“Mister,” she said, determined never to call him by his name, “why did you bring me back here if all you’re going to do is leave me alone in this cabin?”
“I’m giving you time to think.”
“Think about what?”
“Whatever you need to think about. You’ll get up when you’re ready.” He took his hat from the hook by the door and left.
The morning sunlight streamed in through an open window. A fire burned in the grate. Her stomach was full, and she was warm. She should be satisfied. She should be able to relax and just lean back and not think about anything. Solitude should be enough.
What was the matter with her?
Maybe it was the silence. She was used to sounds attacking her from all sides. Men knocking on the doors, men telling her what they wanted, men telling her what to do, men shouting, men singing, men swearing in the bar below. Sometimes chairs crashed against walls and glasses shattered, and there was always the Duchess telling her how grateful she should be. Or Magowan telling some man his time was up and if he didn’t get his pants on and get out, he’d regret it.
But she had never had this silence, this quiet that rang in her ears.
She complained.
“There’s plenty of sound,” Hosea said. “Just listen for it.”
With nothing else to occupy her, she did. And he was right. The silence changed, and she heard sounds breaking through. It was like the rain used to be when she put out the shiny tins in the dark little shack. She began to pick out voices in the chorus around her. A cricket lived under the bed; a bullfrog was just outside the window. A throng of feathered companions came and went outside—robins, sparrows, and a noisy jay.
Finally, Angel stood on her own feet.
When she looked for something to put on, she found nothing. It hadn’t occurred to her until then that nothing in the cabin belonged to her. None of her own things were here. Where were they? Hadn’t he thought to bring them along? What was she supposed to wear? A scratchy gunnysack?
He had precious little himself from the looks of it. A small chest of drawers yielded an extra pair of worn long johns, a pair of dungarees, and some heavy socks—all far too large for her. An old, battered black trunk was in the corner, but she was too tired to open and rummage through it. Naked and too weak to drag a blanket off the bed to put around herself, she just leaned on the windowsill and drank in the fresh, cold air.
Half a dozen tiny birds flitted from branch to branch in a big tree. A larger bird strutted and pecked at the ground no more than six feet from the cabin. He was so cocky, she smiled. A soft breeze drifted in, and with it a scent so rich, she could almost taste it. The meadowland near Mama’s cottage used to smell just like this. She closed her eyes and savored it.
She opened her eyes again and gazed at the stretch of land. “Oh, Mama,” she whispered, her throat tightening. Weakness crept up her spine, and her ribs began to ache again. She was shaking and growing light-headed.
Michael walked in and, when he saw her standing naked by the open window, went without a word to take a quilt from the bed. He swung it around her, and she buckled beneath the weight of it. He scooped her up gently.
“How long have you been up?”
“Not long enough to be put back in bed.” He held her in his arms like a child, his warmth soaking into her. He smelled of earth and sun. “You can put me down now. But not in bed. I’ve spent my whole life in bed and I’m sick of it.”
Michael smiled. She wasn’t going to do anything by halves, even getting on her feet again. He put her in the chair before the fire and added another log.
Pain was shooting along her sides. She clenched the arms of the chair, feeling every spot where Magowan had laid boot and fist. He hadn’t missed much. She touched her face gingerly and frowned. “Do you have a mirror?”
Michael took the shiny tin he used for shaving and handed it to her. Aghast, she stared. After a long moment, she held the tin up to him, and he set it back on the shelf.
“How much did you pay for me?”
“Everything I had.”
She laughed weakly. “Mister, you’re a fool.” How could he even look at her like this?
“There’s no permanent damage.”
“No? Well, at least I have all my teeth. That’s something.”
“I didn’t marry you for your looks.”
“Of course you didn’t. You married me for my charming nature. Or did God tell you to do it?”
“Maybe he figured the horns in your head fit the holes in mine.”
Angel rested her head back. “I knew you were crazy the first time I laid eyes on you.” She was weary past endurance and thought how much more comfortable she would be lying on her back on that straw mattress again. She might make it to her feet, but one step, and she was going to break her nose again, right on the plank floor.
Michael came to her and lifted her gently, ignoring her protests.
“Mister, I told you I don’t want to lie down yet.”
“Fine. Sit up in bed.”
“What happened to all my things?”
“I forgot them. Besides, what you had wouldn’t suit you now anyway. A farmer’s wife doesn’t wear satin and lace.”
“No, I suppose she trots naked up and down your rows of beans and carrots.”
He grinned, humor lighting his eyes. “Might be kind of interesting.”
Angel could see why Rebecca had been so enamored of him, but good looks made no difference to her. Duke had been a handsome man. A charismatic charmer. “Look,” she said tightly, “I want to start getting up and about on my own. With something on.”
“I’ll provide what you need when you need it.”
“I need it now.”
His mouth tipped. “I reckon so,” he said with grating calm. He went to the old battered trunk and opened it. He took out a bundle and brought it to her. “These will have to do for a while.” Curious, she untied it. The gray wool fell apart, and she realized it was a worn cape. Inside were two linsey-woolsey skirts, one faded brown, the other black; two blouses—one that probably was white once but now was almost yellow—and the other with faded blue and pink flowers. Both would button up to her chin and had sleeves long enough to pass her wrists. Two bonnets matched the blouses. Tucked modestly inside them were two simple camisoles, pantalets, and darned black woolen stockings. Last, she found a pair of down-at-the-heels, high-buttoned black shoes.
