Native Gold Page 2

  "As for this abomination..." He snatched up the painting.

  She sprang to her feet and grabbed his sleeve. "No!" Surely he didn’t mean to take her masterpiece as well. As a desperate afterthought, she added, “Please.”

  He extracted his arm. "It’s for the best," he said sternly.

  "No." Panic seized her by the throat, leaving her voice a feeble whisper. Lord, she hated to beg. "Not my...please-Uncle-don’t-take-my—"

  "I won’t have filth like this infecting the Hardwicke house."

  "But it’s...” She tried to modulate her voice to a reasonable tone. “It’s mine." Lord, what did he intend to do with it? Pack it away in the attic? Give it to the servants? Sell it?

  His eyes flattened like storm clouds as he turned away from her. And suddenly she knew what he intended.

  "No!" she screamed.

  She dove for his coattails, trying to stop him, and skidded on the hem of her skirt. The satin ripped, and her knee banged on the polished oak floor as she caught the back of his coat. He grunted, nearly losing his footing himself.

  "Please!" she shrieked.

  He half-turned toward her, his eyes rolling in fear as if a madwoman pursued him.

  She reluctantly loosened her grip on his coat. It wouldn’t do to frighten the man. Swallowing hard and licking her lips, she willed her heart to stop racing, willed her voice to return to a sane pitch.

  "I’ll do anything you say, Uncle Ambrose. I’ll stop painting. I’ll be good. I promise. Just please..." She was truly begging now, on her knees, no less, clutching at his clothing like a waif in the streets pleading for a crumb. But she didn’t care. She was desperate.

  "Unhand me, Mathilda."

  She stared into his narrowed eyes. Could she change his mind? Would he listen to her? Reluctantly, she let go of his coat and gave him a watery, hopeful smile.

  She saw his jaw tighten once, then release. His eyes softened, and he breathed a long sigh. He reached down to cup her chin affectionately in one hand, as he often did with his own daughters. For one brief moment, she glimpsed forgiveness.

  Then he murmured, "It’s for the best, girl."

  Before she could digest his words, he slipped off the velvet drape and cast her painting, her best work, her masterpiece, into the heart of the fire.

  "No!" Despair ripped through her throat, as if her spirit was torn from her body. "No!"

  Sparks leaped up and collided with the canvas like falling stars. Black smoke curled towards the flue. Orange fire licked at the edges of the painting, moving inward voraciously.

  Mattie screamed as the flames seemed to sear her soul. It was like watching her child burn.

  She scrambled forward on hands and knees, hampered by the tangle of her voluminous skirts.

  Liquefied in the heat, the oils began to smoke and bubble, lending eerie life to the sea she’d painted.

  Her eyes tearing and her throat clogged with sobs, she fought her way across the slippery floor.

  A sudden burst of flame shot through the middle of the painting, startling them both, snapping at the figure of her father like a ravenous shark.

  "No!" She knocked Ambrose out of the way and lunged toward the hearth, where a hellish darkness slowly fell over the painting’s ethereal light.

  Throwing caution aside, Mattie thrust her hand into the flames, desperate to salvage her masterpiece, desperate to spare her parents a fiery doom.

  She didn’t feel the pain of the burn till much later, after the physician had applied a butter salve, wrapped her hand in a linen bandage, and she was tucked into her bed. Even then, it was nothing compared to the agony of her heart.

  It was gone—her finest work. Just like her parents—as if they’d never been.

  And she might as well have been tossed onto the fire alongside her painting, because she wasn’t wanted either.

  Her uncle had minced no words when it came to telling her what an affront she was to the Ambrose Hardwicke household. And now she’d exhausted all the Hardwicke households.

  She had no one to turn to. She didn’t belong anywhere.

  In the darkness, her eyes filled with hot tears, and she clenched her jaw against the trembling urge to sob.

  Though she’d tell no one—not even God—in these deep, hopeless hours of the night, when her heart ached and she felt as unloved as a runt pup, she sometimes wished death would come for her. If she died, she might follow her parents, wherever they’d gone. Then she might finally belong.

