California Caress (9 page)

The man looked long and hard into the beseeching, velvet brown gaze, and for a split second she expected him to refuse. Instead he nodded, turning away as he combed his fingers through wheat-gold hair and went in search of his infernal gin.

“I’ll be there,” he answered gruffly. He found the glass and drained it in one long gulp. He didn’t bother to turn toward her as he asked, “And Saturday night, you’ll be here?”

Hope was glad his back was to her, glad he could not see the flinch of self-hatred shimmering in her eyes as she slowly opened the door and backed out of the room.

Saturday dawned hot and bright. Rumors of the fight between Luke Bennett and Oren Larzdon had spread faster than a brushfire. By mid-morning the sun was beating unmercifully on the miners’ hat-covered heads as they left their diggin’s and gathered at the outskirts of camp. The only relief from the heat was the cool southern breeze filtering down from the high Sierra Mountains. The gusts twisted in fluctuating waves through the rocky valley of Thirsty Gulch. The American River gurgled on, oblivious to those who continued to work it, ignoring the commotion.

Only two women were present among the fifty or so men. Both were new to the camp. They’d arrived by muleback mid-week, and their presence caused a flurry of commotion amidst the women-hungry men. In less than two days the petite blonde widow had found herself an intended. The other, a plump, sandy-haired woman with five older children, was standing beside the husband she had traveled from the Northeast to join.

More than one covetous eye turned their way time and again. The women clung nervously to their men as they regarded the ragged faces around them with caution.

Hope slowed her burro as she rounded the path nature had cut through the granite walls. Shielding her eyes from the sun, she squinted at the crowd. It was impossible to discern her men from the rest. They all looked alike: tattered clothes billowing clouds of dust with every movement, expectant faces so dark with dirt that the eyes and teeth looked stark white in comparison.

She nudged the burro on. The smell of sweat-soaked bodies and horse dung stung her nostrils. The former, of course, was due to the scorching fierceness of the day. No man would smell pretty after he’d just crawled out of a coyote hole. The shafts, dug deep in the ground to get at gold that panning wouldn’t reach, baked openly beneath the sun. The latter odor, ripe and pungent as it rippled through the air, was caused by the horses attached to the whims—large, hourglass-shaped drums used to hoist the miners from the coyote holes in round, crude wooden buckets.

In the distance, over the hum of conversation and the gentle whisper of the hot, dry wind and churning river, Hope could hear the grinding of the newly constructed stamp mill. Situated halfway between the town and the mines, the mill was in constant use. In the six days since their arrival, she had quickly grown used to hearing its annoying, crushing sound long into the night, as the newly dug gold was separated from the quartz.

The building’s services were in such demand that another mill was under construction, this one wisely located closer to the diggin’s. It was only a skeletal shell right now, but by the time winter set in, it would be in full swing. The new mill would rob no business from the old, but it would make the chore of loading and toting the heavy rock much easier for the miners.

“Hope!” A craggy, weathered voice called as she neared the outskirts of the gathering crowd. “Over here!”

She looked up to see a scrawny old man standing to the left of the sparse circle of men. He was waving his hat in the air to grab her attention. A worn leather vest draped his bony shoulders, covering the faded gray shirt beneath. A pair of limp, faded green trousers that had seen better years hung from his waist. Wispy pieces of beard coated his pointed jaw. They were almost as scarce as the tufts of sun-whitened hair clinging to his well-seasoned scalp. His eyes, an indeterminate shade of hazel, were crooked. One bulged while the other narrowed into a permanent squint. That, in combination with a chin that jutted from his face at an unusual angle, as though he was always in the process of mid-chew, lent him a decidedly unfriendly appearance.

At Hope’s smile and nod, Old Joe nudged the man beside him.

Bart Bennett was four inches shorter than his son Luke, and not nearly as thick. Unlike his old friend, his worn clothes fit his lanky frame well. He mumbled something to Old Joe before parting from the group. Eying his daughter warily, he approached the burro. His gait still held a trace of the swagger of a man used to roaming the rolling hills of his Virginia plantation.

