Gold (14 page)

“
You see,” he panted. “They’re drunk and up
to no good, and you can get plenty hurt.”

“
It’s the next cabin,” Selena whispered.

At last he was there. Unceremoniously he
dumped her to the ground, yanked open the door
and shoved her inside. “Stay there,” he ordered.

“
I’ll get even with you, Danny O’Lee,” she
said, angered by his brashness. “I’ll get even with
you if it’s the last thing I do.”

He shut the door. What a spirited lass! But he was afraid she still hadn
’t realized her danger or
that what he’d done had been for the best. Why,
he couldn’t bear to think of Selena touched by
any man in that mob. And worse than touched,
the way they were tonight. Had she no sense?

Danny waited for the drunken men by the
cabin, taking no chances. Rain began to fall, and
by the time the first few reached him, the rain
had increased. It threatened to become a gully-
washer.

Danny stepped out from beside the cabin.
“Sure and it’s back to that keg of brandy I’m
heading,” he shouted in his best brogue. “Who’s for having another drink to keep out the cold and damp? Bob, me bucko, are you with me?”

“
Danny, is it you?” English Bob called.

Danny wiped the rain from his face and made his way to Bob. The men had stopped and were
milling about uncertainly. “Come along, mate,”
he said. “On to the brandy and I’ll drink you un
der the table.”

“
It’ll take more than one Irish bastard to do
that,” Bob warned.

Danny took Bob
’s arm and turned toward
Matt’s cabin.

“
Hell, I could use another dipperful meself,”
someone said hesitantly.

“
I’m for going back,” another voice put in. “We
barely broached that damn keg.”
Old Matt’s snug and warm in the coffin, which
is more than I am,” another muttered. “I had my
fill of rain this past winter.”

Danny took a deep breath and started off, En
glish Bob beside him. Behind him the men fell
into a straggled line. Like as not now he’d have
to drink till he passed out but it would be worth it.
He’d saved Selena. And the bloody Chilenos, too,
come to think of it.

He looked up, letting the rain strike him full in
the face. With a little help from heaven, of course.

CHAPTER TEN

Pamela climbed the stairs to the hotel’s second
floor and tapped on Rhynne’s door.

“
Come in,” he called.

By the time she opened the door W.W. had pushed his chair away from his desk. In his left
hand he held a short-barreled pistol she recog
nized as a derringer. When he saw her he tucked the gun inside his coat and rose with a sweeping
bow.

“
Were you expecting Harry Varner?” she
asked, nodding to the bulge made by the der
ringer.

“
I prefer not to take chances. Honest Harry
made some rather wild accusations after the fire.”

“
Reverend Colton told me Mr. Varner had disappeared. He seemed to think the man went back to San Francisco.”

“
Another story,” Rhynne said, “has him holed
up in a mountain cabin panning for gold.”

For a moment she considered asking Rhynne
outright if he, in fact, had burned Varner’s store. She remembered her father’s words: “Pam, when
a crime’s been committed, ask yourself one ques
tion. Who benefits most? Nine times out of ten
you’ve named the guilty party.”

“
It’s clear that we were the chief beneficiaries
of the fire,” she said carefully. “Now that we have
the only store, we have almost more business than
we can accommodate.”

Rhynne gestured toward the papers on his desk.
“You’re quite correct. According to the figures
from both the store and the hotel, my original
estimate of our profits will prove modest.”

“
There’s so much business I need another
clerk.”

“
You have Selena.”

“
W.W., that’s the main reason I came up here this morning. I see less and less of Selena. She sleeps late after singing at the hotel, then, when
she finally gets out of bed, she’s either taking
piano lessons from Ned or else practicing her new
songs. She’s hardly any help to me in the store at
all.”

“
She’s happy, Pamela. Have you noticed the
way her face glows?”

Pamela put her hand on the desk and leaned
toward him. “How long will that last? She’s satis
fied now, singing in this out-of-the-way corner of
the world, but will that be good enough for her
tomorrow? And what will she have when all this
is over? Nothing.”

“
Do you remember what it was like to be Se
lena’s age? Leave her alone, Pamela. Let your
daughter go. You have to let her make her own
mistakes, make her own life for herself. ‘Bliss
was it in that dawn to be alive, but to be young
was very heaven!’’’

“
Stop it!” Pamela’s voice rose. “You’re the
one who’s responsible, W.W. You and you alone.
You give her whatever she wants. You encour
age her to defy me, her own mother. You don’t
know what Selena’s capable of. I’ll have no more
of it.”

“
What are you afraid of, Pamela? That your daughter will surpass you? That she’ll manage to
wring more from life than you have? You’re a
lovely woman but you’re in danger of becoming a
dried-up shrew. A bitch.”

“
How dare you talk to me like that? You, a
common gambler, a—a whoremaster!”

Rhynne picked the quill from his desk and
hurled the pen against the far wall. It fell onto the
blanket covering his narrow cot.