  A ragged sob escaped her then, and she stifled it with her bandaged fist. Why did no one approve of her? Her parents had never criticized her or made her feel unwanted. They’d loved her the way she was.

  She closed her eyes, and a tear trickled out to wander down her cheek, lost.

  What would become of her now? She couldn’t stay here, not knowing how her uncle felt. But who would take in a streaky-haired, tawny-skinned waif who painted monstrosities?

  She sniffled and turned her head on the pillow to watch the gold moon sink slowly beyond the lace curtain. Was there nowhere out there in the vast world where she could be true to herself? Somewhere she could start over? Somewhere she’d be accepted despite her differences?

  With blurring eyes, she watched the moon lower in the west, past the stone wall, between the distant treetops, and beyond, toward plains and mountains and forests and rugged land.

  And then it came to her.

  California.

  The Golden West.

  Land of opportunity.

  Her breath stilled.

  No. She couldn’t. She was only a girl—too young, too unworldly for the wilderness. The notion was absurd. Only fallen women and fools went to California.

  She flounced onto her side, away from the west, away from the empty promise that called to her beyond the window, and shut her eyes tightly against the ridiculous notion.

  But she was her father’s daughter. The curious possibility wouldn’t leave her alone. While she tossed and turned and tried to sleep, it tugged inexorably at her conscience. The adventure beckoned to her as irresistibly as the song of the Siren in her painting. And by the chiming of the next hour, she’d plotted her course.

  Wide awake now, her heart pumping, she reached hopefully beneath her feather pillow. The servants had missed the pencil and sketchbook she kept hidden there. She brought them toward the window, where the moonlight gleamed on the sill. Opening the book to a blank page, she tapped the pencil thoughtfully on her bottom lip. Then she smiled.

  Despite the impediment of her bandages, the self-portrait was finished before the hall clock chimed the hour. Mattie penciled a quick title across the top and composed a brief message to go with it. In the morning, before the light of day could show her the folly of her actions, she’d send a servant to post it. Then it would be too late for regrets.

  With a sigh that was half trepidation and half relief, she scribbled her new signature for the first time at the bottom of the page.

  Mrs. James Harrison.

  Chapter 1

  SPRING 1851

  NEAR PARADISE BAR, CALIFORNIA

  Dr. James Harrison, Doc Jim to those who knew him, ran shaky fingers through his dull, thinning hair and squinted down at the drawing again.

  “PROSPECTIVE” BRIDE, it said.

  The woman’s face wasn’t unattractive, if the penciled drawing could be believed. She had the right number of eyes, and her features were even, except for that crooked smile. Her dress was as drab as Missouri dirt, but the cinched waist showed a bit of female curve. On the whole, she looked too frail for the gold fields, but the fact she’d drawn herself hefting a gold pan and a pickaxe said a lot about her determination, and the title said something about her sense of humor. If that gleam in her eye lasted past the grueling journey from New York to California, he supposed she’d do fine.

  He burped, stuffed the rumpled drawing back into his coat pocket, and kicked the empty flask of whiskey at his feet.

  He was finally liquor
ed up enough to face the walk back to camp. But lately it took more and more of his hard-won gold dust to get that way. And it also seemed like none of those sons-of-bitches he called friends ever cut him any slack. Damn it! Didn’t they know a man needed a drink once in a while when he spent day after day up to his arse in a freezing cold creek?

  He staggered forward, stubbing the toe of his boot on a rust-red rock. He kicked it again just for spite and cursed as the sharp pain penetrated his drunken stupor. Lord, he hated California.

  "Golden promise!" he crowed to the cedars, shaking an upraised finger like a seller of patent medicine. "Untold wealth!" He cackled ruefully.

  The only wealth he’d found in this God-forsaken place was doing the same thing he’d done back in St. Louis, where he’d had a real house—doctoring. But now there wasn’t enough of that to keep him in beans, let alone liquor. And to rub salt in his wounds, his kid brother Henry, who had a hankering for Lady Luck and a talent for five card draw, had struck it rich in San Francisco. Why, for pride’s sake, Doc Jim had had to out-and-out fib to Henry about the riches of his claim.

