“There was an old woman tossed up in a basket
Seventeen times as high as the moon
Where she was going, I could not but ask it,
For in her hand she carried a broom
‘Old woman, old woman, old woman,’ quoth I,
‘Oh whither, oh whither, oh whither so high?’
‘To sweep the cobwebs from the sky,
But I’ll be with you by and by.’”
The baby giggles and grabs at the Major’s beard; he leans down farther to let her take hold of it. “That’s a silly song,” Becky says, and though her words are judgmental, her tone is soft and her gaze fast on his face.
“My father sang it to me,” the Major says.
He smiles and Becky smiles back, and I don’t say a word, because they are the unlikeliest pair ever, but it seems that slowly and surely they have turned into a pair.
“Hello again,” says Large, as we reach the wide iron gate that provides the only entrance into the estate.
“Did you know you would be working here when I inquired about the party last night?” I ask.
They ignore my question. “Do you have your invitation?” asks Larger.
I hand it over.
“We were told to expect eight,” Large says, checking a list of names.
Larger looks over our heads. “Counting the young ones and the infant, I see eight.”
“I thought the young ones were much younger,” Large says as he considers Olive and Andy.
“Children have to grow up fast in California,” Becky says smoothly.
“That’s the truth,” Larger says, waving us in.
We hurry inside before they can change their minds or get a closer look, and then we all stop short, a little overwhelmed. To our left is a lush garden with creeping vines and spired yucca flowers and a single sprawling oak. Beside the oak, the band plays gaily from a temporary stage as couples waltz nearby. Fires glow inside clay ovens, radiating warmth and inviting guests to gather. Lanterns hang from branches and posts, illuminating gaming tables where people are playing Spanish monte and rolling dice. To the right, the doors are thrown open to the rambling wings of the house. Violin music and laughter flow from the windows.
It’s a wonderland. A place where magic might happen.
And the thing I notice most, that thing that lights me up from all sides, is my sense of gold. I feel like a fly caught in a spiderweb of golden strands. The center of the web is inside the house, where the safes must be stored. But strands shoot out in all directions: at the gambling tables, in every purse and pocket, even near the stage, where the band keeps a collection bag.
A young man in a white shirt and a thin black tie approaches with a tray of drinks. Henry snatches up a glass.
“Dancing and games are to your left,” the young man says, which we can see very well for ourselves. Then he gestures toward the right. “Food and drink are inside the house.”
I follow the direction of his hand. The open double doors frame a familiar profile. The face turns toward us, and the man strides in our direction.
“Frank Dilley,” I whisper in warning.
“That’s my cue to disappear,” Mary says, and she steps away, blending into the swirl of partygoers.
“Olive, Andy,” Becky says quickly, “it’s time to run and play.”
The two of them peel off, their faces hidden by their hats, and disappear into the crowd.
“If you don’t mind, I’ll follow them,” Henry adds, downing his drink in a single gulp and putting the empty glass back on the server’s tray.
I glance around for Helena Russell. She is surely in attendance. We all have a job to do here tonight, and right now, my job is to make sure Hardwick and his crew are looking at me. It’s the only thing I should be thinking about.
My hand goes to clutch Mama’s locket, but of course it’s gone. I stride toward Frank as if my knees aren’t suddenly wobbling and my heart suddenly pounding. “Thank you for the invitation,” I say brightly. “Lovely party.”
Frank pretends I don’t exist and approaches the Major, glaring down his nose at him. Like he regrets not killing him after the buffalo stampede. Like he might go ahead and correct that mistake right now.
“You showed up,” Frank says glumly.
“I thought you’d be glad to see me,” the Major replies. “After all, the invitation was delivered by your own hand.”
“I can’t figure out what drives you, Wally. I guess an old cripple like you is only good for doing women’s work and watching children. I’d kill myself before I’d ever do a skirt’s job.”
