Dinner at the Gold Rush Inn was all Abby had expected and more. Not that she could keep her eyes open long enough to enjoy it fully. By the time the last nibble of cherry pie had been swallowed, she very nearly fell asleep at the table.

Neville managed to rouse her long enough to see her back to the Ivory Tower, where she dressed in her nightgown and tumbled into that cozy bed.

All night long, Abby dreamed about cherry pie. She could still taste it, even in her sleep. Images of cherries floated by, followed by memories of that handsome stranger—the one who had rescued her from the rowdy local men. She’d seen him again at the inn, this time hard at work, waiting tables. Funny, that he would land in her dreams as well. Not that she minded. Not at all.

The following morning, Abby awoke with a thousand thoughts running through her head. She needed to send the letter to Mother, of course, and some sort of message to Father as well. He would be worrying about her, no doubt. How would he take the news of their diversion to San Francisco? Only time would tell, but she could anticipate concern from his end.

After a quick breakfast at the hotel, she advised Neville of her intentions and he insisted upon accompanying her to the post office. Thank goodness the main street was virtually void of cowboys and miners this morning. Perhaps they were sleeping in. No doubt the loud music coming from the nearby saloon late last night kept them awake.

Neville seemed in better spirits this morning, though he insisted on keeping a watchful eye on her as she made her way across the street toward the post office.

“You would be proud of the way I worded my message to Mother, Neville. I made San Francisco sound like a glorious adventure, something she won’t want to miss out on.”

“A work of fiction?” he countered.

“Hardly. I’ve told her that the city is teeming with life, night and day. That people are arriving daily from all over the world. That San Francisco boasts the most eclectic, diverse people one could ever wish to meet.”

“That would be putting it mildly.”

“I’ve reminded her that a visit to California is a visit to the gold capital of the world.”

Neville responded with a grunt. “I would prefer to send a note stating that we are leaving San Francisco by tomorrow morning, if it’s all the same to you.”

After mailing the letter to her mother, Abby followed up with a telegraph to Father. He would, no doubt, be relieved to hear from her after no word since St. Louis.

“I need to make a stop at the mercantile, Neville,” she said as they stepped out of the telegraph office. “I am in need of a few personal items.”

“Of course.” He gave her a curt nod. “And I am in need of a shave and a haircut. I took note of a barbershop just a few doors down. Perhaps I could spend a few minutes inside while you shop.”

“Perfect. That will give me time to get what I need.”

“If you’re sure you can manage without me.”

“I’m not a child, Neville,” she said for the hundredth time.

He merely shrugged.

They parted ways at the door of the mercantile and she walked inside. What was it about a general store that always made her feel at home? This one had a broad selection of merchandise, things she was familiar with, but odd things as well. Shovels. Pans. Gloves. Things that miners would need.

As Abby perused the merchandise, she was approached by a man in a business suit. For a moment, she almost forgot she’d landed in a rugged western town. This man had all the markings of a Philadelphia gentleman from his styled hair to his tailored attire. The clear-cut lines of his profile caught her attention at once as did the dark hair and trimmed mustache.

A smile turned up the edges of the handsome stranger’s lips, revealing two well-placed dimples. This drew her to him even more. “Well now, I don’t believe we’ve met.” His eyes twinkled as he fixed his gaze on her. “And I was sure I knew everyone in town.” He stuck out his hand. “Marcus Denueve. And you are…?”

“Abigail Effingham. Just arrived in town yesterday afternoon. I knew some Denueves years ago, from Paris.”

“The town of my birth.” He brought his hand to his chest, as if overcome by this news. “But I call San Francisco home now. Are you here to stay?”

“Not at all. Just passing through.”

“Pity.” He offered an exaggerated pout. “But now that you mention it, I’d heard that a pretty lady had arrived. The men didn’t exaggerate.”

