had forgotten you!”
Jack was bemused by the writer’s honesty. “I fear you exaggerate my importance, Mr.... Clemens. Or do you go by Twain these days?”
“Call me Sam. It minimizes the confusion.” His eyes were twinkling.
Genevieve leaned out of the carriage. “Jonathan, are you finished?”
He ignored her. “Sam, would you care to join a group of guests at my house for supper tonight?”
“Socially or professionally?”
“A little of both, I imagine,” Wyatt replied, smiling.
“I like that mixture, and I’m pleased to accept. You’ll find that I’m rather expert in the role of dinner guest. If nothing else, I promise to entertain the table at large....”
Brighter than Gold (Western Rebels Book 1) Page 10
