Into the Bright Unknown (The Gold Seer Trilogy #3)(6)

“What do you mean?”

“Once we get to San Francisco, once we see the ocean, we’ll have really gone all the way across the continent. I mean, it’d be a pity to come all this way and not finish the journey.”

I squeeze his hand. “Then let’s do it. Let’s finish the journey.”





Chapter Two


On a cold, cloudless morning, after weeks of hard travel, we reach the busy San Francisco docks. The Major and the college men depart right after breakfast to pursue their own errands, so it’s just me, Jefferson, Hampton, and the Joyners.

The huge bay is a wonder, so crowded with ships it looks like another city spread out across the water. Masts rise like steeples of a hundred churches, each one a temple to the love of gold. Seagulls dive between ships, or settle on abandoned masts, or swirl in the air. Beyond the ships, choppy gray-green waves froth into white peaks.

The air is breezy and wet, and it smells of salt and fish. To our left, out of sight beyond the golden hills of the peninsula, the Pacific Ocean supposedly stretches as far as the eye can see. We caught glimpses of it on our way here—smudges of blue shining through the creases of the hills—but I’ve never seen an ocean up close, and there’s no way I’ll allow us to do our business and be on our way without setting eyes on such a marvel.

I turn to say as much to Jefferson. He’s riding Sorry, the sulky sorrel mare that carried him all the way from Dahlonega, Georgia, to the goldfields of California, the same way my palomino girl, Peony, carried me.

Jefferson’s hat is tipped back, his dark hair spilling out around the edges. His eyes are alight beneath raised brows. An odd thing happens every time I look at his face, ever since I asked him to marry me and he said yes: my heart beats faster and everything else in the world—the crowds, the noise, even the smell of fish gone sour—disappears like a puff in the wind.

A grin plays at the corner of his mouth.

“What?” I wipe the back of my hand across my cheek, thinking of the crumbly sweet bread we had for breakfast at Mission Dolores.

“That look!” he says. “Miss Leah Westfall has seen all the wonders of the continent, and she still turns into a slack jaw at something new.”

I clamp my mouth shut and glare at him.

“It’s one of the things I like most about you,” he admits.

“Well, can you blame me?” The wide sweep of my arm encompasses the city, the ships, and the bay. “They say it’s one of the most perfect harbors in the world. Canyon deep all the way through the Golden Gate, but shallow in the shelter of the bay.”

He turns his head toward the water, which is fine by me, because I like his profile as much as any other part of his face. Peony shifts beneath me. We’ve all stopped to take in the view, but the folks around us are starting to glare, like we’re taking up too much space.

The muddy street overflows with people bustling by foot and cart and horse, with faces and fabrics from all over the world. A brand-new warehouse goes up before our eyes as workmen scamper up and down the scaffolds. Beyond the warehouse rise the hills of the San Francisco peninsula, the slopes covered with every manner of building, house, and tent. The air resounds with voices shouting in a hundred languages, hammers pounding, wagons creaking.

Jefferson says in a soft voice, as if we’re all alone, “Those ships look like the woods after a wildfire. No leaves, no branches, nothing left but barren trunks standing up against the sky.”

I see it through his eyes. A forest of abandonment. “What will happen to them all, do you think?”

“They’ll get scavenged. Used for building up on land. Some might be turned into prisons, like the one we saw on the Sacramento River.”

The one holding my uncle Hiram, is what he doesn’t say. We’ve been through a lot together, Jeff and me. I reach out and clasp his fingers with mine.

“Will the two of you stop mooning over each other?” Becky Joyner asks, from the wagon behind us. “You’d think nobody in the world ever fell in love before the two of you invented it.”

“Becky!” Heat fills my cheeks, and I drop Jefferson’s hand.

She grins at me.

Becky sits with Hampton on the wagon bench, holding the reins of a team of cart horses we bought at Mormon Island. The one on the right, a chestnut with a wide white blaze, tosses his head in impatience.

“I don’t care if the two of you make eyes at each other all day like lovebirds in a cage,” she says, “but can you carry on with it after we get my house? If we don’t run into any snags, we can shop for your wedding dress and then head home as early as tomorrow.”

I frown. This is not the first time we’ve had this discussion. “Jeff and I don’t need a fancy wedding, and I don’t need a fancy dress.”

“Nonsense. We’re family now, and your family wants to see this done right.”

“Jefferson?” I plead.

The traitor holds up his hands in mute surrender.

Hampton quickly schools his grin. “We might even have time to get a proper suit for the groom,” he suggests with a perfectly straight face.

Jefferson and I glare at him.

“All right, folks,” Becky says. “Let’s go get my house.”

I urge Peony toward the docks, and the wagon rattles behind. We carefully make our way down the slippery, muddy slope until we reach the dock described in the letter.