The Claim (2 page)

“I wish she weren’t real,” I murmured.

They nodded.

“Now come to town,” Sootie said, tugging at my arm. “Before all the fabric is gone!”

I looked out at the sparkling bay and sighed. I couldn’t very well hide forever, could I? I brushed off my hands on my skirt, tugged my bonnet over my wild red curls, and stood up.

“Very well,” I agreed, and then gave them a small wink. “But if Sally Biddle comes to haunt me, I’m sending her after you!”

  Mr. Russell’s raggedy little cabin marked the far edge of our burgeoning settlement.

Pioneers came to Shoalwater Bay lured by stories of oyster farming, and land for homesteading. Our town was growing right along the shore, making it most convenient for the hardworking oystermen who toiled on the bay. Many of the homes were built on pilings and floats to survive the sometimes perilously high tides. In some places the cabins were scarcely more than shacks, and tents were visible as well. While there were several families in residence now, most of our inhabitants were unmarried men, which was why, I supposed, we had three taverns and a coffin shop but no schools.

Mr. Russell’s cabin, though, was sensibly placed far above the high-water mark, in a clearing in the woods. When I’d first arrived, this ramshackle cabin was the only true house the settlement had to offer. It was my first home here. Unfortunately, it had also been home to every filthy, flea-bitten prospecting man who happened to be passing through. Mr. Russell was not generally given to cleanliness, and his cabin usually reflected this
personal trait. At the moment, the bewhiskered, buckskin-clad mountain man was sitting on the porch.

“Hello, Mr. Russell,” I called, and waved.

He spit a wad of tobacco in my general direction and waved back to us.

Mr. Russell and I had been through a lot together, and I felt a tremendous fondness for the man. I’ll admit I even felt a bit homesick for that wretched dirt-floor shack of his.

The girls and I passed the cabin and set off along the main road that led down to the center of town. I was immediately barraged by the familiar scents and sounds that characterized Front Street—raucous shouts emanating from one of the taverns, the tangy smell of manure mixed with mud, the sharp salty breeze off the bay, oystermen dickering over prices, the murmurs of men discussing whether or not it would rain.

Front Street, which ran parallel to shore, was a rather grand title for a path that was usually little more than a swath of thick, boot-sticking mud. A ramshackle, narrow walkway, constructed of spare planks salvaged from shipwrecks and packing crates, ran alongside this muddy route. My young companions ran nimbly along the walkway, dancing ahead of me.

“Hurry, Boston Jane,” Sootie shouted over her shoulder. “All the fabric will be gone!”

Front Street was crowded with all manner of men. There were Indians from local tribes, pioneers from back east, miners who had not struck gold in California and wanted to try their chances on oysters, and men who were fleeing the law. In short, our citizens consisted mainly of rough-and-tumble men who
could not be bothered to build proper houses or bathe but happily drank their earnings. It was altogether a wild community, especially after dark.

Wagons full of freshly harvested oysters hauled their cargo up and down the muddy thoroughfare. Here and there, men were holding friendly wagers by tossing gold coins in the sand. Oysters were making men rich. The native bivalves were in such demand in San Francisco that men thought nothing of paying a silver dollar for a fresh-shucked oyster.

Even I was part of the oyster rush. I owned a canoe and oyster beds with my friend Mr. Swan, although our business had not been too successful of late. My partner had gambled away the profits from the last harvest. As I was increasingly busy with my duties at the hotel where I worked, I was considering renting out the beds to another oysterman for a share of the profits.

Ahead of me a man stood lounging on the narrow walkway, making it impossible for me to pass.

“Excuse me,” I said.

But the man, who had clearly been spending his oyster money on whiskey, simply leered at me.

I was forced to step onto the road, where I soon found myself ankle-deep in mud. After several bootclogging steps, I passed the man and climbed back onto the walkway.

Farther down the muddy thoroughfare, I spied the gay bunting of Star’s Dry Goods, and beyond that the outline of the Frink Hotel.

Sootie bounded up the steps of Star’s in front of me, while Katy hovered behind.

“Boston Jane, what if the
memelose
girl is here?” Katy asked in a whisper. “
Memeloses
are very dangerous! They can hurt you because no one can see them.”

“We’ll be fine,” I assured her with more courage than I felt.

She eyed me warily.

A small brass bell attached to the door rang as we entered.

