No Eye Can See (31 page)

She set the spoon down, reached for David's hand, held it in her own. “David Taylor is gift, like special baby. David Taylors hands are His hands, taking care of this Wintu woman.”

“Don't move!” A man shouted in irritation from inside the shop window. Tipton had no intention of moving, not a muscle. Not with the shards of glass on her wool dress and glittering at her mothers feet. She didn't see any blood. Thank goodness! Now if only the owner didn't threaten a lawsuit or demand immediate payment.

The man came out into the street, and his face looked less lined in irritation, and more noticeable for its pink flush captured by dark sideburns that swooped into a cropped mustache. He brushed at Tipton's woolen skirt, picked slivers of glass hung up on the buttons lining the skirt's front. Then he turned and squatted to brush glass from Adoras slipper. Tipton could see he did it gendy, holding her mother's ankle as
though it were glass itself. He stood again and wiped his hands on a leather apron covering his cream breeches. He took a deep breath.

Here it comes. Ml be months paying this off

“I must apologize for the fragile nature of the window glass,” he said then. “So pleased neither of you is hurt. Step over it gently and come inside, as my guests. I'll have chocolate and scones brought over while we wait on your husbands.”

“We dont have husbands,” Adora said sweetly. Was she flirting? Why, the man must be ten years younger than she. And why was he being so kind?

“I'm saddened to hear that. A mining tragedy?”

“A loss upon the trail,” Adora said.

When they were settled inside, he introduced himself and Adora gasped again. “Nehemiah Kossuth, of the Kossuth House?” 1 he same.

Adora sank against Nehemiah, who helped her to a stool. “Ernest,” Nehemiah said to a young man who stepped forward. “Do a sweep, will you? While I tend to these fine women who were literally attacked by this poorly blown window glass.” Nehemiah excused himself then, promising a quick return.

“What's wrong with you, Mother? Do you feel faint? Is it your arm? You're fanning yourself like it's August.”

“He's of the Kossuth House,” she whispered as Ernest swept. “We've hit the jackpot.”

“We've hit nothing,” Tip ton scolded. “Except your elbow in a broken window.”

“He thinks it was the window's fault, for being so weak.”

Tipton rolled her eyes. “As soon as he gets back, we'll offer to pay for it and hope he doesn't accept or, worse, call the sheriff for what damage we've done. Then, we graciously remove ourselves. Christmas dinner is waiting.” Tipton's teeth chattered in the cold. She wondered if there was a canvas to cover the window opening.

Adora pouted. “You didn't even get to see the brooch. You could look now. That real pretty one, there.” She pointed, and Tipton paused to look.

“In his spare time, Nehemiah does silver work,” Ernest said. “The work eased his mind when he lost his wife. Why he's working on a holiday—she passed on a Christmas morning.”

“Cant imagine such a busy man having a spare minute,” Adora said. “And he's a widower?”

“We really should be going,” Tipton said.

“Oh, just look at them,” Adora ordered. “Have you become such a work mule you can't enjoy a little silver?”

Tipton sighed, let her eyes drop toward the brooches. One looked like a spur and reminded her of Tyrellie. She blinked back tears. “Let's go, Mother.”

“Can we see the one with the sapphire in it? Wouldn't that look good on my black dress?”

Ernest reached into the bay, picked up the spur, and handed it to Tipton. Silver surrounded the stone. “This one?” she said, holding it up in the fingers of her gloved hand. “It reminds me of Tyrell.”

Several other pieces graced the inside glass counter, and the young man pulled them out, swept glass shards from around them, then rearranged the polished silver with his cloth. “I carry the finest work in the north here,” he said. “Most of what sells has a nugget in the center. Nehemiah likes to use other gems. Unique things. Hand-tools the silver. I've done most of the rest.”

Ernest Dobrowsky was “a gold miner, jeweler, watchmaker, and gunsmith,” probably in his early twenties. “Been here since ‘forty-nine.”

Nehemiah returned then, carrying a basket with sweet-smelling cookies and breads and a green teapot shaped like a mushroom surrounded by several small cups.

“Are there mushrooms around here?” Adora asked.

“Indeed,” he said. “In November usually.”

“So we've missed them,” Tipton said. “But next year. I'll tell Mazy. She loves mushrooms.”

Adora smiled up at Nehemiah as he handed her a cup. Ernest came around behind him and poured. It seemed a little odd to have men serve, but pleasant. Maybe Tipton should just let herself enjoy the attention.

The scones tasted sweet, but increased her hunger instead of satisfying it. “We have friends waiting for us at the—well, your hotel, I guess it is,” Tipton said. “Elizabeth Mueller?”

“Ah, my new baker. A dandy, that one. Her daughter, too.”

