Wagon Train Sisters (Women of the West) (25 page)

* * * *

Hannibal Palmer’s imposing new mansion sat on a hill overlooking the booming mining town of Coloma. At least four stories high, it looked as if it had been put together without a plan with its different sized windows, cupolas both round and square, fancy cornices, and several porches edged with intricate latticework.

Sarah had decided she’d have better luck if she faced Hannibal Palmer alone, a non-threatening female. Leaving Jack waiting in the curved driveway, she mounted the ten stone steps that led to the carved, double front doors. She reached to touch her hat. Yes, it sat squarely atop her head in all its glory. She looked down at her rose sprigged dress. Not a wrinkle. Fighting the urge to turn and bolt, she rang the bell. The door soon opened and a maid peered out. “Yes?”

Sarah had to clear her throat. “I am here to see Mr. Hannibal Palmer.” Thank goodness, her voice came out firm and steady.

“Mr. Palmer is not at home.”

“Mrs. Palmer then.”

The maid peered suspiciously. “Mrs. Palmer wasn’t expecting anyone. May I have your name?”

Sarah drew her shoulders back. “Mrs. Joseph Gregg from Hangtown.” She spoke in a positive voice, with a touch of arrogance thrown in, as if her name alone should gain her immediate entrance.

“One moment.”

The maid soon returned. “What was it concerning?”

She thought fast. “It’s concerning a charitable matter.” She tilted her nose as if to imply, how dare this mere servant not allow her in?

The maid left, but returned shortly. She swung the door wide. “Mrs. Palmer will see you.”

Concealing her relief, Sarah swept in, head high. The maid led her through a circular entry hall into an elegantly furnished salon. A woman somewhere in her thirties arose from a blue and cream silk upholstered sofa. She looked the height of fashion in a green, paisley patterned dress with a full, bell-shaped skirt supported by crinoline petticoats underneath. Her dark hair was piled in elaborate curls atop her head. She had a full-bosomed, slim-waisted figure and a beautiful, doll-like face with smooth, white skin, full red lips, and heavily fringed, deep set blue eyes. Her illusion of beauty shattered the moment she opened her mouth. “You are Mrs. Joseph Gregg?” she asked in an annoyingly shrill voice.

The maid disappeared. Sarah stepped farther into the room. “Yes, I am. You are Mrs. Hannibal Palmer?”

“I am Isobel Palmer.” She sat back down. “You’re here concerning some charity?” Her voice was awful, not only shrill and nasal but edged with a thinly veiled arrogance, as if whoever Sarah was, she had to be of a lower class.

Sarah nodded toward a giltwood chair with an arched back and down-swept arms. “May I sit down?” This was going to take time, and she wasn’t going to stand here like some beggar.

Sitting stiff-backed on the sofa, Isobel gave a reluctant wave toward the chair. “Do sit.”

Sarah carefully seated herself, tucking her reticule beside her. Small talk should come first. “You have a lovely home here.”

“In Coloma?” One corner of Isobel’s mouth rose in a sneer. “My husband is building a home for us on Nob Hill in San Francisco. That’s where anyone who’s anybody lives. Meanwhile, here I am, stuck in the middle of nowhere.” She leveled a piercing gaze. “Why are you here?”

So much for small talk. Now what? She had expected to talk to Hannibal Palmer. Dealing with his wife was an entirely different matter. She might know about the baby, but how much did she know about her husband’s sources of income? Was she aware her husband owned a string of brothels located in practically every gold mining town in the Sierra Nevada Mountains? If she did know, did she care? If she didn’t know, she was about to receive a shock. A multitude of questions cut through Sarah’s mind. Should she talk to Isobel? Should she leave? Should she wait till she could talk to Palmer himself? But when would that be? An opportunity like this might not come again
.
She braced herself and plunged ahead. “I’m here on behalf of Florrie, my sister. I won’t bore you with details, but through a set of unfortunate circumstances, Florrie became a prostitute in one of your husband’s brothels.” She stopped and waited for Isobel’s reaction. Far as she could tell, there was none. The woman remained stone faced, her eyes flat and hard.

“Do go on.” Isobel’s ice-filled voice held neither interest nor compassion.

