Brighter than Gold (Western Rebels Book 1) (17 page)

Katie stopped and stared at her. “This is the most curious conversation that you and I have ever had!”

Widening her brown eyes, Abby replied, “Didn’t you ask me to be your friend? Aren’t friends supposed to confide in each other?”

“Well, yes, they are.” Chastened, Katie added, “And of course I’ll not betray your confidence.”

A beatific smile spread over Abby’s face. “I find that I have some very tender feelings toward Gideon Henderson.”

“You do?” Katie blinked, nonplussed.
“Gideon?”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing, nothing!”

“Are we so ill suited?”

“No, of course not!” Katie hastened to reassure her. “It’s just that I’m not used to thinking of Gideon in those terms. He’s never been in love, as far as I know.”

“Then you aren’t very observant. I think that he was half in love with
you
when I first came to Columbia. Then, gradually, we became friends. He loaned me some books.” Abby’s eyes grew dreamy again. “I’ve always been attracted to a different kind of man, but Gideon’s warmth and tenderness, his constancy, make me very happy.”

“Is he... aware? I mean, does Gideon feel the same way about you?”

“I think so, though nothing’s been spoken yet. He’s rather shy.”

Katie felt a rush of emotion and reached out to hug her friend. “I think it’s wonderful. If there is anything I can do, please say so!”

Blushing, Abby murmured awkwardly, “Well, if the opportunity should arise, you might say something to Gideon—just in passing, of course. Do you understand what I mean?”

“Certainly.” Katie beamed. “I’ll be the soul of tact. Let’s go in now and say hello. You’ll have to be getting back to start preparing stew for lunch—”

She broke off in the midst of opening the
Gazette’s
door, freezing as she took in the scene of chaos—papers littering the floor, office chairs overturned, and Gideon’s desk a shambles with ink splattered over everything. Quickly, her eyes sought out the Adams bed and platen printing press at the back of the room. The platen had been broken in two by a sledgehammer, which lay on the floor nearby.

“Help...” The call came faintly from behind stacks of old newspapers in the far comer of the office.

“Dear God, it’s Gideon!” Katie cried. Scrambling over the wreckage, she reached his side in moments, with Abby only a step behind.

“Gideon!” Abby burst into tears at the sight of him. His body looked broken, his clothing torn to reveal bruises and dried blood. There was a gash in the side of his head that oozed blood, and one eye was swollen shut. His spectacles, smashed, still clung to his nose.

Gideon moaned, “The press...”

“Never mind that! What about you?” Katie looked back over her shoulder at Abby. “Run for Doctor Morgan. Hurry!”

Abby obeyed without a word, though she longed to tend to Gideon herself and her heart was bursting with fear for him. Meanwhile, Katie blinked back tears of her own.

“I’ll live,” Gideon whispered, managing a crooked smile.

“Of course you will!” Her voice shook with emotion. “Abby and I will nurse you back to health. We’ll pamper you, wait on you hand and foot, and cook all your favorite dishes....” Katie paused, swallowing tears. “Gideon, do you know who did this?”

“Don’t you?” His tone was acid even as he gritted his teeth against the pain. “Two men came in late last night. Wearing masks. When they smashed the press, one said, ‘Since you won’t print the truth, it’s best you don’t print at all.’ Then they smashed me, too.”

Katie’s cheeks were wet. “Oh, Gideon, will this nightmare never end?”

* * *

An impressive new hotel was under construction across the street from Jonathan Wyatt’s office at the
Morning Star,
and the inescapable racket was a test for his patience. Drinking hot tea at his desk, he went over galley sheets with a pen and tried not to hear the incessant pounding and clatter out on California Street.

There was a tap at the door before Samuel Clemens poked his head in. “Good morning! Could you spare me a moment of your time?” His waistcoat was unbuttoned, his curls tousled, and his mustache nearly covered his mouth until he grinned.

