My Heart Belongs in San Francisco, California, Page 3

  “Of course.” Sam bit back a laugh. “Regarding the bill, we are like-minded. What Marcus is doing is wrong on every count.”

  Her gaze shifted to the front window of the mercantile. “Good to know I’m not alone in my assessment. But what can be done about it?”

  “Not sure. Something to pray about, I suppose. In the meantime, we all trim back on our purchases. Perhaps that will teach him a thing or two.” Sam glanced over his shoulder as a handful of prospectors headed into the store, likely to purchase supplies to carry out to the river.

  “He does a good business, even without us locals.” Mrs. Linden sighed. “That’s half the problem. He doesn’t even need our money, though he’s happy to take it. But I do agree we should pray. That is our answer, for every problem.”

  “Even one as big as Marcus Denueve.”

  “Even one that big.” A faint glint of humor lit her eyes as she patted Sam on the arm. “Give my love to Cookie. Tell her I’ll stop by when I have a few minutes. In the meantime, you take care of yourself, Sammy.”

  He smiled as the minister’s wife called him by his nickname. She must’ve picked up on that by listening to Cookie. Before he could give it further thought, Mr. Hannigan, the local barber, galloped by on a gray horse, hollering something unintelligible. Seconds later, a group of rowdies rushed the street in front of them, guns waving.

  Sam stepped into the spot between Mrs. Linden and the ruffians, to protect her from harm. She paled and looked as if she might faint. Thank goodness, the men moved on, their shouts and curse words filling the air between them.

  Mrs. Linden fanned herself. Sam took her arm to hold her up as she wobbled. “You know things are getting bad when the locals take to assaulting the barber. Mr. Hannigan has never hurt a soul.”

  “I heard he shaved off Jedediah Tucker’s beard by mistake. Poor guy fell asleep and woke up clean as a whistle. Didn’t sit well with him, I guess.”

  “Oh, I see.” She reached inside her pocket and pulled out her bill from the mercantile, which she used as a fan. “Well, that’s no reason to threaten a man’s life.”

  “More to pray about, I suppose.”

  “San Francisco keeps the Almighty on His toes, no doubt about that.”

  Sam turned his gaze back to the street to make sure the danger had passed. “It does, at that. But He’s big enough to handle it all.”

  “True. He’s remarkably big.” Mrs. Linden rested her hand on Sam’s arm. “If He could help David take down that giant, Goliath, surely He can help us here in San Francisco. Just keep a few stones in your pocket, son.”

  “Stones?”

  “Of course. Just a few river rocks in David’s pocket was enough to win the battle.”

  Sam put his finger over his lips in playful fashion, then pulled it away. “Start talking about river rocks, and before long you’ll draw in more miners. Can we take Goliath down with something other than stones?”

  “Of course, honey. Prayer. Like I said before. That’s our best weapon when it comes to doing battle.”

  Sam tipped his hat as she turned to go her way. He slipped his hands into the pockets of his trousers, half expecting to come up with river rocks. Instead, he found the bill from the mercantile.

  With aggravation setting in, he headed back home, to the Gold Rush Inn.

  The exhaustion in Abigail’s body threatened to diminish the excitement as their private stagecoach drew near San Francisco. Still, she fought to maintain control of her emotions for Neville’s sake. The man could barely compose himself after so many weeks of travel. Daily, she chided herself for putting Neville through all of this. Poor fellow.

  Just as quickly, Abby reminded herself that this was for Mama. No, for Father, really. To bring Mama home would be the best gift she could give her father, wouldn’t it? And surely her mother was ready by now.

  Oh, but as she gazed out the window, out onto the vast expanse that was California, Abby could understand why Mother loved to travel. The wide-open spaces. The mountain ranges. The magnificent trees in the distance. The sight of the men setting up camp each night. What an adventure, and how unlike their prim and proper life back in Philadelphia.

  She spent the final day of their journey composing a letter to Mother, one she would send as soon as they arrived. After folding the stationery, she pressed it into an envelope and put it in her bag.