Abby hardly knew how to respond to such a comment. She tried not to let her gaze linger on the man but couldn’t help herself. Dark wavy hair, deep-blue eyes, the color of the dress she now wore. Clean-shaven face, unlike most of the men in town. Father would approve of this man, no doubt. Judging from his dialect, he’d only been in the States a few years, at best. She could still hear the warmth of Paris in his voice.

“Welcome, Miss Effingham.” His handsome face lit in an inviting smile. “We trust you will stay on for some time and get to know us better.”

She could listen to this man speak for hours. That rich, melodic tone felt familiar, as if she were talking to an old friend from home.

“I hope to stay until my mother arrives from the Oregon Territory,” she managed at last. “That can’t happen until the roads open up.”

“Won’t be long now. But we look forward to getting to know you better in the meantime.”

By “we” she felt sure he meant “he.” Abby cleared her throat.

“I will leave you in the care of my head clerk, Mr. Kennedy.” Mr. Denueve tipped his hat and walked away.

The clerk, a wiry older fellow, glanced her way. “What can I do for you today?”

Clearly not French. Midwest, perhaps?

“I need a few things for my stay, starting with ladies’ personal things.”

“Don’t have much of a selection of items for women-folk, but what we have is right over here.” He led the way to a lone shelf filled with serviceable items for females.

“Perfect. I’ll take two of these …” She pointed at the unmentionables. “And four of these.” She picked up several handkerchiefs.

He snatched them and tucked them under his arm. “Anything else?”

“Talcum powder, please, and licorice, if you carry it. That will do for now.”

She followed him to the counter and reached for her purse. “How much do I owe you?”

“Six dollars and fifty cents.”

“W–what?” Abby could scarcely catch her breath. “Six dollars and fifty cents?”

“Yep.” He continued the task of wrapping her items, oblivious to her inner wrangling.

“For these few things? I could have purchased them back in Philadelphia for a fraction of that price.”

“You’re in San Francisco now, and things are a bit different here.”

“You can say that twice and mean it.” She glanced down at her purchases, her thoughts in a whirl. “Well, in that case I’ll have to adjust the number of items. I’ll just take one handkerchief, thank you, and skip the licorice.”

This news appeared to aggravate the clerk, who huffed as he tallied up her purchases again. She paid the necessary money and turned on her heel, nearly running into Marcus Denueve. She almost lost her bundle in the process.

“Excuse me, Miss Effingham.” Mr. Denueve tipped his hand. “Didn’t mean to get in your way there.”

“Oh, I’m fine.” A bit flustered, but fine.

“You are, indeed.” This time his words left little doubt to his meaning.

“Well, I should really be on my way. I need to head back to the hotel and get settled in. I’ll need to locate the laundry and then the bank.”

“I could help you with that.”

“Surely I can find them on my own.”

“But you’re not from around these here parts, are you now?” He gave her an inquisitive look. “You’ll need a navigator.”

“Nottingham. England.”

“I see. Miss Effingham from Nottingham. Very nice.” He stroked his chin and appeared to be giving her a solid once-over. “They grow ’em pretty in Nottingham.”

“Th–thank you.”

“In which hotel are you staying, Miss Effingham?”

“The Ivory Tower.”

“Finest place in town, befitting a lovely lady like yourself.” He crooked his arm. “Please allow me to walk you back.”

She shook her head and rejected his offer of kindness. “Thank you, but I do not require a chaperone.”

His expression spoke otherwise. “Clearly you do not know San Francisco.”

“Clearly you do not know me.” She offered what he hoped would look like a convincing smile.

“I see. Well, watch out for yourself, Miss Effingham.”

“I always do. Besides, I’m not headed back to the hotel just yet. I have to stop off at the barbershop first.”

“Oh?” His arched eyebrows showed his surprise. “In want of a shave and mustache trim?”

She fought the temptation to roll her eyes at his silly joke. “No. I am meeting Neville.”

“Neville?” Mr. Denueve’s brow wrinkled in what could only be construed as curiosity. “Your beau?”

She laughed. “Oh, for pity’s sake, no. Neville’s our family butler. He accompanied me because Father wouldn’t allow me to travel alone. He’s rather old-fashioned like that.”

