K at’s enthusiasm bewildered Dorothy. She couldn’t understand why the woman seemed excited to see her. Kat chattered on about sinkers, a particularly bad dance partner—a reverse Oliver Twist she called him—the warmer weather, and the thirsty stranger from the week before.
“It seems that he’s jake now. Which is the berries! I half expected him to croak.”
Dorothy blinked rapidly at this bit of information, desperately trying to process some sort of meaning into the words.
I think that she means he’s doing well? I really can’t understand her though, she talks so strange.
Kat tilted her head toward her. “Dorothy… That name is about as old-fashioned as mine. Well, Katherine, anyhow. Not Kat.”
Dorothy turned the donut around in her hands that Kat had shoved at her. “My mother named me for Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz , so I’m told.”
“Which is sweet, but hardly translates into 1929. It’s not modern at all!”
Dorothy actually laughed a bit. “I didn’t know it needed translating.”
“It does. Let me think about it.” She caught Dorothy’s arm again, her dark eyes dancing. “Oh! Say, I have something for you!”
She dragged Dorothy toward the knot of old prospectors, not allowing her to question. Dorothy tried to hold on to the donut, unable to imagine what Kat could mean.
“I asked this sweetie to look after it, as he doesn’t dance!” Kat retrieved a brown paper parcel from one of the prospectors and held it out to Dorothy.
Dorothy took the parcel in one hand but didn’t know what to do with it. “Am I supposed to open it?”
“Not until you get home.” She smiled brightly. “I’ve just too many dresses and these two just screamed that they needed you to wear them. They’re just the berries!”
Dorothy stepped back. “I can’t pay you for them.”
“Oh, phonus balonus. I don’t want to be paid! It’s a gift! I don’t wear them.”
Dorothy blinked at the package, and Kat stepped forward with a shake of her head.
“Don’t you dare give them back to me. I don’t wear them, and they will look smashing on you. They’ll be grand when you want to be a little more modern, too.”
“You really like modern then, don’t you?”
“It’s the fashion, sweetie!” Kat smiled again. “You look smashing as you are, of course, but I want to see the 1920s-woman underneath. Do it to please me?”
Dorothy allowed a smile. “If it will please you, of course.”
“Swell! Besides, you simply cannot return a gift. It’s bad form!” Kat crossed her arms with a scheming air. “Now, about your hair… I’d change it a bit when you wear those dresses.”
Dorothy might have touched her hair if she didn’t have her hands full.
“Your golden hair is to die for, but no one wears it quite like that now. I have a drawing for you. It’s in the parcel and it’s easy. You just wrap your braids in two rounds on either side of your head—except you make sure the sides and top are smooth, not like you have now, smashing as it is. Then, voilà! You’ll be entering the 1920s!”
Dorothy didn’t commit, though she laughed at the idea that she mightn’t be in the 1920s already. She could not be certain that she would alter her appearance. After all, I might hate it. No need to refuse though either. She put the parcel into her sack and when Kat eventually had another offer to dance, Dorothy bade her goodbye and started for home.
She hadn’t made it far when she heard the shuffle and snaps of someone following her. She put a hand on her knife and kept walking. A glance behind showed the figure of a man. He took swifter steps than she, and eventually, Dorothy quailed when she recognized him. He swept on up to her without much difficulty at all.
“M-Mr. Sinclair!”
Charles Sinclair looked heated and flushed, but he tipped his hat as he drew close, smiling as he usually did. “Miss Dorothy.”
Something about his blazing eyes made Dorothy’s breath come sharp and short. He stared at her for far too long, then refreshed his grin.
“You gave my son the gold.”
Dorothy failed to think of a response. He had not asked a question. Apparently, he wanted a response, however.
“Did you not?”
“N-no, sir.” Dorothy adjusted the sack that began to slide off her shoulder. “That is, yes, sir. I gave it to him. Was… Was that wrong?”
“No. No. Those were your directions.”
Dorothy clasped her hands together and waited. A rabbit hurried past them, and dust blew in the breeze. Dorothy considered running.
I wouldn’t get far. I hate when he watches me like that though.
“Where did you get the gold, Dorothy?”
She ought to have expected the question, but she didn’t. “I-I beg your pardon, sir?”
He stepped closer to her, and Dorothy’s hand went to her belt. He lowered his voice to a menacing pitch. “Where did you get the gold, Dorothy?”
How she wished she could say that her father gave it to her. I can’t tell him where I got it. He told me not to tell and… I promised.
“I cannot say, sir.”
The man leered down at her, still with his awful grin. “That’s absurd. Surely, you know where you got three pouches of gold ore! It’s quite absurd that you wouldn’t.”
“Y-yes, sir. I-I do.”
He took another step, towering above her most dreadfully. “Good. I began to wonder about the state of your memory, my dear.”
Dorothy took a step backwards, but Charles Sinclair caught her arm firmly.
Dear Lord in heaven… She couldn’t think of the rest of her prayer.
