Orchids in Moonlight (26 page)

"But maybe it wasn't," he said suddenly, hopefully. "Maybe you couldn't help it. Maybe he raped you. Was that how it was? 'Cause if that's so, I'd understand, and—"

"Stop it!" she cried furiously, her mind spinning. If what this horrid man was saying was true, and if Cord had, indeed, been raised by Indians, it would explain so many things. Like how he could speak the languages of different tribes, how he knew native medicines and folklore. And she'd heard how Indians could move so quietly and stealthily.

She knew, also, it would explain his refusal to discuss his past, for there was terrible prejudice, even hatred by some, against Indians. A person with mixed blood was considered undesirable, a social outcast. Obviously, if Cord had been raised by Indians, it would be a stigma. No doubt, he had had painful experiences and therefore was determined to keep that part of his life a secret.

But it wouldn't have mattered to me, she acknowledged silently, wishing she had known back then, so she could have told him so.

Link gave her an impatient shake. "Hey, you listening to me? I asked you a question, woman, and I want an answer. Did you rut with that adopted Apache?"

Jaime slapped him. "I'm sick of your filthy mouth, and I'm sick of you pawing me. Now stay away from me, damn you."

He had released her when her hand cracked across his face, and he rubbed his cheek and fought the impulse to keep from slamming her with his fist. "Bitch," he hissed between clenched teeth. "He
did
have you, didn't he? And I don't want nothin' to do with you."

Jaime was almost to the end of the hallway when Jerusha came toward her, Lem right behind her. "Are you all right, dear?" they both asked at once.

Jaime assured them that everything was fine and said Link Cotter would never come near her again. Feeling the need to be alone, she thanked them quickly for their concern and started by, but Lem spoke up to say he thought it would be best if she continued on to San Francisco as soon as possible.

"A young woman has no business traveling alone. The sooner you meet your daddy, the better. I'm going to speak to Norman Bryson and arrange for him to take you with him and Thelma. I think they'll be leaving in a day or two."

Jaime shuddered at the thought. She didn't like the way Norman leered at her when no one else was looking. And once, when she had slipped away by herself to bathe in a creek and discovered someone spying, she'd been convinced it was Norman. She felt no less uncomfortable around Thelma, the only one among the women who had continued to regard her with contempt.

"I was thinking of going by steamer the rest of the way," she lied, for she had not made any plans, daring to believe Cord would have seen her to San Francisco, at least.

Lem and Jerusha looked at each other uneasily, then Lem asked, "You got the money, girl? It costs money to travel by steamer."

Jaime lied again. "Of course. Now don't you worry about me." She started up the stairs.

Jerusha called after her, "Aren't you going to eat breakfast, dear?"

"Later."

Jaime kept going, all the way to the sanctity of her room, feeling a frantic need to be alone and try to figure out what she was going to do.

Thinking she might find comfort in rereading her father's letters, she pulled the satchel from its hiding place. She took out the Bible and began to leaf through it.

And that's when she saw it—the money neatly tucked next to the dried and faded orchid.

With shaking fingers, she counted it. Two hundred and fifty dollars.

Fury began to creep over her.

Only Cord could have got in and out of her room without a sound, and who else would have put it there?

Had he seen the map? she wondered frantically. Or read the letters? No. She shook her head, told herself to calm down. It was dark. She had put the lantern out. But he could have come in the first light of dawn. He had managed to find where she'd hidden the bag and taken out the Bible, so why wouldn't he have seen the papers?

Everything seemed in place. Probably, he had just slipped the money inside. What difference did it make, anyway? Even if he had seen the map, he hadn't taken it.

She counted the money again, a bitter smile touching her lips. He had come to her in the night, but not to make love or say good-bye, only to pay for past services. After all, hadn't he once proposed that she could be either his doxy or his wife?

Perhaps, she told herself, she should be grateful. Now she could pay her way to San Francisco and have something left over.

Then with a jolt, she thought of something that really made her blood boil.

Francie.

The prostitute Cord had been expecting the first night they had met, sent to service him in exchange for his taking five hundred dollars off a gambling debt.

She stared at the money.

It was degrading enough to know he felt he owed her, but worse to contemplate he considered her worth only half of Francie's fee.

Never had she felt so degraded.

Had he been there, had he dared give it to her in person, she would have thrown it in his face. No doubt that was why he had sneaked in. It was his way of soothing his conscience for the way he'd used her and then dumped her, the bastard.

Tucking the bills back in the Bible where she'd found them, she took out the faded orchid.

For long agonized moments, she held it in her open palm. Then, as though she could destroy the memories of those nights in his arms, she began to crumble the crisp petals between her fingers.

As the brown bits and shreds fluttered to the floor, she watched them through a veil of tears.

* * *

Two days later, with less than a hundred dollars left after paying for the expensive passage from Sacramento, Jaime arrived in San Francisco and was instantly bedazzled by the teeming city.

She looked from the harbor, crowded with ships from everywhere in the world, to the tall buildings looming in the distance, and wondered dizzily what to do. She'd thought of nothing else, day or night, and still had no plan.

She saw the old man watching her from where he sat on the porch of a dilapidated-looking warehouse. He seemed harmless, and she was not about to approach any of the younger dock workers with their rude leers and suggestive remarks.

As she drew closer, she saw he was whittling something that was beginning to look like a ship. "Excuse me." She greeted him pleasantly, shading her eyes with her hand against the blazing late-afternoon sun.

A grin spread across the bearded, wrinkled face. Josh Becker could not recall ever seeing such a comely lass in all his sixty-nine years. Hair the color of the precious ore that had been his mistress till old age caught up with him, eyes the color of the Caribbean seas he'd once sailed as a lad. Truly, she was a sight to behold. "Well, now, what can I do for you, lassie?"

