Tears of Gold (29 page)

It hadn’t taken him long to pack his belongings, then seek out his host, Don Andres. He had found him in his study with Doña Ysidora, who was dressed in black, her haughty features no less austere than her gown. Her hands expressed her thoughts eloquently as she talked.

“And what happens now?” she demanded. “Don Luís is seriously ill. How will he be able to support her? Her grief overcomes her, my son. I am so worried. We shall, of course, despite Don Luís’s dishonorable behavior, offer them a home with us.”

Don Andres shook his head tiredly. “That will not be necessary.”

Doña Ysidora stared at her son incredulously. Her tone sharp, she asked, “What do you mean? Where else will Jacinta and Luís stay? Their rancho is stolen by this,” she paused, her thin lips tightening with suppressed rage, “this Judas. I still cannot believe that one who had lived beneath our roof for so many years would betray us. And to find out that Luís, as well, had deceived us. It was so unnecessary, Andres. He could still have lived on his rancho. You would have sold it back to him. Something could have been worked out.

“And it saddens me that she was not Amaya. I liked her, whoever she was. She was strong, Andres. She would have given you many fine sons. But this cannot be. It seems that one never truly knows another person. Even one you know for a lifetime,” she said with a shrug of inevitability, “you do not know who he is, what goes on inside him.” She shook her head.

“Don Luís and Doña Jacinta will need no help, Madre,” Don Andres told her with a sad smile. “You forget the cross. It had been Don Luís’s intention of buying back his land with it They will most likely return to Monterey. It is Jacinta’s home. She has many relatives there and they can buy a house in town, for Don Luís will probably never leave his bed again.”

“Excuse me, Don Andres,” Nicholas spoke from the doorway. “I think it is best that I go. This isn’t the time to have strangers under your roof. Thank you kindly for your hospitality.”

Don Andres nodded courteously. “It is my pleasure, Señor Chantale, although you are welcome to stay as long as you wish,” he added, always the gracious host under any circumstances. “These will be sad days for us, however, with no festivities.”

“Thank you,” Nicholas answered, “but I’ve a friend to meet in Sacramento City, as well as some unfinished business I must see to.”

As he rode along the trail, across gently sloping hills beneath a blazing sun that steadily moved toward the western horizon, he thought about that unfinished business and how he’d been duped by the O’Flynns—masters of the art of deception, it would seem. As he rubbed his hand across the tender knot on the back of his head, he smiled in expectation of bruising the flawless profile of one Brendan O’Flynn. And what of Mara O’Flynn? he thought, his lips savoring the name as he saw her beautiful face. She had managed to play him for a fool, bruising his ego in the process, and the image of the O’Flynns’ laughing faces as they once again managed to extricate themselves from a difficult situation without any acceptance of responsibility rankled him.

Well, Nicholas thought with a gleam of anticipation in his narrowed green eyes, he didn’t doubt that he would run across the O’Flynns once again, and when he did, they would pay in full measure.

Chapter 7

Mara stepped briskly along the planked sidewalk, her footsteps muffled by the thick coating of mud clinging to the soles of her half-boots. A northwest wind was blowing in ice-cold gusts against her, molding her mantle to her shivering body. The wool seemed to absorb all the cold dampness in the air. Mara tucked her gloved hands inside her muff trying to warm them. She could taste the salt spray on her lips as she licked them to ease the tender, chafed skin. The wind had driven the usual morning fog, which was like a fine Scotch mist hanging low and dense over the city, into the distance and the high hills that surrounded the San Francisco Bay.

It had been over a year since they had set sail from New York City. Soon it would be spring again in San Francisco, the city of canvas tents and wooden hovels she and Brendan had first seen when the
Windsong
had docked in the bay. In just under a year the city had doubled, and the canvas-lined streets were beginning to be edged out by two-storied, wood and brick buildings of more stable construction.