Star’s Dry Goods was a jumble of goods stacked floor to ceiling. There were harness fittings, bird seed, molasses, nails, flour, tea, coffee, and even umbrellas—the most practical item in the store considering the amount of rain Shoalwater Bay received. The huge barrel of molasses sat alongside a barrel of hard cider and one of vinegar. Glass jars filled with candy waited hopefully for small children to sample their wares. In addition to the standard store items, Mr. Staroselsky’s wife ordered goods that were appreciated by the ladies. There was a very nice assortment of fabrics, as well as sewing needles, ribbon, buttons, hosiery, cotton yarns, and combs. It was all arranged in a haphazard fashion that only Mr. Staroselsky seemed to know how to navigate.

In the back of the room, several men sat in captain’s chairs around the small potbellied stove. It was a favorite place to exchange gossip.

“Hello, Jane,” Mrs. Staroselsky called from behind the counter.

Mrs. Staroselsky, a vibrant young woman with a tumble of thick, black curly hair, could often be seen making deliveries around town for her husband. She had a brand-new baby named Rose, who was presently in her arms and making quite a fuss.

Sootie pushed in front of me to the counter. “Boston Jane is going to buy us some of the new fabric for our dolls!”

“For new dresses!” Katy added.

“Well, aren’t you girls lucky,” Mrs. Staroselsky said, smiling at me over Sootie’s head. “I saw Jehu with an enormous wagon of luggage. New arrivals?”

Jehu acted as the pilot for the bay, guiding ships in through the shoals and helping them unload their goods.

“Yes,” I said. “From Philadelphia.”

“How wonderful for you to have folks here from back home,” Mrs. Staroselsky said.

I bit my lip.

“Can I hold the baby?” Sootie asked, scrambling up to peer at the whimpering baby in Mrs. Staroselsky’s arms.

“You may,” Mrs. Staroselsky said, passing her the restless bundle. “Perhaps you can calm her down. She’s been crying for days.”

I nodded sympathetically.

“Look, she’s not crying anymore!” Sootie said in a hushed voice as she carefully rocked the baby. “She likes me!”

And indeed, Rose was staring up at Sootie’s face with something approaching wonder.

Mrs. Staroselsky and I smiled over the girls’ heads.

“Maybe you should keep Rose for a while, Sootie,” Mrs. Staroselsky said with a wink.

  I left Sootie and Katy at Star’s, minding the baby, and continued down Front Street toward the Frink Hotel, passing one of the local taverns, which doubled as a bowling alley.

The tavern was situated inside an abandoned Chinook lodge, and shouting and revelry could be heard there until all hours of the night. Men seemed to lose all good sense when whiskey was involved, and there was a great deal of whiskey available on Shoalwater Bay, thanks to Red Charley. Red Charley had grown rich in his whiskey dealings and liked to go about town with a woolen sock full of gold coins tied to his belt. The whiskey-dealing devil himself was lolling outside the bowling alley on an empty barrel as I walked by.

“Lookee there,” Red Charley chortled. “It’s Jane Peck! When’re you gonna get rid of that sailor fella, huh?”

Red Charley was referring to Jehu, who was a seasoned sailor and captain. He had been first mate on the
Lady Luck
, the ship that had brought me to Shoalwater Bay.

Red Charley turned to the filthy prospecting fellow lazing next to him and said, “I keep telling her I’ll marry her! What does Jehu got that I don’t?” He followed his question with a belch. “I sure am a lot more handsome.”

I raised an eyebrow at this. With his huge belly, red cheeks, and terrible disposition, Red Charley was hardly a young lady’s dream.

“How’s he going to support you puttering around in that wee boat?” another man shouted.

“How do ya know he hasn’t got a wife in some other port? Now, an oysterman like me’ll stay put,” a man with a missing tooth assured me with a lopsided smile.

“He ain’t worth love,” Red Charley cackled. “The only thing worth that kind of hankering is Old Rye!”

“Good day,” I said firmly, and continued on, dragging my now muddy skirts behind me.

Farther down the street I arrived at the Frink Hotel. Outside it stood a horse-drawn wagon piled high with trunks, and helping to unload the wagon was the dark-haired sailor Red Charley had been talking about.

“Jehu!” I called happily.

He turned to me, his eyes lighting up, his smile tugging at my heart. He was so handsome with his shock of curly black hair, his blue eyes, the scar that ran jaggedly along his cheek.