The Major smiles at Frank, but the corners of his eyes are as serious as a gunshot. “Dilley, you’re neither strong enough nor smart enough to do a skirt’s job.”
“The Major is the cleverest carpenter in all of California,” Becky says. “And he does the work of ten men. We couldn’t get by without him.”
Frank ignores her too. “We never would have made it across the desert if you were in charge of the wagon train,” he says.
The Major’s smile disappears. “If I’d stayed in charge, we all would have made it across.”
Becky opens her mouth but changes her mind about whatever she was going to say. Frank is one of those men who can’t feel big unless he’s making somebody else smaller. And suddenly, it’s like a click in my mind, the way everything settles into place. Frank is lonely. He wanted us here. He needed familiar faces, people he could put down so he could feel better about himself.
“I’m sorry for you, Frank.” The words rush out of my mouth before I can stop them, but I decide I don’t want to stop them. “You were in charge of the wagon train, and you couldn’t keep it together. You worked for my uncle Hiram’s mine, and we know how that went. Now you’re working for Hardwick, and he’s going to leave you behind when he goes to New York. You aren’t good enough for anything or anybody.”
He puts his hand on his gun. “I was good enough to put your friend Jim in the ground.”
And just like that, my pity turns to anger. In fact, I’m so angry now that tears start leaking from my eyes, but a show of tears is probably a good thing.
Jefferson steps forward before I can reply. “You’re a murderer, Frank Dilley. Plain and simple.”
Frank opens his mouth, taking a menacing step toward us, but he’s interrupted by a cheerful greeting.
Hardwick approaches, arm in arm with Helena, who is resplendent in a blue velvet gown. With her auburn hair and pale white skin, she’s the colors of the American flag. I focus hard on my anger at Frank, then the scents of beeswax candles and spiced cider, the flickering lanterns and the swirling people.
“Miss Westfall. I was hoping I would get the chance to see you toni—” Hardwick notices Frank’s fuming gaze and the hand on his gun. “Go on, Dilley, get out of here.”
Frank practically snarls, but he shoots one more angry glance at our group, then strides casually away toward the house, as if that was his plan all along.
“Some dogs you have to keep on a leash,” Hardwick says.
“And when the dog bites people anyway?” I ask.
He shrugs. “In one more day, that dog won’t be my problem.” Hardwick indicates his companion. “You remember my associate, Miss Helena Russell.”
We exchange wary nods. Her eyes glitter in the lantern light—merely blue right now. “Pleased to see you again,” I lie. “May I introduce my friends . . .” I look around, but Jefferson and the Major have wisely made themselves scarce. “My friend, Mrs. Rebecca Joyner.”
Becky curtsies. “We’ve had the pleasure of meeting once before, Mr. Hardwick, Miss Russell. In the law offices on Portsmouth Square. I was trying to recover possession of my house.”
“And did it all work out?” Hardwick asks.
“That remains to be seen,” she says.
Hardwick reaches into his pocket and pulls out a pair of solid gold dice. He rolls them in the palm of his hand. I can sense their weight and balance.
They are perfect. Beautiful.
“I had them made especially for this evening’s festivities,” Hardwick says. “Can I persuade you to try your hand at hazard?”
I eye the golden dice. It would be an interesting test of my skills. But I tamp that thought down as soon as it occurs to me. “Hazard? No, thank you, I’ve faced enough hazards on the road from Georgia to California, and a few more since I arrived.”
He has such a patronizing smile. Very like my uncle’s when he was eager to explain the world to me. “Hazard is the name of a dice game. I think the origin of our common use of the word comes from the game, and not the other way around.”
It’s a trap. I’m sure of it. The trap is even called “hazard,” which ought to be a warning sign, like the church bells ringing when there’s a big fire. But my job tonight is to keep as much attention on me as possible, especially from Hardwick and Helena.
I glance around. Jefferson, the Major, Olive, and Andy are nowhere to be seen. Henry sits at a monte table with the governor and other high rollers. Becky and I are alone. “What do you think, Becky?”
