Into the Bright Unknown (The Gold Seer Trilogy #3)(16)

He scowls, and he glances around the room at the assemblage of lawyers. “This isn’t something we should haggle over in public.”

My whole body is tense, like a bent spring. “That’s not fair.”

He puffs himself up like a cock ready to cry doodle-do. “Sweet girl, you’ll learn. Life’s not fair.”

“Then we’re honor bound to make it fair,” I snap.

He laughs at that, a genuine belly laugh, and it’s like a slap in my face. My cheeks flush hot, and I look toward the door, hoping for a swift, easy exit, but the doorway is blocked. It’s Hampton, striding inside.

I gasp. Because right behind Hampton is someone I thought to never see again: Jim Boisclair.

He made it to California after all. He’s really here.

Jim was a good friend of my daddy’s back in Dahlonega, a free Negro and store owner who helped me run away from my uncle the first time. I’m so happy and relieved to see him that I barely keep myself from giving him the hug of his life. In fact, I’m so overcome that it takes a moment to realize the whole room is as silent as the grave, and every single person in it is now staring at Hampton and Jim.

“I didn’t know you were in San Francisco,” I say cautiously.

He gives me an unsmiling nod, and there’s an awful lot in that nod I’m not sure I understand. His eyes sweep the room warily, like he just stepped into a snake pit. “Glad to see you safe and hale, Miss Leah,” he says, but his eyes are on everyone but me.

Jim had been a free man in Georgia, and he found enough gold in the rush there to set up a general store. There’s a lot more to his story than I know, but I trust him with my life, and if he’s wary in this place, then I am, too.

“Found him at the post office,” Hampton says, waving an envelope. “Needed someone to read my letter to me.”

“Good news?” I ask with false cheer.

“My freedom papers!” Hampton says, with another flourish of the envelope. “It’s all official, but still no word on Adelaide.” His voice is tight, and I know exactly why. It’s tempting fate for two Negroes to walk into an office like this, even free ones. We need to leave, and fast.

“I don’t want to intrude on another happy reunion,” Hardwick interrupts, sounding bored. “So I’ll take my leave. It was a pleasure to see you again, Miss Westfall.”

The pleasure is all his. “Until we meet again, Mr. Hardwick.” And as soon as I say it, I know I’ll be seeing him again as surely as water fills the Pacific Ocean.

The conversation officially over, I take Becky’s arm and start walking toward the door, herding Hampton and Jim before me. The air in the room feels like a clothesline about to snap.

Tom follows behind me. As we pass Hardwick, Miss Russell leans over to whisper in his ear again. He replies, “Are you certain?”

We’re only a few feet from the door and escape when Hardwick calls out. “Mr. Bigler—a moment of your time.”

We freeze. “Tom,” I whisper, meaning to follow it up with a don’t.

Tom turns, his face expressionless. “Mr. Hardwick?” he says.

“My lawyers tell me that they’ve never seen a tighter, cleverer contract than the one you wrote for Miss Westfall at Christmas. I would like to discuss the temporary application of your considerable talents to a venture of my own.”

I don’t want Tom to do it. I’m shaking. Surely he can tell? As surely as I sense his stature swelling huge with pride? All the attorneys in the room are now evaluating Tom, trying to determine if he is a potential ally or a new rival. Strange how all that scrutiny directed at me moments ago made me feel small.

At least no one is staring at Hampton and Jim anymore. Becky leans in and whispers. “Go on, Tom. It can’t hurt to listen. Maybe you can find a way to do something about my house.”

“Perhaps I can,” he says quietly. “I’ll rejoin you later at the hotel.” And then, louder, “I’m delighted to see what I can do, Mr. Hardwick. Perhaps some of the gentlemen here can lend us some chairs to talk.”

Chairs scrape across the wood floor, and a dozen voices compete to invite the conversation into their own space.

Hampton, Jim, Becky, and I go to leave, but Frank steps in our way and blocks the door. “I would have saved myself a heap of hurt if I just let you die in the desert,” he says.

“The way I recall,” I say, “you did leave us to die in the desert, and Therese Hoffman paid the price.”

Becky adds, “And then one of your men killed Martin.” Her voice quakes with the effort to hold back tears. “You know what would have saved you a heap of hurt? Not fighting against us every time. Choosing to join us even once.”

He doesn’t have an answer for that, and the rest of Hardwick’s school of fish is moving toward a desk at the far corner of the office. Frank sneers at me. Or maybe he smiles. The burn on his face makes his expressions hard to parse. Finally he lets us be and hurries off after his new boss.

We flee out the door and out into the cold winter light, and it feels like emerging from my uncle Hiram’s mine all over again. I breathe deep, as if the sea salt air can cleanse my soul, but I can’t stop shaking.





Chapter Five


“Lee! Are you all right?” Jefferson is blocked by two men with revolvers. Panic surges in my throat, and I bolt toward him, hands balled into fists.