Thomas shouldered his way through the throng of men on the station platform in Gold Crossing, looking for Charlotte. A head taller than most, he got a good view over the forest of hats—bowlers, Stetsons, slouch hats, even a top hat. There had to be almost thirty men waiting for the train.
At the far end of the platform, Dottie Timmerman and Gladys Hayes sat on wooden chairs, bedecked in gowns with ribbons and frills, parasols twirling overhead. Manuel Chavez, the one-eyed card dealer from the Drunken Mule, stood beside them, holding a gleaming trumpet in his hands.
The whistle of the train blew in the distance. A plume of steam rose like a white ribbon against the blue sky. The iron rails began to vibrate. The men cheered and surged toward the edge of the platform, fighting for the best position.
Thomas cast one final glance around, satisfied that Charlotte had remained away. Not out of good sense, he thought ruefully. She must be busy putting the finishing touches on the schoolhouse.
The train rolled in, screeched to a stop. Manuel Chavez lifted the trumpet to his lips and blew out a fanfare. Gus Osborn and Gus Junior held up a banner that said Welcome to Gold Crossing. Art Langley, looking officious in a frock coat and with a mayor’s sash across his chest—he was the one wearing the top hat—stepped forward to make an official welcome speech.
The train door opened. A small, dapper man carrying a fancy leather suitcase in one hand stepped down and glanced around him. “Blimey,” he said with a delighted grin. “Didn’t think you was so happy to see me.”
“Where’s the women?” shouted a man in a long duster.
“And the orphans!” yelled Gladys Hayes from the end of the platform.
“There’s no one but me.” The small man lifted his case higher. “Ed Newland at your service. I drum business for Newland Distillers. No more rotgut but fine bottled whiskey with assured quality.” He shook his head in wonder. “Best welcome I’ve ever had. I guess you folks care about your whiskey.”
“There’s no women?” Art Langley asked.
Newland shook his head. “Not as much as a petticoat.”
A man in a black suit rushed toward the train. “I don’t believe you,” he shouted. “I’ll see for myself.”
The crowd of men roared in agreement. Thomas watched as they surged forward, fighting each other to climb into the single car behind the steam engine. He could see them through the train windows, hurrying up and down the corridor, peering beneath the seats, as if the widows and orphans were playing hide-and-seek with them.
Only a minute later, the men emerged one by one through the door.
“There’s no women.”
“Langley, you bastard. You fooled us.”
“You just wanted to fill the saloon and sell your liquor.”
“I want my money back,” shouted the man in a black suit.
“I want my money back, too!”
“And me. Four dollars I spent on a bed and dinner!”
The chorus of men cried out how much Art Langley had fleeced them with his false promises about women arriving. The crowd surged into motion, heading toward the Imperial Hotel. One of the men picked up a rock and hurled it through a small side window. The tinkle of shattering glass mixed with the yells of angry males.
“Gentlemen. Gentlemen.” Art Langley rushed ahead and stood on the steps, arms raised, like a politician on the campaign trail. “I assure you, the women will arrive. I have a signed contract from the Widows and Orphans Association in San Francisco. There must have been some delay.”
“We’ll burn down your saloon.”
Thomas saw a flash of alarm in Art Langley’s eyes, but the lanky businessman showed no other sign of panic as he addressed the furious crowd.
“Gentlemen, I assure you—”
Another rock hurled through the air. It hit Art Langley in the shoulder. Thomas pushed forward. Enough was enough. He climbed up the steps to stand beside the beleaguered mayor of Gold Crossing.
“Enough of that!” Thomas roared. “Are you men, or a bunch of stray dogs on the scent of a bitch? You should be ashamed of yourself. If there had been any women on that train, they would have locked the doors and gone straight back to San Francisco, without ever setting foot in this town.”
The crowd stilled but he could hear their angry murmurs.
Thomas went on. “If Mr. Langley says there’s widows and orphans coming, then there’s widows and orphans coming. And I’m sure there’s something he can do to compensate you for the inconvenience of a wasted trip.”
Art Langley flashed a strained smile. “Free drinks! Free drinks for everyone at the Drunken Mule.” He pulled out a pocket watch on a chain from his waistcoat and flipped the lid to check the time. “It’s three o’clock now. Drinks will be free for the next hour, until four o’clock.”
Like an advancing army, the men surged up the steps and into the hotel. Thomas stood aside. Free drinks didn’t sound like such a good idea to him, but at least he had prevented a riot before the men switched their attention to Gus Junior and blamed the boy for spreading false rumors in his Informer.
