“Aww, c’mon, Bess.” Ian jostled the reins.
Her tail started to spin in a circle—a sure sign she’d made up her mind and wasn’t in any mood to listen to his plans. “Bessie, Bessie, Bessie,” he crooned.
She turned to the side and gave him a baleful glare. Mules in general, and Bess in particular, would hit a point where they got tired and simply refused to work another minute. Her scraggly tail spun again.
“All right. You’ve done all you can today.” Ian released the plow and walked up to give her an appreciative pat on the withers. “You’re a good girl. You’ve worked hard.”
Freed from her obligations, Bess wandered away. Ian hung the harness on the hefty pegs he’d driven into the outside of the smokehouse. He paced back to the plow. Leaving it in place was okay, but he needed to scrape off the worst of the muck so it wouldn’t dry and turn into a heavy, jagged crust.
“Done?” Meredith asked.
“Not yet. Bess decided she’d worked enough for the day, so I’ll finish the last two rows first thing tomorrow.” He scraped off one last glop. “How’s the laundry going?”
“My laundry line is full. I wanted to know if you’d mind me pinning clothes to the rope over the river.”
“I don’t think that’s the best idea.”
Meredith wrinkled her nose. “I understand. I was afraid something might fall in.”
“Not something. Someone.” Straightening up, Ian slid his knife back into the belt sheath. “Clothes can be replaced. Fast and cold as that water is, we can’t risk you. I’ll string up something.”
“We don’t have any more rope, Ian.”
“Ah, but lass, I have wire. It ought to serve.” He located the crate containing the wire, and Meredith decided where she wanted him to string it. Cheery as a lark, she chattered and laughed as he wound the wire securely around a branch. When Ian reached to secure the second side, Tucker shouted his name.
“What?” Ian called back.
“Get over here.” Tucker stood with his arms akimbo. His voice sounded harsh as a whip. “We’ve got to have a talk.”
Until now, Tucker had been a shade taciturn. Wry, too. But he’d never been overbearing. He’s protective of his sister. He doesn’t want me around her. Ian decided to finish his task. “I’ll be over in a minute.”
“Now,” Tucker ground out.
Eight
“Something’s wrong.” Meredith scurried toward her brother. Ian hastened alongside her.
Tucker stepped back into the shade behind the smokehouse. He yanked her arm and shoved her past himself.
“That’s no way to treat a lady!” Ian glowered at Tucker.
Ignoring Ian’s protest, Tucker rasped harshly, “Look.”
“Ian’s done a wonderful job, Tucker.” Meredith gave her brother a puzzled glance. “It’ll be a fine garden, indeed.”
“No, it won’t.”
“Tucker, you can’t say that. We have solid plans.”
Ian hunkered down, then shot to his feet. “We’ll change our plans.”
Meredith gawked at him. “What has gotten into the two of you?”
Ian held out his hand. A small white stone with a tiny thread of color was nestled in his palm. “Gold fever.”
Staring at his hand, Meredith tried not to let her hope run amok. That one small glint of yellow wasn’t enough to sneeze at.
“Look.” Tucker stooped down and brushed away more dirt. “White quartz. Gold is most often found in white quartz.”
“The vein is slim as a cobweb, but it’s there.” Excitement pulsed in Ian’s voice. “Glory be to God!”
Tucker rose and wiped his fingers off on his pants. He stuck out his hand. “Congratulations, Rafferty. You’ve struck gold.”
Meredith shot a startled look toward the woods. Tucker was right. The quartz was a solid four feet from the property line—and on Ian’s claim.
Ian extended his right hand, clasped Tucker’s, and shook. “Aye, we’ve struck gold.”
Lord, look at Tucker. He’s trying so hard to be honorable. You know how much he needed that gold. But if someone else is to have it, there’s no finer man than Ian Rafferty. Meredith swallowed the bitter taste of disappointment. “You’re right. The plans will change now. Ian won’t need a garden.”
“Nonsense!” Ian turned loose of Tucker’s hand and faced her. “We’ll need good, hearty food to prospect. It’s just that instead of coaxing mustard yellow from this spot, we’ll mine gold!”
