Into the Bright Unknown (The Gold Seer Trilogy #3)(21)

A laugh bursts out of my chest, a pure clean feeling of delight. I jump down from the bench and throw my arms around him and give him the tightest hug, and I don’t care what anybody thinks.

Jefferson climbs down and shakes his hand. “We appreciate this a great deal, Jim,” he says as I take a step back and admire the rifle all over again.

“Reuben Westfall bought that gun in my store when you were barely toddling around,” Jim says.

I can’t stop staring at the rifle. Three brothers robbed me of it last year, when I was barely out of Georgia. I never thought I’d see it again. “This is the last thing I have to remember Daddy by,” I tell Jim.

“Aren’t those his boots you’re wearing?”

I look down at the boots and scuff them in the dirt. They aren’t the same, no matter how much they look like Daddy’s boots, but I’m grateful to have them. “Nah. The Major made these for me. They fit me a lot better. I’d have had fewer blisters had I hiked west in these.” I hold up the rifle again, just to admire it. “But Jim! This gift—it’s . . . it’s . . .”

“Too much?” suggests Jefferson.

“A surprise?” asks Jim, suppressing his grin.

It’s the best thing to happen to me since Jefferson agreed to marry me. “You have to let me pay you for—”

“There he is!” shouts Becky. She’s pointing at the Custom House. “There he goes!”

Sure enough, yesterday’s clerk is strolling along the veranda with one of his fellows. I grab the blanket, rewrap the rifle, and stuff it under the bench. “Let’s go,” I say.

While Jefferson catches Jim up on what’s going on, Becky, Henry, and I set off across the plaza at a brisk pace. “So, you’ll stand watch?” Becky asks me.

She must be nervous, because we’ve been over it a thousand times. “If I see the clerk coming back, I’ll come inside and signal so you can slip out,” I assure her.

Henry jumps in with, “Then I’ll take the letter and continue to wait in line by myself. If you still have concerns, I can go in alone.”

“No, no,” Becky says. “I’ll feel better if I see it through myself. And though we’ve done our best to anticipate questions, the situation might still require a woman’s touch.”

Because that worked so well for us yesterday. But I refrain from saying as much.

Becky and her false husband step into line. Across the plaza, Hampton has returned to the wagon, and my stomach rumbles when he offers something to Jefferson and Jim.

Everyone is in place now, so I lean against the wall between the Custom House and the law offices, like I’m waiting impatiently for someone inside, which will be my excuse should anyone bother me. I pull the brim of my hat down over my face so I don’t have to make eye contact with anyone. I pull my sweater down over my hands because I’m cold. I cross my arms with what I hope is a strong signal to leave me alone.

From the corner of my eye, I catch sight of a woman approaching, and for a split second, I think it’s Helena Russell, the woman who was keeping company with Hardwick. I’m like a deer about to bolt, until a closer look reveals the truth: it’s the pickpocket from the previous morning.

“Hello, Sonia,” I say without warmth. She must frequent Portsmouth Square often. A lot of miners here with gold to spend. After they’ve had a few drinks, it’s probably easy to part them from their fortunes.

“Oh. Miss Lee,” she says, eyes widening, feet faltering. She turns and dashes away.

I’m almost sad to see her go, because two generously whiskered fellows come along and lean against the wall beside me. They pretend like they’re talking to each other—about the empty lot one just purchased, and the lucky card streak the other is on—but I’d bet my boots they’re bragging to get my attention. I pretend they don’t exist. It’s a damp, chilly day, and my attitude is even chillier. Eventually they move on.

Becky and Henry make it inside. The line isn’t long compared to yesterday. After about twenty minutes, I notice that everything has gone peculiarly silent, and people are leaving the Custom House—folks who made it inside after Becky and Henry. They all seem anxious and hurried.

I start to worry a little.

Then our helpful clerk from yesterday saunters back with one of his fellows, and I start to worry a lot.

I peel off from the wall and stick my head in the door, about to wave the signal for Becky to cover her face and slip away.

I freeze.

Frank Dilley stands just inside, Colt revolver trained on Becky and Henry. They are seated in chairs, guarded by two impeccably groomed men in suits. One of the guards is very large, and the other is larger. Frank grins when he sees me. He motions with the gun for me to stand beside the chairs.

Henry is hunched over on himself, looking defeated. Becky is like a stray cat cornered in the barn—I can’t tell if she’s about to bolt or attack with her claws.

“This won’t take but a minute,” Frank says. The burn on his face is smeared with glycerin, giving it a red shine. The scar pulls the corner of his mouth back into a joyless smile. It looks painful. I hope it’s painful.

“Just play by the rules and nobody will get hurt,” Frank says. “I know that goes against your nature, but do it this once, for the sake of your friends. Then we’ll all be on our way.”