❧
One autumn afternoon when blue haze hid the bustling town below and gold leaves fell like treasure from heaven, Brit and Joy stopped to rest on a rock outcropping. Content just to be near the man she had learned to love second only to God and unwilling to consider the future, Joy gazed unseeingly at the distant mountains.
“Joyous, what do you want from life?”
His quiet question caught her unprepared. It took all the effort she could make to keep from crying out, “Love, a home with a tall, blue-eyed man who will love, protect, and father my children.”
Brit, obviously unaware of the turmoil beneath the worn blue-and-white check bodice of her dress, continued, “It’s such a strange life for a woman like you. Do you ever be for wanting jewels and fine houses?”
Hot tears blinded her. How could she answer without giving away the secret only God knew or could ever know—because of Dolores? She faltered, “I loved our little home in California. We had everything we needed there.” But not all I need now, her heart reminded. Then I knew not of a woman’s love for a man in my life. Desolation fell on her like a blanket. Even when she and Angus went back, the place could no longer be home. Her soul and understanding had become enlarged and broadened with its hidden love. She could never go back to the childish contentment the farm offered.
“I don’t mean to be for prying, but why did Angus bring you here?” His widespread hands indicated the surroundings.
“I’ve never known. He isn’t greedy. He cares for wealth only for the good it can do.” A pucker of her brow drove away other thought. “We had used most of what we had found in the California streams and hills, but the farm gave us our living all those years.” She sighed and twisted her hands, subconsciously comparing them with the slim, white hands of the absent Dolores. Sturdy, like her body, and hardworking, they fell short of perfection, although she kept her nails cared for and rubbed tallow into her hands to prevent chapping.
Did he suspect how troublesome the thought was to her, she wondered when he softly said, “One day the man our Father wants you to love will come, Joyous. Perhaps when you least expect it, the way love came to me the moment Dolores Montoya pulled off her man’s hat and I discovered her to be a girl, no, a woman.”
To hide the fresh pain his words brought to her tender heart, Joyous jumped up from the rock. “We must be going or Mrs. Betsy will think we’ve fallen into a canyon or something.” She kept her face averted from the almost holy look of worship in Brit’s eyes when he spoke of the Spanish woman he planned to impress and marry. She also decided not to spend so much time with him. Each time she did, it became harder to submit to his well-planned future and his talk of Dolores.
“What does he think of me, God?” she whispered one sleepless night when autumn’s cold warned that winter lurked in the nearby mountains and crept lower each day. “I know we are friends, but why did I have to meet Brit O’Donnell when his heart is already given away?”
The answer to her questions came as suddenly as Brit and Carlos had done weeks before. Mrs. Betsy fell ill before Angus and Carlos returned from their expedition, even before Reverend Mills finished his circuit that reached as far as shacks and caves housed souls who needed to hear the Gospel. One afternoon she laughed and joked in her usual way; a few hours later she cried out, bringing Joyous out of deep sleep.
“Are you for being all right in there?” Brit’s voice came clear, along with his knock on the crude door.
Joy snatched a dressing gown, hastily donned it, and threw open the door after a quick glance at Mrs. Betsy, whose pallid face glistened with sweat in the moonlit room. “I think she’s awfully sick.”
In one stride Brit reached the bedside, gazed down, then ordered, “Bring a light.”
She obeyed, but her fingers trembled so that she almost dropped the old lamp and Brit had to light it.
“Mrs. Betsy, what is it?”
Her ashen face and shallow breathing showed pain. “My side.” She pressed her hand low on her abdomen.
“Do you still have your appendix?” Brit demanded. He turned back the covers and gently pressed her hand.
She gasped and her face contorted, but her sense of humor held. “Brit O’Donnell, I’ll have you know I’ve kept all the parts the good Lord gave me!”
“I suspect you won’t be for keeping that appendix.” He told her grimly then swung toward Joy. “Bathe her face in cold water. Don’t let her drink or eat anything.” He marched out into the other room with Joy at his heels.
“Are you sure it’s her appendix?” She clutched his sleeve.
Brit nodded. “I’ve seen them before—in Ireland and on the Promised Land. He scowled. “And us without a mount.” He shrugged into his warm coat. “Thank God for the moon. I’ll come back with the doctor as soon as I can.” He walked out and banged the door behind him.