Everything to gain—nothing to lose.
“While working in your husband’s brothel in Hangtown, my sister gave birth to a baby girl. She was told the baby was dead, but I have reason to believe she’s alive. I also have reason to believe the baby is here, with you.” There, the words were out of her mouth. She leaned back in her chair. Maybe she’d get thrown out, but too late now. Like Lady Macbeth said,
what’s done cannot be undone
.

Isobel’s mouth twitched. Her forehead furrowed in the slightest of frowns. “Just what do you want, Mrs. Gregg?”

“That baby is my flesh and blood, Mrs. Palmer. She was taken unlawfully, and I want her back.”

Isobel’s expression couldn’t have been more unmoved as she rose from the sofa and walked to a velvet pull rope hanging from the ceiling. She gave it a tug and turned back to Sarah. “My husband is a legitimate businessman, both honorable and respected. You’re saying he owns a string of brothels? The very idea! How dare you?”

The last thing Sarah wanted was to make this woman angry. She would try a softer approach. “I don’t mean to upset you. It’s just, you have my sister’s baby, and I want her back. I can understand how you would have feelings for the child, especially if you were planning to adopt her, but—”

“Are you joking?” Isobel fairly screeched. “Do you think I’d have anything to do with the child of a whore?” She paused to calm herself. “For your information, a business friend of my husband owns the brothels. Out of the kindness of his heart, Hannibal has found homes for several of those children unfortunate enough to be born through the wickedness of the mother. It’s an ideal arrangement. They’re given adequate care. As soon as they’re old enough, they start earning their keep.” She smiled. “Rest assured your sister’s child is in good hands.”

Never had Sarah seen such a chilling, nasty smile. “Is she here?”

“Never mind, Isobel. I’ll handle this.” A male voice, coming from behind her.

Sarah turned toward the door.
Hannibal Palmer
. A tall man, he was splendidly dressed as before in frock coat, striped trousers, and vest with a gold chain looped across the front. Taking his time, he let his gaze sweep over her. She didn’t miss the lethal calmness in his eyes. Finally he spoke. “And you are…?”

She mustn’t let him know her knees had suddenly gone weak. “I’m Mrs. Joseph Gregg. I am here because—”

“I know why you’re here.” He spoke in a velvet-edged voice, not bothering to disguise the menace underneath. “How dare you upset my wife?”

She took a deep breath against the panic surging through her. “I only want my sister’s baby back, Mr. Palmer.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Is she here?”

“What if she is? You’ll never see her.”

When a maid appeared, Palmer instructed her, “Get Nick. I want this lady escorted out in a fashion she’ll understand.” He turned back to Sarah, jaw clenched, eyes hard as granite. “You will leave immediately. You will never come back to this house or approach me or my wife in any way, is that clear? If you do, I can assure you, you’ll not like the consequences. Now get out!”

A tall, burly man appeared. He cradled a rifle in his arms. Sarah clutched her reticule and stood. “I don’t need an escort.”

Isobel stepped forward, lifting her chin triumphantly. “You’re going to get one all the same, Mrs. Gregg. For your own sake, I do hope you heard what my husband said. I’d hate to think something bad might happen to you.”

Afraid she might collapse the way her knees were shaking, Sarah headed for the door. With each step, she forced herself on. She would not show fear in front of Isobel Palmer. She would reach that door with her head held high. She would keep her dignity if it killed her.

She made it to the door, swung it open, and managed to stroll through in a leisurely fashion.

Damned if she’d close it behind her.

Jack was waiting on the wide, circular driveway, holding both their horses’ reins. “Well?” he asked as Sarah came down the steps. “How did it go?”

She could hardly talk over the hot, humiliating lump growing at the back of her throat. “Not so very well. Let’s just go home.”

* * * *

Sarah had immensely enjoyed the ride to Coloma when she’d been full of hope and had that passionate night with Jack. What a contrast to her dispirited ride back to Hangtown. She’d never thought her visit to Hannibal Palmer’s home would end the way it did. The scene played over and over in her head: how she’d been threatened by Hannibal Palmer himself, insulted by that arrogant snob, Isobel, ushered out by an armed guard. Such a humiliation! Worse, she’d lost her last shred of optimism. “How can I possibly get the baby back?” she asked Jack. “I was a fool to think they’d simply hand her over to me.”

Jack didn’t say much except, “There might be a way.”

