Josiah's Treasure (32 page)

As Jackson was doing to Daniel at that moment.

“I told you I would. More to your pa’s story, for certain. And a certain female’s.” He guffawed, making the Occidental’s doorman in his spotless uniform scowl at him. “Might we go inside and discuss it? It’ll go down more easily with a glass of whiskey.”

“I don’t drink,” said Daniel. The reporter had rounded the corner of Montgomery and Bush right as Daniel was headed out the hotel’s front door, bound for the offices of the
San Francisco Chronicle
and an overdue confrontation. Jackson had saved him the trip, but not the headache. “And even you won’t make me start.”

The reporter peered at him like he was a new species. “Suit yourself.” He leaned against the nearest limestone pilaster, crossing one ankle over the other, making himself comfortable. “Although I’d think you wouldn’t want all these people passing by to hear what I have to say.”

“Don’t you intend to publish your story? They’d all learn it then.”

“Well, maybe I won’t publish the story.” He tipped his derby forward, shading his eyes against the midday sun. “I might be willing to forget all about it for the right amount of money.”

Impulsively, Daniel’s hands clenched. A passing flock of female tourists, bustles bouncing and feathered hats aquiver, stopped him from applying his fists to Jackson’s face. The elderly woman at the rear of the group shook her head at them both then scuttled to regain the rest. “How much?”

Jackson considered. “A hundred ought to be right.”

An amount that had to be several months’ salary for a reporter. Given Daniel’s relation to Addison Hunt, Jackson could have asked for more; Daniel considered himself fortunate Jackson hadn’t.

Daniel inhaled deeply, caught a whiff of cigar smoke off a man descending from the cable car recently stopped at the hotel entrance, breathed in the smell of the bay water only a few blocks distant, and glared at Jackson until the shorter man shuffled his feet and his smug grin slipped.

“I have no intention of giving a hundred dollars to you. I don’t have that much on hand even if I wanted to.” The bulk of his ready cash was tied up in a pair of dolls and a beautiful watercolor of a clutch of rocks sprayed by the sea. Painted by a woman he’d very nearly kissed last night, full on the mouth and long.

“That is a pity.” Jackson noticed an attractive young woman hurrying across the road toward them and paused to tip his hat at her. Forehead furrowing, she gave him a wide berth. “But maybe you could telegraph Grandpa Hunt and have him wire you some funds. Today.”

Trust you are taking care of story . . .
His grandfather would want the story kept quiet, but not at the expense of his bank account. “My grandfather isn’t the sort to pay hush money, either.”

“He might be. Because when you consider that his son-inlaw—and now his grandson too—was involved with a woman who might be a criminal, he might be eager not to let the good folks of Chicago learn the news. Puts a taint on the family name, doesn’t it?”

“Miss Whittier’s no criminal.” He stepped close enough to
Jackson to trod on the man’s scuffed shoes. “You’re lying, Jackson.”

“You don’t intimidate me, Mr. Cady, because I believe you’re too fine a gentleman—frayed coat aside—to pummel me in public.” He squinted at Daniel and blew out a breath, stinking of the oysters he’d had for lunch. “I think my cost has gone up. One hundred twenty-five. And this story is worth every penny.”

“I won’t pay you.” Jackson had to be bluffing.

“Then I guess I’ll have to put the story in the paper, get a few extra dollars from my appreciative boss.” He shrugged. “Make my reputation. Get better opportunities, maybe. I certainly won’t sit on it. Offer it to Miss Whittier, perhaps.”

“She doesn’t have any spare cash to pay you off, either.”

Jackson smirked. “You don’t think so?”

“Mr. Cady?”

Daniel turned at the sound of Sarah’s voice. She was only a few feet away, coming quickly up the sidewalk, and it was too late to warn her to turn around.

Jackson hopped into Sarah’s path to intercept her. “Why, Miss Whittier! We were just discussing you and here you are.” Theatrically, he swept off his hat and bowed. “My name is Archibald Jackson. Of the
San Francisco Chronicle
.”

“I recognize you, Mr. Jackson,” she said without warmth, her gaze sweeping over him and Daniel. Tension corded her throat, tightened the lines of her face. “I didn’t realize you two knew each other.”

“A recent acquaintance, Miss Whittier.” Jackson grinned, interrupting Daniel before he could deny any connection. “And hopefully a profitable one.”

“Mr. Cady has always hoped for profits,” she replied flatly.

“I sure would like to talk to you about the stash of diggings Mr. Josiah Cady brought back from his little mining operation in the Black Hills,” the reporter said. “Lots of gossip about what happened to all that gold, isn’t there? Bet his former mining partner
might have a theory. Your uncle, right? The one who lives in Los Angeles.”

Sarah blanched. “I don’t have either the time or the inclination to discuss my uncle or Josiah with you, Mr. Jackson.” She shot Daniel a dark look. “I came here to let you know, Mr. Cady, that Anne has been found and will be fine. Thank you so much for your help. It is no longer required. Good day to you both.”

“Good day to you, Miss Whittier. Or is it Thayer?” asked Jackson.

“Thayer?” Daniel repeated. What was Jackson talking about? Los Angeles. Josiah’s partner. None of it made sense.

Gathering up her skirts, Sarah rushed off before Daniel could stop her, before he could explain that he wanted nothing to do with a slimy reporter. Before he could ask his own questions. She looked back only once before weaving between the carriages and a horsecar trudging along Bush Street, hurrying the rest of the way up Montgomery.

Jackson slapped his hat onto his head. “She’s a feisty one. I like her. She won’t like the story I’m going to print, though, I can promise you.”

“Leave her out of your paper, Jackson.”