* * *
Thomas sat alone by the window at the Drunken Mule, leaning back in the chair and lazily sipping from a glass of whiskey. Around him, the crowd was thinning. The miners were hardworking men, not inclined to waste daylight hours in a saloon, and only a few of them had benefited from the free drinks to excess.
“Listen to this, fellers!”
Thomas peered into a shadowed corner where three miners sat together. Two were dressed in worn jackets and canvas trousers and bowler hats they kept on even indoors. The third looked like a gentleman, with a gray broadcloth suit and neatly clipped dark hair.
One of the bowler hats was talking. He was studying something on the table before him. Thomas pushed up to his feet and craned for a look. It was a copy of the Informer. He settled back down in his seat and listened as the man read out loud.
“‘It is with regret that we announce the marriage between Mr. Thomas Greenwood, of Gold Crossing, and Miss Maude Jackson, from New York City, is to be annulled. Miss Jackson has taken employment as a schoolteacher until she can make arrangements to return to her home in the East.’”
Thomas felt his ears burn. It sounded so trivial, the way it read in the paper. His shattered dreams had been reduced to a single paragraph under the heading Matrimonial and Family News.
“It’s that sodbuster’s mail-order bride,” the well-dressed miner said. “The one who came in on the train a month ago.”
“I saw it.” It was the taller bowler hat, the one who had been doing the reading. “They were married right there.” He jerked his chin in the direction of the porch outside.
The smaller bowler hat spoke with a thick German accent. “I hear the sodbuster turned down a thousand dollars for her.”
“She was a beauty,” the well-dressed miner said. “Worth a million.”
The tall bowler hat pushed to his feet. “Well, if she is no longer married to that sodbuster, what are we waiting for? There’s a woman, right here. Let’s go and call on her. The schoolhouse is a little way back from the church.”
Thomas stiffened. But it was resentment, not fear. They seemed good men, decent men. If they wanted to call on an unattached female, he had no right to stop them. No right at all. He waited for the three miners to troop out of the saloon. Then he got up, tossed back the rest of his drink and followed them.
* * *
Charlotte heard the banging on the schoolhouse door. She’d been drawing a map of the United States on the chalkboard, copying it from a book. She’d got the southern border right, and the West Coast didn’t look too bad, but the Eastern Seaboard was going all crooked, and drawing Florida made her blush.
“Come in,” she called out and put away the piece of chalk.
Gus Junior had already been to tell her that the widows and orphans had not arrived. She vacillated between relief and terror—relief because her competence as an educator would not be tested just yet, terror because if the orphans did not come, she’d be out of a job.
The door flung open and three men crowded into the tiny room. Two wore bowler hats and the rough work clothing of miners, the third a neat gray suit. All three wore tall boots that clattered against the floor.
“Gentlemen.” Charlotte inclined her head. “How can I help you?”
It never crossed her mind to be afraid. Papa had often brought his ships’ crews home to Merlin’s Leap. She’d known dozens of disreputable-looking sailors, and had discovered that most of them possessed hearts of gold, or at least of silver.
The taller man in a bowler hat puffed out his chest. “We’ve come a-callin’.” He had pockmarked skin and hollow cheeks, as if he’d been starving. He could be no more than twenty. A boy, really. An eager, overexcited boy.
Charlotte smiled. “You are most welcome. Perhaps you’d like coffee.”
“Coffee would be very nice,” said the man in a gray suit. “I’m Stuart. Jenkins. These fellers are Mortenson and Rathke.”
“Nice to meet you,” Charlotte replied. “I’m Miss Jackson.”
“Howdy, Miss Jackson.”
“I’ll put the coffee on.” Eyes sparkling with mischief, she clapped her hand to her mouth. “Whoops. I only have one cup. And there is nowhere to sit. The desks are too small. You’ll get stuck if you cram into them.”
“Ve fetch table and chairs from the hotel.” The shorter man in a bowler hat, Rathke, spoke in a clipped accent.
“Oh! Sind Sie Deutscher?”
“Osterreicher.”
“Splendid.” Charlotte flashed her visitors another bright smile. “I’ll put the coffee on. You can fetch a table and chairs. Put them outside, and we’ll have a garden party. Don’t forget to bring three more cups.”
She watched them clatter away on their booted feet and set to work. As she was measuring coffee into a pot, the hair at the back of her neck prickled. She spun around and saw Thomas leaning against the door frame, arms crossed over his chest. He was wearing his Sunday suit and a flat-crowned black hat that looked new. So, he had been to meet the train, too. Her back stiffened. Wasn’t two brides enough for him?
“What do you want?” she said.
