Cold Gold

by Victoria Chatham

  There was something in the way the sheriff referred to King that alerted Serena. It was only a slight inflection in his voice, but enough to tell her the sheriff might have his suspicions, too.

  “So Mr. King was the last person to have seen my husband?” she asked.

  “Yes, he was. But don’t read anything into that, Lady Buxton. King could account for every minute of that day with enough people to confirm his whereabouts that I don’t doubt the truth of it.”

  Serena watched the sheriff’s face. The conviction in his voice seemed at odds with the flicker of worry she detected in the back of his eyes.

  “Yet you think Mr. King may know more than it would appear,” she said quietly. “And you don’t believe in sudden disappearances.”

  “You’re very astute, if I may say so.”

  “I’m so glad you didn’t qualify that statement with ‘for a woman’.”

  Leroy Johnson laughed. “Some of the smartest people I know are women. But I’d advise you don’t go asking questions around town. Not everyone feels the same as I do about how smart women may or may not be, or how sudden disappearances may be...” Johnson hesitated. “Let’s just say engineered.”

  Serena’s heart lurched. Was Johnson hinting that someone was responsible for Randolph’s disappearance? If that was so, then Randolph had either been kidnapped or murdered. But for what reason? There had been no demands for ransom according to Johnson. Before Serena could respond to his comment, the door opened and two men came in. A smile crossed the younger man’s face when he saw her, but the older man, dressed in dirty looking clothes and with a vindictive expression in his dark eyes, simply scowled at her.

  “This is my nephew, Davy Johnson, and my deputy, George Stiles.” The sheriff introduced them. “Davy, George, I’d like you to meet Lady Buxton.”

  Serena returned Davy’s smile, but George Stiles’ dour expression and cold eyes offered no welcome. He hooked his thumbs in the leather belt sitting just below the waistband of his corduroy pants. His right hand casually brushed the edge of his jacket aside revealing a pistol on his hip. Serena sensed a subtle threat in the movement, but why would Stiles be threatening her? Did he mean this as a silent warning to mind her own business? She stood up.

  “Well, Sheriff Johnson, you know where I’m staying. If you learn anything more, you will advise me?”

  “Of course.” Johnson walked with her to the door. “Have you any plans for today?”

  “Only to visit the bank,” Serena told him.

  “I’ll have Davy walk you there.”

  “There’s no need.”

  “Lady Buxton, Cold Creek can sometimes be a little rough around the edges. I wouldn’t want anything to happen to you.”

  As they walked out of the office two horses raced down the street, their hooves churning up the snow and their riders yelling obscenities at each other, confirming the sheriff’s opinion of Cold Creek. Serena watched them pull up outside of the saloon and then nodded her agreement.

  “I take your point, Sheriff.”

  “Glad you’re a reasonable woman, Lady Buxton,” Johnson said with a smile.

  Serena smiled back, fully aware that he had no expectation at all of her being reasonable and every expectation of her being nothing but trouble. Davy escorted her to the Northwest Pacific Bank. She thanked him as she stepped inside, anticipating her next meeting of the morning with a great deal of trepidation.

  The bank appeared much like any bank she had ever been in. The tellers worked behind their wickets with bent heads and much shuffling of papers. Two people waiting for service looked up, attracted by the sound of her heels clicking on the wooden floor and she couldn’t help but notice their openly curious glances.

  Sudden irritation made Serena press her lips together to bite back words she might regret. She had no doubt that everyone in Cold Creek already knew about her. She would need to learn who they were if she wanted to solve the mystery of Randolph’s disappearance. Any one of them might hold a crucial piece of information and snapping at them would not help her cause. A young woman approached her and asked if anyone had yet attended her.

  “I am Lady Buxton.” Serena introduced herself. “I sent a note earlier this morning requesting an appointment with Mr. Harris.”

  “Please have a seat. I’ll let him know you’re here.”

