Cold Gold Page 4

  “We all get to where we are by different roads,” Maggie’s Irish lilt softened her voice. “My family left Ireland because of the potato famine. My Ma and Da headed to San Francisco, and birthed a whole string of us. I got tired of struggling for every blasted penny and followed the money as soon as I came of age. Unlike Lorelei I did go with men, but only them that could afford me. I always wanted my own business, and this bakery and the boarding house supports me better than most men could.”

  Serena considered the irony of the two women’s situations. Lorelei, with her genteel upbringing, now owning a bawdy house. Maggie using her proceeds from prostitution to fund respectable businesses.

  “So,” Maggie’s voice broke the silence. “What do you intend on doing with your Randolph gone?”

  Serena put her cup down. “I have to find him,” she said. “But I really don’t know how I shall accomplish that, especially as Mr. Harris will not allow me access to Randolph’s funds.”

  “Will he not?” Maggie’s face flushed with outrage. “The old skinflint.”

  “Well, unfortunately he does have a point.” Serena told them about her meeting with Frank Harris. “So you see, I am in a rather difficult position. I have next to no money, no access to funds, and absolutely no idea what to do next.”

  Serena didn’t like the mischievous glint that appeared in Maggie’s eyes, or her suggestion that she should apply to Lorelei for a position in her house.

  “’Course, if I told you some of the positions that could earn you some very good coin, you might not believe me.” Maggie rolled her eyes suggestively and Lorelei giggled and cuffed her arm.

  “Don’t tease her, Maggie. I’m sure we can find something for her to do.” Lorelei looked hopefully at Serena. “Can you teach?”

  Serena shook her head.

  “Sew?”

  “I can barely thread a needle.”

  “Bake?”

  “The only time I have ever set foot in a kitchen was to discuss menus with our cook.”

  “Well, what can you do?

  Serena didn’t think horse riding and pheasant shooting would be of any account, but she did have one skill. If she dared do it. She looked from Maggie to Lorelei and back again.

  “I can sing.”

  Chapter Five

  “Well, yes, I suppose you can,” Lorelei remarked. “You likely had the same kind of musical education as did I. Although, I must say I played the piano far better than I could sing. What kind of songs are you familiar with?”

  Serena sprang to her feet, took a deep breath and began to sing ‘I dreamt I dwelled in marble halls,’ in a clear, pure voice. When she finished, she quickly sipped her tea, cleared her throat and proceeded with ‘I’m only a bird in a guilded cage’.

  Maggie and Lorelei sat open mouthed and spell bound. Before they could say anything, Serena launched into a rowdy version of ‘Down at the Old Bull and Bush’ and when she finished that she picked up her skirts and performed a very energetic version of ‘Tarara Boom De Ay’.

  By the time she came to a breathless stop, Maggie and Lorelei were on their feet, clapping their hands. The staff in the store had cracked the door open a little and were taking a peek to see who had been singing. Serena touched her chin with a forefinger and dipped a curtsy to them all.

  “Well,” Maggie said. “And how many more songs do you know?”

  “Oh, at least a dozen or more,” Serena told her. “Up until now I’ve only ever sung them at home. Do you think I could make a performance out of them?”

  “If you throw up your skirts and show your bloomers like that, you’ll have a packed hall and a full pocket,” Maggie said with a grin.

  “I know some of those songs,” Lorelei admitted, “I heard our servants singing them sometimes. How did you learn them?”

  Serena sat down to catch her breath and wafted a hand in front of her face to cool her rosy cheeks. “Randolph and I used to borrow clothes from our staff and go and sit right in the front of the music hall.” A rich chuckle, full of remembered fun, burst from her throat. “But then I had the good fortune to meet and spend some time with Florrie Ford when we were both in Arabia.”

  “What were you doing in Arabia?” A look of disbelief settled on Lorelei’s face.

  “Oh, the ship Florrie travelled on to England made port in Medina where Randolph and I had also stopped on our way to Australia.”