She looked up at him in wry disbelief. “I shall be forever grateful for this bounty.”
“I know they’re not exactly what you’re used to, but I think you’re going to find these things suit you better than anything you’ve ever worn.”
“I’ll try and take your word for it.” She fingered the linsey-woolsey.
He smiled slightly. “In another week or two, you’ll be up to taking on a few chores.”
Her head came up, but he was already on his way out the door. Chores? What chores did he have in mind? Milking a cow? Cooking? Maybe he would expect her to chop the firewood and tote it, along with the water from the creek. And his clothes! He would want her to wash and iron. What a laugh! She was good at one thing and nothing else. He was going to have a real awakening when she started doing chores.
He came back in with an armload of firewood.
“Mister, I don’t know the first thing about what a farm wife does.”
He stacked the wood neatly. “I didn’t expect you would.”
“Then just what chores did you have in mind?”
“Cooking, washing, ironing, the garden.”
“I just told you—”
“You’re smart. You’ll learn.” He put another log on the fire. “You won’t be doing anything really heavy until you’re able, which you won’t be for another month at least.”
Really heavy? What did that mean? She decided to take another tack instead. Her mouth curved in a well-practiced smile. “What about the other wifely duties?”
Michael glanced b
ack at her. “When it means something more to you than work, we’ll consummate the marriage.”
She was taken aback by his frankness. Where was the farmer who blushed and jumped when she touched him? Unnerved, she retreated in anger. “Fine, mister. I’ll do whatever you’ve got in mind. I’ll match you hour for hour, day for day since you started taking care of me.”
“And when you figure we’re square, you’ll leave. Is that it?”
“I’m going back to Pair-a-Dice and get what the Duchess owes me.”
“No, you’re not,” he said quietly.
“Yes, I am.” She would get her money from the Duchess even if she had to take it out of the old crone’s hide. Then she would hire someone to build her a cabin just like this one, far enough away from a town so she wouldn’t hear the noise and smell the stench, but close enough that she could get what supplies she needed. She would buy a gun, a big gun, and plenty of bullets, and if any man came around knocking at her door, she would use it, unless she needed some money. Then she would have to let him in to do business first. But if she was careful and smart, she could live a long time on what she had already earned. She could hardly wait. She had never lived all by herself, and it would be heaven.
You were left to yourself for an entire week, a small voice mocked her from deep inside, and you were miserable, remember? Admit it, being by yourself isn’t heaven at all. Not when you have so many demons to keep you company.
“You may have paid a lot of gold dust for me, but you don’t own me, mister.”
Michael studied her with patience. She was small and weak but possessed an iron will. It shone from her defiant blue eyes and the rigid way she was holding herself. She thought she had enough to overcome him. She was wrong. He was doing God’s will, and he had plans of his own, plans that kept growing, but he had said all he was going to say for a while. Let her think on it.
“You’re right,” he said. “I don’t own you, but you’re not running away from this.”
They ate at opposite sides of the room, she on the bed with her plate in her lap and he at the table. The only sound in the room was the crackling fire.
Angel set the plate on the side table. She was shaking violently but was still determined not to lie down. She studied him. Sooner or later, she would figure him out. He was a man, wasn’t he? He couldn’t be that complex. She would take him apart piece by piece.
“They all have foibles, honey,” Sally had told her. “You just have to sort out their messages and find out what it is they want from you. As long as you make them happy, you’ll get by just fine. Otherwise, they turn mean.”
Like Duke when he was crossed. Angel had known all about Duke after the first night. He liked power. He wanted immediate obedience. She didn’t have to like what he wanted to do, as long as she did it. With a smile. Hesitance earned that cold, dark look; protest, a slap; defiance, brute force. Running away earned the end of his lit cheroot. By the time he tired of keeping her all to himself, she had learned one major lesson: to pretend. No matter what she felt, no matter how frightened or repulsed or angry, pretend to like whatever the men wanted and paid to get. And if she couldn’t pretend to like it, she had to pretend not to care. She had become real good at that.
Sally understood, but Sally had her own rules.
“You got a bad break when that drunken fool brought you here. Then again, maybe not. Seeing as how your mama was a prostitute too, it weren’t likely any folks from uptown would want you, no matter how pretty you are. Whatever mighta been, here’s what is, Angel. And here’s where you’re going to stay.”
She’d cupped Angel’s chin and forced her to look up. “And I don’t ever want to see that look on your face after today. Whatever you feel, you learn to keep it to yourself. Understand? The rest of us have our own sad stories to tell, some worse than yours. You learn to read a man, give him what he pays for, and send him on his way with a smile on his face. You do that, and I’ll treat you like the mama you lost. You don’t, and you’ll think your time with Duke was heaven.”