She hadn’t quite forgiven him for burning their marriage certificate, or—if what Gus Junior had said was true—for sending for a second mail-order bride even before she had returned home to Merlin’s Leap.
“Just came by to see everything is fine,” Thomas replied.
“I see.” Charlotte gave a brief nod, ashamed of her sharp tone. Thomas had plenty of reason to be angry with her. She needed to be understanding. She was at fault in their situation, not him. “I’m about to have a garden party,” she informed him. “Would you like to join in?”
Thomas did not move from the doorjamb. “Did you buy that tin of coffee?”
“No,” she told him. “Miss Hayes gave me a bit, to get me started.”
Thomas made a noncommittal sound. Charlotte frowned. She suspected coffee would be terribly expensive to buy. Everything seemed to be.
Art Langley had paid her for the first month in advance. She had spent four dollars on a plain green cotton dress, the one she wore now, and two dollars on a straw bonnet. That only left four dollars for supplies until she got paid again.
Outside, she could hear banging and curses and friendly squabbling.
The Austrian miner appeared in the doorway. “Table is ready.”
“Fine,” she said. “I’ll join you in a minute.”
The coffee boiled in no time. She carried the pot outside, taking a small slate writing tablet with her to use as a pot holder.
The men were lounging in wooden chairs at one of the square gambling tables from the hotel. Five chairs. Four men. Three cups. Charlotte poured and passed out the cups, leaving Thomas till last.
“Whoops,” she said with an artificially sweet smile. “We seem to have run out of cups.”
Thomas dipped one big hand into the pocket of his unbuttoned suit jacket, pulled out another cup and set it on the table. There was a hard edge to his smile.
Charlotte poured for him and resisted the temptation to create a spill. She put the pot down, dashed back inside to fetch her own cup and filled it with the last dregs from the pot—she had only allowed for three guests—and sat down in the vacant seat.
“Well, gentlemen,” she said brightly. “This is nice.”
She took a sip from her coffee. It was nothing but grounds. The sun burned down on her head. Flies buzzed around her. The tension in the air was thick enough to slice with a knife.
“What are you doing still hanging around her, Greenwood?” the hollow-cheeked boy said under his breath. “You had your chance and you couldn’t hold on to her. Now clear off and let us have our turn.”
“I’m seeing that Miss Jackson gets to return safely to the East where she belongs,” Thomas replied. “It’s clear she isn’t cut out for the life here. I’m sending her back because I don’t want to see her worn to death from farm chores and childbirth.”
Charlotte nearly choked on the coffee grounds.
The hollow-cheeked boy, Mortenson, made an expansive gesture with his coffee cup. “When I strike it rich, I can buy her silk and lace and diamonds and furs. She’ll have a houseful of servants and she’ll never need to set foot in the kitchen.”
Thomas lifted his eyebrows. “And until then? Until you strike it rich?”
The young miner shifted awkwardly in his seat and said nothing.
Thomas took a sip and put his coffee down. “Until then you’ll expect her to live in a tent, which is freezing at night and sweltering during the day. She’ll spend her days doing laundry in a muddy stream and cooking on a campfire. Even I could offer her more than that.”
The well-dressed miner, Jenkins, spoke. “Greenwood, I mean no criticism, but if the marriage has been annulled, perhaps you should stay away from Miss Jackson and give her the opportunity to meet another man who might suit her better.”
“Gentlemen,” Charlotte said. “Mr. Greenwood and I bear no ill will toward each other.”
“Fine,” Thomas said, narrowing his eyes at Jenkins. “I paid two hundred dollars for her passage. You are welcome to court her, but first you must pay me back my two hundred dollars.”
A dark flush rose on the other man’s face. “You talk as if women could be bought and sold.”
“Isn’t that what’s going on here?” Thomas took another sip from his coffee, his movements perfectly calm. “Mortenson here wants to buy her with gold he hasn’t even found yet. You want to buy her with a fine education that has no value on the frontier.”
“My educational credentials are worth more than a few acres of fields scratched out from the wilderness. I have a degree in Latin and Greek. I—”
Thomas cut him off. “Latin and Greek?” He tilted his head to one side, as if considering the matter. “I think there’s a Greek cook in one of the mining camps. Yes, your education might be of some use, if you come across the Greek fellow.”
Jenkins surged to his feet. “Now, look here...”
“I will find gold,” Mortenson said.
“The heck you will,” Thomas replied.
Mortenson lifted his half-empty coffee cup and tossed the contents in Thomas’s face. Thomas didn’t cry out, didn’t swear, didn’t say anything. He didn’t even flinch. Slowly, he unfolded to his full height behind the table.
