“No! You’re just . . . I guess I don’t know.”
“Well, I haven’t decided if I want to marry or not. But if I do, it will be to a kindhearted fellow like Tug. Is that what you needed all this secrecy for? To tell me about him?”
“No.”
Mary crosses her arms. “Out with it, Lee.”
I sigh. A breeze sends a gust of waterfall spray, and as I wipe my wet face with the end of my scarf, I say, “So . . . remember my uncle? How he kidnapped me? Forced me to help with his mining operation?”
“I was there, remember?”
“Right. Of course.” The end of the scarf twists in my hands. Twist, twist, twist. “Before that, he killed my parents. Took over the homestead. And after I escaped, he chased me across the continent.”
Mary peers into my face. “I always thought his obsession with you was mighty peculiar. I mean, you’re his niece, but still.”
“It was more than that. And Mary, you have to swear up and down and sideways that you won’t tell another soul what I’m about to tell you.”
“I’ll swear no such thing. You either trust me or you don’t.”
I glare at her. She is determined to make this difficult. “Fine. Here it is. I can find gold. Not like a miner. Like a witch. I have a . . . power.”
Her black eyes fly wide as she blurts something in Chinese.
“What? I don’t know what you just said—”
“Something my mother would have whipped me for saying. Are you serious, Lee? You are serious, aren’t you. You’re not funning me at all.”
“I’m not funning you.”
Her sudden smile could light up all of California. “Show me!”
“Wait. You believe me?”
“Of course. You may be daft sometimes, naive in the ways of men, but you’re not a liar. And it makes sense. All those rumors about the Golden Goddess . . .”
“Yeah. Those.”
“Show me,” she says again.
I’ve had to prove myself before, so I know just what to do. I reach behind my neck and unclasp my locket. I hand it to her, chain and all.
“I’m going to turn around and close my eyes. Hide the locket somewhere, and I’ll tell you where it is.”
“All right.”
I turn my back to her, extending my gold sense. The locket shines like a beacon in my mind, a spot of warmth and light. Only a few seconds pass before I say, “Don’t put in your pocket, Mary. That’s too easy.” Mary gasps. “Hide it somewhere more interesting.”
A moment later, I hear scuffling, scraping of rocks, a bootheel digging into the ground.
“Okay, find it,” Mary says breathlessly.
My back is still to her, but I can sense the locket just fine. I roll my eyes. “It was clever of you to make all that racket, but the locket is still in your pocket.”
“No, it’s not,” she lies.
In answer, I imagine invisible fingers wrapping themselves around the locket. I picture them clenching into a fist, lifting the trinket into the air.
Mary blurts something in Chinese again. I turn around to find her gaping at the locket, a shiny bit of gold floating in the air before her, chain dangling.
But this is a new trick for me, and I can’t keep hold of it for long. My mental grip weakens fast, and the locket plummets to the ground. Slowly, almost reverently, Mary crouches to retrieve it, brushes off dirt and pine needles, and offers it to me.
I put it back around my neck, where it belongs.
“Who else knows?” she asks.
“Jefferson, of course. The Major. Becky and the children. The college men. Hampton.”
“Even the children?”
“They’ve seen some hard things since leaving Tennessee. They understand consequences, and they know to keep quiet.”
“Well.” Mary gazes into the distance. The damp air is chilly here by the rapids, making me shiver. A raptor screeches from far away, and I look up, expecting to see one of California’s giant condors, but the sky is a bright blue bowl of emptiness. “Thank you for telling me,” Mary says finally. “For trusting me.”
“You should understand, Mary, that being my friend is dangerous. My uncle murdered to get his hands on me, to control what I can do. You have a right to know what you’re in for.”
Mary waves it off. “California is nothing but danger. I expect being your friend might also be . . . useful . . .” Her mouth forms a little O. “That’s why Hampton’s claim is doing so well! And Jefferson’s. And yours. Lee, you’re going to be rich. If you’re not already . . .”
I know that gleam in her eye. I’ve seen the fever take people a thousand times.
“Don’t worry,” she adds, as if reading my thoughts. “I won’t tell anyone. And you don’t have to help me get rich. Though . . .” She waggles her eyebrows. “It wouldn’t hurt if you put in a good word for me with Becky. She should pay me more.”
I laugh. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“I’d better get back to the dishes before Becky—”
“Lee! Mary!” comes a high little-girl voice. It’s Olive, running toward us, skirts in her hands to keep them out of the mud. “Ma needs you again.”
“What’s wrong?” I ask, just as Mary says, “Everything all right?”
“It’s the peddler,” Olive says, gasping for breath. “He’s here. And Ma got a letter.”
“From the Robichauds?” I say excitedly. “The Hoffmans?”
Olive shakes her head. “From a stranger. In San Francisco.”
I have no idea what that means, and my excitement slips away like water through a sieve. Letters ought to be exciting. Joyful, even. But as Mary and I follow Olive back to town at a jog, an uneasy feeling tingles the back of my neck.
By the time we reach the Worst Tavern, several of our friends have already gathered. The Major is there, bouncing the unnamed Joyner baby on his knee. The college men—Jasper, Tom, and Henry—have their heads together at the other end of the table, reading Becky’s letter. Jefferson and Hampton arrive just as Mary and I do, little towheaded Andy at their heels, followed by the dogs, Nugget and Coney.
Everyone else must be out perusing the peddler’s wares, because we have the tavern all to ourselves.
Jefferson grins when he sees me. Already, a smudge of mud sweeps across his brow, and his temples are slick with the sweat of hard work. The sight makes me happier than a lark in a meadow. I grin right back.
“We’ll have to move fast,” Tom tells Becky from his place at the table. “Seems as though the letter took a while to find you, and your cargo won’t be stored much longer.”
“What do you mean?” I say. “What’s going on?”
“It’s my house,” Becky says. “The one my late husband had disassembled and shipped across the Panama Isthmus. It arrived in San Francisco some time ago, and a letter to Andrew asking him to claim the cargo just now reached us.”
Jefferson sidles over so he can put an arm around my shoulders. I lean into him. My head barely reaches his jaw now, and I decide I like that just fine.
“So what are you going to do?” Mary asks.
Becky raises her chin. “I’m going to get what’s mine, of course.”