Margaret Brownley Read online

  She stopped next to the table where Mr. St. John sat sharpening his knives. “What if the rain lasts more than three days? It’s possible I won’t make it to Centreville in time and… Do you realize that my baby could be born right here? In this town? In this…”She glanced in dismay at the drafty cabin walls and the muddied dirt floor. “Here?”

  He studied the blade of his dagger-type hunting knife. “It’s possible.”

  “And what happens if something goes wrong? If the baby is turned around and…” On and on she went, recalling every possible complication of birth she’d ever heard, and they were considerable. It was not proper, of course, to discuss such things in polite company, and if the subject ever did come up in a proper Boston home it was quickly shunned.

  When the thought occurred to her that it might be improper to talk of such things to Mr. St. John, she immediately decided that he would not, by any stretch of the imagination, be considered polite company, at least not by Boston standards. Relieved, she gave full rein to repeating every awful tale she’d ever heard.

  Mr. St. John remained seated and kept his hands busy sharpening his knives on an obsidian rock used as a whetstone. He paused only on occasion to glance at her or shake his head at some outlandish story she told. “I never heard of a baby with two heads,” he remarked at one point. Another time he put down his knife and stared at her aghast.

  Finally, he seemed to have had his full of horror stories. “I told you the rain will stop in three days. You’ll make it to Centreville in time and, judging by the way that baby kicks, I would say it’s probably going to be healthy as a wild bull.”

  She thought about this for a moment. “Are wild bulls always healthy?’

  “Never saw one that wasn’t.”

  “We have no guarantee that the rain will last only three days.”

  “If you can’t trust the stars, what can you trust?”

  “Are you always so trusting?”

  He shook his head. “Only as far as nature is concerned.”

  “Does that mean you don’t trust people?”

  “I discovered a long time ago that it’s a whole lot better for the health of a free trapper not to.”

  Not wanting to argue the issue, she reached behind to rub her aching back. “I wish Mama were here,” she said. “She’d know what to do.’

  Just thinking about Boston filled her with pain. The pain was so intense that it seemed to cut her in two. She let out a low cry and grabbed her stomach.

  Mr. St. John shot to his feet, his chair flying across the room. “Are you all right?”

  Surprised by the concern on his face, she shook her head. “It was a sharp pain. They come and go. Is there by chance a doctor in town?” She’d been told that the nearest practicing doctor was in Centreville, but perhaps there was a local nonpracticing doctor. No profession was immune to the lust of gold fever.

  “A doctor? In Deadman’s Gulch?” The surprise in his voice suppressed any hope she harbored to the contrary. “No, ma’am. ‘fraid not.”

  The pain subsided and Libby continued to pace, stopping on occasion to move a pot to better catch a drip.

  “Maybe if you don’t move around so much, you’ll keep from stirring things up ‘til you get to Centreville.”

  “I don’t think moving around has anything to do with it.”

  “You can’t be sure about that. I’ve seen animals in the wild get riled just before their time. Move around in circles, back and forth. Maybe that’s nature’s way of triggering things.” He grabbed a chair and set it down beside her. “Sit!”

  Unwilling to argue with him, she did as she was told.

  He grabbed a footstool and propped it under her feet. “From now on, you’re not to move. Do you hear?” He handed her the book on Franklin. “Read this.”

  She hated the idea of sitting for any length of time in one place. But since there didn’t seem to be anything else to do, she settled down to read. It didn’t take long for her to decide that her strange host was far more interesting than Benjamin Franklin.

  “You said you were a free trapper. What does that mean?”

  He glanced up from his whetstone. “My father and I trapped beavers.” At what seemed like an afterthought he added, “Not much call for beaver skin, anymore.”

  “So you came to California to look for gold?”

  “Not me. I plan to spend the winter here and then head up north at the first sign of spring.”

  “What made you move to Deadman’s Gulch?”