  The seats looked singularly uncomfortable and Serena chose to stand, hoping that Mr. Harris would not keep her waiting. She looked at the portraits on the wall behind the counter, trying to decide if they really were past bank presidents or just hung there to make an impression. Moments later Mr. Harris emerged from his office to greet her.

  “Welcome, Lady Buxton.” He led the way into a luxurious but definitely male-oriented office.

  Serena sank into the deep, button-backed leather chair he offered and watched him settle in his own chair behind an expansive, red-leather topped desk. She studied his strong features, noting the green flecks in his brown eyes, the hint of gray at his temples and the wavy dark hair that wouldn’t quite stay back from his forehead. By anyone’s standards Harris would be considered a handsome man. Her nostrils detected a hint of sandalwood cologne and pipe tobacco and instantly reminded her of Randolph and her reason for being here.

  “So how can I be of service?” Harris prompted.

  Serena did not like the speculative gleam in his eyes. She bit her lip. Admitting to being practically penniless pinched her pride too much, but she desperately needed money.

  “I’m sure you have been made aware that I came to Cold Creek to join my husband, Lord Randolph Buxton. I know Randolph banked with you and I need access to his funds so that I may remain here until I discover what has happened to him.”

  “I spent quite a bit of time with Randolph.” Harris steepled his fingers together and regarded her thoughtfully. “He told me a little of Buxton Hall and his life in England. We discussed his assets and interests. The only name on the account is his and he never, ever once mentioned having a wife.”

  “Never mentioned me?” Serena looked up, the first skitterings of alarm dancing unchecked in her stomach. “But how could he not have mentioned me?”

  “Because you are not his wife?” Harris suggested. One eyebrow lifted in a mocking echo of his words.

  Serena felt the blood drain from her face but steeled herself to look Harris in the eye.

  “I have my passport and Randolph’s letter,” she stated firmly. She reached into the silver-trimmed leather bag she carried and withdrew a set of papers which she handed across the desk.

  Harris took the paperwork from her, read through her description in the passport then checked the letter. Serena could clearly see the doubt behind his shuttered expression. Her heart thumped uncomfortably and she forced herself to sit still while he pondered a reply.

  “I would like to believe you, I really would.” He gave her a hard, unwavering stare. “However, I have to tell you that I am not convinced you are who you say you are.”

  “Not who I say I am?” Serena echoed. “But are not my passport and Randolph’s letter positive proof?”

  “These papers could be stolen,” Harris insisted. “How do I know that you are not a maid with aspirations above her station? How do I know that you yourself have not had a hand in Randolph’s disappearance? Until that issue is resolved, one way or another, I will continue to extend the courtesy of addressing you as Lady Buxton but I simply cannot allow you access to those funds.”

  Serena’s jaw dropped, her eyes grew wide with fear.

  “But, but...” she stuttered.

  “No buts, Lady Buxton. Please consider my position.” Harris held up his hand to silence her. “One. I’d never heard of you until your arrival yesterday. Two. There is no conclusive evidence that Randolph is either alive or dead. He is simply missing. Three. If I allow you access to his funds and then it is discovered that he is dead, this bank would be under investigation in relation to whatever instructions his will contains. An
d, you could be charged with theft. Allowing you access to those funds is, quite frankly, illegal and therefore too much of a liability.”

  Serena could not find the words to respond. Her mouth was dry and her tongue refused to co-operate behind the prison of her teeth. She had never considered the possibility that she would not be believed. Her knees trembled as she stood up. She steeled herself to look Frank Harris in the eyes.

  “In that case, Mr. Harris, I will waste no more of your time. Good morning.”

  Gripped by a fear beyond anything she had ever known, Serena stalked out of the office with her head held high and her back ramrod stiff.

  No husband.

  No money.

  What was she to do now?

  Chapter Four

  Frank Harris had not believed her. How could he not? Her passport accurately described her. Randolph’s letter had been sent to her at Buxton Hall from Cold Creek.