“Your father, or the butler?”

“Well, both, actually.” She laughed. “But I need to go quickly, if you don’t mind, because Neville will worry. That’s what he does, you see, when he’s not got me in his sights.”

“I can see why a man would worry not to have you in his sights.” My goodness, but this man could flirt. Of course, the French accent made the whole thing rather enjoyable, but she would never admit that to anyone other than herself.

Abby bid Mr. Denueve good day and walked a few doors down to the barbershop, which was teeming with boisterous men. Within a minute or two of her arrival, she regretted it. Neville was in the process of being shaved—that, she could see through the window—but took no notice of her. The other men in the shop, however, did. Whistles and catcalls followed. Either Neville had fallen asleep or was completely oblivious. He did not stir from his place in the chair.

Just when she’d decided to take a step inside the barbershop, a voice sounded from behind her. “I don’t recommend it, miss.”

She turned to discover the handsome young man who had come to her rescue in the street the day before, the same fellow she’d seen at the Gold Rush Inn last night. Abby couldn’t see past the specks of gold in those beautiful green eyes. He raked his fingers through his blond wavy hair and shook his head. “You’ll be taking your life into your hands if you do.”

Abby certainly didn’t want to risk danger to fetch Neville, but what choice did she have, save the obvious one of standing here, staring into the most handsome face in town?

Sam couldn’t believe his luck as he clamped eyes on the beautiful young woman dressed in blue. After yesterday’s episode with the men, he had wondered about her well-being. He’d taken note of her at the restaurant last night, of course. He’d seen the way she’d downed that cherry pie. But to find her here, at a barbershop? Seemed a bit odd.

“As I said, I wouldn’t go in there, Miss …”

“Abby. Er, Abigail Effingham.” She seemed to stumble over her own name.

“If there’s someone inside you need, I’ll be happy to fetch him for you.”

“Oh, I don’t need anyone to be fetched, exactly. I just wanted to let Neville know that I’m out here, waiting for him.”

“I’ll be happy to share that information. Just stay put, and if any of those men come around, don’t talk to them.”

She looked aghast at this notion. Her gloved hand flew to cover her mouth, then she pulled it away. “They will find me unsociable.”

“It’s best if they find you unapproachable, and that’s a different thing altogether.”

“Hmm.”

He pointed to the bench in front of the shop, and she sat like an obedient child. Then Samuel went inside to fetch Neville, whom he found sleeping in the chair underneath a hot towel. Unwilling to disturb the fellow, he walked back outside to join Miss Abigail. Perhaps this was a stroke of fate.

“Won’t be much longer,” he said as he took a seat next to her on the bench.

“Ah. Well then, I’ll wait.”

“And I’ll wait with you, if you don’t mind. Can’t abide the thought of leaving you alone.”

“Neville asked you to do that, no doubt.”

“Not at all.” Sam cleared his throat. “But your saying that he might convinces me that he cares a great deal about your well-being. He’s not your father, then?”

“He’s my family’s butler. His caring can be a bit … stifling.”

“I’m not sure we’ve been properly introduced.” Sam extended his hand. “I’m Samuel Harris. My father owns the Gold Rush Inn.” He gestured with his head to their family-run business across the street. “I believe you had dinner with us last night.”

“Best cherry pie I’ve ever eaten in my life.”

“That’s Cookie for you. She’s top notch.”

The young woman clasped her hands together with obvious zeal. “She’s renowned. I heard about her in Missouri, you see.”

“You heard about Cookie in Missouri?” This caught him by surprise. “Really?”

“A waiter on our train. Do you know a Jimmy Blodgett?” She shifted her bundle to the bench.

“Name sounds familiar.”

“He lived here a few years back. Came with his father. Now he works for the railroad. But, apparently, Cookie’s good home cooking made quite an impression on him. He sang her praises. Loudly.”

“Well, go figure. I’m from Missouri myself.”

“I could have placed you, based on your speech.” The young woman folded her hands and placed them in her lap in ladylike fashion.