  “Didn’t have much choice. I came to here because of the relatively milder winters. Then too, the mountains have been taken over by strangers. Every time I left my cave, someone would sneak inside and start digging up the floor looking for gold. One night, I returned home and fell into a fifteen-foot hole.” He shook his head. “Trust me, ma’am, it’s a whole lot safer in Deadman’s Gulch.”

  “Did you ever think about moving to a more civilized town?”

  He grimaced. “Now why would I do that?”

  “You could take a stroll without having to dodge bullets, for one thing. You could also go to the theater and attend church.”

  “Church, uh? Well, now, that sounds like a whole lot more civilization than I care to handle.”

  “You might be surprised.”

  The golden lights in his eyes disappeared as if an inner candle had been blown out. “It’s been my experience, Mrs. Summerfield, that some people were born to live in the city and some of us were born to live outside it. That’s nature and you best try not to fool around with nature.”

  Without another word, he stood, grabbed his coat, and left the cabin.

  He was gone for the rest of the day, leaving Libby with a lot of time to puzzle over what she had said to offend him.

  It wasn’t all she puzzled over. She was intrigued by him, drawn to him. Not that this was all that surprising, she supposed. Oddly enough, they had a lot in common. They were both in Deadman’s Gulch against their wills. He wanted to go back up north, she to Boston. Although she knew very little about his past, she was willing to bet that he’d lost someone or something as she had. That would explain the loneliness she sensed in him. Explain why her own deep-rooted feelings of longing struck a responsive chord whenever she was with him.

  Now that she understood why she reacted so favorably toward the trapper, she felt considerably relieved. She made herself some tea and nibbled on a piece of tasteless nail-hard pilot bread.

  She sat huddled in front of the fireplace, trying to stay dry and not think about the gunshots that sounded outside. No amount of rain, it seemed, could keep the residents of Deadman’s Gulch from riding through town with blasting guns and raising bedlam.

  It was well after midnight by the time Mr. St. John returned.

  In the dying light of the fire, he looked taller than usual. His buckskins clung to his lean, yet well-muscled body, straining against the rich outlines of his masculine form. He pulled off his shirt and not wishing to intrude on his privacy she shut her eyes tight and tried to conjure up her late husband’s face.

  The following morning she woke with a gnawing ache in the center of her back. “Oh, rot!”

  “What are you rotting about?” Logan asked. He sat up in his bedroll and rubbed his eyes. The faint gray light of dawn filtered through the cracks. “Do you always wake up this early?”

  “Only when I have a backache.”

  “I’ll trade you your backache for my headache.”

  “Your headache will probably be gone by the end of the day.”

  He groaned. “Maybe your backache will be too.”

  “You’d better hope not,” she said. “Otherwise we’ll both have a headache.”

  “Can you lie on your stomach?”

  “Can you turn a mountain upside-down?”

  He climbed out of his bedroll. His leg had evidently stiffened during the night and he rubbed it briskly before limping over to the side of her bed. “How about lying on your side?”
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  Keenly aware that he was dressed only in his long johns, she kept her eyes averted as she turned toward the wall. The feel of his hands on her back was heaven. His fingers were firm yet gentle, seeming to know instinctively where to press. She found herself relaxing. In no time at all, the pain subsided.

  “How’s that?” he asked, pulling his hands away.

  “It feels…better.” She moved her back to test it. “Much better.”

  “I’ll make coffee.”

  “You’d better put something on,” she called. “Before you catch a chill.”

  He made no reply, but she breathed a sigh of relief when a soft rustling sound told her he was getting dressed. She waited until she heard the clamoring sound of pots and pans before she dared to turn over.

  *****

  The rain continued for the next two days, sometimes pelting the cabin so hard Libby feared the roof would cave in. At other times the rain scurried across the roof like the racing feet of a thousand little mice.

  To while away the seemingly endless hours, she read the Franklin book and then devoted her time to the Good Book. She reread the book of Matthew and had just begun to read Mark when Mr. St. John questioned her about what she was reading.