The streets were still crowded with people—Mexicans, Europeans, and Kanakas from Hawaii; Malays, Chileans, and Yankees from the East Coast of America. They intermingled in a mass with one common goal—to strike it rich. Gold fever was the one thing that never changed in this city. Saloons and stores, hotels and houses of prostitution were built practically overnight, creating within one day a whole new street to raise hell on. The city was a hive of activity and noise as workers hammered and sawed. Chinese workmen with long bamboo poles across their shoulders balanced mortar and bricks swinging by ropes on each end, and carts and drays pulled by sturdy horses carried goods through the widening city limits, straggling to the tops of the surrounding hills. Vendors called out along the muddy avenues and open areas fronting the docks. New arrivals landed daily on the countless ships sailing through the Golden Gate, the sailors and adventurers alike hungry for a change of diet and the excitement to be found in this boomtown by the bay. The vendors also found eager customers among the tired miners, rich in pocket, who streamed in from the mines as frantic for ways to spend their gold dust as they had been to find it.

Mara came to the end of the sidewalk and stared down at the ocean of slimy mud that stretched between her and the other side of the street. Various crates and boxes, and anything else that wouldn’t sink, made a temporary bridge across the quagmire. But deep pools of muddy water from the downpour the night before had already submerged some of the makeshift supports, leaving gaping holes in the roughly made crossway.

Mara glanced back at Portsmouth Square and the post office, where hundreds of people were milling about as they impatiently waited their turn to find out if any long-awaited letters had arrived. Twice a month, when the Pacific Mail steamers sailed into the bay, the crowd would grow to over five hundred. Mara didn’t know why she had gone down there. She knew there would be no letter from Brendan. But she supposed she hadn’t given up hope.

Since parting so abruptly at the end of the summer, Mara had not seen Brendan. He had spent the autumn and winter months somewhere up in the Sierra Nevada searching for his gold mine. He’d been gone such a long time that every so often she wondered whether he were still alive. Mara thought of the inhospitable winter months she and Paddy and Jamie had spent in San Francisco with the rain and fog, and icy winds that never seemed to die down. At least they had a roof over their heads. But how had Brendan fared up in the high country? Poor Brendan. Mara remembered some of the horrendous stories she’d heard about life in the isolated mining camps. Drinking and gambling were the standard forms of amusement when the inclement weather kept the miners holed up in the village of tents and huts. That would be the worst life for Brendan. He would enjoy both to the fullest and probably manage to get himself involved in a fight or two. When in his cups, Brendan was not apt to guard his tongue. Nor was he above dealing from the bottom of the deck. In the mining camps, where there were no representatives of the law to carry out justice, the miners had found their own ways of dealing with cheats.

Her gloomy thoughts were interrupted as she warily eyed two drunken miners stumbling across the muddy street, heading toward where she was standing. One had a pair of suspenders holding up his baggy pants, as well as a thick leather belt around his waist with the butt of a six-shooter stuck underneath. There wasn’t much of his face visible beneath the wide brim of his sloppy hat and the thick beard. Both men were wearing the high boots and red flannel shirts favored by miners. The other had, besides a holster and gun, a large bowie knife suspended from his wide belt. They seemed oblivious to the light drizzle as they slipped and slid their way across the mud. Their carefree voices were raised in a merry song, albeit off tune, that they seemed determined to serenade the town with, in rambling, disjointed verses.

A bully ship and a bully crew

Doodah, doodah,

A bully mate and a captain too,

Doodah, doodah day.

Then blow ye winds hi-ho

For Californ-y-o.

There’s plenty of gold so I’ve been told

On the banks of the Sacramento.

Oh around Cape Horn we’re bound to go,

Doodah, doodah,

Around Cape Horn through the sleet and snow,

Doodah, doodah day.

I wish to God I’d never been born,

Doodah, doodah,

To go a-sailin’, round Cape Horn,

Doodah, doodah day.