  “Everything all right, Miss Abigail?” Neville opened one eye to peek at her.

  “Right as rain.”

  “Don’t speak of rain.” He grunted and shifted his position in the seat. “We would be in Oregon City by now if not for rain, remember?”

  She smoothed her skirt and forced a smile. “We’re almost in San Francisco, Neville. Minutes away, from what I can gather.”

  He grunted a response.

  “I’m sorry, Neville,” she said for the hundredth time. “I don’t know what to say except for that.”

  “No need for apologies. I’ve told you that many times over, Miss Abigail.”

  “Still, I feel bad.” She leaned back in her seat, her mood shifting from light to dark as the words were spoken. “Are you truly unhappy, Neville, or just a little unhappy?”

  A thoughtful look passed over him. “I suppose a man—or woman—is as happy as he or she makes up the mind to be. The Bible tells me I’m to be content in whatever state I’m in and I strive to do that very thing.”

  “Even in the state of California?”

  “Or Pennsylvania. Or Nottingham. I don’t suppose it really matters where the Lord places me at any given moment. I’ve got to learn to be content in that place. So, to answer your question, Miss Abigail, I’m working toward contentment. Not sure that’s the same thing as happy, but it’s enough to get me through.”

  “Promise you’ll let me know if you’re ever really, truly happy?” She waggled her finger in his direction in playful fashion. “Because I’d love to see that face of yours light up in a wicked grin.”

  “Wicked?” An arched eyebrow indicated his surprise at her choice of wording. “Well, that would be something, now wouldn’t it?”

  “You know what I mean. I’d love to see you toss caution to the wind and enjoy life more.”

  “Had my fair share of enjoyable moments as a youth, but that’s a story for another day.” He pulled back the curtain and peered out the window. “Let’s have a look outside, shall we?” After a moment’s pause, he added, “Doesn’t look a thing like Philadelphia, does it?”

  “Not at all. Rugged and sturdy. That’s how I’d describe it.”

  “Only wishing I felt the same.” He squirmed in his seat once again.

  “Stiff upper lip, Neville. Did it ever occur to you that God might’ve brought us here for such a time as this?”

  “Are you trying to convince me that God had some sort of master plan in shifting our course from Oregon to California?” He gave her a dubious look. “Far as I can recall, spring rains washed out the roads to the Oregon Territory. That’s how we came to land in San Francisco.”

  “He’s the God of the wind and rain,” Abby countered.

  “Pity the poor people who are stranded in Fort Hall just so you could be redirected to California.” Neville rolled his eyes.

  “I’m just saying the Lord has me here, so He might as well use me. Let’s see what He has in store, shall we?”

  “I sincerely doubt He plans to use me for any purpose other than protecting you, Miss Abigail. But, again, I am learning to be content in any state I am in, as I said before. So, stiff upper lip, and all that.”

  Before he could say anything else, the coach made a bend in the road and a town came into view.

  “Neville, look!” Abby gasped as she saw the wood-framed buildings, the muddy road, and the men. Lots and lots of men.

  “Pulling into town now, folks!” The driver’s voice sounded from outside the coach. “Brace yourselves for lots of mud and a roaring welcome from the locals.”

  Abby didn’t need the announ
cement. Off in the distance a noise caught her attention.

  “What is that?” she asked, and then gazed out the window at the saloon to her right. A couple of men stood outside of it, arms waving as they hollered at each other.

  “From the sound of it, brawling.” Neville gave the place a quick look and then clamped his eyes shut. “What have I done, allowing all of this? I have failed you, Miss Abigail. I should have insisted upon returning home back at Fort Hall.”

  A gunshot pierced the air and Abby let out a scream.

  “No reason to be alarmed, miss,” their driver called out. “Just the fellas, celebrating. Happens all the time around here.”

  “Celebrating? With guns?” Abby could hardly fathom such a thing.

  “Well, sure.” The man turned her way, offering a near-toothless grin. “Ain’t that how they do it where you’re from?”