  Blinded by anger, Serena walked down a set of steps and splashed through the slush in the street, regardless of how it soaked her boots and muddied the hem of her skirt. She climbed another set of steps, the hollow sound of her footsteps on the boardwalk echoing in her ears but hardly registering in her brain. Raucous laughter filtered slowly into her awareness and she stopped, looked about, and found herself outside the Lucky Strike Saloon.

  How had she gotten here? Before she could recover herself and cross the street to the Eldorado, a group of horsemen pulled up in front of her.

  “Well, look ‘ee here!” The first rider grinned at her, revealing a mouthful of stained and crooked teeth that reminded her of broken tombstones. “New blood in town.”

  “Hello, fancy lady,” the second rider said. “You goin’ to share a drink wi’ me before we share somethin’ else?”

  The other riders dismounted and gathered around her, jostling Serena until her back flattened against the wall of the saloon. Her mouth quickly dried up. Her heart pounded. She smelled their sour breath and sweat-stained clothes, felt their anticipation and wished she had paid more attention to Sheriff Johnson’s warning.

  “Oy, you lot!” Every head turned at the strident tone of a woman’s distinctly English voice. “Jasper, you idiot, you don’t know a real lady when you see one. Cal, you wouldn’t know what to do with one anyway. Tom, Walt, Clarence, stand back and give the lady some room. Clear off, the lot a’ ya.”

  Grumbling, the men turned away and walked into the saloon. Serena closed her eyes and sighed with relief.

  “Are you stupid, or what?”

  Serena pushed off the wall and faced her rescuer. The force of the expression in the woman’s blue eyes almost caused her to take a step back again.

  “I...I wasn’t thinking,” she stuttered.

  “That was perfectly obvious,” the other woman retorted. “Come on, we need to get you off the street. This way.”

  The woman took Serena’s arm in a strong grip and hurried her along the boardwalk in the opposite direction to the Eldorado.

  “In here.” The woman opened a door and pushed her into a store redolent with the warm and wonderful aromas of coffee and fresh baking. “Go on, straight through that door facing you. I’m right behind you.”

  Her rescuer’s hand, firm on her back, gave Serena no choice but to go where directed. The moment she passed through the second door, she spun on her heel.

  “Just who are you?” she demanded. “And what gives you the right to push me around?”

  “Well, pardon me for breathing.” Anger spiked the woman’s voice and blazed in her blue eyes. “You’d rather be pushed around by a bunch of randy miners, would you?”

  “No, of course not. And I do thank you for coming to my aid, but who are you?”

  “Someone you shouldn’t be seen with, that’s for sure.”

  “Why shouldn’t I be seen with you?” Serena looked her rescuer up and down and might have been looking in a mirror, so similar were they. The woman was her height, dressed in clothes as fashionable as her own. Tendrils of hair, blonde rather than dark brown, framed the woman’s face and, just like Serena’s own skin, the woman had a fresh, clear complexion.

  “Because I’m Lorelei Sutton and I own a brothel just outside of town.”

  “But you’re English,” Serena blurted out.

  Lorelei laughed. “So that would somehow prevent me from owning a brothel?”

  “But you seem so, so normal,” Serena muttered, her embarrassment clearly showing in the two bright spots of pink that flared in her cheeks.

  “Oh, brothel owners should have two heads or carry a sign?” Lorelei said. She pointed to a chair. “Here, Serena, sit down and I’ll get us some tea.”

  She left the room and only then did Serena realize she had not been addressed as Lady Buxton. How had Lorelei known her name? She quickly answered her own question. Anyone who had seen her luggage labels would know her name and where she stayed. Gossip, it seemed, raced around Cold Creek as quickly as any English village.

  When Lorelei returned carrying a tray of tea and cakes, she was accompanied by another woman whose curiosity showed clearly on her face.

  “This is Maggie O’Connor.” Lorelei put the tray down. “She owns this bakery and the boarding house across the street. Maggie’s one of the few in Cold Creek who allows me across their doorstep.”

  Serena shook hands with Maggie, noting how the smile on the woman’s face made her green eyes sparkle.

