You Can't Choose Love (21 page)

“Is it true that a negro and a woman own the mines?”
Jack asked as he sipped his whisky.

The old barmaid and the owner of the hotel came up
the bar and leaned over conspiratorially. Jack was looking for work and had
never heard of a negro and a woman ruling over so many men.

“That negro used to work for me, right here, only
three years ago,” she said, looking up and down the bar as though somebody was
listening. It was the middle of the day and the place was dead. “He used to
serve drinks and clean the place up. He slept in the store cupboard. The store
cupboard! And the woman, she stayed here for a long while. Two years, I think.
She married Wallace Saville, Abraham’s boy.”

“I remember the name,” Jack said, sipping his
whisky. “The old fella died of a stroke, didn’t he? Never heard what happened
to the young fella.”

“I’ll tell you,” Beryl said, refilling Jack’s glass.
“Miss Abrams married him, you see, but the marriage must not have been very enjoyable
for Wallace. He lost a lot of weight and his hair started to go grey early, and
he became like a mouse, and his voice was quiet and he never met your eye.
Nothing at all like his old self or his Father.”

“He killed himself?” Jack said, casually, already
growing bored.

“No, no,” Beryl said, rushing to fill up his drink
even more. “He ran away, east. He lives in Boston, last I heard, with a new
wife and a child. Before he left, he sold the company to his wife. She divorced
him – a scandal, it was – and now she lives with the negro. Imagine that. Of
course, they aren’t married, and he doesn’t ‘own’ a thing on paper, but they
ride together, and live together, and folks talk of seeing them walk
hand-in-hand, right there in the open.”

“Wow,” Jack said, thinking he’d have to meet this
pair. “Where do they live?”

“Just outside town.”

She gave him the directions.

When he approached the house, he saw the most
beautiful woman he had ever seen – she was so beautiful he actually stopped
walking for a moment – wearing trousers and a shirt with her legs crossed and a
glass of lemonade in her hand. She sat on a chair which looked like it belonged
in an office, out of place on a porch: an almost throne-like chair. Beside her
sat the man who must have been Solomon Crawford. He was a hulking, scarred
fellow, but he had a wide smile on his face, and he, too, held a glass of
lemonade.

Beside the house, a mare explored the earth with her
hoof.

As Jack got closer, he saw a young girl who must
have been their servant emerge from the door with another jug of lemonade.
“Would you like some more, miss, sir?” the girl said.

“Howdy, there!” Jack called, as he approached the
porch. He took off his hat and held it to his chest. He looked into both
Solomon’s and Alma’s eyes. It was clear to him they were equal partners, and he
had to impress them both. “I am in the Mojave looking for work, and I have
heard that you two are the kindest, shrewdest businesspeople this far west . .
.”

THE END