  She shook her head. “Back in England we usually host a soiree to celebrate.”

  “A swore-a?” the fellow drawled. “What’s that?”

  “A party,” she explained. “With guests and fine food.”

  His face lit in a smile. “Same thing, I reckon. Lotsa folks havin’ a swore-a. Fellas around these parts are always ready to have a good time, whether it’s on the river with pans in hand or in the saloons and such. Anything to lift the spirits.”

  “I see.”

  “Learning to be content,” Neville whispered, his gaze shifting to his feet. “Learning to be content.”

  “Now, if yer lookin’ fer good food, head on over to the Gold Rush Inn and give Cookie’s pies a try. Best restaurant in town.”

  “The Gold Rush Inn?” Why did that name sound so familiar? Oh, yes. The waiter on the train had said something similar. This Cookie person must really be a fine baker, to garner so many admirers of her pies. Perhaps a good meal was in order, after all.

  “Her real name’s Helga,” the driver added. “Wonderful woman and the best cook in the gold rush territory. You ain’t lived till you’ve tasted her chicken ’n’ dumplin’s. They’ve got magic powers, I tell ya.”

  “Really?” For the first time in days, Neville looked almost interested.

  “Sure. Brawlin’ men stop cold when the smell of Cookie’s dumplin’s fills the room. Forget all about their feuding. And don’t even get me goin’ on her cherry pie. Folks round these parts bring in their cherries by the bucketful, just so she’ll bake more.”

  “Sounds mighty powerful, indeed,” Neville responded. “Though I can’t imagine why any woman would want to settle here in California. Doesn’t seem like the spot for a lady.”

  “Hard to find a good cook in a town full of men,” the driver agreed. “When we come across a gal with talent, we hold on tight to her. I’d be willin’ to bet nearly a dozen men have proposed to Cookie in the past year or so, but none have won her heart. It’s better fer the rest of us if she spends her life as a spinster. That way she’ll go on cookin’ fer all of us, not just one fella.”

  “As if marrying would have to put an end to a woman’s career.” Abby clucked her tongue. “Honestly, such an old-fashioned notion.”

  “If she’s half as good as you say, I will propose to her myself. Then I will take her far, far away from this godforsaken place, back to civilization.” Neville’s strained smirk spoke of sarcasm. “All the way to England, if I have my druthers.”

  The driver shook his head. “Oh, no, sir. She won’t leave. Not Cookie. Her heart’s planted right here in San Francisco.”

  “She’s not the woman for me, then, no matter how remarkable her cooking skills.” Neville shifted in his seat, and she could read the discomfort in his expression. Not that Abby blamed him. She could hardly bear the pain herself.

  “After all the meals we’ve eaten on the road, I’m happy to give her my business.” Abby’s stomach growled just thinking about it. How many days had they gone, living on dried meats and fruits and such? The idea of a fresh, hot meal sounded heavenly.

  “She’s not the only woman in town with a thriving business,” the driver added. “If you need your clothes washed, take ’em to Maggie O’Callahan at the laundry. She’s as Irish as they come and has the best sense of humor in town. You’ll leave laughin’ every time and your clothes will be clean as a whistle.”

  “If there’s one thing I love, it’s a comedic laundrywoman.” Neville rolled his eyes. “Now, if you please, tell us about the Ivory Tower. That’s where we’re staying while in San Francisco.”

  “I love the name.” Abby leaned out and scanned the street, looking for a hotel with that moniker.

  “I have one thing to say.” The driver gave her a pensive look. “If you’re staying at the Ivory Tower, be prepared to empty your pockets.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes. Prices in San Francisco are sometimes ten or twenty times what you’d pay elsewhere. Or higher. You’ll learn that firsthand at the Ivory Tower.”

  “For pity’s sake.” Why hadn’t Jimmy Blodgett warned her of this? She might’ve chosen another destination. Her mind went at once to the cash in her bag. She would have to tread carefully, if they were to stay more than a few weeks.