For the second time, Joy remained in the cabin where death hovered in the shadowy corners. She faithfully kept cold compresses on Mrs. Betsy’s face and neck, hating the agony in her friend’s eyes and passionately wishing she could do more. What seemed days later but was in reality a short time, the clop clop of horses’ hooves sent her flying outside.
“How is she?” Brit flung out even before he dismounted from his borrowed horse.
“The same.”
The doctor grunted, slid from his horse, grabbed his bag, and hurried into the shack. Joy noticed the tail of a night shirt stuffed into his trousers.
A few minutes later, he announced, “This appendix has to come out.” He ignored Joy’s quick breath, Brit’s low mutter. “Boil water. Get out sheets and—” His staccato orders sent the two who loved Mrs. Betsy scurrying. The crude table in the cooking area became an operating table. Every lamp and candle in the shack combined to provide light. Yet the doctor gritted his teeth and barked commands between clenched lips. Brit staunchly stood by his side, assisting, while Joy kept boiling more water, warming blankets, and a dozen other things the doctor commanded. An hour later, Mrs. Betsy lay white, spent, and minus an appendix, snugly tucked back in her cot.
The doctor permitted himself a smile. “Nice little job of stitching I did there,” he said dispassionately.
“Will she be all right?” Joy quavered, unstrung by the rapidity of the happenings.
“Unless infection sets in. She’s strong and healthy, and I reckon the Almighty knows how much Virginia City needs her and her preacher husband.” The doctor’s gruff voice didn’t quite hide his concern. He gave succinct directions for her care and added, “I’ll leave the extra horse here, just in case you need me.”
Brit said the last thing Joy would have expected. “Doctor, is there. . .will there be talk about my being here with Miss Joy? I mean, now that Mrs. Betsy. . .” he floundered.
“Son, what’s got into you?” the doctor snapped. “She’s still here, isn’t she? Besides, even folks around here are willing to make allowances in time of trouble.”
Brit didn’t give an inch. “I just don’t want any kind of gossip going the rounds about a woman like Joyous.” His eyes flashed and a fighting-Irish look came into his face. “I’ll not be for saying what will happen, should there be a slur cast.”
The doctor laughed, but in subdued tones. It made him seem more human and less an efficient machine. His eyes twinkled. “Son, should that happen, this old sawbones will be proud to put in his fists along with you.” He collected his stained instruments, plopped them into a basin of steaming water Joy offered, and began to clean them.
❧
Mrs. Betsy slowly healed and without infection, but time and again she said, “Land’s sakes, I must be getting old. I just feel so poorly, as if I’ll never be able to do a lick of work again.”
The doctor scolded and told her not to worry; she’d be up and chasing dirt in a few weeks. Reverend Mills disagreed. He had been thoroughly shaken when he came from his rounds and found his wife flat on her back.
One day he called Brit and Joy aside and told
them, “When she’s able to travel, I need to get Betsy away for a time. This is no place for her, even with all your good care. She needs better food and, pardon my saying it, a little more comfort than Virginia City affords.”
“I understand.” Brit nodded, then walked away with a thoughtful look.
A day or two later when the miners returned with the news that no one had found their claims, Brit called Carlos aside immediately. In a moment, the dusty but undaunted youth bounded into the little room where the reverend sat next to Mrs. Betsy. “Everything is settled.” His black eyes shone. “I, Carlos Montoya, offer you the hospitality of my hacienda. Ah, Señora Betsy, you will love the flowers and the warm air and the blue sea.”
She turned her head away to hide slow tears that escaped and tattled of her continued weakness. “Thank you, Carlos, but we have no money, no way to get there.”
He growled low in his throat and drew his slim self up. “Pesos are nothing, and you are my guests.” He raised his voice and drowned out their protest. “Señor Brit and I will arrange everything.”
Hope crept into Mrs. Betsy’s eyes and a longing that eloquently spoke of her beauty-starved soul. “Oh, is it possible?”
Her husband capitulated. “It is a gift from God, my dear. We must thank Him and the Montoyas.”