Charlotte held her breath. He seemed so formidable, the slow certainty of his motion more daunting than any threats. It occurred to her that she had always thought Thomas a peaceful, calm person, but maybe it was because he had always taken care to appear so in front of her.
Mortenson circled the table and charged with his fists raised. Thomas stepped aside. When the boy lurched past him, Thomas grabbed the collar of his jacket with one hand, the seat of his pants with the other and lifted him in the air. The boy kicked and thrashed. One of the blows connected with a thud against Thomas’s cheek.
Charlotte jumped up and down. “There’s no brawling here,” she yelled. “You are my guests. I’m a lady. There’s no brawling here.”
No one listened to her.
Brawling was exactly what they wanted.
* * *
Thomas didn’t like fighting. It didn’t seem fair. His size, strength and reach gave him an advantage which tipped the balance in his favor. But sometimes pressure built up inside a man, like the steam builds up inside an engine, and then a man had no choice but to let it out before he did something worse.
The three miners ganged up against him. Thomas didn’t mind. It evened the odds a bit. But not much.
Jenkins danced and dipped and darted about, delivering quick jabs. The man had the benefit of some boxing training, Thomas could tell from his fancy footwork. The Austrian, Rathke, was the most tenacious. Mortenson fought dirty. The tooth marks on Thomas’s arm were proof of that.
Rathke charged at him again, head dipped low. Thomas tensed his stomach muscles and took the impact. Behind him, Mortenson jumped onto his back. The man’s arms came around Thomas’s neck in a suffocating hold. In front of him, Jenkins danced and weaved. Thomas felt a blinding blow on the crest of his cheekbone.
Enough.
Time to end it.
He brought up his left knee and heard a crunch when it connected with Rathke’s nose. The Austrian staggered back, blood pouring from his broken nose.
One down.
Next, Thomas curled his fingers around the arms that held his throat in a chokehold. He gripped tight and made a sudden twist, bending low at the waist. The force of the motion sent Mortenson spinning over his head. Thomas let go and Mortenson landed in a sprawl in the dust.
Two down.
In front of him, Jenkins bounced on the balls of his feet, delivering his little jabs. Lacking patience for such finesse, Thomas waited for his moment. When Jenkins lowered his left arm, creating an opening, Thomas waded in with his right, then followed with a left hook that lifted Jenkins into the air. Thomas pulled his right arm back for another blow but there was no need. Jenkins crumpled to the ground.
Three down.
“Go,” Thomas said to Rathke, who was standing to one side, spitting blood.
“Ja, ja, ich gehe.”
Thomas spoke no German, but the man’s hasty retreat said enough. On the ground, Jenkins groaned. Thomas reached down to pull the man up to his feet. This one, he could respect.
Making a halfhearted attempt to beat the dust from the man’s clothing, Thomas shoved him on his way. “Go,” he said. “And don’t come back.”
He turned to Mortenson, who lay sprawled on the ground, a dazed look in his eyes. Thomas picked him up by his collar and the seat of his pants and threw him after the others. “Don’t forget your friend.”
His breathing was harsh. His pulse pounded in a frantic beat. Pain throbbed in his cheek and his cut lip and his grazed knuckles. His muscles were hurting from the blows and his left arm stung where the bastard Mortenson had bitten him hard enough to pierce his skin, even through the clothing.
Somewhere at the edge of his blurred vision Charlotte was hovering, clenching and unclenching her fists. She’d been yelling something about not fighting in front of a lady. Thomas felt a quick burst of shame. What would she think of him? He took pride in being a peace-loving man, and now she had seen him engage in a brawl.
“Thomas! Thomas!”
“Huh.” He shook his head, like a bear coming out of hibernation. He heard the patter of small feet on the gravel. Cool hands closed around his face.
“Are you all right?” Charlotte asked.
He looked down at her. She was looking up at him. There was worry in her eyes, and something else that made them sparkle, bright and full of life.
“I’m fine,” he said.
Charlotte let out an exasperated sound, something between a snort and a gust of laughter. “You’re a mess. Your suit is torn, your lip is bleeding and I wager you’ll have a black eye. Don’t tell me you’re all right.”
Thomas felt himself being shoved backward. He didn’t resist. After a few shuffling steps he bumped against a chair behind him, and sank into it.
“Stay there,” Charlotte said. “I have hot water on the stove.”
Exhaustion swept over Thomas. He tipped his head back. The sun was low in the sky. It was past six o’clock. He’d have to get going soon if he wanted to ride home before dark.