“
Pamela,” he said, his voice deathly quiet. “I
was getting ready to write to a friend in Frisco.
I don’t believe I’ve ever told you about him. His
name’s Charlie Sung and he’s beholden to me. I
was writing for you, Pamela. You can’t have
much laudanum left by now. You don’t, do you?”

She lowered her head.
“Enough for three days,
four at the most.”

“
Charlie Sung, of course, is a celestial. He has
ways of satisfying the most unlikely requests, ways
not available to the rest of us.”

“
If you knew the torment I suffer. How ill I am
without the medicine.”
“Do you know what Doc Braithewaite calls
laudanum? G.O.M.—God’s Own Medicine. Do
you know what I
call it, Pamela? I call it opium,
for that’s what it is.”

“
I don’t care what Samuel Braithewaite calls it
and I don’t care what you call it!” Pamela turned
her face from him and lowered her voice. “I need
the medicine.”

“
Then remember this. I’m the only one in
Hangtown who can get it for you. Braithewaite’s
in short supply--I asked him. The shipments from the east coast aren’t adequate. The price in Frisco is astronomical.”

Rhynne put his hand on her shoulder.
“Forgive me for causing you distress, Pamela. We’re part
ners but you’re more to me than that. I have a
deep affection for you.” His fingers traced small
circles on her upper arm. “Look at me, Pamela. Don’t hide your face, look at me.”

Reluctantly she looked up, not wanting him to
see her crying. He took her in his arms and she
rested her head on his shoulder.

“
It’s all right, Pamela,” he soothed her. “Even
the strongest women cry.” His palm rubbed her back as she sobbed against him and despite her
self, she felt a stirring, a need. A need so long de
nied.

She stepped away, drying her eyes with her
handkerchief. “I’ll be late opening the store if I
don’t go,” she said.

She saw him glance down at his pocket watch
on the desk. The store wasn’t supposed to open
for another half hour, but he said nothing. Pamela
stopped at the door, hesitating before she spoke.

“
You will write to your friend? To Charlie
Sung?”

“
Of course I will.”

She closed he door. Hating him. Hating her
self. Hating her need for him.

When Pamela found the lobby of the hotel de
serted, she placed her carrying bag on the counter
and listened for the sound of footsteps. Hearing
none, she took out the laudanum bottle and a
whisky glass, filled the glass half full and drank it.
She stood, breathing hard, waiting for the exhil
aration she knew would come.

By the time she walked into the street she felt better. So much better that she was able to smile almost gaily at the young man sitting on the log
railing in front of the store.

“
I’ll be open in a minute,” she told him, taking
the key from her bag.

“
To see such a pretty face, I’d gladly wait the rest of the day,” he said.

“
Enough of your blarney.” She preceded him
into the store and sat on the stool behind her
desk.

“
And how in the name of all the saints does
everyone know I’m Irish?” said Danny O’Lee.

Pamela looked at his face and smiled. He
couldn’t be anything but Irish. She remembered
him now. Danny O’Lee.

“
A wild Irish boy,” Se
lena had called him. “I sang for him, for him
alone, and what did he do? Started a great brawl. And there’s more besides, but never mind that. I
never want to set eyes on him again. Do you
know, Mr. Rhynne suspects O’Lee isn’t even his
real name? Who knows what crimes he might
have committed back in the States?”

Pamela smiled, trying to imagine the misdeeds
this devil-may-care lad could be guilty of. Noth
ing more serious than breaking a few colleens’
hearts, she was sure.

“
And have you the luck of the Irish?” she asked
him.

Shoving aside a stack of tinned beef, Danny
sat on a counter facing her. “That I do not. For
three weeks I’ve been at the diggings here and
around Coloma and all I have to show for it is
eighteen dollars and fifty cents. I could earn as much in a day by pounding nails into boards in
town.”

“
The luck I referred to was with the lasses.”

“
If lasses were gold, I wouldn’t have even the
eighteen dollars and fifty cents. I’d have nothing.’
Color rose to his neck and face.

Pamela didn
’t know what to say. “Well, you’re
a fine-looking lad,” she told him comfortingly.
But this only seemed to increase his confusion, so
she opened her ledger and wrote the day’s date at
the top of a new page.

“
I thought you might be able to help me,” he
said at last. She stopped writing to look up at him.

“
And how might I do that?”

“
Let me tell you how it’s been with me these
last weeks. I staked a claim and I panned for gold
and there was nothing in the stream so I moved
on and still there was nothing. So the next week I
joined up with English Bob, he being a friend of
mine, and we built a cradle. Took us all of one
day it did. Then we took turns with one of us
shoveling the sand and gravel into the cradle while
the other poured in the water and rocked it. I’m
not complaining, but it was a hard week’s work.
Point is, between us we made thirty-seven dollars
what with gold at fourteen dollars to the ounce,
and half of that was Bob’s. We split up then, Bob
and me, and I went down the south fork of the
river looking for where the diggings might be
good. Yet whenever I asked, ‘Any luck, mate?’
the men shook their heads, not wanting to tell
me, and they chased me off if I waited to watch.
So I figured I had to use my head better if I
wanted to find gold. So that’s why I’m here. To
ask for your help.”