As they caught sight of Mara watching them with her contemptuous golden eyes, they quickly broke into another song:

Hangtown gals are plump and rosy,

Hair in ringlets, mighty cozy,

Painted cheeks and jossy bonnets—

Touch ’em and they’ll sting like hornets!

With wide, satisfied grins they came closer to stand gazing up at her. Their bloodshot eyes traveled over her neat figure wrapped securely in the tobacco-brown cloak trimmed with wide strips of pale gold ribbon around the hem and arm slits. As Mara glanced away in disinterest, her profile became etched against the soft brown velvet brim of her bonnet.

“’Tis the fairest creature in all Fran Sancisco!” one of them cried as he bowed low, nearly falling to his knees in the mud. “’Twould sheem ash though I,” he paused, frowning for a moment, then smiled triumphantly, “George Abraham West, could be of some asshistance to the lovely lady.”

“I think not, thank you,” Mara replied coolly.

The spokesman’s friend gave a hoot of laughter at her snub, elbowing his friend in the ribs as he mimicked Mara’s haughty refusal. “‘I think not, thank you.’ Well, I’ll be damned if she ain’t a lady, that one,” he chuckled, “and mark my words, mate, she knew the man fer her when she set them bonny eyes on him.”

With that sure statement, he stepped in front of his open-mouthed companion and introduced himself as he pulled his grimy hat from a headful of matted hair of unknown color. “Freddie Watson, ma’am, born within spittin’ distance of Bow bells, but more recently of Sydney, Australia,” he explained with a knowing wink, “due to a slight misunderstanding with the law.”

Quite a misunderstanding, Mara thought as she noticed his battered features and the crafty look in his eyes. He moved even closer and Mara could smell the whiskey fumes that seemed to permeate his clothing as well as his insides.

“How about you and me, luv, finding us someplace nice an’ warm,” he suggested, the look in his eyes turning lascivious as he added, “I ain’t seen a piece as fancy as you since bein’ transported from London. Got plenty o’ gold in me pockets, luv, so ask yer price.”

Mara turned away from the two drunken lotharios with an expression of repugnance crossing her features.

“Knew her man, did she!” the cockney’s friend guffawed loudly. “Knew him for the wenching rascal that he is, I’d say.”

But his friend wasn’t listening as he stared in drunken anger at the slender caped figure starting to move away. “Too bloody good for the likes o’ Freddie Watson, are ye? I’ve seen plenty o’ yer type in London, so damned high and mighty, crossing to the other side o’ the street when they sees me comin’,” he spat, an ugly glint in his eye. He put one booted leg up on the edge of the sidewalk and made a grab at the hem of Mara’s cloak, only to find himself falling wildly backward, a booted heel in the middle of his chest.

He struggled to rise in the slippery mud, a bellow hovering in his throat until he noticed the quietness of his friend. Following that fellow’s fixed gaze, he stared up in bemused cowardliness at the rest of the six-foot-five body attached to that boot.

“Speaking of crossing to the other side of the street, gentlemen…” the stranger suggested in surprisingly quite tones, but then a man the size of a mountain seldom needed to raise his voice.

Mara watched in silent satisfaction as the two wretches picked themselves up and widened the distance between themselves and the giant. Mara turned to her rescuer. Looking up at the big man, a half-smile curving her lips, she said, “Now they certainly knew their man.”

The big man smiled in appreciation, his broad face split with a widening grin of unholy amusement. “A man my size can usually bluff a smaller man.”

“Well, thank you very much,” Mara said with a warm smile.

“My pleasure, ma’am. Now if I may be of assistance to you,” he said hesitantly, “I believe you wanted to cross the street?”