“Thought I told you to stay put, missy,” he said in the same thick southern drawl that had spun many a late night story. Though he wasn’t large, Bart Bennett had the voice and carriage of a man twice his size.

“You did.” Hope nodded, as she slipped from the burro’s back, sending her father her most charming smile. As always, it melted the frosty demeanor Bart constantly strove to maintain with what he’d grown to regard as his sinfully wayward daughter.

“But you came anyway. Now, why aren’t I surprised?” His sharp gaze scanned the crowd, noticing the men’s hungry reaction to his daughter’s presence.

Hope’s smile weakened. She wasn’t as oblivious to the stares as she pretended; however, they didn’t bother her nearly as much as they bothered Bart. “Where’s Luke?” she asked with forced cheerfulness. She watched, amused, as her father gauged the reactions of the men closest to them.

“Just sent Old Joe to fetch him.”

“And the twins?”

“Keeping an eye on the Swedes,” Bart snorted as he glared at a young, tow-headed fellow who had the nerve to stare longingly at the high-buttoned neckline of Hope’s dress.

The thick cord of hair, caught at her nape with a peach ribbon, swayed at her waist as she followed her father’s gaze. The young man in question was quick to turn his lecherous attention elsewhere. Hope anxiously scanned the crowd of eager, grubby faces. Her spirits dropped. Drake Frazier was not to be found.

Bart’s gaze also followed suit. “Where is he?”

“He’ll be here. Give him a chance.”

“Hmph! We’ll see about that, missy. We’ll just see.”

He will be here,
she told herself,
he promised. Even a rat like Drake Frazier wouldn’t go back on his word. Or would he?

Unfortunately, her conscience chose that moment to remind her that she, too, had made a promise she never intended to honor. The memory of the pact did nothing to ease her tension. What if Frazier suspected her deception and decided not to fight because of it? No, he couldn’t suspect. She’d given him no reason to think she wouldn’t keep her end of the deal. But what if he
had—
?

Hope had no time to finish the thought as a murmur of approval rushed through the men. She turned to see Old Joe escorting Luke toward them. A few men reached out to pat the large back. One or two voices raised to call out a word of encouragement. Luke looked at them all as if they’d lost their minds. The look he sent his sister was filled with even more confusion. Hadn’t Hope said he wouldn’t be fighting today? Hadn’t she said Frazier would be taking his place? Luke peered over the crowed with a scowl. The towering blond head was nowhere to be seen, and his sister looked more nervous than he’d ever seen her.

Old Joe opened his mouth to speak, then snapped it shut when Luke asked the very question he’d been about to voice.

“Where is he, Hope?” Luke asked as he joined them.

“How the hell should I know?” Puckering her lips, Hope turned her attention back to the crowd. For a split second, she saw a head whose coloring could rival that of the gunslinger’s. When the man came into full view, she recognized the narrow shoulders and scrawny chest as belonging to Mac Snidley, the man whose coyote hole bordered theirs.

“You
are
the one who hired him.” Bart’s voice drew her attention back. “Didn’t he say what time he’d be here?”

Her spirits dipped again as Hope nibbled her lower lip and frowned. “No, he didn’t say,” she lied, her throat constricting. Only now did she realize that, in her nervousness three nights ago, she had forgotten to tell Frazier what time the fight was. What if he thought it was to be in the afternoon? Worse still, what if he’d thought it was earlier this morning—and had already come and gone?

Bart’s jaw tightened. “Well, missy, didn’t you ask him?”

“Don’t matter if she did or didn’t.” Old Joe’s craggy voice saved her from answering. He nodded his fuzzy chin to a spot just beyond her shoulder. “He’s comin’ now.”

Drake Frazier walked down the narrow dirt path with a gait that bespoke a man ready to win. His determination was reflected in each long stride as his boot heels crunched over the bits of dirt and gravel cluttering the trail. One by one, his commanding presence captured the miners’ attention.