“Really?”

“Yes, but you have the western drawl down, as well. Fascinating mix.”

“Drawl?”

“Ever so slight.” A smile softened her lips. “Have I offended you?”

“Not in the least.” He found all of this intriguing, in fact.

“You seem well acclimated.”

“Acclimated?” He laughed. “You have no idea how hard I’ve worked not to be acclimated to this area. I’m the opposite of most everyone you see here—a fellow with a solid upbringing. No rowdy, raucous free-for-alls. No gambling. No drinking. Born and raised with the same neighbors, same church folks on Sundays.”

“Rather out of your element, then.”

Her words had a lilt, an unusual accent, one he couldn’t quite place.

“Say that again.”

She repeated the phrase: “Rather out of your element, then.”

He did his best not to repeat the words aloud. “Sounds so different when you say it. Where are you from?”

“England, of course. Nottingham, by way of London.”

“I wish I had your gift for picking up on speech patterns. Couldn’t quite figure it out.”

“I’m still speaking English, you know.”

“A different version than the English I grew up with in Independence.”

“But English, all the same.”

The air hung thick between them and Samuel couldn’t tell if he had offended her or not. “Can you teach me to sound like that?” he asked after a moment.

Abby cocked her head. “Now I know you’re making fun of me.”

“I’m not. The Gold Rush Inn could stand a bit of refinement. Let’s start with my speech. You turn me into a proper gentleman, and we’ll attract a finer crowd.”

“I’ve no need to change you. Why, I barely even know you.” She flattened her palms against her skirt.

“You can’t picture me in a fine suit with slicked-back hair?”

Her cheeks flushed as she looked at him. “I can picture it.”

“Then teach me your ways and I shall be your willing pupil.” He did his best to sound formal. “Our patrons will thank you.”

Her gaze traveled to the Gold Rush Inn with its chipped paint and crumbling exterior. “I doubt your patrons will care, one way or the other. You’ll pardon my saying so, at least I hope you will, but if I had stumbled across an inn with the words ‘gold rush’ in the name, I might have anticipated something altogether different.”

“Oh?” Sam gazed at the inn and tried to see it through her eyes. “How so?”

A thoughtful look passed over her. “Well, the word gold brings to mind refinement. Beauty. Elegance.”

He snorted. “Around here, the word gold brings to mind mining, Levis, icy river waters, and panning.”

“I see.” Her nose wrinkled, and for the first time he noticed a splattering of freckles. “Nevertheless, an inn with such a name might be a little more …”

“Fancy?”

“Tidy. If you’ll forgive me for stating the obvious.”

Sam gave the building a closer look. “I’ll admit, she could use a bit of a fix-up, but Father hasn’t had time for that. He’s been too busy taking care of the bills associated with the running of such a place.” And what bills they were, especially the ones from Marcus Denueve.

“Folks always say you can’t judge a book by its cover—or in this case, an inn by its exterior—but I disagree. Folks do judge by outward appearance, whether we like to admit it or not.”

“Not the fellas around here, I assure you. As long as they have a pillow to rest their head and a hot meal, they are happy.”

She gave him an incredulous look. “But aren’t you trying to attract a new crowd, perhaps bring in the type of people who wouldn’t ordinarily frequent such a place?”

“Such a place?” Surely she didn’t mean to trample on his toes, but the words stung.

At once her expression softened. “I’m sorry. I’m just saying that you could bring in a high-end clientele if you put a lovely facade on the front of the building.”

“We’re not lacking for business, if that’s your implication. We rarely have a room to spare, trust me. I’m not looking for new—what did you call it, again? Clientele?”

“Yes.” Abby gave the building another look. “Forgive me. I’ve overstepped.” She turned his way with an apologetic look. “I tend to do that. I suppose you could call me a fixer.”

“No harm done. And for the record, I was just joking when I asked you to teach me how to speak. I don’t need a facade, and neither does our building. The men around here could care less about formalities. They’re looking for serviceable, not fancy.”