  “Silly me. What was I thinking?” Lorelei tipped her head back and smacked the back of her hand against her forehead in a dramatic gesture of stupidity. “Of course, one always drops into Arabia on one’s way to Australia.”

  Serena eyed her caustically. “Sarcasm doesn’t become you, Lorelei. Had you not followed your heart it may well have been a journey you would have taken. The Dowager Lady Buxton asked Randolph to purchase Arabian stallions for her stud. She had a long and exacting list of what she wanted and Randolph toured one sheikdom after another to fulfill her requirements. The sheiks considered it most inappropriate for me to accompany him, so I remained in Medina which is where I met Florrie.”

  The information rendered Maggie speechless and Lorelei’s eyes opened as round as buttons. Serena laughed at their surprise, more than a little pleased with herself for having impressed them with her skill.

  “Oh, my Lord,” Maggie said, still thinking on Serena’s abilities. She shook her head. “You really could earn yourself a fortune.”

  “I’d be happy with enough to keep myself until Randolph returns. And if only I could stage one performance...oh.” Serena stopped talking and bit her lip. “That will take money that I haven’t got.”

  A sense of defeat hovered around her like a blue cloud.

  “Now, that we can help with,” Maggie said. “Not that there’s any choice of places you could perform. There’s only King’s club or the church hall. I doubt the parson would permit such a thing, but we won’t know unless we ask the church committee.”

  “Other than church business, they only allow very boring dances to be held there on a Friday or Saturday evening.” Lorelei tapped her cheek with a forefinger as she pondered the problem. “If we advertize in the Gazette and promise the parson a healthy donation for the church, a Wednesday night might work.”

  “But how could that be arranged?” Hope blossomed in Serena’s chest.

  “Don’t worry. We’ll work out the details,” Lorelei promised her. “Maggie, you ask Mrs. Harris for a date at the church hall. I think she’s still head of the committee. Now, Serena, list the songs you want to sing. I may know some of them, and if I don’t I’d only have to hear them a couple of times for me to be able to accompany you on the piano. If we’re going to put on a full two-hour show we need some other entertainment, too.”

  “The blacksmith’s boy is pretty nifty on his feet,” Maggie said. “He fair makes the boardwalks ring when he gets step dancing, plus he can soft shoe shuffle and buck and wing as good as that Mr. Bojangles.”

  “Ask him if he’d like to earn himself a wage for joining the performance,” Lorelei said.

  “Seems like I’m doin’ all the askin’,” Maggie grumbled.

  Lorelei shot her a sharp glance. “Come on, Maggie, you know I can’t, and Serena doesn’t yet know enough people to ask. Is there anyone else you can think of who might fill a spot?”

  For a moment silence reigned as the three of them continued to think.

  “Oh.” Serena suddenly clapped her hands. “Randolph and I saw a troupe of Chinese jugglers at the Tivoli Theatre in London once. I could ask Min if anyone in her community might be able to do that.”

  Lorelei nodded. “Good. And I do believe one of my girls mentioned a client who does magic tricks.”

  “Now, now, Lorelei, that might not be the kind of trick we can put on the stage.”

  Maggie kept her face devoid of all expression as she spoke, but Lorelei reprimanded her for her sauciness and then all three of them burst out laughing. It felt good to laugh, Serena realized. How could it be a mere
hour ago that she despaired of a solution to her woes?

  Lorelei stood up. “Come on, Serena. Maggie can walk you back to the Eldorado. Oh, and Maggie, have a word with Lucy while you’re there, will you? She might help.”

  “I don’t think so,” Serena said doubtfully. “She insisted that I must pay my way after the end of the month, or move out. She talked about how hard she and her husband, Joe, worked to be able to buy their place. I’m sure she won’t be at all sympathetic.”

  Maggie and Lorelei glanced at each other.

  “Have you met Joe?” Maggie asked.

  “Now that you mention it,” Serena’s brow wrinkled as she thought about Maggie’s question, “No, I haven’t.”

