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When their horses’ hoofbeats could no longer be heard, Darwin continued on. The last few days had been the worst. After Harry’s confession of moving the sacks, Darwin was ready to go get them. One big problem stood in his way, though—Harry couldn’t remember where he hid all of the sacks.

The day after Harry revealed he’d moved Darwin’s bags, Uncle John had sent Darwin out on a stupid errand, and when he’d returned, he found his brother in the barn holding his head. When he questioned Harry, the boy just moaned, and then Saul appeared out of nowhere and said that Harry had fallen from a tree and hit his head. Right. Likely story.

Then Harry couldn’t remember things.

Darwin was ready to pound Saul into the ground. No doubt he’d done something to Harry. He didn’t just fall from a tree. Of that, Darwin was certain.

Once again he was forced to wait. But all he wanted to do was find his gold and then rub his family’s noses in it. They’d pay. That’s for sure.

As he reached the shack they all lived in, Darwin heard cries for help. It sounded like Harry.

He jumped from his horse and ran toward the barn. The door squeaked as he opened it, but that didn’t keep Saul from hitting Harry again.

A roar rumbled out of Darwin’s throat as he lunged for his despicable cousin and tackled him to the ground. “You no-good, mean cuss.” He wrapped his hands around Saul’s throat. “You been hurtin’ my brother, haven’t you?”

Saul laughed through the constriction. “He’s dumber than the pigs out there.” Then he spat in Darwin’s face.

That was the final straw, and within minutes Saul lay dead on the ground.

Harry, curled up in the corner, cried and continued saying only one thing. “Uncle John will be so mad.”

Mad wasn’t the word for it. Darwin had just killed his uncle’s pride and joy. Uncle John would never let him live after that. It made Darwin think. What would he do now?

Then an idea struck.

It would solve all his problems, too. Well, at least most of them.

He dragged Harry back to the shack and packed their meager possessions. He scribbled a note to Uncle John:

Pa,

A man came today lookin for Darwin. Said the law was bearin down on him and if we got cot, they’d hang us for hidin a killer. I’m gonna get rid of Darwin and Harry. Told em we had to go fetch those pigs you bot. Will be gone for a week or so. We ain’t gettin cot by the law for them varmits.

Saul

Darwin read the note again and hoped his uncle would buy it. It even looked a little like Saul’s handwriting. Of course, when any of them wrote, it looked like chicken scratch, so how would Uncle John know?

He stripped off his own clothes and put on a shirt and pair of pants that were Saul’s. Running back to the barn, he wanted to laugh. This plan would work. Darwin ripped the clothes off of his cousin and then dressed the body in his own clothes. What else could he do to help them believe the body was him? He ran back to the cabin and found a letter addressed to him in jail about the death of his mother. That would do it.

Darwin went back to the barn again and placed the letter into his old pants that were now on Saul. He saddled his own horse for Harry, and Saul’s horse for himself. Taking the blood-soaked clothes that he’d ripped off of Saul, he shoved them in a saddlebag and then tied a rope around his cousin’s ankles and looped it around the saddle horn. Going back to the cabin, he grabbed their few belongings and told Harry to go hide in the hayloft until he returned.

Harry whimpered but followed him to the barn.

“I’ll be back in a little bit for you. Stay hidden.”

“All right, Brother.” Harry still held his head and lay down in the hay. “It hurts, hurts, hurts, hurts, hurts, hurts, Brother . . .”

At least the kid could still talk. Maybe if he just got enough rest, he’d remember where he’d hidden the sacks.

Darwin went back and checked the house one more time. It had to be believable. And if Uncle John and David came back as drunk as Darwin hoped, they wouldn’t check anything else until morning.

After one last look, he headed back to Saul’s horse and climbed up into the saddle. He kicked the horse into a trot
and dragged his cousin’s body out to the road heading north toward Sacramento. It might take a while for someone to find him, but that would only be better for his plan to work. He’d leave the body in a gulley somewhere and then go back and get Harry. They could live in one of the abandoned mines until they found his gold. And then . . .

Well, then he could do whatever he wanted to do. And make Uncle John and David pay.

And the farmer and his kid.

And anyone else who got in his way.

“What in tarnation is all this ruckus about?” A plump woman descended the stairs in the store and walked up to Lillian.

“I’m not at all certain.” Lillian placed a hand on her head. Hearing the news that her would-be employer was a murderer had rendered her speechless for several moments. Then the room had spun as everyone seemed to talk at once again. What had she gotten herself into?

The woman held out her hand. “Come here, dear. My name’s Carla Clark. My husband and I run this place.” She deposited Lillian in a chair by the checkerboard barrel. Then she looked at the rest of the room. “Now, would someone mind telling me what is going on? It sounded like a stampede of voices.”

Mr. Clark whispered in his wife’s ear.

“What?”

His face turned deep red again.

It was her turn to narrow her gaze. “Are you telling me that all of you are standing in my store gossiping about Mr. Colton?”

“It ain’t gossip, Carla, and you know it,” a male voice from the back erupted.

“Oh, Stewart, hush your mouth.” Carla returned to Lillian’s side and placed a hand on her shoulder.

The warmth seeped in and soothed all the ragged places where words just didn’t make sense.

“The man killed his wife!” a woman piped up from another corner.

Lillian’s heart began to race. The man had been accused of killing his own wife? Oh no. What
had
she gotten herself into?

“Oh, he did not,” Carla huffed. “You all know very well that there was a witness to Mr. Colton’s whereabouts and that the judge said there wasn’t a lick of evidence for a case against him.” Mrs. Clark’s hand pressed harder on Lillian’s shoulder. “Now, how long are you going to be treating that poor man with such ill behavior? And gossiping behind his back?”