  “The town is much larger than it looks at first,” he added. “Sixteen hotels and over a dozen banks. And two hundred attorneys.” He laughed. “Trust me when I say that, in spite of ’em, lawlessness abounds.”

  “Goodness gracious.”

  “Blame it on Gold Fever, I suppose. Of course, we have the Vigilance Committee now. They take care of lawlessness in their own way.” His right brow arched. “Ask one of the locals to tell you the story about what happened a couple years ago when a fella tried to steal a safe from a local store.” The driver slapped his knee and laughed. “Let’s just say he was tried by a jury and hung that same night.”

  “For pity’s sake,” Abby said again. “What have I done?”

  “Folks have no sense of control. And to think, this all started with a Mormon missionary.”

  “Really?” She couldn’t picture a missionary bringing lawlessness.

  “Fellow by the name of Samuel Brannan. Ask Cookie to tell you the story. She’s met him in person.”

  “I will.”

  Moments later, the driver brought the wagon to a stop in front of the hotel. Abby took his hand to make the jump down into the muddy street. She landed with a squish, then groaned when she realized the mud contained a bit more than she’d bargained for. Horses had recently happened by and left behind manure.

  “My poor boots.”

  Oh well. No bother. Someone at the hotel would help her clean them. Either that, or Neville would do the deed.

  She didn’t have long to ponder the condition of her boots. A piercing “Woo-hoo!” sounded from behind her, followed by a loud whistle.

  “Ain’t she a beauty?” A stout fellow ran his fingers along his scraggly beard as he looked Abby up one side and down the other.

  “A fine specimen,” another called out.

  A couple of catcalls followed, and Abby vacillated between feeling humiliated and wanting to slug these fellows upside their heads. How dare they carry on as if she were some kind of farm animal? Did these men have no manners at all?

  “Pay them no mind, miss,” the driver said. “These poor prospectors ain’t seen a pretty face round these parts since the reverend showed up with his wife in tow. And she’s an older gal, not half as pretty as you.”

  She released a slow breath and tried to get her bearings as she pondered the driver’s words.

  “What did you call the men again?” she asked.

  “Prospectors.”

  Judging from the way several of the fellas ogled her, they saw her as some sort of prospect. A shiver ran down her spine as a particularly seedy man in filthy dungarees looked her up and down.

  “It’s not too late to return to St. Louis, Miss Abigail.” Neville’s thoughts came out through clenched teeth. “A good night’s sleep, a hot meal, and we can turn right around and head back to where we came from,
forget this ever happened.”

  “But we’ve only just arrived, Neville. Remember? And you’re learning to be content in every state. That includes the state of California.”

  “Is it too late to take back that sentiment?”

  “Yes. And besides, I promised you an adventure. We haven’t even had that yet.”

  “Speak for yourself, Miss Abigail. I’ve had enough adventure for a lifetime.”

  Perhaps he had, but … As Abby glanced out over the rugged town, as she took in the buildings, the people, the horses … she could only come to one conclusion: there were plenty of adventures ahead.

  Sam could tell from the whooping and hollering that the fellas must’ve clamped eyes on a woman, but which one? Most had stopped flirting with Cookie ages ago. Must be one of the saloon girls, out and about. Not that the saloon girls came out much in the mornings.

  He glanced up to see what all the fuss was about and his gaze landed on a girl—no, a woman—with loose tendrils of hair the color of honey-wheat, which softened a lovely delicate face. She wore a tailored traveling suit in a shade of dark blue, and her eyes, wide with wonder, darted this way and that as she took in her surroundings. Definitely not a saloon girl. This was a high-class gal, if such a thing could be gathered from outward appearances.

  “Easy, boy.” Cookie rested her hand on his shoulder.

  He turned to face her. “What do you mean?”

  “Nothing. Just … easy.”

  He paused before heading the young woman’s way, but the rowdy men forced his hand. “I’ve got to protect her from the fellas, Cookie. You can see that.”

  “I dare say that highfalutin fella standing next to her will take care of that for you. He’s garnering up the courage to punch a couple of those ruffians in the jaw.”