  “And nor will you,” Lorelei chipped in. “He’s in jail. He thieved from every place they worked which is why they moved from house-to-house and hotel-to-hotel. He had a good eye, did Joe. Only took small, but expensive stuff that wouldn’t be missed. But then, when they nearly had enough to buy a place, he got greedy and did over a whole floor of rooms in a hotel in Denver. He got caught but Lucy managed to wiggle her way out of that situation and lay low for a time before she came here.”

  Serena found it hard to believe. “Good Lord, does everyone in Cold Creek have a secret?” She picked up her gloves from where she’d thrown them on a table.

  “No different here than anywhere else.” Maggie said, smiling. “Everyone has secrets, you included. Come on now.”

  Maggie and Serena left the bakery and walked along the sidewalk together. The sun had climbed high in the sky and the soft air held a promise of spring, although Maggie assured her there would be more snow yet. They paused before crossing the street. A shambling figure turned the corner of the Lucky Strike Saloon and stumbled in front of them.

  “Now, Trader you be moving on out of our way,” Maggie instructed. “We don’t want any trouble with the likes of you.”

  The man squinted at them out of bleary, age-dimmed eyes. Spittle pooled at one side of his mouth and his tongue, pale pink and somehow obscene, darted out reminding Serena of a lizard she had once seen. Her spine tingled as he came closer. He reeked of alcohol and cradled a half empty bottle of whisky in the crook of his arm. He raised his hand and pointed a gnarled and filthy finger at her.

  “Feed the dragon,” he mumbled. He stumbled around them and Serena turned to watch him go.

  “What did he mean?” she asked.

  “Oh, who knows.” Maggie took Serena’s arm and they picked their way across the muddy street. “Trader’s always mumbling something. No one knows where he came from or where he goes, but he seems to have been here forever. Came to make his fortune same as everyone else and, just the same as everyone else, got worn out with gold fever. He started trading anything and everything he could get his hands on. Don’t think anyone knows his real name. I for sure don’t, but every town has a drunk and I guess he’s ours.”

  As they reached the door of the hotel, Serena heard a burst of childish laughter. She looked across the street and saw a couple with a small boy between them. The boy had torn off his cap and objected to his mother trying to put it on again.

  Her heart leapt with the yearning she could not quite quell. Would she ever have a child of her own? Would her belly ever swell with new life? She tugged Maggie’s sleeve.

  “Who’s that with Frank Harris?”

  “That’s his wife, Ellie-May, and their son, Robert,” Maggie told her. “Incidentally, she’s the Mrs. Harris as heads the church hall committee.”

  Serena watched them as they turned the corner of the bank. Did Ellie-May Harris really appreciate having a husband and a child?

  Even though she had been so angry with him, Serena couldn’t imagine her life without Randolph. But, if he didn’t return, how would she bear losing the prospect of having both husband and child?

  Chapter Six

  Randolph slowly opened his eyes, then held his breath. He could see nothing. A blackness so intense, so impenetrable enveloped him as surely as a velvet cloak. Puzzled, he closed his eyes.

  This couldn’t be right. He opened his eyes again but still could see nothing, could hear nothing.

  Aware only of a cool, hard floor beneath his cheek he moved, and instantly regretted it. Pain speared every nerve in his body. Dazzling shafts of light exploded behind his eyes. Bile rose in the back of his throat. Gently sliding his fingers across the back of his head, he discovered a bump the size of a goose egg. When he pulled his wet, sticky, fingers away from the wound the coppery smell of his own blood rose to his nostrils.

  If moving made him feel this bad, his best option could only be to stay still. Pillowing his head on his arm, he willed his body to relax. He closed his eyes and waited for the nausea that cramped his stomach to subside. He felt as weak as a kitten and had no idea how long he’d been in this hell hole. Resting a while longer would be of no consequence for, whoever attacked him and dumped him here, obviously did not intend for him to wake up.

  Ever.

  When he came round again, he carefully pushed himself into a sitting position. Each movement resulted in more pain, not just in his head but his whole body. Bruises on his back and legs screamed at him and he could only imagine the kaleidoscope of colours his skin must be.