Jack leaned back in his chair and smiled. “Ah, Sam! Come in. You’re just the tonic I need. Thus far, the day has been far too boring.”

“Well, you’re certainly looking very fit.” Clemens took a seat, his eyes agleam with speculation. Jonathan Wyatt was the last person he’d expect to complain of boredom. Why, his looks alone would be enough to satisfy most men for a lifetime. Sun poured through the windows behind him, burnishing his hair. His immaculate white shirt and vest of watered gray silk emphasized his broad shoulders and tapering chest. Since Clemens’s own looks were less than spectacular, he gave them little thought, but he was forced to concede that there must be definite advantages to possessing the physical attributes of a Jonathan Wyatt. That wasn’t what he said now, however. “People would be surprised to hear that you’re bored, my friend. You own a newspaper, you have a magnificent home and a beautiful woman who is desperately in love with you. You’re young, intelligent, and a darling of society. What more could a man ask?”

Jack regarded the younger man with narrowed eyes. “I haven’t noticed you pursuing any of the goals you think I’ve attained.” He sighed. “I don’t know, Sam... something is missing. I worked hard the past few years to discipline myself and instill a sense of order in my life, but now it seems almost...”

“Sterile?” Clemens widened his eyes.

“Yes. Exactly. I’ve told you that I spent some time in the foothills off and on since last autumn, and when I was there I felt alive. Yet it became rather, uh, disconcerting—as if I were beginning to lead two lives. My home and my business and my roots are here, so when I returned in July I decided to accept this reality. Stay here and face it.”

“But you’re not happy?”

“No. I don’t seem to be. Something is lacking....”

“Passion?”

Jack laughed suddenly. “You’re a crafty dog, Clemens! Do you know, I feel better.”

“Well, don’t give me too much credit. I sympathize with your feelings because nothing drives me madder than an ordered existence! I crave adventure, new experiences, something to make me feel
passionate
about life. People have pointed it out on many occasions as a character flaw.” His tone was dry. “You’ll work it out. I think the trick is to strike a balance between listening to the head and the heart, but I can’t claim to have achieved that balance yet myself.”

Wyatt glanced down at the galley sheets he’d been proofing and made a derisive noise. “Perhaps it’s just a mood. This work, after all, is dull beyond measure.”

“Galleys?” Sam chuckled and lit a cigar. “That reminds me of a story my friend Bret Harte told the other night. Do you know Harte?”

Jack nodded. “I wouldn’t say I particularly like the man, but I have admired his work.”

“I know what you mean. He is showy and insincere, but he has also been a friend to me and a source of professional advice. And Bret can be amusing. He used to live in Yreka, teaching school and editing the weekly newspaper. Once a galley slip was placed on his desk for his attention. It was an extravagantly written obituary for a Mrs. Thompson. One line read, ‘Even in Yreka, her chastity was conspicuous.’ Of course, the word was ‘charity,’ but Harte didn’t think of that. He merely underlined the word and put a question mark in the margin, signaling the printer to refer back to the manuscript.” Sam paused to chuckle, his eyes twinkling. “Well, as you know, underlining is also meant for words that are to be italicized, and the printer saw this correction in a different light. So, when the obituary appeared in the newspaper, it read, ‘Even in Yreka, her
chastity
was conspicuous?’—which of course turned the thing into a ghastly, ill-timed sarcasm!”

Leaning back in his chair, Jack laughed easily. When he was with Sam, he knew a sense of freedom and camaraderie that had been missing in his life since he’d returned to San Francisco. “That’s a priceless story, Sam. Did you come over here for the sole purpose of cheering me up, or did you have business to discuss?”

Clemens withdrew folded papers from his inside coat pocket and opened them. “I brought you another story. Have a look and see what you think.”

Rising, Jack reached for the manuscript and glanced at it. “Ah, diversion! You have rescued me all the way around this morning, my friend, and I am grateful.” He smiled and came around the desk to shake Sam’s hand.

