Chapter 6
Owen had spent a good hour hoofing all over these streets last night looking for her, worried she was being harassed on her way home. He had left the saloon almost immediately after she had so he didn’t understand how he had lost her.
After such a restless night, he had decided to treat himself to corncakes for breakfast from the cook tent in Auraria. As he had reached the corner of Sixteenth, he had glanced absently this direction and here she was, sitting outside the watchmakers as though waiting for her mantle clock to be repaired.
His heart pounded against his ribs, his feet veering just as quickly to bring him up to her so he could demand, “Where are you staying?”
She looked up from her letter, face as crossly lined and crumpled as her gown. She did not wish him any sort of morning, let alone a good one.
“I am homesteading this bench,” she said with a wave. “See my livestock?” She indicated the yellow dog who waggled up to greet Owen. “In fact, I have staked my claim from the hitching post to the spittoon there.” She pointed. “I intend to start my digging where you’re standing, so kindly take two steps back.”
Owen straightened from scratching the dog’s ear to glance over his shoulder at the fresh horse droppings she was steering him into. Cute.
The dog caught a whiff and walked over to drop and roll in it.
“Oh, yes, do that,” she said to the dog, flailing her exasperated hand. “That will improve opinions of me at your house, won’t it?”
“What’s his name?” Owen asked.
“He’s not mine.”
“That’s a mouthful when calling him.”
If gold could be found in a deadpan look like the one she presented to him, he would be the richest man in the west right now.
“His name is Clarence.” She leapt to her feet as the dog heard his name and gathered himself to trot toward her. “No! Down.”
A precarious dance ensued as she swished and spun, trying to avoid the dog’s shitty fur brushing her skirt.
Owen couldn’t help it. He began to chuckle.
“It’s not funny,” she insisted as she stepped up onto the bench.
“I disagree.” This was the best thing he’d seen since Marigold had threatened to brain Virgil with a chamber pot.
“He belongs to my landlady, but he won’t go home.” She leaned down to project the last as an order directed at Clarence.
“What am I missing?” Owen looked from the shit-smeared dog to the way she continued to hold up her skirts while standing on the bench. “Is it not a matter of going home yourself and he’ll follow?”
“You would think,” she said tartly. “But you would be wrong.”
She bent to pick up her abandoned letter from the bench and folded it before pushing it into her bag.
She looked at the dog, at Owen, then at the people on the far side of the street, all craning their necks at the sight of her behaving as though she had something important to impart to an invisible crowd. She exhaled her profound displeasure.
“Don’t let me keep you. Go about your day.” She swept her hand as though shooing chickens. Her hopeful gaze landed on the dog, clearly wanting him to follow Owen.
Owen didn’t move. Neither did Clarence.
Temperance Rose Goodrich had been on Owen’s mind from the moment he had met her. Yesterday morning his thoughts had been of the less wholesome variety, the kind that involved the mental removal of that worse-for-wear gown while he tamed his morning erection. A deeper curiosity had taken hold after their chat at the stage office and later at the saloon. Who was her father, really? What else did she know about mining? Had she been telling the truth about working for her father or was she a very accomplished rook artist?
“I’m on my way to a cookhouse,” he informed her. “They serve corncakes with molasses, fried sausage, and coffee strong enough to pull a cart. Will you join me? My treat.”
Her mouth opened with what he suspected was a desire to refuse, but she stopped herself. For several unsteady lifts and falls of her chest, she held his gaze, jaw working.
He’d seen that look before, most often on the faces of his partners. It was the war between pride and hunger. Owen had never held himself to such staunch moral standards. He’d gone hungry so often that if someone wanted to buy him a meal, he damned well let them.
After a tight-lipped look to the purse where she had stored her letter—he had a strong feeling it contained nothing else—she tugged on her gloves.
The dog had wandered to lift his leg against a spittoon, so she allowed Owen to help her down from the bench. She didn’t fall into step with him, though, forcing him to stop and look back at her when he realized she had hung back.
“What exactly do you think you’ll get in return for buying me breakfast?” she asked with suspicion.
“I don’t buy favors from women, Miss Goodrich.”
“You did last night.”
“When?” He never.
“You gave me a dollar to sit on your knee.”
“That— You didn’t have to.” It had been an invitation, not an expectation. Not an order. Now she had spoiled it. He had thought she sat down because she had wanted to. He scowled. “I only want a conversation,” he muttered.
This clinched it, though. He was definitely not taking responsibility for a gaggle of women when he opened his saloon. He had seen last night exactly how knotty it could get.
“What do you want to talk about?” She warily began walking with him.
“Your father.”
“What possible interest could you have in a man who is ‘grossly misinformed?’”
He had suspected she was still holding that against him. “I had good reason to say that.”
“And I’m sure I have good reason to insult your father even though I’ve never met him.” Her sidelong glance dared him to contradict her.
“It’s not his fault he turned out the way he did.” The remark was meant to be a throwaway joke at his own expense, but it was too true. Too loaded. His guts clenched, and his ears rang with the silence of her surprise.
