Mary nods. “Hard work and I are old friends, ma’am. I have a different trade in mind for myself, but tavern work will do for now, if you’ll have me.”
“Good. I just hope you’re a terrible cook. This establishment has a reputation to maintain.” To Jefferson, Becky says, “I’m afraid your shanty was taken over by a couple of boys come south from Oregon; you’ll have to build a new one, but I know just the place. And you.” She peers up at Wilhelm, frowning. “You look like you could do the work of ten men. We’ve a new blacksmith in town who has more orders than he can handle, and he needs an assistant.”
And just like that, we are folded back into the community as if we never left.
Becky serves us a meal of half-baked bread topped with lumpy gravy, and no poorly cooked food ever tasted so fine. Afterward, I fall into a bedroll and sleep like the dead.
In the morning, the Major comes by carrying a new pair of boots. “I made these for you last night,” he says. “To replace the ones your uncle burned.”
He must have been up all night. Tears of gratitude fill my eyes, and my lips tremble so badly I almost can’t force the thank you from my mouth. Because they look just like Daddy’s boots, with laces, low heels, and the shiny curve of steel at their tips. Except they’re smaller and newer, and they fit just right.
Later, I help Jefferson build his shanty, which for now will be a large tent stretched over a wooden frame. We work mostly in silence, just glad to be together and safe. First we level out the area a bit with shovels, then I hold the posts steady while he pounds them into the ground. I love watching him work—the play of muscles in his forearms, the look of intense focus in his eyes, the way he laughs when a post snaps in two, instead of getting angry and swearing the way his father would have.
At one point, he looks up from digging a post hole, his face full of mischief. He says, “You know, Lee, this shanty will be big enough for two.”
My heart is suddenly racing. “Only if they don’t mind getting cozy,” I manage.
“Oh, trust me. I don’t mind.”
“In that case,” I say, and it’s my turn to tease, “I bet Wilhelm would join you if you asked.”
Speak of the devil and you summon him, because movement catches my eye and I turn to find Wilhelm trudging up the rise, carrying something. It’s a slate, and he clutches it tight with both huge hands.
“Hello, Wilhelm,” I say. “Did you and the blacksmith come to an arrangement?”
He nods, but he won’t meet my gaze.
“I’m glad,” I say, only to fill the silence.
Wilhelm stares at the slate. Then his feet. His scarred lips press together firmly. Clank, clank, clank goes Jefferson’s hammer.
Finally Wilhelm raises the slate toward me, indicating with his chin that I ought to take it, along with a bit of chalk.
I do, and I turn the slate over to discover that he has written something.
I am not a bad man.
I stare at the words a long moment. I can talk just fine, thank you very much, but it seems right not to. So beneath his words, I write, Then you’ve come to the right place.
I hand it back, and he offers me a hesitant grin. Then he turns away and heads back down the hill toward the blacksmith’s stall.
Only two days after our return, a courier rides into camp, his saddlebags bursting with letters. Everyone gathers around, hoping for a bit of correspondence or even just news. He calls out a few names I don’t recognize, and various miners step forward to claim their letters. Then he hollers, “Leah Westfall!”
I’m so taken aback that I freeze. After a heart-pounding silence, I step forward on wary feet. I’ve no family back home. The only people who know me, know where I am, are my uncle and his men.
The courier hands me the letter and moves on to the next bit of correspondence as I step away. Suddenly my friends are surrounding me—Jefferson, Becky, Jasper, Hampton, Mary.
“Who’s it from?” Hampton asks.
“Aren’t you going to open it?” Mary says.
It’s addressed to me in flowing, beautiful script. Not my uncle’s handwriting, I note with relief. I turn it over, and I nearly drop it when I see the wax seal. It says OFFICE OF THE TERRITORIAL CIVILIAN GOVERNOR OF CALIFORNIA.
“Well, aren’t you fancy!” Jasper says, delighted.
I use my thumb to break the seal and unfold the letter. I read quickly. “It’s an invitation,” I say. “A formal invitation to the Christmas ball in Sacramento, on behalf of the new governor, Burnett himself.”
“Oh, my,” Becky breathes.
“It says I’m to select a contingent from the thriving American settlement of Glory, California, to accompany me.”
We all stare at the invitation in wonder.
“You’ll have to leave in the next few days if you’re to make it on time,” Jasper says.
Jefferson is the first person to ask, “But why?”
And with that single question, my brief pleasure at feeling flattered evaporates.
“People have been talking about Miss Leah,” Old Tug says.
I blink. “Really?”
“Folks say you destroyed Hiram’s Gulch with nothing but gunpowder and grit.”
“Gossip spreads awful fast for an unsettled territory,” Jefferson grumbles, but I can’t help feeling gratified. It’s a whole heap better than everyone knowing the truth, that I crushed the mine to smithereens using my witchy powers.
“That’s what we get for going around Sacramento,” Mary says. “News traveled ahead of us. Now people want to meet you, Lee. Take your measure.”
Tug says, “The peddler who stopped by two days back said the mine exploded in a cloud of gold dust. He called you the Golden Goddess.”
I groan, but Tom laughs. “That’s ridiculous.”
“Course it ain’t nothing but tall tales,” Tug says.
“Course,” I agree quickly.
“But it’s enough to make a bunch of rich, uppity men curious, don’t you think?”
“It’s probably a legal matter,” Tom says. “Hiram Westfall owed these men a lot of money. He also had a lot of property in his name. You’re his only relative. If something happened to him, they might need your signature on some papers.”
“What if I ignore it?” I ask. “Just because they send me an invitation doesn’t mean I have to attend.”