“I think Mr. Joyner loved gambling even though he was never any good at it, and lost far more often than he won.”
“But he did love it, right?” I turn back to Hardwick. “I’ll give it a try. But you’ll have to teach me how.”
Something about Hardwick’s triumphant smile sets my belly to squirming. He tosses the golden dice in his hand. Helena’s eyes gleam; does she already know how this will end?
Chapter Twenty-One
Hardwick leads us over to a table shaped like a tub, long and narrow with high sides and lined with green felt. We watch players tossing dice into the tub, and he explains the rules to me—something about a main, a chance, a nick, and so on—but I’m not paying close attention because a tapestry hanging on the wall behind the table catches my eye.
It’s the new seal of California that’s been proposed, hastily embroidered but clear enough to parse. In the background is the sprawling San Francisco Bay. Miners work in the hills around it, hefting their pickaxes. But what really catches my attention is the woman in the foreground. She wears flowing robes and a helmet, and holds a spear in one hand. Like she’s ready for war.
“That’s Minerva,” Becky whispers in my ear. “The Roman goddess of wisdom.” I hear the grin in her voice when she adds, “It’s appropriate they’d choose a woman for the seal, don’t you think? I hope it gets approved.”
I sense Hardwick hovering at my back. The gentlemen around the table shift to make room for us. He greets everyone, waving his golden dice, as more gather around. It’s a split second before I realize he’s started talking about me.
“A young woman lost all her family back home in Georgia and decided to pack up with some of her friends and come west to California to find gold. And she found it! She and all of her friends found gold and established the prosperous town of Glory, one of the jewels of our new state. And this town, with all of its miners and prominent new residents, chose her as its representative. This young lady right here.”
The room grows quiet. Everyone is listening to Hardwick.
“Last Christmas,” he continues, “she came to me in Sacramento and asked for my help establishing a charter for their town, to protect their claims and their community.”
Every eye is on me. I sense disbelief in several, so I lock gazes with them and try to stare them down, each and every one individually. That’s right, folks, eyes right here.
“Now, what can I do to help with a town charter?” Hardwick asks disingenuously. “Yes, I know many of our politicians, but I’m not one myself. But it made me think, maybe I should be. If I really want to help people like this little lady right here, I ought to consider politics. I don’t mean to cast any aspersions on our local leaders. I think they’re the best in the whole United States.”
This brings forth murmurs of “Hear, hear!” and “Right you are!”
“But what America needs right now is not another general, not another tired old politician from the cities back east. What America needs is a true pioneer to lead them. Someone who’s been in the wilderness and knows how things work out here in the West, for a change. So I’m not making any promises, gentlemen—leave that to the professional politicians!”
This earns some laughter.
“But I’m going to head east, and if you see my name on a ballot come the next election, I hope you will give your fellow Californian due consideration.”
Men cheer and clap. Several promise to support Hardwick on the spot, while a few others hint at all the help his new administration will need. If they’re all cut from the same cloth as Hardwick, it promises to be a government of thieves, by thieves, and for thieves.
“That brings me back to our guest here,” he says. “The Golden Goddess. That’s what the miners called her.”
My cheeks flush. Why bring that up? What’s he trying to do? Maybe it’s a warning. He knows what I . . . I shove the thought away as soon as it pops up, concentrating instead on the generously oiled mustache of the gentleman closest to me.
“She represents the opportunity that California provides for all of us—to take our chance, to strike it rich, to make something different of ourselves. I had these golden dice made in her honor.” He rattles them in his hand and tosses them on the table so everyone can see them, then snatches them up again. “And now we’re all going to teach her to play the game of hazard.”
He’s using me as a symbol, a way to further his own ends. It’s disgusting. The worst violation. And yet, every single eye is on me, exactly as I need. “I’ve never played before,” I say sweetly. “So I’ll need everyone’s help.”
