The Only Gold

• Copyright
  
• Dedication
  
• Chapter 1
  
• Chapter 2
  
• Chapter 3
  
• Chapter 4
  
• Chapter 5
  
• Chapter 6
  
• Chapter 7
  
• Chapter 8
  
• Chapter 9
  
• Chapter 10
  
• Chapter 11
  
• Chapter 12
  
• Chapter 13
  
• Chapter 14
  
• Chapter 15
  
• Chapter 16
  
• Chapter 17
  
• Chapter 18
  
• Chapter 19
  
• Chapter 20
  
• Chapter 21
  
• Chapter 22
  
• Chapter 23
  
• Chapter 24
  
• About the Author
  
• Western Romance from Dreamspinner Press
  
• Historical Romance from Dreamspinner Press
  

Published by

Dreamspinner Press

4760 Preston Road

Suite 244-149

Frisco, TX 75034

http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

The Only Gold

Copyright © 2011 by Tamara Allen

Cover Art by Lorraine Brevig   http://www.lorrainebrevig.com

Cover Design by Mara McKennen

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact Dreamspinner Press, 4760 Preston Road, Suite 244-149, Frisco, TX 75034

http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/

ISBN: 978-1-61581-838-9

Printed in the United States of America

First Edition

March 2011

eBook edition available

eBook ISBN: 978-1-61581-839-6

To Eric and Nick,

who know how to raise my spirits

in the roughest times

and

to my girl Pil, forever in my heart.

Jonah
was late.

Two minutes late, by the somber reckoning of the Trinity Church clock. Three, by his reliable old Waltham, which had kept him punctual for fourteen years while the rest of New York hurried to keep up. It was only on this morning, twisted into disorder by weeks of expectation and anxiety, that he had failed the Waltham and himself.

Braced for the wind, he jumped from the streetcar the instant it stopped and navigated a path through the muddy slush to the sidewalk. There, fueled by stomach-churning anticipation—fourteen years’ worth—he stepped into the crowd and proceeded down Wall Street.

When Bennet Grandborough had first entrusted him with drafts for collection at the callow age of nineteen, a promotion to bank officer had seemed as unattainable as the stars. Though he had performed many of the duties of cashier during the years of Mr. Crowe’s increasing frailty—and taken on all the rest upon Mr. Crowe’s passing—the board had yet to vote.

Grandborough naturally wanted a respectful interval in which to honor Crowe’s twenty-seven years of service. But in the four weeks since, the impending announcement had hung as weighty and ripe as an apple in autumn, increasingly tormenting Jonah as each day passed without that bounty dropping into his lap. Then, with Christmas past, the directors had met privately—which pointed to one thing. Today, with the first business of the new year, was the day.

And he was late. Not an auspicious start, but it couldn’t be helped. He’d awakened earlier than usual, but the well wishes of his fellow boarders had slowed his progress out of the house. He had missed both the usual omnibus to Broadway and the usual streetcar down. Rather than wait, he’d braved the muck and congestion of that thoroughfare until a car could spare him standing room the rest of the way.

Making up for lost time on foot along Wall Street was not to be thought of. The tide of humanity had grown from the customary seven o’clock tempest to a depth and breadth sufficient to drown a fellow. By the time he rounded William Street and covered the short distance to the bank, no amount of reproach in the Waltham’s minute hand could tip the scales against his own. Still, it would not do for Grandborough Bank’s new cashier to be seen dashing madly into the lobby. He took the steps up the broad stoop with barely contained haste and arrived at the landing just as the porter opened the door.

“Good morning, sir.”

Jonah nodded. “Good morning, Mr. Satterfield.”

The clerks and tellers huddled at the wide curve of the counter, a marble and mahogany bulwark from whence they could peer across the lobby to the cashier’s office. Jonah suspected they had stationed themselves there ever since Bennet Grandborough had gathered his vice president and one of the more vocal directors into the office to meet with someone Jonah couldn’t recognize through the plate-glass partition.

Mr. Satterfield coughed gently. “Out late celebrating, sir?”

“No….” Jonah tried to pull his thoughts together. The tableau in the office bewildered him. “I was waylaid this morning and had no means to traverse Broadway except by my own locomotion….” He hesitated, aware that Mr. Satterfield, still troubled by a game leg twenty-five years after his wounding at Fort Fisher, might not sympathize with such a complaint.

But Mr. Satterfield, who had a way of smiling as if there were little he did not understand, only bobbed his gray head and looked sheepish, himself. “Only meant a joke, sir. Begging your pardon.”

“Oh. Of course. I beg your pardon.” Jonah took note of Mr. Satterfield’s dubious glance toward the office. “A new depositor, is it?”

“Not my place to speculate, sir.” Mr. Satterfield resumed sweeping the smoke-gray marble with more than his usual energy. Jonah looked toward the office, at the stranger who sat on the arm of a chair, hat resting on his knee, one hand fingering the watch chain draped across his cream-colored waistcoat. He wasn’t more than thirty and had the manner of someone at ease in any company. He chatted with Mr. Grandborough and the other two as if they were old chums, but Jonah resisted the notion that it was an interview for a bank position. Grandborough Bank was as strict as any other in the matter of attire. The brown sack coat was too casual, the blue tie too—blue. The fellow seemed more suited to employment at a notions shop or haberdasher’s, where passably attractive features and an ingratiating smile served above other skills.

Besides, Mr. Grandborough always promoted from within—even Simon Campbell, who was habitually late and flirted with the female clerks.

“Oh, Mr. Woolner!”

Speaking of which…. Helen MacDonald, deserting the huddle at the counter, had reached his side with a flounce of taffeta underskirts, to gaze at him with dangerously moist eyes. “Oh, Mr. Woolner, is everything all right?” She laid a trembling hand on his coat sleeve. “You will tell me, won’t you? For the sake of our long-standing association. For our
respect mutuel
.”

She had been reading French novels at her desk again. Jonah checked a sigh. “No need to worry, Miss MacDonald—”

“No one is being discharged?”

“Discharged! Wherever did you come by that?”

Helen blinked. “Simon told us—”

“Yes, you may inform Mr. Campbell and any other concerned parties that promotions in this bank are handled according to tradition.”

“Oh, sir.” She clung to his sleeve. “Who is
he
, then?”

Jonah followed her gaze toward the office. “Well, to be honest, I don’t know. But neither, I daresay, does Mr. Campbell, so you will kindly not succumb to unfounded rumors. It’s not in the bank’s best interest.” He gently disengaged her. “I think a word with Mr. Grandborough will squelch this nonsense once and for all.”

“Shall I take the minutes?” she asked, pulling a pencil from the loose bun of her dark hair.

“It would be best if I went in alone.”

A little of the excitement faded from her face as she returned the pencil to its niche. Mr. Satterfield persisted in sweeping the same spot within earshot as Jonah passed. The clerks and tellers observed it all like mourners at a procession.

Ignoring the furtive gazes through the iron scrollwork, Jonah stalked into the wide corridor, past the offices on either side. With the bank in the midst of staff changes, rumors were common enough. He supposed they were even more likely when a bank made the momentous move from state to national. But if anyone on the staff had earned the wrath of Bennet Grandborough or Vice President Naughton, the directors would have summoned him upstairs to discuss it. They were always forthcoming and understood that even a depositor with a cross word was part of the business. No reason to discharge anyone. He would have a word with Simon Campbell about perpetuating such rumors.