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“Yes.”

“Two different kinds of olives for the two different purposes?”

“Yes.” She caught on quick. “Producing table olives here in California is new. Rebecca and I had wanted to be the first really prosperous farm to supply all the grocers with table olives.”

“I thought the trees looked just a tad different. I’m fascinated with table olives. They are my absolute favorite, but I know they have been hard to come by.”

“Well, the process is relatively new to keep them preserved, but ancient in that olives have always been a delicacy.”

She nodded. “What other equipment do you need?”

Her observation skills were impressive. “Well, we need barrels for brining the olives. Granite wheels for the pressing. Barrels for the oil. Ladders. Trimming blades. There’s quite a list.”

While they stopped, she pulled out her little book and started writing, then looked up again. “How often do you trim the trees?”

“We prefer to call it pruning. We prune them every other year in the winter months. Olives tend to produce in high yields one year and then less the next. In the off year we prune, and that gives us an even better crop the next year. We try not to let them get over twenty feet. It’s pretty difficult to harvest if we let them get out of control.”

She nodded and wrote some more. “When is harvest?”

“September through November most of the time. Sometimes even into December. It takes us a while to get to all the trees. The olives we use for olive oil are shaken out of the trees with special wooden rakes onto large sheets of cotton. It takes a while since there can be over a thousand olives per tree. But we have twice as many olive oil trees as we do table olives. Those trees have to be picked by hand so there are no bruises on the fruit.”

She raised her eyebrows and her mouth formed an
o
as she wrote. “How many workers do you have?”

“Only five. I normally give them the months of January and February off. Since not all of them are from around here, they like to go visit their families.” He frowned. “I can’t always get workers from around here.”

“Well, I think it’s quite kind of you to let them leave to see their loved ones.”

He shrugged. “They deserve the break. Harvest season can be grueling. We have the pickers and then we also have to get all the olives cleaned. Then prepped for whichever direction they go, whether it be oil or to the table.”

She scribbled in the book faster than he thought possible. “When will Jimmy start to help?”

Woody looked the other direction. Why did such a simple question squeeze his heart like a vise? “Well . . . he’d been helping in the groves since he was little. Rebecca often strapped him in a contraption on her back. Then, when he was a little bigger, he helped me pick the leaves out of the olive bins as they were being washed. But then Rebecca died . . .”

“And he hasn’t spoken since.”

Woody nodded. “I don’t know what he remembers about the olive groves. And I don’t know what he saw or heard the day his mother died. Then he started withering away.” He turned toward her again. “We’re all just a little hesitant to move on with life.”

“That’s understandable.” She tucked her book back into her skirt. “He loves you, you know.”

His heart clenched as he nodded.

“Would you be okay with us helping every now and then? So he can learn what his papa does and how he provides for his family?”

“That’s a good idea.” No, it wasn’t, his heart wanted to shout. Rebecca was supposed to be here. Teaching Jimmy alongside Woody. He shook his head of the negative thoughts. How long was he going to allow this dark cloud to reign over him? He drew in a deep breath and let it go. One step at a time. One day at a time.

“So what else can I learn? How many acres do you have, and how many trees?”

Woody pushed his horse forward and stopped for a moment as another wave of regret washed over him. Let go, Colton. Let go.

“Woody?”

“I’m sorry.” He cleared his throat. “Fifty acres for the olive groves. Fifty for the orchard that you saw but will take many years to establish, and two hundred in surrounding land. Right now we have five hundred trees producing for the table olives and a thousand trees for olive oil. But I’ve planted a lot more—almost twice as many on each side. You’ve probably seen the little saplings. The problem will be at harvesttime. I’ll have to hire additional workers once those trees start to produce.”

“My goodness. Well, they are beautiful, Woody.” She pulled her horse even with his, seeming content to just look at the beauty of the groves.

“You should see it in spring—around April and May when the trees begin to bloom and are covered in white flowers.”

“I bet it’s breathtaking.”

He nodded. Then turned his horse back toward the house. “We better get back for lunch so Mrs. Goodman doesn’t worry. Is there anything else you’d like to see? Any other questions?”

