“You saw what hydraulics did to the land in Comstock County, Papa,” she replied as she untied the apron from behind her back and pulled it off. That, too, was banished to the counter. “As I recall, you were just as shocked as the rest of us. The hoses and forced water ravaged the land until there was nothing left but crevasses and muddy gulches. Didn’t you say what they did was disgusting?” her gaze narrowed accusingly. “I can’t believe you’d even suggest it.”
“See?” Old Joe preened as he perched on the bench. “Told ya she had a good head.”
“Gotta do something, missy,” Bart grumbled. He lowered himself carefully onto the bench, massaging his aching back. “As it is, we’re only pulling out enough dust to buy necessaries. What’s going to happen when winter sets in? We don’t have nearly enough to buy the supplies it’ll take us to weather another winter in Thirsty Gulch.”
If they didn’t have the money to buy supplies, it went without saying there would be none left over to pay the taxes on Lake’s Edge. Time was running short. If they didn’t strike pay dirt soon, it would be too late to save the plantation. And then what? Hope thought. Lake’s Edge was the only thing that kept her father going—that, and the dream that one day, with a little luck, he could restore it to its former glory. Without that dream to cling to, the same dream that had brought them to California in the first place, Bart Bennett would crumple and die as surely as a dry leaf withered and fell from a late autumn maple tree.
Hope ran her palms down the front of her homespun skirt and sighed. “Maybe hydraulics are the answer. I don’t know,” she shrugged, ignoring Old Joe’s look of horror. “It doesn’t matter; it’s too late in the year to start now anyway. Like he said,” she nodded to Drake, grudgingly admitting he was right, “starting up would mean adding expensive equipment. We don’t have the money for it any more than we have the money to hire on more men. Maybe in the spring.”
Bart lowered his face into his hands. “Time is one luxury we don’t have, missy.”
The hopeless look in her father’s eyes told Hope what she had suspected all along. Either the mine paid off—and paid off quick—or Lake’s Edge was lost. Suddenly it was crystal clear, the reasons behind her father’s tight-lipped, evasive answers whenever she dared to inquire about matters back home.
Old Joe launched into a lecture on his somewhat dated opinion of hydraulics. Hope didn’t hear a word as her gaze shifted to Frazier. He was listening to the exchange between Bart and Old Joe with apparent interest, but occasionally she caught his gaze straying to her.
Her eyes narrowed, her mind racing. What little profit the mine churned out was being drained away by the gunslinger’s cut. Her mouth went dry. Could Frazier be convinced to abandon his share of the profits? And did she have a right to ask him to? No, she didn’t. She had already welched on half of their deal, as Frazier took every opportunity to remind her of, so how, in all good conscience, could she ask him to forget the rest?
She had no choice. Time was running short, if the look on her father’s face was anything to go by. Better by far to get rid of Frazier’s cut of the profits, and risk his wrath, than to lose Lake’s Edge.
While the men were deep in conversation, Hope slipped quietly to the gunslinger’s side.
“I seen a few Chinamen driftin’ ‘round town with not much to do. We could hire them pretty cheap.”
“Yeah, probably but....”
The rest of her father’s answer was lost as she placed a hand on Drake Frazier’s shoulder. A shiver of delight coursed up her arm as her gaze was captured by his.
“I need to talk to you,” she said, her words soft enough for only him to hear. One golden eyebrow cocked in question. “In private,” she added, her gaze insistent, “please. It’s—it’s important.”
Drake nodded. “I’ll get your cloak,” he said, uncoiling his lean frame from the hard bench. Hope caught a whiff of his soapy scent as he strode to the rack and retrieved his hat.
Setting it atop the silky mane of hair, he reached out with the other hand to retrieve the black cloak.
He tossed it to Hope, and she caught it in midair, flinging the coarse wool over her shoulders. It billowed around her legs, settling like an ebony cloud around her ankles.
“Where’s you two off to?” Old Joe asked, his large eye bulging with suspicion. Bart might not see what was going on between his daughter and the gunslinger, but Old Joe wasn’t so blind. He’d caught more than one secretive glance pass between the two when they both thought no one was looking. And he caught the looks Drake sent Hope when she wasn’t looking. It didn’t help that he knew Frazier from way back, and knew him well enough not to trust him for a minute.
“I promised Fra—Drake I’d show him the hens Mrs. Magrew sold Luke yesterday,” Hope said weakly, as she tied a poorly shaped bow beneath her chin. Her fingers were trembling as she pulled the hood into the place.
“Don’t stay out long, missy,” Bart said, seemingly unfazed at the prospect of his daughter leaving with Frazier. “It’s only drizzling out now, but it’s going to be raining fier
ce soon.” He massaged the base of his spine. “This back never lies.”
“I won’t be long,” she assured him, heading for the back door. Drake followed close behind. She could feel the heat of his body melting through the layers of her clothes, caressing the skin beneath as she stepped into the rain.
Drake pulled the door closed behind them, then fell into step behind Hope as she bypassed the lopsided coop. It had taken Luke the better part of yesterday afternoon to nail together a crude little shelter for the three scraggly hens. The trio of gaunt, feathery birds ran about in the barbed wire run, cackling wildly as raindrops pounded against their beaks.
The previous week Luke had built a shed for tools, and it was to this Hope now headed. She stopped in front of the door, then, on impulse, reached back and took his hand. Opening the door, she game his arm a tug.
Stumbling in the mud, Drake came treacherously close to falling. “Wait a minute,” he muttered. “Where are we going?”
“In the shed, fool.” She swung the door wide, sparing him a brief glance. The only concession he’d made to the foul weather was his cracked leather vest, and the collar he’d turned up high. “Or didn’t you notice it’s raining out here? Duck,” she said as she crouched and entered the shed, “Luke made the door too low.”
The scent of sawdust was strong in the large, as yet vacant room. But the dirt floor was dry and the walls cut the chill, moist breeze. Dreary gray sunlight filtered in through the single window and the slats in the walls, streaking the floor.
“You call those things hens?” he chuckled sarcastically as he nodded to the door. “I’ve seen fatter pigeons.”
“Laugh all you want, but you won’t think it’s so funny when you sit down to a proper breakfast of poached eggs,” Hope scoffed defensively. She brushed the hood back from her head and let it hang limply over her shoulder as she sent him a crooked grin. “Or doesn’t the thought of a dish of custard at the end of a long day appeal to you?”