  The thump of his heart beat in his ears. Breath sawed in and out of his lungs. As carefully as he could, he pushed himself onto his hands and knees and began to crawl around the floor, feeling his way with his fingers.

  He found the juncture with the wall and used it for support as he slowly got up. Once he was upright, he reached up into the darkness above his head. Though over six feet tall, he still could not feel the ceiling. The uneven surface beneath his hands created images in his mind as he felt the sharp edges and flat planes where tools had struck the rock face. He knew he was underground, most likely in some forgotten mine shaft.

  “Well, if you’re going to hide a body,” he muttered, “this would be just about the best place for it.”

  A stout door revealed itself to his searching hands. There was no handle or hinges and it must have been constructed to open from the outside. The upper half of the door was fitted with metal bars. He thrust his hand between them into emptiness beyond and then felt a slight draft on his skin.

  Putting his face against the bars, he inhaled clean, fresh air. If air flowed in, then there must be a way out. No doubt about it. But how to get out of this hole? Could there be anything in here that he could use to free himself? Holding his arms in front him in the hopes of coming into contact with something, anything, he shuffled around the floor. As his toes hit debris, he carefully lowered himself and ran his hands over the items to identify what he had found.

  A box containing paper, but no matches or candle. A jacket. He felt for the pockets. Nothing in them. A canvas bag, also empty. A piece of rope, frayed at the end as if it had pulled apart. He continued to shuffle around, until his foot hit something metal. He dropped down again, searching the ground close to his foot until his hand closed on the wooden shaft of a shovel.

  His lips twisted into a grim smile of satisfaction. He could use this. Rough under his fingers, the blade might be strong enough to pry apart the bars on the door. He fed the blade between two of the bars and heaved on the handle.

  With a sharp crack the wooden shaft broke. The blade spun off into the darkness and landed with a metallic clatter on the floor beyond the door.

  “Son of a bitch!” he yelled as he landed hard on the floor. Pain shot up his back and set his head pounding again but he ignored it as best he could and struggled to his feet.

  The broken handle remained in his hand and he drew it across the bars. The loud rattle it made echoed along the tunnel then dwindled to silence. Just how far did sound travel underground, anyway?

  He started yelling and continued until his throat felt raw and his chest heaved with the effort of breathing. He stopped, mocked by the ghost of an echo, turned his back against the door and slid down it. He pulled his k
nees up and rested his head on them, waited for his breathing to steady, for his blood to stop pounding, for his head to stop spinning.

  Soft, shuffling footsteps crept into his consciousness before he realized what he heard. As they came closer he knew that if he could see, he’d be seeing double, for his head still spun as he sat there.

  The soft glow of lantern light slowly spilled through the bars and played across the walls of his prison.

  Randolph stood up, shielded his eyes against the sudden glare.

  “You there!” he called. “Get me out of here.”

  The light played across the round face of a Chinese man who peered up at him. Randolph heard the scrape of a bolt in its keeper, then the door opened.

  He stumbled through it and promptly passed out.

  ~*~*~*~

  “Ouch, that hurt.”

  “Keep still, Mr. Randolph. Head hurt more if I not treat properly.”

  Randolph sat on the edge of a rough hewn timber cot. He gritted his teeth while the old Chinaman washed then treated his wound with a foul-smelling ointment.

  “This good stuff. Stink make it work better.” The Chinaman placed a dressing over the wound before winding a bandage carefully around Randolph’s head. When he finished, he wiped his hands on a cloth and picked up the lantern.

  “I’ll take your word for it, John Woo.” Randolph wrinkled his nose at the noxious mixture.

  John Woo held the lantern close to Randolph’s face and peered into his eyes.

  “How many finger?” he asked, holding up his hand.

  “Three.” Randolph winced at the flickering light.

  “Hm. Good. Now stick out tongue.” Randolph did as he was told and John Woo scraped a curved gold tool across it. He held the tool close to the lantern so he could inspect the filmy white results he collected. “That good, much better. You nearly well, Mr. Randolph. One, two more days maybe, then you go.”

  Randolph thanked him. If not for John’s care, he would probably still be very much the worse for wear, if not dead.