Heart of Gold (16 page)

Relief was instant and strong. “I’ll ask Sun Ling to stop by the parsonage on her way home.” Not wanting to give Shannon a chance to change her mind, he strode toward the kitchen to speak to the cook.

Why on earth did I agree to stay?

It was all quite confusing. While she didn’t dislike Matthew Dubois as she had when they’d first become acquainted, neither was he anyone she wanted to befriend. After all, they were much too different, if only because he had little sympathy for the cause of her beloved Virginia.

She’d come into this home to nurse Matthew’s sister and to keep an eye on his nephew. It was a charitable act. Nothing more. She was performing her Christian duty while putting her nursing experience to good use. Compassion. That’s what she felt toward Matthew Dubois. He was a man in need, and she’d responded to that need as God would have her. With compassion.

With her silent question answered to her own satisfaction, Shannon turned and climbed the stairs to check on her patient one more time. She found Alice sleeping, just as she’d told Matthew. She was glad of it too. Alice had resisted taking a dose of laudanum until late in the afternoon, and there’d been no doubt in Shannon’s mind—or in the mind of the doctor—that her pain had been severe today.

For a moment, Shannon saw herself standing in the temporary army hospital some miles from Covington House. It seemed she could still smell the blood and the sweat and the fear that had surrounded her every day. She could hear the moans of those in pain, those for whom there had been too little laudanum—or, more often than not these days, none at all.

And with the memory came a sudden gratitude that her father had been called to the West and brought her with him. Perhaps she was terrible and selfish and shallow, but for the first time she realized she was glad to be far removed from the battlefields and the hungry and the wounded and the dying.

Matthew called her name softly from the bottom of the staircase. She took a step back from the doorway. “I’m coming, Mr. Dubois.”

Those first minutes seated around the dining table felt awkward to Shannon. She wasn’t sure why Matthew had pleaded with her to stay. But with the way he glanced at Todd again and again, worry in his eyes, and with the way Todd glanced toward the staircase again and again, fear in his eyes, she finally understood. Both of them, the boy and the man, needed to think of something besides the woman upstairs and how their lives would soon change when she was gone.

Shannon’s heart went out to them, and she sent a quick prayer up to heaven, asking how she might help them.

Dearest Katie,

A full week has not yet passed since my last letter, but I am having trouble falling asleep and so I put pen to paper. I hope that this will reach you eventually, and I hope against hope that I will receive a reply from you soon
.

My patient that I wrote you about last time, Mrs. Jackson, took a turn for the worse today. She was in pain and trying valiantly not to let her son or her brother see it. I suppose I thought this kind of bravery belonged only to the Confederate soldiers I once cared for, but I was wrong. Alice Jackson is every bit as courageous as the young men I tended in the army hospital.

I confess that I was also mistaken about Mr. Dubois. No man who cares so much about his sister can be all bad. Yes, he is misguided in his opinions about the war, but I suppose I cannot fault him for that. The fighting does feel far removed here in Idaho Territory. Even I sometimes find it possible to not think about the war for lengthy periods of time.

Above all, Mr. Dubois is a man out of his depth when it comes to his nephew. He has spent all of his adult life driving coaches for Wells, Fargo, never staying in one place for very long. Now he suddenly finds himself guardian to a young boy and is unsure of the future. I could see it in his eyes tonight as we ate supper.

I was determined to take his and young Todd’s thoughts off of Mrs. Jackson, if only for an hour. You would have been proud of me, Katie. I entertained them with every story I could think of about our friends and neighbors in Virginia before the war began. Especially the funny stories. Like the one about Mrs. Samuels and the frog. (Remember what happened at their ball the year I turned eighteen?) I do believe I succeeded in my efforts, for they did laugh.

Tomorrow I am going for a buggy ride with Mr. Burkette. Without a chaperone. (Would Father have allowed it if we were still in Virginia and war had never come? Things are so very different now.) It will be my first opportunity to see the area beyond the town, including a mining claim. I am quite curious to see the gold that comes out of the waters in these mountains.

Please give my love to your mother.

Your devoted friend,
Shannon Adair

14

Joe Burkette, Shannon decided, had much to recommend him. Besides his Southern heritage, his looks, his age, and having all his limbs, he owned a profitable livery business and was ambitious for more. He was certainly most generous with his compliments and so very attentive.

And yet after they started back for Grand Coeur, Shannon found her thoughts turning to someone quite different from her escort. She and Joe had passed the Dubois house on their way out of town, and she’d wondered then how Matthew was faring today. The question had lingered throughout the drive into the mountains and the walk around Joe’s mining claim. It lingered still: how was Matthew doing?