"My name is Jaime Chandler." She introduced herself.

"I'm Josh Becker."

"Pleased to meet you," she murmured politely before going on. "I'm afraid I don't know anyone in this town, and I was wondering if you could help me with some information."

"If I can, I'll be delighted." He patted the empty chair next to him. "Get out of that sun and tell me all about it."

And she did so.

He listened with interest to how she was trying to locate her father, who was living in Drytown the last she heard from him. "Well, now, your daddy must be a prospector. Can't think of no other reason he would have been in Drytown." He paused to snicker. "Never did figure out how it got its name. It sure won't due to a lack of neither water in the creeks or booze in the bars.

"It's over in Amador County," he went on, "about forty miles southeast of Sacramento, near Sutter's Creek."

"Named after the same man that built Sutter's Fort?"

"That's right, and after John Sutter stomped away mad when his empire fell apart after his workers ran off to the goldfields, things around the creek kept on growing. For a while, anyway. But I remember Drytown. I surely do...."

Leaning back in his chair, the old man closed his eyes, as though by shutting out the present he could take himself back in time to younger days. Dreamily, he murmured, "I remember the dance hall at the Exchange Hotel. The floor was all slicked down by bales of hay shoved around, and the dancing always went on till three in the morning. They'd take up a collection to pay the orchestra. By four o'clock, the sun was startin' to rise. I was prospectin' then, myself, and it was all I could do to take pick and pan and head out to my diggings. But it was worth it. All that music and dancin' and lovely ladies. It was heaven to spend a night like that. It surely was."

His eyes flashed open as he returned from his golden days. "It ain't like that no more," he said sharply, almost angrily. "Placer diggin' wore out six or seven years ago, and then there was a big fire that about leveled the town. How long ago was it your daddy was supposed to be there?" he asked suspiciously.

"Going on two years."

"If he was still prospecting, he was wasting his time. But maybe you just thought he was diggin' there. Likely he was around Pokerville and Plymouth. They're still getting rich around them camps."

Jaime had a sinking feeling. What if her father's investment in Mr. Lavelle's mine had paid off, and he had been able to deep-pit mine but hadn't found the mother lode and just gave up? There was no telling where he would be now. All at once she knew her only chance was to talk to Mr. Lavelle, in hopes he could point her in the right direction.

Josh hoped she was not planning on going to Drytown and said as much. "It's a day and a night by stage from here to Sutter's Creek, and that's a long trip for a wild goose chase. Where'd you come from, anyhow?"

"Missouri."

He looked at her and shook his head in sympathy. "I hope you didn't come all that way for nothing, but if all you got to go on is knowing he was in Drytown two years ago, I'm afraid you did."

"There's something else. He was doing business with a man here in San Francisco named Stanton Lavelle." Her voice trailed away as she saw the strange look that came over his face. Warily, she asked, "What's wrong? Why are you looking like that?"

"Stanton Lavelle," he all but whispered, as though he did not dare speak the name out loud. Then, with a frown, he said brusquely, "You won't have no trouble findin' him."

He pointed toward the buildings beyond. "That was once the high-tide line. Now it's called Montgomery Street. You'll find a bunch of jerry-built banks and brokerage houses there. Keep on going till you get a block inland, where you'll come to a slope above the bay. That's called Portsmouth Square. That's where the finest hotels, the best restaurants, and the plushest saloons and billiard halls are located.

"And that, lassie"—he touched the tip of his knife to the brim of his hat in a gesture Of finality—"is where you'll find Mr. Stanton Lavelle, or somebody that'll point you to him. He used to have an office in the Port Hotel building, but I don't know if he still does. Fact is, I hear he don't stay in the city like he used to. He built himself a mansion out of an old Spanish mission by the sea, farther north. Spends most of his time there since he got shot at a few times."

"Shot at?"

"He's got money and power, but he ain't exactly held in high esteem, Miss Chandler, for reasons I won't go into. Not fit conversation for a lady."

"Well, all right," she said finally. "I'll go into town and try to find him. But who do I ask?"

"Anybody." He laughed, as though enjoying a private joke. "You won't have a bit of trouble. All you gotta do is mention his name."

She thanked him, and he wished her well, and she hurried toward the rising buildings.

Finding her way to the Port Hotel, she paused outside the red-brick building to go over in her mind once more what she planned to say to Mr. Lavelle when she met him at last. She had considered the possibility his mine might not have paid off, and if that were the case, and her father had refused to turn the map over as pledged for his investment, there could very well be hard feelings.

Well, she decided, taking a deep breath and mustering all her courage, the time had come to find out exactly what the situation was.

There was no one else around, and she started toward the double brass-plated doors, excitement flowing.

Just then, a bedraggled man reeking of whiskey bumped into her and apologized. "Oh, lady, I'm sorry, so sorry. Didn't mean to hurt you, I truly didn't."

"I'm all right, really." She took a step backward, thinking what a pitiful wretch he was.

He looked at her with red-rimmed eyes and took off his tattered hat to hold it in his hands. "Could you help a starvin' man, lady? That's why I fell into you like I did. I'm weak. Can't remember the last time I ate. About to pass out, I am. Just a pittance, anything, please."

Jaime really had nothing to spare herself but could not refuse him. She set her satchel down, opened it, and took out the lace handkerchief Jerusha had given her as a farewell gift. She had wrapped the rest of her money inside.

She took out a bill and was about to hand it to him when all of a sudden he snatched the handkerchief from her and took off running down the street.