Sally turned out to be a woman of her word, and Angel learned all she ever wanted to know about men. Some knew what they wanted; some only thought they did. Some said one thing when they meant another. Some had guts. More had gall. However or whatever, it all came down to the same thing. They laid down their money for a piece of her. In the beginning, chunk by bloody chunk. After a while, drop by drop. The only difference was whether they quietly slid the money under the silk undergarments discarded on the foot of her bed or laid it in the palm of her hand and looked her right in the eye.
She looked at Michael Hosea. What sort of man was he?
Fingering the worn clothing, she worried her lip. Maybe he wanted what he bought wrapped up in linsey-woolsey so he wouldn’t have to look at it too closely. Maybe he didn’t want to see it for what it was. No lantern, please, and keep the ring on your finger so we can pretend this is right. Then I won’t have to think what I’m doing is immoral. She could play virgin for him. She could even play grateful if it came to that. Oh, yes, thanks a heap for saving me. She could play anything as long as she knew it only had to last a little while.
Jesus. God. I’m tired of pretending. I’m sick of living like this. Why can’t I just close my eyes and die?
“I’ve had enough,” she said, putting her plate on the side table. More than enough.
Michael had been watching her. “I’m not going to give you anything more than you can handle.”
Angel looked back at him and knew he didn’t mean chores. “And what about you, mister? Do you think you can handle what I’m going to give you?”
“Try me.”
Angel watched him eat his supper. He wasn’t worried about anything. Every inch of him told her he knew who he was and what he was about, even if she didn’t. And she knew if she didn’t get well and get away soon, he would end up taking her apart, piece by piece.
The next morning, Angel dressed as soon as Hosea was out the door. She slipped on the camisole and tied up the frayed ribbons. The fabric was thick and unrevealing, covering her completely. She had never worn anything so simple, so sweet… so cheap.
Who had worn these things before her? What had happened to her? Judging by her clothing, the woman had been prim and hardworking—just like those women who had turned their backs when Mama walked by.
Angel found the buttonhook in the left boot and put the shoes on. They fit well enough to get by. Michael came, and she looked up at him. She raised one brow. “I thought you said you were never married.”
“Those things belonged to my sister, Tessie. She and her husband, Paul, came west with me. She died of fever on the Green River.” It hurt to remember burying Tessie in the middle of the road west. Every wagon in the train had gone over her grave so there would be no trace. He and Paul hadn’t wanted her dug up by Indians or animals.
He still couldn’t get over burying his beloved little sister like that, with no stone or cross to mark the place. Tessie deserved better.
“What happened to her husband? Did he die, too?”
He shrugged off his coat. “His land is at the end of the valley lying fallow. He’s panning gold on the Yuba. Paul’s never been able to stick to anything for long.” His love for Tess had kept him walking a straight road for a while, but when she died, he had gone wild again.
Angel smiled mirthlessly. “So your brother-in-law is another of the multitude raping the streams of California—and anything else to be found.”
Michael turned and looked at her.
Angel felt that look and she knew what he was wondering. “If he’s a man and he’s on the Yuba, he probably made it to the Palace.” She saw she had guessed correctly. With a careless shrug, she stabbed deeper. “I couldn’t tell you whether he made it to my room. Describe him. Maybe I’ll remember.”
Her words were hard and cold, but Michael wasn’t fooled. She was trying awfully hard to drive him away. He wondered why.
His silence unnerved
her. “You needn’t worry whether he knows me or not. I’ll be gone before he gets back.”
“You’ll be right here with me, where you belong.”
She smiled coolly. “Sooner or later a wagon train of virgins will arrive, all respectable in their dusty, worn-out linsey-woolsey. Then you’ll come to your senses. Right about the time you have to say: Meet my wife. I bought her out of a brothel in Pair-a-Dice back in ’51.”
“It won’t matter who comes. I married you.”
“Well, that’s easy enough to rectify.” She slipped the wedding ring off her finger. “See? We’re not married anymore.” She held it out to him in the palm of her hand. “Simple as that.”
Michael searched her face. Did she really believe it was that easy? Just take the ring off, and the marriage is null and void, and everything goes back the way it was? “That’s where you’re wrong, Mara. We’re still married whether you’re wearing the ring or not, but I want you to keep it on just the same.”
She frowned slightly and did as he said. She turned the ring on her finger. “Lucky said it belonged to your mother.”
“It did.”
She let her hands drop to her sides. “Just give me the word when you want it back.”
“I won’t.”
She rested her hands in her lap and looked at him indolently. “Whatever you want, mister.”
That got to him. “I hate that phrase. Whatever you want. Like you’re offering me coffee.” Whatever you want. She had offered her body the same way. “We’d better get one thing straight. I married you for better or worse and until death parts us. I made vows before God when I married you, and I’m never going to break them.”
Angel knew all about God. Do everything right, or he’d squash you like a cockroach. That was God. She saw the darkness in Hosea’s eyes and said nothing.
Mama had believed in God. Mama had had faith. She had opened herself up wide. Our Father who art in heaven was in the same realm as Alex Stafford. Angel wasn’t fool enough to open herself up for anyone, least of all him. And if this man figured he could make her… She had learned early that what you don’t believe in can’t hurt you.