“Speaking of diversions, how is the ravishing Miss Braithwaite?”

“The same.” He gave him a rueful look. “I’m certain that she’d like to make wedding plans, but I can think of nothing I’d like less. I suppose I continue to see her out of convenience.”

“Or until someone else comes along to lure you away?”

Jack was surprised at the immediate intensity with which Katie MacKenzie’s image appeared in his brain. His gaze was far away as he replied, “Hmm... perhaps. But I don’t envision that happening here in San Francisco.”

“I’ve been thinking about journeying to the foothills myself,” Sam said casually. “Steve Gillis, who shares my lodgings, has a brother, Jim, who is pocket mining in a place called Jackass Gulch. Whenever we have a bad day, Steve and I dream of going off to join Jim, and one day we very well might!”

“I know Jackass Gulch. It’s quite a sylvan spot now; nearly deserted.”

Clemens opened the door and smiled. “Who knows? We may both see that paradise ere long. When challenge and adventure beckon, a wise man heeds their call!”

Chapter 12

October 12, 1864

Columbia

Warm, soapy water swished against the sides of the tin bathtub as Katie MacKenzie stepped out onto the kitchen rug. Midnight had passed, and moonbeams streamed through the windows, silvering her wet, classically molded body.

As Katie dried herself slowly in the haze of shadow and starlight, she felt both refreshed and weary. It had been a busy autumn thus far... almost busy enough to prevent her from dwelling on her father’s death. Yet she still felt that familiar ache in her heart and a yearning to weep when she thought of him, and any discussion of the Griffin sent waves of impotent anger rushing over her. For the first time in her life, she hungered for revenge. Katie’s friends, and the regular customers at the saloon, tactfully refrained from mentioning the highwayman.

Beyond her grief and rage, however, were questions about the future. In their own way, those were the most troubling thoughts of all. Katie’s prospects for the years ahead were uncertain at best. She owned a business that generated barely enough income to feed her, Abby, and Lim, whose parents had left for San Francisco in August. Moreover, she felt isolated in Columbia. There was little to challenge her intellectually, especially now that the
Gazette
could no longer be printed, and an unfamiliar, aching loneliness swept over her at unpredictable moments.

Upon leaving Columbia, Yong and Choy Sung had sold their house and laundry to Aaron Rush, who had now begun to mine the valuable lots. Lim’s parents had agreed to let their son stay in Columbia until Katie’s need for him was less acute; he had moved into the spare bedroom above the saloon, and Abby had taken Brian’s bedroom at Katie’s house.

Abby’s companionship had eased Katie’s loneliness until Gideon’s injury a month ago. Ever since, he had been recuperating at the saloon, where the women could take turns caring for him. Then, saying it would be more convenient, Abby had returned to the saloon herself, setting up a cot in the kitchen so that she could be near him. Watching them grow closer, Katie felt happy, and during the day she enjoyed the sense of family she felt with her friends. Yet, the nights seemed endless....

Garbed now in a diaphanous lawn nightgown, she padded barefoot into the bedroom and picked up her mother’s silver-backed brush. She didn’t bother to light a lamp but sat on the edge of her moonlit bed and ran the brush through the mass of damp ebony curls that cascaded down her back. An unseasonably warm breeze wafted through the open window, caressing her, and Katie was lulled into lying back. She spread her hair out over the snowy pillows, closed her eyes, and let the dreams come.

Lately, it was a rare night that passed without a dream of Jack Adams. Often they were intense enough to awaken her and thus imprint themselves upon her memory. Sometimes he was at the bar, burnished by hazy sunlight, his sage-green eyes gleaming as he reached out to touch her. Every detail of him was letter perfect, from the golden flecks in his eyes to the sprinkling of hair across the backs of his hands. Katie could even smell him. She would yearn to touch his body and drink in his warmth. Sometimes they would kiss, but as she became aroused, her conscious mind would interfere and she would awaken, trembling and frightened.