Meredith managed a tipsy smile. “That was clever. We’re very happy for you, Ian.”
His brows knit. “For me?” His eyes widened. “Oh no. No, no, no. This belongs to all of us.”
“It’s on your claim.” Tucker sounded as if he’d backed into cactus.
“And you discovered it.” Ian folded his arms across his chest. “I’m going to be stubborn, so you’d best just agree. This is a fifty/fifty partnership.”
“Don’t be a fool.” Tucker turned and started to walk off.
“Tucker Smith, we struck a bargain. I’m holding you to your word. You are a man of your word, aren’t you?”
Meredith gasped.
Tucker wheeled around. “You’re questioning my honor?”
A slow smile lifted the corners of Ian’s mouth. “You agreed that anything coming from the garden would be split half and half. An honorable man’s word is his bond. Either you stick with that bargain, or you renege. What’s it going to be?”
“It’s not that clear-cut.”
Ian turned toward her. “It’s plain as can be to me. You were there. Did your twin agree to an even split?”
Unsure of how to answer, Meredith tried to recall exactly what they’d said. Part of her wanted to agree with Ian and remove some of the financial burden from Tucker’s shoulders. On the other hand, she didn’t want to take what wasn’t rightfully theirs. “We were discussing the garden. We said we’d all labor and share equally in the yield, but—”
“There’s no but. We agreed.” Ian’s smile would be smug if he weren’t being so astonishingly generous. He looked from her to Tucker and back again. “I’m holding you to your word.”
“All our neighbors combined aren’t as demented as you are.” Tucker stared at Ian. “We don’t expect you to do this. The discussion was about produce, not gold.”
“Yield.” Ian stared her brother in the eyes. “I distinctly remember the word yield, and so does your sister. The matter is settled. We are going to have one problem, though.”
Tucker looked wary. “What’s that?”
“Abrams. The minute he comes across the bridge and sees this, he’ll be a problem. I can just imagine him going to Goose Chase, getting soused at the saloon, and blabbing.”
“So he won’t know about it.” Meredith reached up and tucked an escaping tendril of hair behind her ear. As soon as she finished the mundane task, she realized Ian was watching her intently. What is he thinking? The other men in the area all want to marry me to ease their lives. Ian hasn’t said a thing, and he’s even doing his own laundry. He isn’t like anyone else. I can’t figure him out.
“Why not?” He still didn’t stop gazing at her.
“Why not?” Meredith echoed as she scrambled to recall what they’d been conversing.
“My guess is, Sis figures Abrams will think you’re spending all sorts of time gardening.”
“Exactly!” Relief flooded her.
“That excuse won’t last long.”
Tucker shrugged. “No, but it’ll at least last through next week. By then, he’ll have gone to town and returned. Meredith and I have been panning at the river’s edge. A few prospectors in the region are digging shafts. With you being new to the claim, no one will give a whole lot of thought to you going about things your own way.”
“Good.” Ian smiled. “You asked if there was anything I wanted from town. Another pickax would be smart. A sledgehammer, too.”
“I have both.” The tiniest bit of pride rang in Tucker’s
voice.
“Now how do you like that?” Ian’s eyes twinkled. “The partnership couldn’t be off to any better start than that!”
“One more thing. I’m holding you to your word, too.” Tucker jabbed his forefinger at Ian. “You said if the rocks cried out, you wouldn’t sing. Well, the rocks cried out. I personally think it’s God’s way of sparing Meredith and me from having to hear you slaughter tunes.”
“Well, now, you do have a point.” Ian scuffed his boot in the overturned soil. “I won’t sing.”
“Fine.” Tucker walked off.
Ian winked at Meredith. “You’re my witness, lass. I vowed I’d not sing. I said nothing about whistling or humming.”
❧
Ian admired his handiwork. Meredith would be so pleased when she saw what he’d made! He’d encouraged her to go to town with Tucker yesterday. They’d be back late this afternoon.
Ian stepped backward. Squish. He gritted his teeth at the disgusting sound. Distracted as he was, he’d gone directly into a puddle of mud that now threatened to suck off his boot. It’ll be too hard for Meredith to walk back on paths like this in one day. It might be tomorrow ere they return. All the better. I’ll get more done and surprise her.