The gunslinger had come prepared to fight. Unlike the snug denims of three nights ago, the pants he wore now were loose-fitting, chocolate brown trousers. A cottony green plaid shirt billowed appealingly over the muscles in the broad shoulders and sinewy arms. The sleeves of the shirt were rolled to just below the elbows, exposing a good deal of bronze flesh and enticingly proportioned forearms. Since no hat graced his head, there was nothing to stop the light stirring of the breeze from blowing at the golden mane that framed the broad forehead and rugged cheekbones.

His confident, bordering on arrogant, stance set him apart from the rest of the men. Hope noted that, as he reached the outskirts of the crowd, there was something about his mannerisms that showed him at ease with the others. He didn’t openly greet the men surrounding him, yet he didn’t peer down his nose at the prospectors, either. Instead, he joined the circle as though he belonged there, and, even though he towered above most of the others, he appeared oddly at home.

“I told you he’d be here,” Hope informed her father with a proud smile. She watched, transfixed, as Frazier stopped to exchange greetings with a ragged miner.

“Hmph!” Bart snorted, then turned to old Joe, but not before Hope could spot a hint of relief shimmering in his steely eyes. “For one hundred dollars, I didn’t think he’d show.”

Old Joe plucked off his hat and scratched vigorously at the weathered bald spot crowning his scalp before setting the worn leather back atop his head. His angular shoulders rose in a lazy shrug. “Some men’ll do anythin’ for a buck. Specially a fella like that ‘un.”

Money? Ha! If they only knew the half of it.
She hadn’t told them about the deal she’d struck with Frazier, and she didn’t intend to. She hadn’t even told Luke. There was no need, since she had no intention of honoring it.

Hope winced. Many times they had questioned Frazier’s reasons for accepting a mere pittance for risking his life in going up against the Swedes. Never once did they question Hope’s methods of getting him to do so. Their open trust ate at her conscience, such as it was. In securing her brother’s life, her pride had taken a mortal blow. Never before had she given her word then reneged, and to do so now disturbed her more than she cared to admit.

“Think he can do it?” Luke asked Old Joe, as Frazier shook one miner’s hand, then cheerfully clapped another on the back.

The old man jammed his fist in his pockets, cackling “He’d better. We already got a shaft dug. Hate like hell to leave it now.” He nodded to the men gathering on the other side of the crowd. “Especially knowin’
they’d
be benefitin’ from all our hard work.”

Hope followed his gaze, her throat tightening. With the exception of one, all were tall, brawny men, almost equal to Luke in size and stature. Like the Bennetts, they’d traveled from camp to camp, looking to stake a rich claim. This time, they’d picked one already taken by the Bennetts. Things had turned nasty and then the Swedes came up with their idea. What could be simpler than having each group pick their biggest, strongest man to wage a fistfight, winner take claim? Hope, to her eternal regret, had somehow agreed. Since the idea didn’t go against the town’s bylaws, the agreement was considered settled.

Unfortunately, Hope had overlooked the most important aspect—who would fight. Old Joe was too old. So was her father. The Manchester twins weren’t big enough to stand half a chance at winning. That left Luke. With his size and strength, he was the obvious candidate, and yet, because of his mental impairment, he couldn’t be. The only flaw in an otherwise flawless plan, she belatedly mused.

“What if we lose?” Luke asked Old Joe. When he received no answer, he tapped his father’s shoulder. “Does that mean we still have to pay Frazier, Pa? Even if he loses?”

“Dead men don’t need money,” Bart grumbled.

Drake Frazier emerged through the men to Hope’s right and approached the group. A quick glance at the Swedes, who were eying them carefully, told her that this new development hadn’t gone unnoticed. He didn’t break stride as he latched onto Hope’s arm and continued to move, with her in tow.

“A moment alone with your daughter, Bennett,” was all the greeting he gave as he dragged a protesting Hope in his wake.