  He shook his head, then shoved his rumpled hat down over his disheveled hair and cursed again. He supposed he’d have to spend another dollar on Tom Cooligan’s barbering if he was to meet his wife-to-be this week. Hell, the woman wasn’t even here yet, and already she’d cost him close to two hundred dollars, what with the advertisement, the trip by steamer, and posting that fancy letter Tom had written up for him.

  "She better be worth it," he told the trees, adjusting his trousers with a decisive wrench of his belt. "She just damn better."

  But no one answered him. He was alone in this neck of the woods. It seemed like he was always alone these days, usually at the bottom of a bottle. Which was why he’d resorted to consoling himself with the local Indian squaws, who were always by the creek, digging up bulbs for their dinner, and who didn’t put up too much of a fight as long as he had a gun in his hand. It was also why those flea-bitten codgers at Paradise Bar had talked him into getting himself a wife. They thought maybe he’d settle down and straighten up once he had a woman to look after him.

  He frowned down at the pine needle-lined trail, wondering if any of the boys back at camp had a stash of liquor. There was still a good half-hour of sunlight left, and damn if he wasn’t out of whiskey. He sighed, pitched his pick and shovel atop his shoulder, and staggered forward.

  He was still trudging through the woods, almost home, when the brush just ahead of him gave a rustle.

  Squirrel? Jay? Skunk? No. Something bigger, by the way the manzanita leaves shivered. The whiskey suddenly froze up in his veins, and his heart lurched ahead of his brain. Might be a bear. Or a mountain lion.

  He dropped the pick and shovel and reached under the flap of his coat with a quaking hand to pull out his Deringer pistol, a puny thing that looked like it was made for shooting mice.

  The manzanita rattled again, its leaves shaking like silver coins. He raised the loaded gun, his two hands nearly swallowing the pitifully small thing, and aimed it at the bush.

  A figure slowly emerged then, and when he saw it was only one of the local Indian girls, the air rushed out of him in an explosion of relief.

  His relief quickly turned to anger. "Damn it all! What are you tryin’ to do, sneakin’ up on a man like that? I almost shot you, you stupid Digger!"

  He lowered his bunched shoulders, then hawked up the nasty taste of spent fear and spit it out on the ground. He thought it might be the same squaw he’d had his way with this morning, but it was hard to tell. They all looked the same to him, with their coppery skin and the black stripes they painted on their chins.

  Like all the Diggers this time of year, her feet were bare, except for a circle of white shells around her ankle, and she wore a reed skirt that just covered her knees. Her eyes were as black as coal, and her hair fell over her shoulders like two glossy horsetails, not quite hiding the fact that she was naked on top.

  Too bad she’d scared the daylights out of him. Otherwise, he might have felt like availing himself of her charms again.

  “What do you want?” he growled, gesturing her forward with the gun.

  She took a step forward and cautiously lifted one trembling arm. To his amazement, in her hand was the one thing he found more appetizing than her budding breasts.

  A bottle of whiskey.

  “Well, now,” he said with a surprised grin, “what do you know?” He licked his lips. “Is that for me, little darlin’?”

  She lowered her eyes and offered him the bottle.

  He put away his gun. “Well, ain’t that nice.” He rubbed his palms together before reaching out to take the whiskey from her. Maybe he’d made a mistake, writing back East for a wife. These Digger girls knew how to show a man the proper respect. And they were grateful for his attentions.

  He unstopped the bottle and took a whiff. It was the genuine article, by god. He lifted it in a salute to the squaw and slugged back a healthy couple of swallows. The rotgut burned his throat, but it was hard to find good whiskey in these parts. The important thing was, it took the edge off his fruitless day of prospecting.

  Before he could thank the girl, she’d scurried off into the brush.

  The sun was at the top of the sky when Sakote emerged from his swim in the bracing creek and climbed up the broad, flat rock overhanging the water. He shook his long black hair, scattering bright droplets everywhere, and scooped up his breechcloth, tying it around his hips. Then he stretched out atop the great gray boulder like a deerhide curing, his limbs spread wide. The rock was warm, and drops of water trickled off of him like tiny lizards skittering across his bare skin. He let out a long breath, squinting against the powerful light of the sun, and thought about the vision he’d had last night—the same one he’d had several nights in a row.

