“At your service,” Miss Helena Russell says, with a tinge of the mountains in her voice. Nothing about her is the least bit servile, but up close, I can see how the makeup and fine clothes cover a life of labor. Her skin is weathered and freckled. The wide sleeves of her dress fail to conceal forearms corded with the kind of muscle that comes from carrying milk pails and swinging axes. She may be dressed as stylishly as Becky Joyner, but she has more in common with me.
We pass introductions all around, and I’m still looking for a convenient way out that doesn’t include fighting past Frank Dilley when Hardwick doggedly returns to his original question. “You never did say what brings you to San Francisco, Miss Westfall.”
“No, I didn’t,” I reply. “What brings you?”
He laughs, and I wonder what puts a man like him in a good mood. Maybe it’s the lady standing at his elbow. “I’m here for the same reason you are,” he answers.
“You lost your home and family and had nowhere else to go?”
“I came to make my fortune.”
He’s already taken thousands from us, which seemed like a fortune at the time, but now, sensing all the gold of San Francisco—even just in this room—I know he has bigger ambitions. “And how are you going to do that?”
“Any and every way I can,” he says, nodding to himself. “Any and every way I can.”
“And that includes taking advantage of men like my uncle.”
Another puff on his cigar, while he considers this. “I didn’t know you cared about him. In fact, our agreement led me to believe that all you cared about was being free of him.”
“I care about the people he robbed to pay you. I care about the people he hurt trying to get rich, in order to make you richer.”
“You didn’t come out of the affair too badly. You somehow ended up with enough money to pay all his debts.”
My hands start to tremble, and tears well up in my eyes. I was kidnapped and force-fed laudanum. Dressed up like a doll for my uncle’s amusement. The Indians had it worse; I watched them beaten, starved, murdered. “We still haven’t received the charter for the town of Glory,” I blurt, just to get the images out of my head.
That was the key part of my agreement with Hardwick at Christmas. We’d pay off my uncle’s debts, and Hardwick would use his influence to get us a town charter so we could govern ourselves.
“California isn’t a state yet, my dear, and the wheels of politics grind slowly.” His grin is slow and satisfied. “And sometimes those wheels require additional amounts of grease to keep turning.”
Additional grease? “You’re saying you’ll need more gold.”
He scowls, and he glances around the room at the assemblage of lawyers. “This isn’t something we should haggle over in public.”
My whole body is tense, like a bent spring. “That’s not fair.”
He puffs himself up like a cock ready to cry doodle-do. “Sweet girl, you’ll learn. Life’s not fair.”
“Then we’re honor bound to make it fair,” I snap.
He laughs at that, a genuine belly laugh, and it’s like a slap in my face. My cheeks flush hot, and I look toward the door, hoping for a swift, easy exit, but the doorway is blocked. It’s Hampton, striding inside.
I gasp. Because right behind Hampton is someone I thought to never see again: Jim Boisclair.
He made it to California after all. He’s really here.
Jim was a good friend of my daddy’s back in Dahlonega, a free Negro and store owner who helped me run away from my uncle the first time. I’m so happy and relieved to see him that I barely keep myself from giving him the hug of his life. In fact, I’m so overcome that it takes a moment to realize the whole room is as silent as the grave, and every single person in it is now staring at Hampton and Jim.
“I didn’t know you were in San Francisco,” I say cautiously.
He gives me an unsmiling nod, and there’s an awful lot in that nod I’m not sure I understand. His eyes sweep the room warily, like he just stepped into a snake pit. “Glad to see you safe and hale, Miss Leah,” he says, but his eyes are on everyone but me.
Jim had been a free man in Georgia, and he found enough gold in the rush there to set up a general store. There’s a lot more to his story than I know, but I trust him with my life, and if he’s wary in this place, then I am, too.
“Found him at the post office,” Hampton says, waving an envelope. “Needed someone to read my letter to me.”
“Good news?” I ask with false cheer.
“My freedom papers!” Hampton says, with another flourish of the envelope. “It’s all official, but still no word on Adelaide.” His voice is tight, and I know exactly why. It’s tempting fate for two Negroes to walk into an office like this, even free ones. We need to leave, and fast.
“I don’t want to intrude on another happy reunion,” Hardwick interrupts, sounding bored. “So I’ll take my leave. It was a pleasure to see you again, Miss Westfall.”
The pleasure is all his. “Until we meet again, Mr. Hardwick.” And as soon as I say it, I know I’ll be seeing him again as surely as water fills the Pacific Ocean.
The conversation officially over, I take Becky’s arm and start walking toward the door, herding Hampton and Jim before me. The air in the room feels like a clothesline about to snap.
Tom follows behind me. As we pass Hardwick, Miss Russell leans over to whisper in his ear again. He replies, “Are you certain?”
We’re only a few feet from the door and escape when Hardwick calls out. “Mr. Bigler—a moment of your time.”
We freeze. “Tom,” I whisper, meaning to follow it up with a don’t.
Tom turns, his face expressionless. “Mr. Hardwick?” he says.
“My lawyers tell me that they’ve never seen a tighter, cleverer contract than the one you wrote for Miss Westfall at Christmas. I would like to discuss the temporary application of your considerable talents to a venture of my own.”
I don’t want Tom to do it. I’m shaking. Surely he can tell? As surely as I sense his stature swelling huge with pride? All the attorneys in the room are now evaluating Tom, trying to determine if he is a potential ally or a new rival. Strange how all that scrutiny directed at me moments ago made me feel small.
At least no one is staring at Hampton and Jim anymore. Becky leans in and whispers. “Go on, Tom. It can’t hurt to listen. Maybe you can find a way to do something about my house.”
“Perhaps I can,” he says quietly. “I’ll rejoin you later at the hotel.” And then, louder, “I’m delighted to see what I can do, Mr. Hardwick. Perhaps some of the gentlemen here can lend us some chairs to talk.”
Chairs scrape across the wood floor, and a dozen voices compete to invite the conversation into their own space.
Hampton, Jim, Becky, and I go to leave, but Frank steps in our way and blocks the door. “I would have saved myself a heap of hurt if I just let you die in the desert,” he says.
“The way I recall,” I say, “you did leave us to die in the desert, and Therese Hoffman paid the price.”
Becky adds, “And then one of your men killed Martin.” Her voice quakes with the effort to hold back tears. “You know what would have saved you a heap of hurt? Not fighting against us every time. Choosing to join us even once.”