“This has been very helpful, thank you. I know if I’m to do my best by Jimmy, then I need to be well acquainted with the farm and what we do here.”

“You’re doing just fine, Lillian.”

“I noticed the flower beds needed attention.” She bit her lip. “That’s something Jimmy and I can tend to and incorporate learning at the same time. I’ve not cared for a garden myself,
but I’ve watched it done enough that I feel confident I can manage.”

Another of Rebecca’s loves. Her flowers. Would the ache ever go away? He cleared his throat. “Well, I suppose that would be fine.” As heartbreaking as it felt to have someone else—another woman, no less—tending to Rebecca’s flowers, maybe it would help his son in some small way.

She nodded and exhaled a large breath. “I have a lot to learn, but I do believe that everything we do should be done to the very best of our ability for the glory of the Lord. This is a wonderful place, Woody. Thank you for being patient and explaining. I’ll work hard and learn everything I can.”

“No doubt, Lillian. Don’t fret over it.” If he could just take his own advice.

God had provided in miraculous ways. He understood grief was a process, but he hadn’t expected so much to get churned up as he healed.

Turning back to glance at Lillian, he watched her face go from a smile to a concerned expression. “Are you sure you don’t have any other questions?”

She scrunched up her nose. “Well, not about the farm. But I do have a question about a young man.”

“A young man?”

“Yes, his name is Harry.” She flicked a bug away from her face. “Do you know him? Have you met him before?”

“No, I can’t say that I have.” Woody looked over at her. Her brow was furrowed. “Has he bothered you?”

“Oh, heavens, no.” She shook her head. “But I’ve been worried about him ever since we met him.”

“We?”

“Yes, Jimmy and I—we met him on our first picnic. Poor thing
was half starved to death. He said that he’s twenty years old, but he’s just a child, really. I’ve met someone like him before—our minister had taken him in—back in Indianapolis. They’re not dumb by any means, but they never seem to really mature all the way. Harry seems to be on about the same level as Jimmy mentally. Back east they called them simpleminded, but I didn’t like that terminology at all.”

Her sympathy for the young man was clear. But after what had happened to Rebecca, Woody felt a pang of caution. “Did he have a weapon? Did he seem at all dangerous?”

She laughed and shook her head. “Goodness, Woody, no. Not at all. He was gentler than Mrs. Goodman. He might be large in stature, but that boy seems to have a heart of gold. I was just hoping you knew something about him. Maybe how we could help him. I can’t help wondering how he’s taking care of himself. He said he was all alone.”

“Still . . .” Woody frowned and tried not to sound too stern, considering he’d given her a bad first impression already. “You should be cautious just in case. We still don’t know who killed my wife.”

Lillian reached across from her horse and patted his arm. Her touch seemed to burn through the fabric. It’d been so long since anyone had touched him. “I’m so sorry, Woody, I wasn’t thinking. I understand where your fears come from, but there’s no way Harry could have hurt your wife. Why, the boy stepped on a flower and cried when he crushed it.” She shook her head. “The only thing that stopped his sobbing was Jimmy bringing him another one. And personally, I think he’s good for Jimmy and Jimmy’s good for him. Those two communicated that day like nothing I have ever seen or heard. Maybe Harry can help Jimmy heal.”

“But you don’t know where he lives?”

“No. That’s why I was asking you about him.”

“I’ll keep my eyes and ears open.”

“Thank you, Woody.” She sighed. “I just know the good Lord would want us to help Harry. And maybe in turn, Harry will help us.”

For a moment she was silent, but just when Woody figured all her concerns were addressed, she started in again. “There is one more thing. I hope you won’t think me too forward.”

“What is it?”

She looked away for a moment, and Woody thought she might have decided against posing her question. Finally she straightened and looked back at him. “I wondered if . . . if I might . . . play your piano.”