  “I’m reading the story of Christmas,” she replied.

  “I heard of Christmas.” He was working on his wooden gold-mining cradle. He had been working on it for the better part of the morning.

  “Don’t you celebrate Christmas?” she asked.

  “Celebrate?”

  “You know, cut down a tree. Have a special dinner.”

  “In the winter months, I cut down plenty of trees. It’s the only way to keep warm. As for dinner, anytime you eat in the winter, it’s special.” He fell silent for a moment, before adding, “Come to think about it, I guess I do celebrate Christmas.” He grinned across the table at her. “And I didn’t even know it.” After a while, he asked her to read aloud to him.

  Surprised by the request she nonetheless complied. The Christmas story never failed to touch her and sharing it with someone made it even more special.

  Sometime later she closed the Bible and stared wistfully into the fire. “Christmas is next week.”

  “Next week, uh?”

  Feeling overwhelmed by a wave of homesickness, she fell silent. Had it only been two years ago that she and Jeff had celebrated their first Christmas together at her parents’ Boston home? Jeff had cut down the perfect spruce and the family had decorated it with dozens of tiny little candles.

  Everyone—including her brothers and sisters, grandparents, aunts and uncles, nieces, and nephews—had gathered around the table for roast duckling with all the trimmings. After dinner, they had crowded around the spinet piano in the parlor to sing Christmas carols.

  After the festivities were over, she and Jeffrey had sat alone by the Christmas tree. It was the night he’d first mentioned his idea of traveling out west to try his hand at gold mining. At first she refused to take him seriously; she was convinced it was some sort of joke.

  For months the newspapers had been filled with news of the gold strike in California and many of their friends and neighbors had already left jobs and family to head west. But it had never occurred to her that Jeffrey would follow. He was so serious-minded, always talking about investments and savings and planning his life with the same precision a mapmaker charted land.

  “Don’t you see?” he’d said. “We’ll be rich.”

  “What do you know about gold mining?” she’d asked. Unable to find suitable employment when his bank failed, he’d helped her father in his printing business. Jeffrey hated the work. It was too tedious, he said, and offered no challenge or opportunity to exercise his mathematical skills.

  “What does anyone know about mining for gold?” he’d replied. “That little detail is not stopping anyone else from traveling to California. Look at old man Mullins. All he knows is blacksmithing. And what about O’Henry? The man’s an actor.”

  “But neither one of those men have a wife,” she’d pointed out.

  “Not every man can be as lucky as I am.” She recalled with aching heart how lovingly he had spoken those words. She also remembered what else he’d said. “I wouldn’t expect you to give up everything and go with me. In fact, I insist that you stay here.”

  “I will not stay here while you go gallivanting clear around the world.” How determined she’d been. How naïve.

  “I’m not going clear around the world. I’m only going to California. Please, Libby. I don’t want to have to worry about you. I’ll only be gone a year or two.”

  It hurt that he made such a long separation seem trivial. “If you go, I intend to go with you!”

  Her family was scandalized at the idea. Indians and diseases were cited as reasons to abandon the idea and stay home. Who knew what other perils awaited the unseasoned traveler? But Libby had made up her mind and, in the end, Jeffrey relented.

  “I’ll make arrangements as soon as the holidays are over,” he’d said as they stood on the balcony listening to the church bells peal in the New Year. And with those few words, their fates were sealed.

  They saved every penny possible but it took months before they had enough to book passage on a ship heading for Panama. From there, they made the nightmarish three-day journey to the Pacific Ocean by way of mule train and a lot of luck. They arrived in San Francisco one dismal day in early October, nearly four months after leaving Boston.

  Libby didn’t want to think about the rest. But try as she might to stop herself, snatches of past memories wove a dark path through her thoughts. Following her husband’s death she worked at a miners’ boardinghouse, washing clothes and scrubbing floors. She took in mending in her spare time and managed to save practically every penny she’d earned until she had enough to pay her way back home to Boston.