Joy hadn’t realized how easily money could accomplish the near impossible until she waved good-bye to her friends who rode off in a well-padded wagon toward Carson City. She knew they carried funds enough to purchase passage by stagecoach or, if necessary, hire a team and driver of their own to carry them to the California coast!
“Now Señorita Joy will have to come to Monterey,” Carlos reminded.
Angus remained strangely quiet through the bustle of getting the Millses off except to say, “Joyous, the lad is right. Ye will want to see Carlos’s hacienda one day.”
“As soon as we mine all the silver and pan all the gold you have found, we will go,” she promised. Yet her keen eyes noticed how tired and gray Angus looked. A pang went through her. Why, he looked old. Not the kind of agelessness Angus had carried for years but a deepening of furrows. His formerly gray hair had turned nearly white. How could she not have seen? A small fear sidled into her heart and she added impulsively, “I wish we had gone with the Millses. What need have we of riches?”
“Señor Brit must find much wealth if he is to marry my sister,” Carlos reminded. He hunched his shoulders and looked at the sky. “I think the snow comes soon.” He shivered.
“You miss California, don’t you, Carlos?” Joy softly asked.
“Si.” He gazed west and south, then shrugged again and reverted to his usual cheery self. “She goes nowhere, my hacienda. In the spring we will go home rich men.” He doffed his sombrero in a low bow. “All in Monterey will say, ‘See Señor Angus and Señor Brit, they own great mines. Ah, there is Señor Carlos, but who is the beautiful señorita with hair like a sunset?’ Then I will say, ‘These are my friends.’ ”
Brit interrupted before Carlos could continue his prediction. “What they should be for saying is, ‘If it were not for Señorita Joyous and her good father, three lives would have been lost. Their nursing saved Brit O’Donnell, Carlos Montoya, and Mrs. Betsy Mills.’ ” Frank admiration shone in his face. “Seldom it is that such a beautiful face is matched by a gentle, giving spirit, truly gifts from our Father in heaven.”
Joy’s eyes stung. The weariness of hard work and worry threatened, leaving her unstrung. Yet she rejoiced. Some day her path and Brit’s would part, perhaps never to cross again. Yet until the day she died she would remember his tribute. . .and cherish it against the loneliness that lay ahead, the ache of knowing in spite of his bedazzled state, the man she loved would taste bitter dregs in the marriage cup he shared with Dolores Montoya, who awaited him—and his wealth.
nine
Two vows Brit O’Donnell had made: First, to work at any honorable job until he could provide for his family. Second, to somehow earn enough to be in a position to approach Don Carlos Montoya and ask for his daughter’s hand in marriage.
By the summer of 1861, he had accomplished both—along with his loyal partners, Angus and Joyous McFarlane and young Carlos Montoya, who represented his parents. The three men had insisted that Joy be considered a full partner, although the law recognized no such claim on the part of a woman.
“So much for the law.” Carlos carelessly waved aside such trivialities in their meeting. “We will simply declare two parts of all we find to be Señor Angus’s share and one for each of us.” His amazingly simple solution met with instant approval from Brit and a little more reluctance on Angus’s part.
Snow white hair topped his thin face and waved when he demurred, “Ye have put in more money toward developing and running our mines.”
“Si, but there would be no mines and no Carlos or Señor Brit if you had not found and cared for us,” Carlos flashed back indignantly.
They finally agreed. To Joy’s surprise, Angus insisted that it all be drawn up legally and on paper. Until then, all transactions had been on trust.
“ ’Tis to protect the remaining ones should the unexpected happen,” Angus explained, and the others nodded. They went to the finest and most honest lawyer they could find and came away with papers he said would stand up in court in the newly declared Nevada Territory. President James Buchanan had signed the act in March. Two days later, the newly elected President Abraham Lincoln appointed a New York City politician, James Nye, as governor.
Before the territorial government could be set up in Carson City, southern troops fired on Fort Sumter, a Charleston, South Carolina, military post, opening the door to the Civil War. Now the tremendous importance of the Nevada gold and silver resources boosted production. Both North and South needed money to pay for the war. President Lincoln wanted those resources for the Union—which most Nevadans favored—and needed another state to bolster his antislavery amendments. However, Nevada Territory simply didn’t have the more than 127,300 residents necessary to become a state.