A twinge of guilt reminded her that there were two other people she should be concerned about: Alice and Todd. But naturally she hoped Alice was better and that Todd was dealing well with his mother’s illness. It was just that Matthew— “Miss Adair, I believe you’ve become bored with me.”

She blinked, pulled abruptly to the present.

Joe was grinning, his head cocked to one side. “My feelings are quite crushed.”

“I find that hard to believe, sir. Surely I could not wound you so easily.”

His grin faded. “You’re wrong, dear Shannon. I think you have the capacity to wound a man with a careless glance.”

Although she laughed and waved away his words—including his rather presumptuous use of her given name—she suddenly wished they were back in town and she was no longer in his company. Which made no sense whatsoever. Hadn’t she been listing his qualifications as a suitor just moments before?

“It’s good that you aren’t infected with gold fever,” he said, the hint of a smile returning to his lips.

“Why is that, sir?”

“Because it’s ruined many a good man. They taste a little success, find a little gold, and it takes over their lives. They become consumed by it.”

“But
you’re
hunting for gold.”

“Only in passing, Miss Adair. It’s the tradesmen in the gold camps who grow wealthy, not the miners themselves. At least not the majority of them. I would venture to say that Chinaman, Wu Lok, has stashed away a small fortune in the past two years.”

“The man who owns the mercantile on Lewis Street? Sun Jie’s husband?”

“Yeah, that’s who I mean. Is he married? Afraid I didn’t know that. Not that it matters.” Joe clucked to the horse and slapped the reins against the gelding’s rump.

Was Joe right about Wu Lok? Was he among the wealthiest in town? For some reason it bothered her that Joe had singled him out.

As if hearing her thoughts, her companion continued, “I get angry, thinking of all the gold and silver coming out of places like Grand Coeur, and most of it going into the Union coffers or making foreigners wealthy. Lincoln created this territory just so the Yankees could claim as much of the gold as possible. If I could find enough in that claim of mine, I’d use it to help the Confederacy win the war.” He drew a deep breath and let it out before adding, “And even then it would take a miracle.”

She heard the discouragement in his voice. “You think the Yankees are going to defeat us, don’t you?”

“Miss Adair, the North has more guns and cannons and ammunition, more money, more men, more horses, more food, more of just about everything. The Confederacy has right on their side and not much else.”

Do we have right on our side?

She stiffened at the unexpected thought and looked away so Joe wouldn’t see the confusion in her eyes. When her father, in the first year of the war, had refused to join other Southern ministers in declaring that Almighty God was on the side of the Confederacy, she’d been angry with him and embarrassed for him. How could he not say it? How could he not
believe
it? Wasn’t a great deal of the Old Testament about war and the side that God was on? Surely God
had
to be on the side of the Confederacy.

She could still see her father shaking his head. She could still hear him saying,
“If only it were always simple to know the will of God, Shannon. Have you considered that He is on the side of humanity and is more concerned with the war in our hearts than in who is victorious on the battlefields?”

Her head was beginning to hurt. She disliked feeling uncertain. She used to be so confident of her own opinions. When had that changed?

Matthew sat at his sister’s bedside, watching while she sipped a cup of broth. She was eating for his sake more than her own, and he knew it.

It surprised him, the depth of his feelings for his sister. He’d given her only passing thoughts through the years, had sent her only the occasional letter. But now . . . now he knew he would miss her when she was gone—and not just because he dreaded being the guardian of his nephew.

“Shannon told me there’s to be a dance on the Fourth of July,” Alice said as she placed the cup on the tray. “Did you know that?”

“Heard something about it.”

“You should ask her to go with you, Matt.”

“I’m not much of a dancer.”

“That isn’t true. I remember Ma teaching you how.” She smiled and closed her eyes. “She would push the table and chairs aside and Pa would play his fiddle while the two of you danced around the center of the room.”

He did remember. He remembered far more than he’d realized. Perhaps it was being with his sister again that made it all so vivid in his mind: the exciting adventure of the journey west on the Oregon Trail the year he was eleven, helping his father build their house out of logs in Oregon, carving the soil behind a team of oxen and a plow, harvesting the first crops, learning to shoot his pa’s rifle and bagging his first deer, watching for Indians when news of danger reached them, family church on Sunday mornings until a minister came to the area. And the dancing. He remembered the dancing in their log house.