  In the dream, a snowy white she-eagle with green eyes circled above the village, her wings shining golden in the setting sun. As she spiraled down, Sakote saw that she grasped two speckled eggs in her talons. When she swooped toward him, he didn’t cower, but stood with arms upraised in welcome. She flapped her wings to hover just above him and gently released the eggs into his open palms. Then she dropped down and snagged him by his deerskin cloak, flying up into the sky with him until the village was only a tiny speck hidden among the trees. Still he felt no fear, even when the eagle turned north and he knew in his heart that he would see his people no more.

  The Konkow elders couldn’t tell him what the vision meant, but they agreed it had strong magic and power. Sakote suspected it was a sign that his destiny wasn’t, as the tribe expected, to be the next headman of the Konkow, but something else…somewhere else.

  This troubled him. He and his people had lived in these foothills since the beginning. He couldn’t imagine living anywhere else. Every year, more strangers came, bringing sickness and greed and violence. Now, more than ever, the Konkow needed a powerful warrior like Sakote to protect them. How could he think of leaving?

  He closed his eyes and listened to the world—the world he knew and loved. Over the loud rushing of the creek, wasps and dragonflies buzzed on the air. The fish he’d speared earlier lay quiet beside him within layers of grass. From the far bank, a squirrel clucked angrily, reminding him of his little sister, Towani.

  The corner of his lip drifted up in a smile. Towani had come home late again last night. Each day she spent more and more time in the valley with her miner friend, Noa. Sakote didn’t understand what the miner saw in his scrawny little sister. Maybe the flower season, yo-meni, had made Noa crazy. But one day soon, he was sure they would marry. Then Towani wouldn’t come home at all.

  Yo-meni was a good time—a time of plenty for the Konkow. The animals made their young, and the plants grew heavy with seed so that the tribe wouldn’t go hungry when the snows came.

  A breeze blew across his skin, fluttering his breechcloth, teasing him with its cool breath. Soon the sun would drink all the water from his bod
y, and he’d be as warm as the rock. He took in a lungful of air. The scent of bay leaves and manzanita was strong, but he detected something else, something familiar—the unmistakable tang of little boy sweat.

  The child had been quiet. His bare feet made little noise across the rocks. But his odor gave him away. He’d gone too many days without a bath. He reeked of...

  An abrupt hard blow to Sakote’s belly knocked the wind from him, folding him in half, and suddenly Hintsuli was straddling his stomach. The little boy’s dark eyes shone like obsidian, and his white teeth flashed like shells as his face lit up with victory.

  "I have captured the great pano, the grizzly bear!" Hintsuli crowed, pounding his small brown fists against Sakote’s chest.

  Sakote caught his little brother’s skinny wrists and grinned. "Is that so? Or has the pano captured you?"

  Hintsuli squealed.

  "Hmm," Sakote said, turning the boy this way and that to examine him. "You’re too small for this pano. I think I’ll throw you to the fish instead."

  "No!" Hintsuli screamed in delight. "No!"

  "Oh, yes," he decided, hauling Hintsuli up by his wrists and dangling him over the swirling water. "Brother Trout will be grateful for this little grub."

  As Hintsuli dropped through the air, he cried out one final protest that ended in a gurgle when the creek closed over his head. Then he popped up again as quickly as an oak gall, his shiny black hair hanging in strings over his giggling face.

  Sakote laughed. "You’re so filthy, even the fish spit you out!"

  A sudden rustling from behind him, high on the hillside, intruded upon their moment of play. Sakote whipped his head around, instantly alert, his eyes flicking momentarily toward his fishing spear.

  Atop the ridge stood a man as dark as a Konkow, his arms crossed over his chest as he surveyed the scene before him, slowly shaking his head. His teeth bloomed white against his swarthy face.

  Hintsuli waved a skinny brown arm in greeting. "Noa!"