“My father sang it to me,” the Major says.
He smiles and Becky smiles back, and I don’t say a word, because they are the unlikeliest pair ever, but it seems that slowly and surely they have turned into a pair.
“Hello again,” says Large, as we reach the wide iron gate that provides the only entrance into the estate.
“Did you know you would be working here when I inquired about the party last night?” I ask.
They ignore my question. “Do you have your invitation?” asks Larger.
I hand it over.
“We were told to expect eight,” Large says, checking a list of names.
Larger looks over our heads. “Counting the young ones and the infant, I see eight.”
“I thought the young ones were much younger,” Large says as he considers Olive and Andy.
“Children have to grow up fast in California,” Becky says smoothly.
“That’s the truth,” Larger says, waving us in.
We hurry inside before they can change their minds or get a closer look, and then we all stop short, a little overwhelmed. To our left is a lush garden with creeping vines and spired yucca flowers and a single sprawling oak. Beside the oak, the band plays gaily from a temporary stage as couples waltz nearby. Fires glow inside clay ovens, radiating warmth and inviting guests to gather. Lanterns hang from branches and posts, illuminating gaming tables where people are playing Spanish monte and rolling dice. To the right, the doors are thrown open to the rambling wings of the house. Violin music and laughter flow from the windows.
It’s a wonderland. A place where magic might happen.
And the thing I notice most, that thing that lights me up from all sides, is my sense of gold. I feel like a fly caught in a spiderweb of golden strands. The center of the web is inside the house, where the safes must be stored. But strands shoot out in all directions: at the gambling tables, in every purse and pocket, even near the stage, where the band keeps a collection bag.
A young man in a white shirt and a thin black tie approaches with a tray of drinks. Henry snatches up a glass.
“Dancing and games are to your left,” the young man says, which we can see very well for ourselves. Then he gestures toward the right. “Food and drink are inside the house.”
I follow the direction of his hand. The open double doors frame a familiar profile. The face turns toward us, and the man strides in our direction.
“Frank Dilley,” I whisper in warning.
“That’s my cue to disappear,” Mary says, and she steps away, blending into the swirl of partygoers.
“Olive, Andy,” Becky says quickly, “it’s time to run and play.”
The two of them peel off, their faces hidden by their hats, and disappear into the crowd.
“If you don’t mind, I’ll follow them,” Henry adds, downing his drink in a single gulp and putting the empty glass back on the server’s tray.
I glance around for Helena Russell. She is surely in attendance. We all have a job to do here tonight, and right now, my job is to make sure Hardwick and his crew are looking at me. It’s the only thing I should be thinking about.
My hand goes to clutch Mama’s locket, but of course it’s gone. I stride toward Frank as if my knees aren’t suddenly wobbling and my heart suddenly pounding. “Thank you for the invitation,” I say brightly. “Lovely party.”
Frank pretends I don’t exist and approaches the Major, glaring down his nose at him. Like he regrets not killing him after the buffalo stampede. Like he might go ahead and correct that mistake right now.
“You showed up,” Frank says glumly.
“I thought you’d be glad to see me,” the Major replies. “After all, the invitation was delivered by your own hand.”
“I can’t figure out what drives you, Wally. I guess an old cripple like you is only good for doing women’s work and watching children. I’d kill myself before I’d ever do a skirt’s job.”
The Major smiles at Frank, but the corners of his eyes are as serious as a gunshot. “Dilley, you’re neither strong enough nor smart enough to do a skirt’s job.”
“The Major is the cleverest carpenter in all of California,” Becky says. “And he does the work of ten men. We couldn’t get by without him.”
Frank ignores her too. “We never would have made it across the desert if you were in charge of the wagon train,” he says.
The Major’s smile disappears. “If I’d stayed in charge, we all would have made it across.”
Becky opens her mouth but changes her mind about whatever she was going to say. Frank is one of those men who can’t feel big unless he’s making somebody else smaller. And suddenly, it’s like a click in my mind, the way everything settles into place. Frank is lonely. He wanted us here. He needed familiar faces, people he could put down so he could feel better about himself.
“I’m sorry for you, Frank.” The words rush out of my mouth before I can stop them, but I decide I don’t want to stop them. “You were in charge of the wagon train, and you couldn’t keep it together. You worked for my uncle Hiram’s mine, and we know how that went. Now you’re working for Hardwick, and he’s going to leave you behind when he goes to New York. You aren’t good enough for anything or anybody.”
He puts his hand on his gun. “I was good enough to put your friend Jim in the ground.”
And just like that, my pity turns to anger. In fact, I’m so angry now that tears start leaking from my eyes, but a show of tears is probably a good thing.
Jefferson steps forward before I can reply. “You’re a murderer, Frank Dilley. Plain and simple.”
Frank opens his mouth, taking a menacing step toward us, but he’s interrupted by a cheerful greeting.
Hardwick approaches, arm in arm with Helena, who is resplendent in a blue velvet gown. With her auburn hair and pale white skin, she’s the colors of the American flag. I focus hard on my anger at Frank, then the scents of beeswax candles and spiced cider, the flickering lanterns and the swirling people.
“Miss Westfall. I was hoping I would get the chance to see you toni—” Hardwick notices Frank’s fuming gaze and the hand on his gun. “Go on, Dilley, get out of here.”
Frank practically snarls, but he shoots one more angry glance at our group, then strides casually away toward the house, as if that was his plan all along.
“Some dogs you have to keep on a leash,” Hardwick says.
“And when the dog bites people anyway?” I ask.
He shrugs. “In one more day, that dog won’t be my problem.” Hardwick indicates his companion. “You remember my associate, Miss Helena Russell.”
We exchange wary nods. Her eyes glitter in the lantern light—merely blue right now. “Pleased to see you again,” I lie. “May I introduce my friends . . .” I look around, but Jefferson and the Major have wisely made themselves scarce. “My friend, Mrs. Rebecca Joyner.”
Becky curtsies. “We’ve had the pleasure of meeting once before, Mr. Hardwick, Miss Russell. In the law offices on Portsmouth Square. I was trying to recover possession of my house.”
“And did it all work out?” Hardwick asks.