“I’m sorry,” she said after a moment, brows pulling with contrition. “Was he not a good man? I shouldn’t have been so flippant.” Her green eyes grew soft as new grass, inviting him to fall into their expansive field.
“Be flippant,” he urged, finding her spice easier to digest than her sweetness. “I find clever putdowns endearing.”
“You must tell me the mark of a good one, then. I imagine you’ve heard a lot of them.”
Damn. He was going to fall into unbridled infatuation if he wasn’t careful. He should haul his ass back to camp right this minute.
He picked up a stick and threw it into the water as they approached the bridge. Clarence splashed in after it and came out to give a big shake, fur rinsed clean of manure.
“I was doing those boys a favor last night,” Owen said as they ambled across to Auraria. “Mark my words, it takes no time a’tall for fresh faces like theirs to look like the ones doing the hard drinking. Giving them false hope that there’s a trick to finding gold is cruel.”
“So you offered to let them dig for you? That’s the height of kindness, I’m sure.”
“You’ll have to work harder if you wish to shame me, Miss Goodrich. I make no apology for looking out for my own interests.”
“I had already worked that out for myself.”
He didn’t think she was being glib. Neither was he, so it didn’t make sense that her words stung.
They arrived at the cook tent.
Her mouth tightened and her brow furrowed in consternation. She saw this meal as charity, he could tell, and it compromised her estimation of herself.
That told him she had not been down on her luck before. Not for any length of time—which was its own type of luck, not that she seemed to recognize it.
They glanced inside the tent where a long table was filled with noisy miners. They would have to stand at the barrelhead tables outside.
“Would you fetch the coffee? Throw a lump of sugar in mine,” he said.
Nearby, under a lean-to, a quick-footed man of Mexican heritage was sweating by a griddle over a wood-fired stove. He was stirring and flipping, pouring and plating, doing a brisk business with his fifty-cent breakfast. A boy of eleven or twelve, presumably his son, chopped wood nearby. A younger one had his hands in a big bucket of water, washing the dishes as they were returned.
Owen paid, then carried their plates and forks to their barrel. Temperance was already there with their cups. The dog wandered nearby, sniffing through the dried grass, eating whatever dropped morsels he could find.
“Why are you interested in my father now?” Temperance asked as they began to eat. “You weren’t yesterday.”
Owen knew he was about to sound like the biggest hypocrite alive, but, “A man with some education in minerals is a useful connection. When will he arrive?”
“You want him to advise you on your mine?” She made her eyes wide with facetious astonishment. “I wouldn’t dream of suggesting he provide you with false hope, Mr. Stames.”
“My friends call me Owen,” he told her. “Do you prefer Rose or Rosie?”
“My friends call me Temperance. You may call me Miss Goodrich.”
“If you had said anything else, I would be disappointed.” He smirked. Damn, but he liked her. “Tell me about your father.”
“It’s as I said. He’s in Fort Kearney.” She dropped her gaze to the corncake that was disappearing faster than a spill of water in the desert.
“What was that thing you said he wrote in Canada?”
“An almanac.”
“I thought those were planting schedules for farmers.”
“And tide tables for sailors.” She nodded, growing animated. “There’s a host of other information that might be included. The one in Canada was meant for a wide audience, so it was very extensive. Weather patterns, astronomy, maps and locations of various minerals and other resources like trees for milling and clay deposits for brickmaking. They contain any information people might want when contemplating moving to a new place.”
“A rumor of gold isn’t enough?”
“You see the point,” she said with a quirk of her very pretty mouth.
“And you do what for him? Cook and keep house?”
“He could hire anyone to do that, couldn’t he? No, I help him with the writing.” Her tone took on a note of pride. “In Toronto and Montreal, I compiled lists like the number of schools and churches and blacksmiths. Stage schedules. The types and frequency of ships into the port, where they came from, what they brought in and what they took out.”
“This is all for homesteaders?” he asked with some bewilderment. Some liked to measure and ponder and make lists as they planned. He knew that, but Owen tended to deal with what was in front of him, not fret too much about where he’d been or what was coming.
“It’s useful for anyone. If a tradesman is considering a move into a new town, he wants to know if there are enough people to support his enterprise. Politicians want to know what they’re fighting over when they argue whether a certain piece of land ought to be recognized as a state or a territory.” That was a more pointed remark about the recent debate here that would be finalized in a week or so, when the constitution for the Territory of Jefferson and its initial slate of legislators was voted on. “Investors in a railroad want to know whether enough cars will go in and out to justify the cost of laying the tracks.”
True. He nodded.
“It must take years to write all of that.” Owen couldn’t imagine a more dull, frustrating, painful endeavor—and he spent days at a time standing in icy streams, shoveling gravel into a sluice box.
“We lived in Canada for three years while we wrote them. There were other people involved, men my father knows from his work at different colleges. Consultation with local tribes for plant and animal identification is essential. It takes time to go into the wilderness and map the resources, so local guides are also very important.”
“You thought Virgil was going to pay for all of that?” People called him a dreamer.