Two days ago, while Tucker, Abrams, and he had roofed his new cabin, Meredith had planted her cabbage and beans. Ian fought with himself whether to plant the rest of the seeds and surprise her, or to wait and have an excuse to spend time in the garden with her. In the end, he compromised and planted potatoes and carrots in her absence. The rest they’d do together.
Spending the last two nights under his own roof had felt odd. Lonely. While he’d slept outside by the fire, the arrangement seemed temporary. A whole canopy of stars kept him company. But sleeping indoors—well, it didn’t seem right for the house to be so impossibly still.
Back home, Da snored. Ma often mumbled in her sleep. Fiona’s bed creaked in protest when she’d flop over to be closer to her lamp so she could read late at night. The only other time he’d felt this way was when Braden married and moved from the room they’d shared and carried Maggie over the threshold of the small cabin next to the farmhouse.
What would it be like to marry Meredith and start a family here? Though larger than the Smiths’ cabin, Ian’s still wouldn’t be big enough to hold the big family he hoped to have. When the time comes, I’ll add on.
His stomach rumbled. Ian headed back into his house to rustle up something to eat. He’d burned the cornmeal mush for breakfast. That experience made him decide he’d probably do no better cooking in a fireplace than he did over the fire pit he currently used. When Abrams went to town next week, Ian would have him post a letter. He’d already sent one with Meredith—a short one that reassured Ma that he was safe and had good Christian neighbors and a sound roof over his head. The next letter would give Ma a special task: Send a stove!
He’d never given much thought to how hard Ma worked at the stove to cook. Meredith made it look easy as could be to throw together delicious meals at the hearth in her cabin. After a prolonged search, Ian found the recipe book Ma had created just for him to bring along.
Twenty-five minutes later, he peered into the pot and wondered why the rice looked so soupy.
Abrams lumbered across the bridge and sniffed. “I reckoned you’d be gettin’ vittles. What’re you making?”
“A mess.”
The old man sauntered closer. “A mess of what?”
“It’s supposed to be rice.”
“Looks like a bowl of maggots.”
Ian slapped the lid back on the pot.
“Squirrel. That’s what we need. Chuck in some squirrel meat, and it’ll be a fine stew. Grab that bow and arrows of yours. I don’t wanna wait all day. I’m hungry.”
Ian’s stomach growled. “You know how to make stew?”
“Yep. Any idjit can. Just dump in the right stuff, and there you have it.” Abrams pulled the rice from the fire. “Gotta set that aside, else it’ll burn.”
Abrams proved to be astonishingly adept at cooking. By the time Ian skinned and chopped one squirrel, Abrams had done the other two. “Son, gotta tell you, that squirrel is lucky he died quick from your arrow. Nothing deserves to be hacked up like that. It woulda been called torture if he was still alive.”
“It’ll still taste good.”
“No thanks to you. We need a pinch of salt and a dash of pepper. What other seasonings d’ya have?”
“What else do you want?”
“Sage and thyme. Onion, if you’ve got one.”
Almost an hour later, Ian slapped another glob of mud over the twigs he’d jammed into the spaces between the logs of his cabin. Chinking the cabin was essential—but it didn’t take his mind off the delectable aroma wafting from the pot. “Abrams, I’m washing my hands. After that, I’m going to dive headfirst into that stew.”
“It’ll be ready by then.”
As they sat and ate, Ian motioned toward the pot with his spoon. “If I didn’t know just how tired Meredith and Tucker will be when they get back, I’d eat every last drop and lick that pot.”
“We could make a second pot for them.”
Abrams looked dead earnest, but Ian decided to treat his remark like a joke. He chortled. “You’ve a fine sense of humor.”
“Well, you got a lotta food, you know.”
“Not really. I brought what the recommendations are for one man for a year.”
“I watched when you unloaded all the stuff Wily delivered. You brought more’n two hundred pounds of sugar and least a hundred pounds of cornmeal ’stead of fifty.”
“I did.” Ian nodded. “But I brought less canned fish and meat. I’m also hoping to grow more vegetables. Tucker and Meredith have advised me to ration my food very carefully, and I figure they know what they’re talking about.”