“Mazy is a headstrong one,” Adora said. “Not sweet-tempered like my Tipton here.” The kind-faced man handed Tipton another scone.

“Thank you, Mr. Kossuth.”

“Nehemiah. Please.”

“If you'll tell us what we owe you, or is it Ernest here whose window we broke? I need to know how I can pay you back—over time.”

“The window is my concern, as are you with injury so near,” Nehemiah said. “It would please me, as small restitution for your troubles, if I could walk you to the hotel and—”

“Its right kind of you to offer compensation, truth be known,” Adora said. “Windows like that, old and brittle, could do real damage to fragile bones, why—”

“Mother!”

“Were you admiring anything in particular?” Nehemiah asked, nodding to the silver piece in Tiptons gloved hand. His dark eyes never left hers, seemed to search her face, almost.

“We liked—” Adora began before Tipton interrupted.

“Nothing. Thank you.”

Tipton tried to slip the brooch with the sapphire back into the window bay, but Nehemiahs hand reached over hers, holding the brooch inside her palm.

Warm hands. Gentle and strong.

“Please. Accept my work as small payment for your ordeal. Its Christmas. And your presence has been a gift that will surely bless my day.”

An exceptional day. That was Ruths description of the events from morning through the “family” meal with Adoras tale of injury and Tiptons talk of a silver brooch and their singing all the way home. Each of the women had found a simple gift to give one other. Ruth had done that too, braiding leather to decorate a picture frame; making charcoal portraits of each of them, the children included. Ned had opened up his harmonica before they left. She looked around. He must have already put it away. For Jessie, she'd had Mazy help her write a book, and Ruth had illustrated it. The girl had loved it and smiled and gathered up her skirts and pulled on boots when Ruth said it was time to go. The very first time. No nagging required.

The children slept now. The girls spooned beneath their comforter, curls mussed in sleep. The boys sprawled on their mattress. Ruth thought she heard them snoring. Maybe she could do this: raise them all together, let herself be loved. Maybe it was time to look forward instead of always looking back.

She picked up the bridle the boys had oiled for her. The scent of linseed oil and leather never failed to stir her, it was such a smell of home. She held it to her breast, then stepped to hang it beside her whip on a nail in the log wall. The picture frame beside it wasn't straight. She must have bumped it.

In the lamplight, something caught her eye. She looked closer. It was a picture of her brother and his wife, her and her nieces and nephews. She squinted, got the lantern and held it close. Her heart began to pound and her throat went dry. It couldn't be but it was— Ruth's face had been scratched completely out.

David Taylor rode in wearing a smile on his face. He looked at Oltipa as though she were a well-loved flower. Color rose on his neck when he saw her, then he turned quickly and tended to his horse and packs. Back inside, he handed her a bowl with a lily. “Chinese New Year,” he told her. “Every woman gets one.”

He stood far away from her after that and said little. She wondered if she had somehow offended him.

He whittled a sliver from a log and used it now to clean his teeth, threw the sliver in the fireplace and picked up his whip.

Something in the movement made Oltipa flinch.

“What? No, I'd never,” he said. “Just oiling it, that's all. Here, I'll put it away.”

Oltipa nodded once, forced a smile. The whip brought flashes of violent times, a burning bark house, her arms bound with rawhide thongs, her body tossed up behind the Modoc warrior as she watched the father of her child die. No. In this mans hands, the rawhide did good things. She must think of what was present, not past.

She picked up the whip, handed it to him. It was his work, and she had no right to keep him from it.

The smell of oil rubbed into leather with his fingers filled the air. She stirred up venison stew, added a precious onion he said “was the last one for sale in Shasta ‘til spring. Guess nothing'll discourage people who cant see anything but gold,” he continued, talking of white men's ways. He worked the leather, rubbed it across his thigh, looked up at her, then away. “Got some supper on, I see. I'll put this up.”

Her back ached from bending over the andiron and lifting the heavy pot. David took it from her, said, “Careful now. Don't want to hurt that baby. Oh, almost forgot.” He reached again into his bag. “It's a little painting of an eye like they do in France,” he said. “Supposed to
be your sweetheart.” He coughed, pulled the small locket with a window that when opened showed an eye. “Lovers Eye, they call it. To remind you someone's thinking of you. Say, you look a little peaked. You all right?” He put the gift down quickly.

Oltipa winced and caught her breath. “Baby come,” she said and watched as David Taylor turned the color of spring leaves.

Suzanne woke with a start. She'd been having a dream, not one with Bryce but where she was standing up in front of room full of strangers. She wore nothing but an old wash dress not long enough to cover her bare feet. People looked…expectant, as though she would perform some miraculous thing, and she could feel herself breathing fast, frightened, not being able to catch her breath. Then suddenly, she heard a raspy sound, as though she breathed through her teeth.