Charlotte returned outside, carrying a bowl of water. A small linen towel hung over her arm. She set the bowl on the table, dipped the cloth into it and bent over him.
“Close your eyes.”
Thomas did as he was told. Gently, she bathed his face, her fingers searching out the cuts and grazes, the hot water easing the sting on his skin. Thomas lifted his lashes a fraction and watched her. She leaned closer, studying the bruise on his cheek.
He could slide his hand behind her head and pull her closer, and they would be kissing. He had only kissed her once, on their wedding day. He should have kissed her when he could. When he had the right. He should have bedded her, when he had the right. She couldn’t have left him then. She would have been forced to stay with him.
And now, he could pull her down to him and kiss her, out in the open, for anyone to see, and the whole town would know it was not over between them. She would know it was not over between them.
The aggression of the fight still pumped through him, driving needs that had festered inside him ever since he first laid eyes on Charlotte. The force of the temptation frightened him. All he wanted right now was to tumble her into his lap and tear off her clothes. Thomas closed his eyes, clamping down on the temptation, clamping down on the need.
“I’m sorry,” he said, to break the tension of the silence.
“What for?”
“For fighting in front of a lady.”
“Your right hook is weak and your footwork could be quicker.”
He opened his eyes. “What?”
Charlotte gave him a smug smile. “When we were children my sister Miranda took boxing lessons from an Irish stable lad. I couldn’t. He said I was too small, with small hands.” She flattened her palm against his chest and shoved. “Lean back. I’m not finished.”
She went on applying the hot water to his battered cheek. “Aren’t you going to apologize for trying to sell me for two hundred dollars?” she asked.
“No.”
“Are you still angry with me?”
“Don’t I have a right to be?”
Charlotte didn’t reply, merely continued her ministrations. A cool evening breeze had picked up. Golden orioles were darting about in the prickly pears behind the schoolhouse, chirping merrily. At the Imperial Hotel, Manuel Chavez was playing his trumpet.
Charlotte gave a forlorn sigh. “Oh, Thomas. I wish...”
Thomas reached up a hand and curled his fingers around her wrist. “I wish, too.”
For a moment, it seemed to him they were communicating without words, her pulse beating frantically beneath his fingers. Should he fight for her? Should he ask her to stay? Should he forgive her lies and deceit, accept she had acted because she had no choice? Could he trust her with his life, his dignity, his heart?
Clouds had drifted in front of the setting sun and twilight was falling quickly. The mournful sound of the trumpet drifted on the breeze. Thomas recognized the song. It was a Mexican ballad about a lost child. His child, the child he had hoped for, had been lost before it was even born. A child that had been no more than a mirage. A marriage that had been no more than a lie.
He couldn’t ask her to stay. It would take too great a toll on his pride. If she wanted to stay, she should ask him. It would cost her much less.
Thomas waited...waited...waited for her to ask, her frantic pulse beating beneath his fingertips. Charlotte shook herself, as if awakening from a dream. She pulled her hand free, poked at his gaping sleeve and spoke in an artificial tone of brusque efficiency.
“Your coat is torn. It was your only good suit.”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“When I get back home, I’ll order a new suit for you from a Boston tailor and mail it over. I’ll have to take your measurements before I go.”
Thomas fell silent. It was no use thinking he could ask her to stay. It was no good wishing. Wishes were two a penny. He pushed up to his feet.
“I’d best get going. It will be dark soon.” He adjusted the torn sleeve of his coat. “There is something I need to tell you. This is really important. There is a man, Sam Renner, up in the hills. Years ago, a small woman with curly dark hair stole his gold and shot him, leaving him for dead.”
Thomas looked around for his hat, spotted it on the ground. As he bent to scoop it up, the pain in his sore muscles made him wince. He knocked the crown of the hat back into shape with his fist and propped the hat on his head.
“Sam Renner has lost his mind. He is searching for her, the woman who stole his gold, but any small woman with curly dark hair will do. He won’t be able to tell the difference. If he gets you cornered, he’ll kill you. He is infirm. He can’t ride. He moves around on foot. He has a bad limp. He drags one foot and moves very slowly. Keep your eyes open. Keep your wits about you. If you see a limping man around fifty coming toward you, run away from him. Do you hear me? Run. He is slow, and he can’t catch you up.”
Charlotte stared at him with worry stamped on her face. “Does he have a gun?” she asked. “I can’t run against a gun.”
Thomas hesitated. He didn’t want to frighten her but perhaps it was better that she was afraid. “Sam Renner has a gun but he won’t use it to shoot you.”
“Why not?”
“He wants to slice you open with a skinning knife and tear out your guts.”