  “So that’s why you brought me here,” Serena said.

  Lorelei nodded. “Cold Creek’s not a place for a woman of your quality to be walking alone.”

  “And then, if I am seen with you, I’ll not be considered a woman of quality?”

  “Exactly.”

  “But I might be forgiven if I didn’t know who you were.” Serena sipped the tea Lorelei poured for her.

  “Possibly.” Lorelei looked doubtful. “But there’s no point in tempting fate which is why Maggie will walk you back to the hotel.”

  “But not until you tell me how you came to own a brothel.” Her curiosity aroused, Serena did not intend leaving until she knew.

  “Are you sure you really want to know?”

  “Of course.” Serena lifted her cup. “And it will give me time to finish my tea.”

  “Well,” Lorelei looked down at her hands while she collected her thoughts. “My family is from Hertfordshire. We lived just outside of Lechlade and I suspect my upbringing was much the same as yours. Nothing much expected of me except that I marry, produce children and manage home and hearth. But I fell in love with our groom, Eddie Sutton. We eloped and were married in Southampton, just before we left for America.”

  “Where is Eddie now?”

  “Dead.”

  The blood drained from Lorelei’s face and her pretty blue eyes dulled to a flat, expressionless gray the color of pewter.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry,” Serena whispered, wishing she hadn’t asked.

  “He got gold fever practically from the start,” Lorelei admitted. “He bought a claim from a fraudster in New York and we came to California. Of course, the claim didn’t exist and he finished up working where he could, mostly on ranches because of his skill with horses. But we were always following gold tales until we finished up here. He bought another claim, positive that this time he’d find a glory hole. He worked it until his hands were raw, for nothing more than about an ounce and half of gold.”

  Lorelei fell silent and sipped her tea.

  “But wasn’t that good?” Serena asked.

  Lorelei nodded. “But not good enough for Eddie. He kept digging even after men who knew better told him to give it up. All he talked about, thought about, even considered, was gold.” She got up and paced the floor. “When he hit the mother lode we were going to have our own ranch, or go home to England and breed thoroughbred racehorses, or travel, or invest, or this, or that, always something more outrageous and impossible. Then winter hit, and he still worked out there day-after-day in freezing cold. He didn’t come
home one night, and the next day a neighbor accompanied me to the claim. We found Eddie, still with a shovel in his hand, frozen beside the creek.”

  Serena shivered just thinking about it. “And then?”

  “You’re quickly going to find, Serena, there are few choices for a woman alone in a frontier town,” Lorelei warned. “My landlord turned me out of our shack because I couldn’t pay the rent. No one wanted to risk hiring a penniless widow so I went to Mrs. Larch, who owned the brothel back then. She took me in because I could read and write. Because of her failing eyesight I kept her records and checked the men...”

  “What do you mean, ‘checked the men’?” Serena’s eyes widened in shock. “You surely didn’t have to look at their, well their...”

  “Penises,” Lorelei finished for her while Maggie, who until now had sat silently listening to the conversation, exploded with laughter. Lorelei ignored her. “Yes, I did. Mrs. Larch took pride in having a clean house. If the men were unwashed, they were directed to a side room to clean up before they were allowed upstairs. If any of them had the slightest sign of infection they were told to see the doctor and turned away.”

  “Do you still do that?” Intrigued in spite of herself, Serena held her breath while she waited for the answer. Maggie poured more tea, chuckling at Serena’s shocked expression.

  “No.” Lorelei shook her head. “I have Nurse Annie do that. She looks after all the girls.”

  “And you, too?”

  “Yes, but not in the way I think you mean.” Lorelei’s color had returned and a sad smile hovered on her mouth. “I have never prostituted myself, Serena, and I don’t care if you believe me or not. Mrs. Larch paid me well to manage her house and in that respect my family would be proud of me. When she died, she left me the business. And believe me, it is a business.”

  Serena sat quietly, considering Lorelei’s story. She looked at Maggie, who smiled and shook her head.