“Don’t mind if I do!” he says, Mary forgotten.
This is how it is most days at the Worst Tavern. Becky and Olive and Mary work themselves ragged to feed hungry miners, making mountains of biscuits, flapjacks, scrambled eggs, and bacon, cleaning dish after dish, all while avoiding the wandering hands of fellows who think coming to California means they no longer have to act like gentlemen. Sometimes I help out, but most days I’m out in the goldfields, working my own claim or helping my friends with theirs.
I return to the stove for more coffee, just as Mary comes back for more biscuits. “I need to talk to you,” I whisper to her. “Just as soon as the morning rush is over.”
She hefts the plate of biscuits with one hand and wipes her brow with the other. “Sure, Lee,” she says, and she’s off.
Becky leans over. “You’re going to tell her?” she whispers.
“Yep.”
Becky’s brow furrows. “You sure you can trust the girl? She’s young and . . .” Her voice trails off.
And Chinese? And foreign? I’m not sure what it is Becky won’t say, and I keep my face smooth with some effort.
“She deserves the truth, Becky,” I say firmly.
Becky turns away, scrambling her eggs a little too violently.
“She helped me destroy Hiram’s Gulch, remember? We wouldn’t have escaped without her. I can’t begin to guess how many lives she saved. Besides, she’s been working here for a month. In all that time, she’s earned for you three times what you pay her, without once complaining. I trust her, and so should you.”
I’m preaching to myself as much as Becky, I suppose. I trust Mary. I do. It’s just that my secret is such a big one, and so many people have been hurt because of it.
“What does Jefferson say?” Becky says. “He’s going to be your husband; it’s only proper you consult him.”
“Jeff trusts her. He says it’s up to me whether I tell her or not.”
She shovels eggs onto a plate just in time for Mary to dash by and sweep it up. “If you think it’s best,” Becky says.
The morning passes quickly. Miners only linger if they had too much to drink the night before; otherwise, they’re up and away to their claims as soon as possible. Everyone knows the easy diggings will be gone soon, and there’s no time to spare.
A final wave of hungry miners heads our way, and I look up, hoping to see Jefferson, but it’s just Old Tug and his Buckeyes from Ohio. Jefferson must be at his claim already. With our wedding coming up, he’s keen to build his stake.
“Morning, gentlemen,” I call out as Tug and his men find seats. “Coffee?”
Tug wipes at bleary eyes. “Please, Miss Leah.”
“Hard night, huh?” I ask, filling his cup.
He grins through wiry whiskers, showing all two of his teeth. “Won two gold eagles playing cards,” he says.
“Congratulations.”
“Two gold eagles makes me mighty eligible, don’t you think? High time I found a Mrs. Tuggle.”
Not this again.
“It’s a pity I’m already affianced,” I tell him solemnly.
“Oh, not you,” he says with a wave of his hand. “Got my eye on that little China girl.” And sure enough, his gaze follows Mary as she heaps bacon onto plates and wipes up spills with her handkerchief.
I sigh. Poor Mary.
“You think she’ll have me?” he asks.
“I doubt it,” I say.
His eye widen with affront. “Ain’t nothing wrong with me!”
“Course not. But Mary is one of the handsomest girls I ever saw. Also, she’s a woman of intelligence and learning. Did you know she speaks three languages?”
He shakes his head.
“So, I suggest that instead of proposing straight out, you court her. Woo her. Show her what a fine gentleman you are.”
“You think so?”
“I do.” That will give me time to warn my friend. Old Tug has asked every woman he’s met to marry him, starting with Becky Joyner and then me.
“I reckon you might be right,” he concedes. “I don’t want to mess this one up.”
I give his shoulder a pat and move on to the next table.
The Buckeyes eat quickly, but unlike most customers, they scoot their chairs and benches in and take their dishes to the wash station themselves. They tip their hats at Mary, who is elbow deep in the washtub. Old Tug lingers. “Have a fine day, Miss Mary,” he says, with the most earnest, hopeful gaze I ever saw on a fellow.
She looks up from her dishwashing and smiles. “Thank you, Mr. Tuggle. You too.”
After they leave, Mary turns to Becky. “All right if I steal away with Lee for a spell? She needs me. I’ll be back to finish the dishes; I won’t shirk.”
Becky stops scraping the griddle just long enough to give a wave of permission.
Mary grabs my hand and pulls me away from the stoves and the giant awning and into the sunshine. “I’m so glad you wanted to talk,” she says. “I needed a break.”
“Is it awful, working for Becky?”
“No, not exactly,” Mary says. We head toward the creek and then turn upstream. The path is rocky and steep, but well traveled now that so many Glory residents have claims in this direction. “But after the miners leave, it’s just me and Becky and Olive, working in silence. Olive is a sweet thing, but I don’t think Becky cares for me much.”
I’m not sure she’s wrong. “Becky is distrustful of all things unfamiliar,” I tell her. “But she’ll come around.”
Mary shrugs like it’s no big deal, but Mary is not one to share her thoughts easily, and the fact that she did is a sure sign that she is vexed.
“Becky hasn’t been unkind to you, has she?” I ask.
“No. But she hasn’t been kind either. Anyway, what did you want to talk about?”
“Not yet. Once we’re out of earshot of town.”
Mary raises her eyebrows but doesn’t protest.
We continue uphill until we reach a spot where the creek stairsteps down a series of boulders, creating frothing rapids. The sound of the rushing water ought to mask our voices.
I glance around to make sure no stray miners are passing by. “So,” I say. “I have a secret.”
“I’m listening,” Mary says, and she has that unreadable look again, the one I used to find so daunting.
I take a deep breath. Why does this never get easier? “You see . . . I . . . You know Old Tug?” Silently I curse myself for cowardice.
“Yes.”
“He’s sweet on you. He might ask you to marry him. Didn’t want you to be caught by surprise.”
Her face brightens. “Maybe I ought to encourage him.”
Not the answer I expected. “Mary! He’s vile!”
She nods. “Yes. All men are vile.”
“No, they’re—”
“Lee, I know a lot more about men than you do, and trust me, they’re all gross, disgusting creatures. But Tug is nice. Maybe the nicest man in Glory. He never grabs me or threatens me or treats me like I’m not a person. He could stand to bathe more, but he always picks up his dishes, and he leaves me generous tips.”
“Huh.” I consider defending Jefferson, who is the opposite of vile, but I decide I’d rather not argue. “I hadn’t pegged you for the marrying kind.”
She gives me a look that would curdle cream. “Because of my previous occupation?”