“You wouldn’t want to run away, Miss Dorothy. You haven’t answered my question yet.”
Trembling in every limb, Dorothy forced her eyes to meet his. “I-I told you, Mr. Sinclair, I cannot say where I got the gold.”
“That is simply not acceptable.” He gripped her arm more tightly, so that it began to ache. “You can and will say where you got it. I have the means to make you talk, I assure you.”
Afraid that a struggle would prompt him to more violence, Dorothy debated pulling back her arm. “I-isn’t the gold genuine?” Her heart sank at the sudden thought that she could have been tricked.
The grin returned to the man’s face in full force. “Oh, it’s genuine. Solid gold ore. That is why you have to tell me exactly where it is from. Did your father mine it?”
Dorothy did her best to keep her teeth from chattering. “N-no, sir.”
“Where then?” He dropped her arm, only to grab her by both shoulders, his usual manner dissolving. With a rough shake, his voice deepened into a threatening growl. “Where did you get that gold?”
Dorothy pulled back, trying to release herself from his grip. When he only began to hurt her in response, she went for her knife. She barely drew it before Charles Sinclair clamped onto her wrist, twisting her arm back to an unnatural position. She screamed, trying to yank away, but he only released her when he held the weapon himself, sending her with a rough shove to the dirt.
Lord, what now? Lend me Thine help!
Lying sprawled on the desert floor, Dorothy looked up at the grin on the man’s face, her own knife in his hand, and fear paralyzed her. Determined to at least try to fight back or escape, she willed her limbs to move. They only made a pretense at obedience.
“Dad!”
Charles Sinclair jumped, his grin disappearing as he turned to find the source of the voice. He dropped the hand holding the knife to his side. “Artie! What are you doing here, son?”
The change in the man’s manner could not have been more drastic. Dorothy tried to get to her feet but tripped on her own pack and wobbly limbs.
Artie Sinclair reached her before she could try again, offering his hand to pull her up. Dorothy hesitated at accepting help from any Sinclair, especially after what she had just been through, but she shook so much that she felt certain she would not be able to stand up on her own.
“What on earth is going on?” Artie steadied Dorothy before turning toward his father.
“I don’t know, son. I just tried to talk to her!” Charles shrugged with an innocence that made Dorothy’s breath catch in her throat.
Artie glanced down at her for a brief second. “I thought that I came out to the Pavilion to meet with Miss Dorothy for you and Fred.”
“Something came up after you left, son.” The father adjusted his hat with his free hand. “I had a question for her that could not wait.”
Dorothy’s shoulders ached. Her back ached. Her wrist ached. It would likely bruise if it hadn’t started already. She refused to look at it, instead placing her other hand over the throbbing area.
I can’t run. They’ll catch me and it might make them angrier. Father in Heaven, wouldst Thou show me what I ought to do!
It had yet to occur to Dorothy that Artie might not take his father’s side. The younger man crossed his arms now, still watching his father. “I heard a scream.”
“She attacked me!” Charles Sinclair held up the knife, pointing with his other hand. “She went at me with her knife, and I barely saved my own life! She must be overheated or something.”
Artie looked down at her again, but Dorothy couldn’t raise her eyes higher than his sleeve. Neither could she stop shaking. How would she convince a son that his father had attacked her first?
People get funny about gold. Especially around here. You don’t want to meet up with one of them.
The well-remembered words seemed opportune.
Artie bent down to retrieve Dorothy’s canteen that she had managed to lose in her fall.
“She seems calm enough now, son. We can finish our discussion now, I imagine.”
Dorothy stopped breathing altogether and nearly choked. The idea of being left alone with Charles Sinclair again sent her mind racing. “I-I already answered your question, Mr. S-Sinclair.”
I would sound more convincing if I could speak without a stutter!
She could feel Artie watching her.
“You know that you have done no such thing, my dear.” She couldn’t look up at Charles either. “You have evaded my question, not answered it.”
Dorothy clenched her hands, staring at her knife as it hung in the man’s grasp.
Lord above, what should I do?
“I cannot say, Mr. Sinclair.” She could not get her voice to rise above a whisper. “I cannot say.”
Before Charles Sinclair could answer, his son held out the canteen toward her. Surprised, she looked up into his face.
“Go home, Miss Dorothy.”
Charles stepped toward them, and Dorothy involuntarily stepped back.
“You do not understand, son. She needs to answer my question—this is not a game.” A hint of severity had reentered Charles’ tone.
Artie’s eyes narrowed in his father’s direction. “She says that she can’t say. Isn’t that an answer, Dad? You don’t want her to lie, surely.”
“No, no, of course, not.”
He might have said more, but Artie turned with a brief smile for Dorothy, offering her the canteen again. “You can go home, Miss Dorothy. I’ll see you on Wednesday, I imagine.”
Dorothy hesitated, but only for a second. She wondered if she ought to speak, but not a single word came to her. Instead, she took the canteen, slung it over her shoulder, took to her heels, and ran.