“Then they will appreciate the handkerchiefs at the general store.”

“Beg your pardon?”

“Nothing.” She shook her head. “I must agree that the people here are different, but I find them fascinating.”

“Half these men come in here wide-eyed, filled with wonder and hope. The other half have watched the rivers play out. They’re regretting the money they’ve wasted over the past couple of years and the gold nuggets they’ve thrown around like pieces of dirt. Wishing they had it all back.”

“Big money, big problems.” Abigail released a sigh. “That’s what my father always says.”

“Your father is right.” Samuel gave her a tender glance. “Sounds like a good man.”

“He is. Just a little … preoccupied.”

“With business?”

“Yes. As are many men, I suppose. But Father would have been better served to pay more attention to the goings-on at home. Maybe then Mother wouldn’t have …” Her words drifted off and her cheeks blazed red. “I’m sorry. I’ve said too much.”

“Folks always say I’m the kind of fella you can talk to about pretty much anything. And as for what you’ve said, it’s a good reminder to keep things in balance, I suppose. I’ve watched my father do the same thing. I dare say he will have many regrets at the end of his days, having chosen the love of money over the love of family.”

“Precisely.”

She gave him a sympathetic glance, and in that moment, he felt they probably had more in common than he’d imagined.

“Our fathers are not the only men to set their sights on money.” She turned back toward the barbershop window, appearing more anxious than before.

“The town is full of such men. Ever heard the phrase ‘chain reaction’?”

“Of course.”

“Well, that’s what’s happened here. That first nugget was found, and word got out. Next thing you know, folks started trickling in. Then they came like a flood. Then, before we knew it, we were drowning in people from all over the world.”

“I’ve never seen such a mix of cultures before, though Jimmy told me to expect it.” She pointed to a group of men walking by. “Chinese?”

“By the thousands.”

“They’ve come such a long way to seek their fortune. I do hope they find what they’re looking for.”

“They have families to feed back home. A trip—however hazardous—to the Land of Opportunity, and they can care for their families’ needs for a lifetime. Most have set up shop and earn their gold that way, not from the rivers.”

“Wise.”

“We’ve got fellas from Central America too. And Germany. Name your country and it’s represented here. San Francisco has become a melting pot of cultures.”

“Fascinating.”

“One fellow tried to pay me in foreign coins. I had to turn him down. You’ll find lots of languages here, but only one common currency.”

“The dollar bill?” she asked.

“Gold nuggets. Don’t be surprised if the fellas tip in gold. But beware fool’s gold. It’ll get you every time.”

“My goodness. Well, speaking of gold, I’ve found the prices here to be rather …”

“Shocking?”

“To say the least. I’m stunned. I’m not sure how long we’ll be staying at the Ivory Tower.” She released a sigh and he could read the disappointment in her eyes.

“I’m afraid we’re all full up at the Gold Rush Inn, unless you happen to be looking for a job. I’ve got a room waiting for our new cook’s assistant.”

“Job?” Those beautiful blue eyes widened.

“Yep. You interested?”

“Oh, no, I …” She looked stunned by the very suggestion, and he was sorry he’d brought it up.

“How long are you planning to stay?”

“Until the roads open up to Oregon Territory.”

“You’ve got a few weeks then. Spring thaws always wash ’em out until at least June.”

“I see.” She paused and appeared to lose herself to her thoughts. “What sort of position did you say you’re wanting to fill?” she asked after a few moments of silence. “I’m not saying I’m interested, but in case I stumble across someone who is.”

“I need someone to help out Cookie in the kitchen and to help me wait tables. Ever done anything like that before?”

She shook her head.

“Never too late to start. You’d catch on quick.”

“Doubtful, but I will keep it in mind.” She jerked to her feet and grabbed her bundle. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’ll be on my way to the hotel. I’m suddenly exhausted.”

“What about your butler?”

“If you don’t mind, please tell him I’ve gone on ahead.” Abigail turned on her heel and headed down the road toward the Ivory Tower.