His reply only deepened her gloomy mood. “There is no way. It’s over.” He was only trying to be kind. As if that wasn’t enough, her heart ached just thinking about last night under the stars when she’d willingly gone into his arms. How different things looked in the harsh light of day. Her pulse throbbed when she thought of their passionate night together, but to what end? He’d made no promises, nor would he.
It doesn’t matter
. She’d dredged the admission from somewhere deep within herself, a place beyond logic and reason. If she had any sense, she’d say goodbye forever and put him out of her mind, but she couldn’t and wouldn’t. Never again would she deny herself his touch, no matter what the future held. She loved Jack McCoy with all her heart, and that would never change until the day she died.

They rode the thirty miles back to Hangtown all in one day, arriving after nightfall. Jack accompanied her to the boarding house, dismounted, and kissed her lightly on the forehead. “You’ll be all right?”

“I’ll be fine.” She meant what she said. Her confidence was back, thanks, she suspected, to her finally making her mind up about Jack. In her room, she cleaned up and changed. She dreaded giving the news to Hiram, but no sense putting it off.

In her next-to-best dress, a blue calico, and a plain, gray bonnet on her head, Sarah approached the Bella Union Saloon. Amidst excited shouts from gamblers and a rousing piano rendition of “Sacramento,” she stepped inside. She hoped no one would notice her, but no such luck. “A woman!” someone shouted. She immediately became the center of attention. Some of these men hadn’t seen a female for months. The way they gazed at her, she could be an attraction in P.T. Barnum’s freak show along with General Tom Thumb.

Hiram came limping to her rescue. “Sarah! Let’s get you out of here.” He took her arm, guided her through the crowd and out back where the noise wasn’t nearly as bad. “Did you have any luck?”

She told him all of it: the fancy mansion, snooty Isobel, imperious Hannibal, her mortifying ejection from the premises. “The baby’s there, Hiram, I know she is, and that awful woman wouldn’t even let me see her.”

“I should have gone with you.”

“You couldn’t have helped. As things stand now, we have no rights. There aren’t any laws to help us”

“There must be a way.”

“That’s what Jack said, but the only ‘way’ I can think of is to break into that fancy house of his and take the child.”

“Not a practical idea, I’m afraid.”

“No, it’s not.” For a time they stood without speaking, wrapped in their own dejected thoughts. The piano started playing “Clementine.”

“Do you hear the piano?” Hiram asked.

“When did you get it?”

“Just yesterday, along with two new faro tables. The place is packed every night, Sarah.” As Hiram spoke, his enthusiasm grew. “You should see the way these miners throw their money around. Just last night, we had a miner saunter over to the tables and bet a big bag of gold on the turn of a single card. He lost.”

“That’s wonderful. I’m truly happy for you.” Sarah put her sad thoughts aside. Nothing to be gained by staying in a bad mood. “We have lots to be grateful for, Hiram. Me with my pie shop, you with your saloon.”

Even in pale moonlight, she saw her brother’s beaming smile. “I’m a success, Sarah. Did you ever think I’d own my own saloon?”

She had to laugh. “Heavens no! I pictured you on that beet farm Becky was always talking about.”

He joined her laughter. “Times have changed, haven’t they? I could never go back to Mokelumne City now.”

“What
are
you going to do about Becky?” Sarah asked. “You’re the owner of a gambling establishment on Main Street. Do you honestly think you can keep it a secret?”

“Not for long, I suppose. Do you think she might possibly change her mind?”

Poor Hiram
. “Not likely. You know how dead set she is about gambling. Drinking, too, which makes you twice a sinner.”

They went back inside. Hiram said he’d escort her home. As they pushed their way through the crowded saloon, the piano played a lively tune; rowdy men, whooping and hollering, pressed around every gambling table and stood two-deep at the bar. Halfway through the saloon, Sarah saw a man and a woman come through the entrance, hesitate, and stop.
Oh, my God
.

Grim faces reflecting utter bewilderment, Pa and Becky stood in the entrance of the Bella Union Saloon.

“Pa! Becky!” Sarah called as she and Hiram hastened to the entryway.

Pa saw them and waved. Becky glared. She couldn’t have looked more out of place with her stiff, brown taffeta bonnet, her corseted figure encased in a bell-shaped, high-necked gown of brown bombazine.

When they got to the door, Hiram eagerly reached for his wife. “What a wonderful surprise. Give me a hug.” He could hardly be heard over the noise.

Becky avoided his arms and backed away. She pursed her lips, like she’d been sucking a lemon. “What is this place?”