“Jane,” he said.

At that moment the door to the hotel opened and Sally Biddle appeared, wearing a rose silk dress and a smug expression.

“Why, if it isn’t Jane Peck! What a marvelous coincidence!” Sally trilled, her gold curls shining in the sun.

Jehu grinned at me, setting down the trunk he was carrying. “It’ll be good to have an old friend out here, won’t it, Jane?”

I had never spoken to Jehu of Sally Biddle. In truth, I had hoped to forget her completely.

“Yes, Jane. I was just telling Mr. Scudder what great friends we were in Philadelphia,” Sally said sweetly, the very model of a kind girlfriend, her gaze lingering just a moment too long on Jehu’s handsome features. “We had such wonderful times together, didn’t we?”

I saw the look in Sally’s eyes daring me to contradict her, and my stomach roiled. Katy was right to have warned me. Sally Biddle was just as dangerous as any
memelose
—and no one but
me could see her true self. I felt my face go cold, my skin prickle with sweat.

“Jane,” Sally said, her eyes mock-solicitous. “Are you feeling well? You look rather … 
drawn
.”

“Jane?” Jehu asked, concern in his voice.

But I couldn’t answer. I turned and fled up the stairs of the hotel to my room.

As I stared at
my pale face in the mirror, the past came rushing back.

At twelve I had worked hard to be accepted into Miss Hepplewhite’s Young Ladies Academy, one of the best finishing schools in all of Philadelphia. Miss Hepplewhite taught her students the finer points of being a proper young lady. Her lessons ranged from such social niceties as Pouring Tea and Coffee, and Deportment at the Dinner Table, to Receiving and Returning Calls, and Being a Good Guest. But by far the most important lesson I had learned was Never Underestimate Sally Biddle.

From the day I entered Miss Hepplewhite’s, Sally did her best to isolate me from the other girls, and she generally succeeded. Nevertheless, at the age of fifteen, I received, after years of hoping, a coveted invitation to Cora Fletcher’s exclusive Midsummer Gala. An invitation to the annual Fletcher ball was an open door to acceptance in society. It was proof that, despite Sally Biddle’s efforts to the contrary, I could finally
belong
.

Mary, my maid, and Mrs. Parker, the housekeeper who had filled in all my life for the mother I lost the day I was born, spent two weeks helping me prepare what I would wear to the ball. On the eve of the big event, I arrived at the Fletchers’ house in my new gown.

The drawing room was full of young ladies and gentlemen dressed in their best, and I felt beautiful in my pale green satin dress with its demure bows ringing the hem, and one at each shoulder.

Sally appeared at my side, offering me a cup of punch. I was pleased, thinking that she wanted to make peace with me.

I was most mistaken.

For I had no sooner taken the cup than Sally brushed past me to speak to another guest and shoved me hard with her elbow. The glass tipped, and punch soaked the bosom of my dress and dripped down my skirts, and that was the end of my gala evening.

But now as I gazed into the mirror in my room at the hotel, I knew I wasn’t looking at the same girl Sally had known in Philadelphia. The girl who had arrived on the
Lady Luck
hadn’t known how to bake a pie, let alone survive in the wilderness. I had grown and changed and was no longer the kind of person to give up without a fight. I was no longer a child. I was seventeen years old and had in the past few months both survived a bear attack and outwitted a ruthless murderer. Truly, what was Sally Biddle compared to all that? I thought with a rush of confidence.

I turned away from the mirror, resolved not to be afraid of this old
memelose
, and headed down the hall only to catch sight
of Sally Biddle disappearing around a corner. I wondered for a moment if I would have preferred a grizzly bear after all.

Grizzly bears at least had the decency to put you out of your misery.

I passed Mr. Frink on the back stairs, hauling a huge trunk. His forehead was drenched with sweat as he struggled with his heavy burden.

“Is that the last one?” I asked.

“Six more to go,” he said with a groan.

A pretty young woman with rosy cheeks and laughing eyes met me as I stepped into the parlor. Mrs. Frink was the proprietress of the Frink Hotel and my dear friend. I credited the swift construction of the hotel to her. She had a singular talent for charming people into doing any manner of things. Matilda was easily the most competent lady I had ever made acquaintance with in my entire life. I adored her in spite of it.