Woody hadn’t expected such a question and couldn’t keep the surprise from his face. Lillian waved a gloved hand. “If it’s too soon, I understand. It’s just that I love to play. Music has always been such a comfort to me, and Mrs. Goodman said that your wife had just started to teach Jimmy. I thought it might be a way to connect him with his memories of her in a good way. Of course, I do understand if that isn’t what you want and the memories of your wife are too difficult. I will respect your wishes, but—”

Now it was Woody’s turn to raise his hand as if in surrender. “If you’ll stop long enough to draw breath, I’ll give you an answer.”

She looked at him and blushed. “I do apologize.”

He forced a smile. First the flowers, now the piano. Why not just rip the scab right off his heart and let him bleed to death? But his own words betrayed him. “It’s quite all right. I would be happy for you to use the piano. I closed that room off not
because I didn’t want to remember my wife, but because nobody else plays. I’m sure Jimmy would be glad for the opportunity to learn.”

He turned his horse back toward the house and this time didn’t wait for any other questions. Even though his chest felt like it was being crushed, he knew his answer was the best.

If he could survive it.

C
HAPTER
E
LEVEN

D
arwin swiped a hand down his clean-shaven face. He hadn’t been without a beard or mustache since he could grow facial hair. Ma wouldn’t even recognize him.

It was about time to head into Copperopolis. He needed supplies and liquor—and the only way to find out if his trick worked would be to hang out and keep his ear to the ground. Angels Camp would be too close, and there might be bounty hunters hanging around.

Saddling his horse, he looked around for Harry. Dagnabbit, that fool boy was never around. If he got them caught, Darwin would have to shoot the kid himself—promise or no promise to Ma. He was
not
his brother’s keeper.

Blast. A stream of curses flew out of his mouth. The boy must’ve wandered off explorin’ again. Well, Darwin would just have to give his kid brother a talkin’ to when he got back.

Kicking his horse into a gallop, Darwin could almost taste the whiskey waiting for him in town. It had been too long.

The long ride did nothing but sour his mood. He should be
riding in style. Not eating dust and having to do his own dirty work. He ought to own his father’s property, but instead that Colton fellow did, and he’d planted olives. Olives of all things. Darwin couldn’t stand them.

By the time he reached the edge of Copperopolis, he was ready to beat somebody up. His blood boiled at the injustice of it all. Here he was. A man of means. With lots of gold. And someone else was standin’ in his way.

He flipped a coin to a kid at the livery and dismounted. “Clean him up for me. I got business in town.”

“Yes, sir.” The kid turned the coin over and over in his grubby hands.

Darwin sauntered into town in Saul’s duds. His disgusting cousin had always liked things a bit too fancy for Darwin’s taste, but if he wanted people to believe he was dead and his cousin still alive, he’d have to play the part.

He nodded his head to some ladies on the boardwalk and smiled at the children. See? He could be a good guy. Fit in. Just like everyone else. He just needed his gold.

Stopping in the general store, he watched the people around him. No one seemed to be scared of him or even recognize him. In fact, two women even batted their eyelashes at him as he held the door. Maybe he should’ve cleaned up years ago. Time to take the next step.

As he went farther down the street, he found a saloon. One of his favorite places to visit. Many times. He walked in and stood at the polished pine bar. Not a peep from the barkeep. Several men looked his way and then went right back to what they were doing.

Chuck, the regular barkeep, dried a glass and placed it in front of him. “What’ll ya have?”

“Whiskey.”

Chuck served it up and Darwin drank. The old-timer didn’t recognize him, either.

He stood there for a good thirty minutes just listening and drinking. He should’ve killed Saul a long time ago. This was too easy.

Curly Jones and Gus Parker entered from the back of the saloon. Gus hiked up his pants and then took his stance at the end of the bar. Curly wobbled his way over to join him. The two were always there—same place, same scowling expressions.

Now things would get interesting. If Darwin could fool these two, he could fool anyone.

Chuck poured them drinks and they lifted their glasses and looked straight at him. But neither one did anything other than nod and drink.

“I need another, Chuck.” Gus spoke a little too loudly. It was apparent he’d already had a start.

Curly just laughed as Chuck poured another round.

“Hey, Chuck, did you hear about the body they found on the way to Stockton?”