“Humph.” He scraped the bottom of his bowl. “You can’t be sure they’ll be back today.”
Instead of arguing, Ian changed the topic. “Do you have any empty bottles on your claim?”
“A few. Why?” Abrams squinted. “Don’t tell me you’re gonna wrap yourself up in a temperance banner and preach all the evils of alcohol. I’m a grown man. I can do whatever I please.”
“It’s not for me to condemn you. I wouldn’t mind having some empty bottles, though.”
“Most of ’em don’t got a lid anymore. And if you’re plannin’ to store food in ’em, it won’t work. They’re nothing but trash.”
“I see.” Ian stood. “Well, I suppose we can leave the pot off in the ashes and hope the stew tastes half as good at suppertime as it did for lunch.”
“Better. The longer it rests, the move flavor you get.” Abrams stood up. “I’ll bring some bottles when I come for supper.”
Ian smothered a smile. It didn’t escape his notice that Abrams had invited himself to supper. Anticipating that had prompted him to bag three squirrels at the outset. “You do that.”
“We gonna have coffee?”
“Might. Then again, might not. How many bottles do you have? I’m talking quart-sized, not dinky, piddling ones. Round ones.”
“Dunno. I’ll check.” Abrams scuttled back across the bridge.
Ian went back to chinking his cabin.
“Six,” Abrams shouted. “I got six so far.”
“Is that all?” Ian didn’t doubt for a moment that Abrams had plenty more. For the rest of the afternoon, Abrams kept hollering as he scrounged up more bottles, and Ian would simply nod.
“Twenty-nine! Dunno why you want ’em, but that’s gotta be all I’ve got.”
“Twenty-nine?”
“You wantin’ ’em round’s gonna give me fits. I never paid any mind to how many things come in rectangular bottles.”
“Bring over everything you’ve got.”
“Shoulda said so in the first place.” Glass clinked in the metal washtub as Abrams crossed the bridge. It took him three trips to tote over an eye-popping assortment of bottles that once held
everything from beer to whiskey, cod liver oil to hair tonic. The empty containers turned a patch of dirt into a glittering heap. “That’s a lot of bottles. You have to admit, it’s a fine assortment.”
Ian gave Abrams a good-natured shove on the shoulder. “At lunch, you said they were trash.”
“I gave up valuable time I coulda spent panning for gold. My time’s worth plenty.”
“I agree. We’ll have coffee after supper tonight.”
Abrams’s eyes narrowed. “Strong coffee—not that stingy, dishwater-weak brew.”
“Strong enough to float a horseshoe. Between now and then, I have work to do.”
Abrams shook his head. “Work is prospectin’. I have yet to see you work a lick. If all you wanted was to be a farmer, you shoulda settled somewhere else.”
“My family has a grand farm in Oregon. I wanted some-thing more, something different.”
“Sure don’t look that way,” Abrams muttered as he left.
Ian stared down at the bottles. As he’d expected, most of them had once held spirits. Those didn’t capture Ian’s attention. He stared at the other ones. Braden insisted upon Maggie’s taking a daily dose of Dr. Barker’s Blood Builder because she’d always been on the delicate side. Fiona used Princess Tonic Hair Restorer. It seemed ludicrous that old Abrams used both of those products, too—but the proof lay there. On occasion, Da used Peptonic Stomach Bitters. Ma insisted that everyone take a teaspoon of Norwegian cod liver oil each morning. Odd, how ordinary glass bottles would bring back so many memories.
Ian surveyed his claim. Much as he hated to admit it, Abrams had a point. Like a good farmer, Ian had come, built a sturdy home, seen to a smokehouse, and plowed a field. Did I leave home only to recreate the exact same thing here?
Nine
The last rays of sunlight dimmed as Meredith hit the edge of Abrams’s claim. “See? We made it.”
Tucker gave her an exasperated look. “If you say, ‘I told you so,’ I’ll push you in the river.”
“No, you wouldn’t. I’d push you in first because I’ve listened to an endless string of grumpy mutterings all day.”
Golden Dawn Page 6