Various middle-aged men shout advice, telling me exactly what to do. One fellow with long sideburns and a garish red cravat slides in and slips an arm around me, but I wriggle away like a snake, and Becky steps in before he can try again. I give her a glance of gratitude.
Hardwick pulls out a stack of gold coins and places it between himself and the gentleman acting as the bank. He declares lucky number seven as his main and rolls the dice. The golden cubes bounce off the back wall of the tub—almost too fast to track with my gold sense—and land upright, with three pips and four. A seven. The dealer doubles Hardwick’s money, and there’s a flurry of bets as the viewers wager on his next roll.
This time the dice roll up two single pips.
“Snake eyes,” says the dealer, and Hardwick loses.
The banker collects money and pays out a variety of bets while Hardwick gathers up the dice and rattles them in the cup of his hand.
Manipulating the dice will take a lot of concentration. And maybe I shouldn’t do it with Helena Russell so nearby. But the dice sing to me, so perfect and clear, that I can’t resist. Hardwick rolls them again. I pinch my tongue between my teeth to help myself focus. The dice bounce off the far wall of the table and roll across the velvet. They’re going to stop . . . now! One lands on five, and I take the tiniest split second to continue the roll, pushing it toward the six.
It plops over to a four. I need to be more delicate.
Everyone cheers Hardwick’s success. I force myself to smile.
When my turn comes, I reach into my pocket for my last gold coins. I hesitate before putting them on the table. To keep Hardwick occupied as long as possible, I have to win. I pick a number and rattle the dice in my hand. I’m concentrating so hard on the dice themselves, readying myself to flip them over, that I don’t throw them hard enough, and they never reach the wall of the table to bounce back.
“Can I try again?” I beg, and most folks are for giving the little lady a second chance, so the dealer gathers the dice and hands them back to me for another throw. I hold them up to the baby in Becky’s arms and make a kissing noise. “For newborn luck,” I say.
The baby opens her mouth and tries to eat them, which I take for a good sign.
This time my throw goes better. After the dice bounce, I beckon with my
fingers, one on each hand, tugging the dice toward me until I get the nick and double my money.
Feeling nervous, I grab my original coins and pull them back to me, leaving only my winnings. A future stake. If I’m going to bet, from now on it will only be with Hardwick’s money.
As Hardwick and I go back and forth, my world shrinks to the volume of two golden dice. At first I make a lot of mistakes, lucky to move the dice at all and make it look natural. But as we take turns, my skills improve, and not coincidentally with it, my luck. Hardwick loses more money than he wins, and I win more than I lose. My focus is razor sharp. Maybe too sharp. Surely Helena can sense what I’m doing.
Becky becomes very tense every time I throw the dice. “I start to see why Mr. Joyner enjoyed the thrill of gambling,” she confides to me in a whisper.
“Henry, too,” I say. “Sometimes it feels good to take a chance on something.”
Though I’m doing my best to make sure no chance is involved. Hardwick has been betting on my throws, and I start betting on his. Even when he wins, I win more. Which deflects attention away from my control of the dice.
After a long winning streak, when I’ve amassed a large stack of coins, Helena Russell says, “I marvel at how lucky the young lady has been. I don’t know that I’ve ever seen someone so lucky.”
Her blue eyes are flecked with violet. Just flecks. What does that mean?
Maybe it means I’ve pushed it too far. Or lost control of my thoughts. I should lose the next round on purpose.
Hardwick pauses before throwing the dice. “Come on, Miss Westfall,” he cajoles. “Bet big. Bet like a grown woman and a true Californian. Give me a chance to win back some portion of the money I’ve lost tonight.”
The crowd is all for this. The bigger the stakes, the more they cheer.
I’m in control of this game now. I push all the coins that I’ve won toward the banker. “Will that do?” I ask.
“Surely the Golden Goddess has something else to add to the pot?” Hardwick says.