  Shaking herself from the unwanted memories, Libby watched Mr. St. John work on the gold rocker he’d built. He shaved away tiny chips with the blade of his knife, then ran his fingers over the smooth surface to check for any rough edges.

  Although she held herself perfectly still and, as far as she knew, gave nothing away, he paused as if to sense something. “Another pain?”

  She nodded mutely, not trusting herself to speak. It surprised her that they were so closely tuned to each other. Jeffrey was never one to pick up on subtleties.

  “It looks like a baby cradle,” she said, trying to draw his attention away from her, and back to his handiwork.

  He grinned, and rocked it back and forth. “Who’d ever think that an old unmarried man like me would spend so much time rocking a cradle?”

  The cradle reminded her of all the things she wanted and lacked for her baby. Depressed by the thought she fell silent again.

  Presently, Logan stood and stretched. “I think the rain has stopped. Maybe I’ll mosey on over to the saloon. My hands are itching for a good card game.” When she said nothing, he studied her thoughtfully. “You don’t think there’ll be a problem, do you?”

  “Why should there be?”

  “You’ve hardly spoken a word all afternoon. That alone suggests something’s afoot.”

  “The baby isn’t due till the end of the month.” Anxious for some time alone, she sounded more confident than she felt. “I’ll be fine.”

  “Well, now.” He put another log on the fire and donned his fur coat. He hesitated at the door and after a backwards glance left the cabin.

  After he was gone, she decided that some fresh air might perk up her spirits. It was still light outside and, judging by the quiet, the street deserted. She decided if she hurried, she could sneak some fresh air before the men began their usual nighttime fracas. She opened the door a crack. Seeing no one in sight she stepped outside.

  The sky was gray with clouds, but for now, at least, the rain had stopped. The air had turned colder but it felt invigorating against her skin, and smelled as fresh as a field of daisies. She walked over to the wood railing and inhale
d.

  Without warning a man ran out of the cabin across the way, followed by another. Before she had a chance to rush back into the house, a fistfight was in full swing directly in front of Mr. St. John’s cabin.

  Men spilled onto the street like an army of ants. In a blink of an eye, a fair-sized crowd had gathered around the battling duo. Amid the shouts and hand clapping, the spectators were forced to jump back on occasion to avoid being splashed by mud.

  Libby was so startled by the suddenness of the fight she stood motionless in the shadows of the porch.

  One of the miners, a man with a red beard and red curly hair, pointed in her direction. “Look over there!”

  It took Libby a moment to realize she was the object of his interest. The boisterous shouts and curses faded as the startled men turned to gape at her.

  “A woman!” someone exclaimed, and this was enough to gain the attention of even the two mud covered opponents. The battling foes stopped in midswing and joined the others to stare at Libby in wide-eyed astonishment.

  “Well, I’ll be!” said one, rubbing his battered cheek.

  “Come on, men!” slurred the red-bearded man. “After her!”

  Chapter 8

  Libby fled inside and slammed the door shut. Heart pounding she reached for the rusty metal bolt with trembling hands. After a frantic but futile attempt to slide it into the wooden hinge, she spun around in search of something to prop in front of the door.

  Stomach clenched, she stumbled across the room just as the door flew open.

  The roughest, meanest and scruffiest men pushed inside. Impaled by their drunken stares, she felt like a piece of meat up for grabs. Anger replaced some if not all of her fear.

  “Well, well, what have we got here?” This was from a barrel-shaped man with a ragged beard. “Logan’s been holding out on us.”

  “I’ll say,” said a rail-thin man who hiccupped and took a swig from a half-filled whiskey bottle.

  With more defiance than confidence, she held her ground. “Don’t you come any closer.”

  One man laughed. “Will you listen to that? The little lady is telling us what to do.”