“He paid off the judge!” another voice echoed in the store. They were drawing quite a crowd.

Carla turned toward Lillian and rolled her eyes. “He did
not
kill his wife, nor did he pay off the judge.”

“He beat her and pushed her down the stairs. We all heard the story.” Affirming comments raced through the mob.

“Exactly.” Mrs. Clark’s voice lowered and she held a hand up to the crowd. “Heard.
Heard
the story. Were any of you actually there? Did you see it happen?”

The murmurs stopped.

“Don’t you see what’s happening here?”

Lillian breathed deep and watched the crowd. This was not at all what she had planned when she arrived in Angels Camp. In a matter of minutes, her dreams of the West and of beautiful California crumpled at her feet. She no longer had a home to return to. And the man she was supposed to work for had been accused of murder.

C
HAPTER
S
IX

W
oody crawled out from under the wagon and tossed his tools in the back. He sighed and dusted off his hands. Of all the times the reach could break, it had to happen today. The one day he wanted to get to town early. Not only was he now three hours behind schedule, but he was covered in dirt, thanks to rolling around under the wagon. He’d known the reach needed to be replaced—had even bought the new part and put it in the wagon bed with his tools—but he hadn’t had the time. So, of course, it happened today, and it took much longer to fix than he thought it would. His new nanny was sure to have heard all manner of rumors about him—if she hadn’t already left town—and would hate him as soon as they met. Mrs. Goodman would be a nervous wreck by the time he returned home with or without Miss Porter, and little Jimmy would probably be asleep.

Life just kept getting better and better.

The job finished, he stood and wiped his forehead with his kerchief. Even with all the doubts swimming around him, he had to go see for himself if Miss Porter had come.

He brushed as much dirt as he could off his clothes and plopped his hat back into place. Might as well get it over with. He couldn’t do anything about the circumstances. Either God had a really good sense of humor, or Woody had become a modern-day Job.

Or it could be both.

He clucked the horses back into motion and headed toward Angels Camp.

Memories washed over him on the drive through the fine treelined country. Rebecca had loved this area. Loved their little town of Angels. Loved their church and their neighbors. She found the history of the area fascinating, telling him all about how a man named Henry Angel set up a trading post for the gold miners and made his fortune without having to use a pick and shovel. She thought that quite ingenious and used it to encourage him in the planting of their olives.

“There’s obviously more than one way to strike it rich,” she’d told him.

Woody looked toward the sky. “I still don’t understand why, Lord. Maybe I’m not meant to. And maybe there’s some great lesson you’d like me to learn. . . .” His words trailed off as the ache in his chest intensified again. “But, frankly, I think I’ve learned enough.”

These things I have spoken unto you, that in me ye might have peace. In the world ye shall have
tribulation: but be of good cheer; I have overcome the
world.
The words he’d read that morning from John, chapter sixteen, overwhelmed him. Irritated him a little, too. Of course Jesus had overcome the world. He was the Son of God. There was nothing He couldn’t overcome. But Woody was just a man. A very tired and discouraged man.

He drove on in silence, doing his best to put disheartening
thoughts aside. In the distance he could see the town, and there would be enough negativity there that he certainly didn’t need to add his own. Time to face the task at hand head on. “Lord, help me. I need to forgive and love these people no matter what they say or do to me. I need to strengthen my walk with You. I know I fail miserably every day, but I keep making the same mistakes, and so often I don’t even know for sure what those mistakes are. I need Your wisdom and forgiveness.” If he wanted to move on with his life, he had to start there. With God’s love and forgiveness. One step at a time.

“And please let Miss Porter still be there. If you could keep all those rumors from reaching her ears, I sure would appreciate it.”

No matter what, he had to do things differently. Jimmy needed him—needed help. And the only way to help his son heal was to truly go through the healing process himself. It would probably be like ripping the scab off a large wound, but he needed to get the festering wound cleaned out so it could heal properly. Otherwise, the grief and guilt would eat him alive. And he was tired of it and all the pain. It was time to let go.

A couple trunks and a large traveling bag sat in front of the general store as he pulled the wagon to a halt. Woody could only hope that meant good news for him.

Two men left the store and watched him approach. They shook their heads and scowled in his direction and then walked the other way.

At least he wouldn’t have to talk to them. He could be thankful for that.

All right, Lord. I
know You’ve got control of this situation
. Woody climbed down from the wagon and walked to the door. The bell jangled overhead as he opened it, and Carla sent him a smile from behind the counter.

“Good evening, Woody. We’ve been waitin’ on you.”

Her husband
harrumphed
in the corner as he dusted shelves.

Woody removed his hat. “So I’m hoping that means Miss Porter arrived?”

“She did indeed.” Carla patted his arm. “But it wasn’t pretty there for a while, I must say. I’m sorry.”

He could only imagine and nodded. Tendrils of fear raced through his limbs, trying to take root.
I have overcome . . .
Peace engulfed him again, and he stood straighter. “Is she all right?”

“She’s fine. That one’s made of strong stuff.” She walked around the counter. “But I’m sad to say that she did get an earful from the townsfolk.”

“I had a feeling she would.” He shook his head. “I had intended to get here early but had a wagon repair on the way into town.”

“No matter. She’s here and has had a little time to rest.” Carla motioned for him to sit by the checkerboard. The pungent aroma of the pickle barrel made his mouth water. “Let me go get her.”

Herman continued to dust and kept his back to Woody, probably in an attempt to keep his mouth shut. Which was for the best. Woody struggled with his own feelings but knew he had to forgive the man for his treatment the week prior.