“The scope is subject to negotiation. After Papa explains the advantages to including certain information, they agree ahead of time what he’ll cover. That’s why—” She paused with her coffee halfway to her mouth as though arrested by some thought. “That’s why I came ahead of him, to begin the preliminary work. I know what sorts of topics are usually included and can help set a budget for it. Then Papa completes the work.”
“You really do that?” He shouldn’t be so skeptical. Some women were far more educated than he would ever try to be. Marigold ran intellectual circles around him, but Temperance’s story didn’t add up. If she was so smart and her father so successful, why was she working in a saloon?
“I assist in many ways,” she said stiffly. “Mostly I transcribe his notes. My penmanship far surpasses his, especially now that his tremors have grown so severe. It’s not all almanacs. There are reports and lesson plans. He teaches when he’s not doing research.”
“I don’t understand how he makes a living. Don’t these things go out of date?”
“After a time.” She nodded. “They’re often commissioned by a government, to assist in a decision, or, in the case of this one, by a businessman who needs something to persuade investors. Your Mr. Gardner would pay for the labor in producing it and could then use it as he sees fit. Papa usually retains the right to print and distribute the almanac himself. He sells them through mail order and book shops. That provides him a small income for three or four years.”
“Huh.” That was pretty smart. Virgil probably would want to meet such a man, if he existed. Owen’s lingering doubt in her story stopped him from offering a stage ticket to hurry her father along, though.
“Thank you for the meal, but my friend, Jane, is expecting me.” Temperance rose and set her plate on the ground for the dog.
“You’re welcome. I’ll see you at the saloon tonight.”
She abruptly straightened. “Why?”
“Because I enjoy chatting with you.”
“Oh.” A number of emotions flickered across her face, all there and gone before he’d fully identified them. Anticipation? Dejection? Something injured and angry. Her determined smile broke past it all. “Until later, then.”
She bent again to retrieve the empty plate from the ground and carried it to the wash tub. “Good day.” She nodded and started to walk away.
Clarence stayed right by her side the whole time.
“No. You have to go home,” she complained.
Owen smirked. He could watch her argue with that dog all day, but a pair of miners waiting for their hotcakes caught his attention with an overly loud whisper.
“Owen! Who’s that gal?”
If there was a more gossipy group of animals than men in a mining town, Owen had yet to come across them. He brought his plate to the wash tub, then walked over to the men.
“Her name is?—”
Something hit him in the leg. A stick.
It no sooner landed in the dirt at his feet than Clarence came galloping toward him in an ungainly rush.
Owen had a bare second to brace himself with a hand on one of the other men’s shoulders, certain he was about to be bowled over, but the dog managed to skid to a halt at the last second, kicking up a cloud of dust as he snatched up the stick with his teeth.
“What the hell?” Owen looked for Temperance, catching the flash of her skirt disappearing around the corner of the tent.
She was not foisting this animal onto him.
“Go on,” he told Clarence. “She’s the one who threw it. Take it to her.”
The dog looked up at him with expectation, tail thumping.
“When did you get a dog, Owen? What’s his name?”
“Clarence, but he mostly goes by, ‘Not my fucking dog.’ Go on.” Owen wrestled the stick from his teeth and threw it in the direction Temperance had run.
Clarence didn’t even look for it. He’d become more interested in snuffling into Owen’s hand and the jacket he held.
“I don’t have anything for you.” He strode to the corner of the tent. The dog padded along beside him, watching with a hopeful look.
Temperance was very good at disappearing. Owen swore and went back to the men.
“Do either of you know...” Hell, had she given him the name of her landlady? No. Only her friend Jane. Who the hell was Jane?
Screw it. The dog would find his own way home when he was ready. They always did.
Once again,Temperance was dwelling on Owen Stames as she made her way to Jane’s.
She kept trying to dismiss him as a man pursuing her for his below-the-belt interest, but he’d sounded sincerely concerned that he hadn’t known whether she had arrived home safely last night.
She’d been too embarrassed to admit she hadn’t gone home at all. She was mortified that she’d lost her job and had had to rely on him for a meal, especially when she wasn’t sure of his motives. She knew what kind of woman he thought her to be, yet he’d seemed insulted when she had accused him of paying her to sit on his knee.
I don’t buy favors from women, Miss Goodrich. Not Rosie or Temperance. Miss Goodrich. Then he had seemed sincerely interested in her father’s work. In her.
In the midst of that, she’d realized she could write the report. Or, at least, enough of it to earn a stage ticket back to Chicago. It was a long shot that Mr. Gardner would believe in her any more than Owen did, but it gave her a ray of hope.
In the meantime, she had to sustain herself. She would visit Jane until the saloons opened, then make the rounds and hopefully find one that would include a room to rent, the way Jane’s did.
As she rounded the Bijou, she glanced up at the miners who were chewing fat outside a line of rough shacks built up on the hillock. Were any of those shacks empty, she wondered?
She was considering whether to walk up and ask when a scream from within Jane’s room curdled her blood.