“Have you discovered a source of money all of a sudden, Mr. Cady?”

“I don’t care what story you think you’ve uncovered. You leave her alone because that’s the honorable thing to do.”

“Honor?” Jackson guffawed. “I don’t bother with honor, Cady. It’s too burdensome.”

“I
can’t believe he was with that reporter, Lottie.” Sarah gripped the handle of her cup, the sunlight streaming through the greenhouse windows reflecting on the surface of the tea within. Around her, the air was warm and heavy with the perfumed scent of flowers and loam, which on any other day would have made Sarah tranquil and sleepy. Her fingers shook, though, rippling the tea, scattering the reflection. She felt so betrayed, so stupid to have started to trust Daniel. He’d been kind merely to weaken her defenses, probably hoping she’d finally admit to hiding a cache of gold. “They looked like they were conspiring together.”

“Surely not conspiring, Sarah,” said Lottie. “Mr. Cady would not stoop so low.”

After trusting in Aunt Eugenie’s love, believing in Edouard’s promises, Sarah was not as certain as her friend.

“How else would that reporter have known that my aunt and uncle live in Los Angeles? He called me Thayer, Lottie. My uncle’s last name. The one he gave me when I went to live with him and my aunt as their ‘adopted daughter.’”

How bitter to remember those days, her aunt and uncle’s insistence that she would be Sarah Thayer from the moment she’d come to them. Sarah Whittier was someone to be forgotten, the
last name a reminder to Aunt Eugenie of long-standing resentments. She would never forgive Sarah for being the daughter of Caroline Whittier, the younger sister who had married for love, borne children, and found happiness. Instead, Aunt Eugenie’s life had been circumscribed by duty and practicality—her marriage to Uncle Henry made for the status it would bring, her girl-hood hopes withered on the vine. If they’d ever sprouted at all.

And she punished me in my mother’s stead.

“Sarah, I can see you fretting.”

“I’m thinking about my aunt and uncle. That always makes me fret.” Sarah set down her cup before she splattered tea everywhere. “When we were at Golden Gate Park, Mr. Cady questioned my claim that Josiah had friends in Arizona. That afternoon, I wasn’t sure if he was suspicious of my story, but it seems he must have been. He has to be the one who told Mr. Jackson that my uncle lives in Los Angeles and asked him to poke around.”

“To what end? What might Mr. Jackson discover?” Lottie’s face puckered with impatience. “That you fell in love with a scoundrel? Everyone makes mistakes, Sarah. Such a story makes paltry news in this city.”

Sarah glanced toward the archway that connected the half-octagon greenhouse to the parlor at the rear of the Samuelson’s house. There was no one to see them, secluded as they were among the maroon gloxinia and amethyst passion flower vines, pots of striped orchids and thick ferns. The small metal table they sat at, tucked against the far wall, was a long way from prying ears. If anyone in the Samuelson household would be so uncouth as to eavesdrop, that was.

“Lottie,” she said, lowering her voice nonetheless, “you know what I did was worse than merely falling in love with a scoundrel.”

Her friend was undeterred. “You could not have known when you eloped with Edouard Marchand that he had stolen from your uncle.”

“I should have known that his promises were lies and that he had no intention of marrying me.” Sarah shivered. How could she feel so cold, out in the stultifying warmth of the greenhouse? It was her memories that turned her blood to ice, because she had let Edouard do too much, his kisses and caresses very convincing to a young woman so in need of love. Thank heavens she hadn’t made a more serious mistake. “I trusted Edouard and I trusted Mr. Cady, and they have both proven to me that I will never learn.”

“Sarah, stop it! I do not know how this reporter found out about your family, but I refuse to believe Mr. Cady was the one who told him,” insisted Lottie. “What would it gain him to be in cahoots with such a fellow?”

Fortunate Lottie, who had never had her heart broken or her faith challenged. “A larger black eye on my reputation, which would plainly turn Judge Doran’s opinion against my claim on Josiah’s estate.”

“He would not want to damage your reputation. Sarah Jane Whittier, that man is in love with you.”

Was he? Last night, she might have thought so. “Charlotte Samuelson, that man is only in love with revenge.”

“It is time to go, Anne.” Phoebe’s voice was persistent. “Miss Sarah will be here soon to get you, and she will not want you to be late for the boat.”

Anne pressed her fingertips against the tiny room’s windowsill and stared out at the hills of the city. She shouldn’t feel sentimental to be putting them behind her, putting her life with Frank behind her, the life she’d led before behind her too. Did her father ever wonder what had become of his only child? Did he ever regret shoving her to the street when she hadn’t . . . when she wouldn’t . . . the memories clogged Anne’s throat with tears. They’d been poor, dreadfully poor, she and her father, and
he had sought the last way he could think of to bring in some money. A pretty young girl was a commodity in San Francisco many men would happily buy.

I can forgive him now, heavenly Father.
Anne pinched her eyes closed.
You have shown me mercy and I can forgive.

I just wish he would miss me and be sorry.

Once she left San Francisco, he’d never know where to find her. If he did have regrets. If he did want to, ever, say he loved her.

“Anne.” Phoebe rested her delicate fingers on Anne’s shoulder. “It is time to go.”

Anne opened her eyes. The hills shimmered out of focus then resolved into their usual shapes, the buildings and roadways distinct and clear. Frank was gone. And for her, her father was gone too.

She gathered up the few possessions Emma had volunteered to retrieve from Mrs. Hill’s—a couple of sketches, some underthings, a tiny locket containing a faded photograph of her mother, Mr. Cady’s dollars—then looked at Phoebe. “I’m ready.”