“California is a free state,” Carlos boasted. “Never will there be slaves in its great borders.” The same longing that had softened his midnight eyes months before now returned, along with an almost imperceptible sigh that Brit caught.
Brit also sighed. Letters to Dolores were of course not permitted for they were not officially affianced and his only news of her came through infrequent epistles from the family to Carlos. He began to consider the future. He and the others had reaped the rewards of their work. They no longer lived in a shack but in a well-built two-story house big enough for them all. Why shouldn’t they sell out, make a clean sweep, and leave Virginia City? His heart beat fast. He could keep his vows to his family and to Dolores. Two long years stretched between the time he and Carlos rode away from Monterey.
A great longing drove him to seek out Angus, who frequently commented he’d just rest a spell, now thing were going so well. He found the old man sitting on the porch of the house that stood on the site where the shack had been. Laughter from the kitchen told him that Carlos and Joyous wrangled over some trifle and were safely out of the way.
“Angus, I’m for selling out our holdings and moving on.”
The old prospector’s eyes lit up. “Lad, it is glad I am to hear ye say it.” He cocked his head and lowered his voice. His direct gray gaze peered deep into Brit’s heart. “All these months, I’ve watched ye. Now I want to give ye the most precious thing I have.”
Brit involuntarily started.
“Lad, my time is short. It’s only been extended because I asked our Father to let me live until I could find one worthy of a great trust.”
Brit’s throat choked off. “No, Angus. Why, if you’re sick we’ll get you the best doctors in Carson City, or in California—”
“Nay, lad. Listen while we have the time. I’ve thought it out in my mind and I don’t want Joyous to know until the end is verra near.” More and more a Scottish burr crept into his
speech and his eyes gleamed with righteous zeal. “My last days are to be ones of happiness, as all the years I’ve had the lass have been. But when I’m gone she will need a man to help her. At one time I thought ’twould be Reverend Mills, but since he and Mrs. Betsy felt called to stay in California, it’s not to be. Britton O’Donnell, will ye vow to care for my lass the way I have done, to see she isn’t troubled by those who crave her fortune? What I have will be hers. Will ye do this for an auld prospector so he can meet his Maker knowing he did the best he could for the sweetest bit of womanhood ever to walk this Nevada Territory?”
“With all my heart, I will.” Brit’s strong hands shot out, caught the other’s timeworn fingers, and held them. “Even though you may be for living a long time yet.”
Again Angus shook his head, but the somber look in his face had lifted and changed to relief. “Nay. The good doctor has warned me the Lord is counting down my days.”
“Don’t you think Joy has a right to know, so she can be a bit prepared?” Brit demanded when their handclasp ended.
“P’rhaps. Yet knowing canna prepare her.” Truth rang in the wise old Scotsman’s voice, grown strong by Brit’s vow. “Knowledge would make her suffer our parting not once, but a dozen times. I have your word ye won’t tell her until I say?”
“You have.” Brit felt his self-control leaving him. The months and years he had known Angus had deepened gratitude for his rescuer into love for him and for his adopted daughter. Not the kind of love that flamed in his breast for God or his love for the woman Dolores, but respect, caring, appreciation of two persons who trod as best they could in the steps of the Master. The old prospector and the waif of the desert had woven invisible strings around Brit’s heart, ones he knew would never be broken.
“Now, about the mines. Sell them for the best price. Sell the house here, too.” Angus’s rare smile made his craggy, worn face radiant. “Either I’ll go with ye to Monterey or ye will take the lass. Should the girl ye love not welcome her, ye are to follow the instructions written in this wee packet.” He took a folded bunch of papers, grimy, bearing mute witness of being carried around for a long time, from his shirt pocket. “This tells ye how to see Joyous to the home of the Millses. The deed to the little California farm is there, as well. Give it to Joy along with the letter. And lad, see to it she knows the greatest gift God ever bestowed on me was my finding her that day long ago.” He rose and stepped off the porch when light footsteps warned them their tryst was about to end. “I’ll just walk a bit so she canna guess. . . .” He swallowed the words and went around the side of the house.
Veiled Joy Page 9