Before Mara knew what he was about, the big man scooped her up effortlessly and was striding purposefully across the muddy thoroughfare. Mara gazed incredulously into his face, not sure whether she should be outraged or thankful. But as Mara’s eyes met his clear blue ones, she relaxed, instinctively knowing she had nothing to fear from this man. He was dressed well enough in a pair of light gray trousers that looked newly bought and a dark blue frock coat worn over a somewhat gaudy, tartan-check vest. His thick blond hair was shiny, if a bit shaggy, and he sported a magnificent blond mustache of stunning proportions. Mara’s eyes traveled on down his ruddy-complexioned face, taking in the strong line of jaw and the thick neck that proudly supported his leonine head.

He set Mara down carefully on the wooden boards of the sidewalk after staring hard at anyone unfortunate enough to be standing nearby. He reminded Mara of an overgrown watchdog.

“I think I’ll be all right now,” she reassured him. “I’ve been in San Francisco long enough now to know how to protect myself, especially with my little friend here,” she added with a dangerous gleam in her eye. She pulled open her purse to reveal the small, pearl-handled derringer tucked within.

The big blond’s blue eyes narrowed in thoughtful surprise. “Yes, ma’am, I can see that he would speak loudly and in your favor. But it’s always good to know you’ve a friend around,” he continued easily, “Though I reckon you know how to use our little friend there.”

“Indeed I do,” Mara replied lightly as she pulled shut her purse and began to move through the crowd. She felt a hand cup her elbow as the big man escorted her along the congested sidewalk, his bulk automatically clearing the way ahead. “I really can take care of myself,” Mara told him as she craned her neck upward to see his face.

“Well, I’ve nothing better to do, ma’am. Thought I’d just see you to wherever you were headed,” he explained with a wide grin. Mara couldn’t help but respond warmly.

“Thank you,” she said softly, smiling slightly as he glared at someone unwise enough to step in front of them. He was certainly a strange mixture of brawn and gentleness, Mara thought in amusement as they turned up Clay and moved away from the busy plaza and the big gambling saloons and hotels that lined it. Mara finally stopped before the plain doors of the boardinghouse in which they had been rooming. “This is where I shall leave you. Thank you again, and good-bye.”

The big man glanced around curiously at the unassuming, two-storied wood and brick building. It was definitely a respectable house.

“I was pleased to be of service to you, ma’am. If you ever need me, the name’s Karl Svengaard, but my friends call me the Swede.”

“I’ll remember that,” Mara said, her golden eyes full of laughter as she smiled up at him. Then, with a slight nod, she turned to enter the boardinghouse.

The Swede quickly held the door open for her and called in after her, “I’m staying at the Parker House on Kearny.”

Mara glanced back at him patiently. “Good-bye, Swede.”

The Swede stood staring at the closed door a minute before turning and walking back down toward the plaza. Now there was a fine-looking woman, he thought. She was different from the brazen and coarse females who usually walked the streets and haunted the gaming halls, and yet she wasn’t one of the strait-laced, sunbonneted women who’d come out across the plains to pioneer in the new land. No, the Swede speculated, she was definitely different. Maybe not respectable, but certainly a lady, and unfortunately not for him. She was more Nicholas’s type, he thought with a grin as he imagined the Creole’s green eyes meeting hers. Well, Nicholas would have to find her for himself. The Swede chuckled as he entered the saloon on his left, the loud music and laughing voices beckoning him inside and out of the cold wind.

Mara shivered as the door closed behind her. The hall was only slightly warmer than outside with draughts whistling in from the many cracks and ill-fitting boards.

As she stood there fumbling to remove her gloves and bonnet, she became aware of the proprietress of the boardinghouse standing quietly at the back of the hall. As she caught Mara’s gaze, she smiled, softening the harassed look on her thin face as she closed the door to the kitchen behind her and came forward.

“Good afternoon, Miss O’Flynn,” she greeted her. “Here, let me help you with that.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Markham,” Mara sighed as the woman helped her remove her heavy cloak.

“Please, I wish you’d call me Jenny,” Mrs. Markham asked. “I feel like I know you better than anyone else in this fool town. After all, you have been here longer than any of my other boarders.”