Into the Bright Unknown (The Gold Seer Trilogy #3)(14)

“Is it the cost or the lack of windows that bothers you?”

He pauses. Sighs. “Believe it or not, that’s a reasonable price. Everything else I’ve found is worse—five thousand a month for the basement of the Ward Hotel, ten thousand a month for a whole house. The land here is more valuable than anything on it, even gold. I’ve never seen so many people trying to cram themselves into such a small area.”

“So it’s the lack of windows.”

He gives me a side-eyed glance. “I came to California to make a fortune, but it appears a fortune is required just to get started. I may have to take up employment with an existing firm, like this one.” Peering at us more closely, he says, “I thought you were going to acquire the Joyner house? I mean, I’m glad to see you, but it seems things have gone poorly?”

“They’ve gone terribly,” Becky says.

“They haven’t gone at all,” I add.

“They’ll only release it to Mr. Joyner,” Becky says.

Tom’s eyebrows rise slightly. “I did mention that this could be a problem, remember?”

“Only a slight one,” I say with more hope than conviction.

“Without Mr. Joyner’s signature,” Becky explains, “they’ll sell my wedding cottage at auction. Our options are to buy back what’s ours, which I don’t want to do, or sue to recover it, which is why I’ve come to find you.”

If I didn’t know Tom so well, I might miss the slight frown turning his lips. He says, “There’s no legal standing to sue. Andrew Junior is of insufficient age, and both his and Mr. Joyner’s closest male relative would be the family patriarch back in Tennessee. You see, it’s a matter of cov—”

“Coverture!” says Becky fiercely. “I know. So what can I do?”

“There’s always robbery.”

I’m glad I’m not drinking anything, because I’m pretty sure I’d spit it over everyone in range.

“Tom!” Becky says. “Are you seriously suggesting—?”

“I’m merely outlining your full range of options. You don’t want to buy it back. You have no legal standing to sue for it. That leaves stealing it or letting it go.”

This is the Tom we’ve started to see recently. A little angry, maybe a little dangerous. I haven’t made up my mind if I like the change or not.

“I’m not letting it go,” Becky says. “Just because a bunch of men pass laws so other men who look just like them can legally steal? Doesn’t mean they should get away with it.”

We’ve been noticed; some of the men in the office are eyeing us curiously. “How would you go about stealing it back, Tom?” I ask in a low voice, partly to needle him and partly to find out what he really thinks.

He glances around, brows knitting. “I suppose I would get a bunch of men who look like me to pass some laws in my favor and then take it back through legal means.”

I laugh in spite of myself.

“You’re no help at all,” Becky says.

He holds up his hands as if in surrender. “I’ll give it some thought, make some inquiries. There may be options I haven’t considered.”

The front door bangs open; conversations stop.

“Miss Leah Westfall!”

My hackles go up as a tall man strides into the room. His white hair and bushy sideburns frame ax-sharp cheekbones and a wide, smug mouth. He’s dressed immaculately, with gold buttons on his dark jacket, a gold pocket-watch chain, and a gold-knobbed cane in his left hand. His right hand clutches a cigar, which he puffs with obvious pleasure.

James Henry Hardwick. Though he’s only a councilman in Sacramento, some say he’s the richest man in California at the moment, and the power behind the powers.

An entourage follows him into the room. The first is a small, mousy fellow with the tiniest nub of a chin, who stands so close to Hardwick you’d think they were tied together. A ring heavy with keys hangs from his belt loop, tugging down his pants. He carries a large leather bag, which he shifts from arm to arm. A fortune in gold is piled inside that bag; it knocks on my skull like an undeterred suitor.

A beautiful auburn-haired woman follows. She steps around the fellow with the keys, and slips her hand through Hardwick’s elbow. She wears a green dress—a full crinoline skirt with flounces, a bodice that makes her waist look unbreathably narrow, and a low-cut neckline that makes you forget about her waist. She smiles on the room like a queen bestowing graces, and I can tell from the gazes of most of the men in the law office that Becky and I have all but disappeared.

Hardwick’s two bodyguards follow last, and that’s when I discover my stomach can sink even further, right through the floor.

Frank Dilley.

My uncle’s right-hand man. Former right-hand man. The no-good snake who kidnapped me last fall. I’d heard that Frank had died during the insurrection at the mining camp a couple months past. In fact, it was Hardwick himself who told me as much, that lying Cain.

The right side of Frank Dilley’s face looks like melted wax—likely he’ll never grow hair there again. When he sees me, his left hand drifts to the revolver at his waist.

“Frank,” I say, trying not to let my voice quaver. “I heard you died.”

“Still alive and kicking,” he says. “No thanks to you.”