“Mary?” I say.
Mary and Becky are staring at each other. Becky’s jaw twitches.
Finally Becky says, “Mary, don’t be daft. You know I can’t run that restaurant without you.” She lifts her chin. “You’re the third best employee I’ve ever had, and I’ve grown fond of y— your company.” After another too-long pause, Becky adds, “And fine. I’ll raise your wages.”
Mary’s smile could light up the bay. “Glory is my home.”
“Oh, Mary, I’m so glad,” I tell her, nudging Peony forward. “Jefferson, are you ready to go home?”
Jefferson climbs onto Sorry’s back, and I swear the horse sighs. “More than ready.”
APRIL 1850
Chapter Twenty—Four
Our first spring in California is glorious. It’s like the sun dropped dollops of its very own self all over our claims, because the land bursts with yellow mustard and bright orange poppies. The oaks grow heavy with soft gray-green leaves, and everywhere the air is filled with the sounds of birdsong and trickling water. Truly, we have come to the promised land.
The morning before our wedding, a small letter-shaped parcel reaches me from San Francisco. It’s made of beautiful, thick parchment, sealed with a splotch of red wax, stamped with the words OFFICE OF THE GOVERNOR OF CALIFORNIA.
I’m serving coffee in the Worst Tavern. It’s another busy day, because a group of Chinese miners are traveling through again, and the whole lot of them decided to stop for biscuits and gravy. Letters aren’t too uncommon since the weather turned; it seems the peddler or some other traveler stops by with a bundle at least twice a week now. So Mary is the only one paying attention as I break the seal with my fingernail and open it.
I gasp.
“What?” Mary says. “What is it?”
“It’s . . .” Two pieces of paper. One is a letter from the governor himself, which I quickly skim. The other . . . “Mary, I think this is a town charter.”
“What? Let me see.” She snatches the charter from my hand.
Becky sidles over to find out why we’ve stopped working.
“That sure is a fancy seal,” Mary says, gazing down at the charter. “And look at all those signatures!”
Becky snatches the letter from my other hand, so I’m holding nothing.
“The governor thanks you for ridding California of the problem of James Henry Hardwick,” she says, reading quickly. “He doesn’t know what you did exactly, but he knows where credit is due. It’s his pleasure to do you this favor, blah, blah, flattery and more flattery, and he hopes you will remember him in the first election after California attains statehood. . . .” She looks up at me, grinning ear to ear. “He did this to cultivate you as an ally,” she says. “He thinks you’re important.”
“I’m happy to not dissuade him,” I say, and I’m grinning ear to ear, too. A town charter. Signed by the governor himself and several others, probably delegates from California’s constitutional convention, which is what passes for a government in these lawless lands.
Becky takes it from Mary’s hand. “After the breakfast rush, I’ll frame it and post it in the tavern so everyone can see it,” she says brightly. She tucks the charter and letter into her apron pocket. “Now, get back to work, both of you. These miners won’t feed themselves.”
We’ve barely served a handful of people before Jefferson arrives, looking more proper and well-groomed than he usually does before a hard day of prospecting. I’m about to tell him about our shiny new charter, but he preempts me in an overly loud voice. “Leah Elizabeth Westfall!”
I’m so startled that I almost drop the coffeepot.
He grins. “Maybe you should set that down.”
I do, slowly, as the sound of scraping forks ceases and everyone—Becky, the Buckeyes, the Chinese, and Mary—all turn to stare.
“Um. Good morning, Jeff?”
Still grinning, he reaches into his pocket while dropping to one knee. “I know you already proposed to me, and I know we’re getting hitched tomorrow, one way or the other. But I still reckon it’s right and proper to give you this.” He reaches up, and my gold sense knows what he holds in his hand even before my eyes take it in. A gold band, shiny and new.
I pinch it between thumb and forefinger, holding it up to the light. “Jeff,” I say. “You know I don’t need fancies. Or any more gold.”
“I know. But that ring is special, see. Remember that nugget you gave me? Seems like a long time ago now. You tracked a wounded deer onto our homestead and chanced upon that nugget in a stream. And you gave it to me the day your mama and daddy died, said it wasn’t yours by right.”
“I remember.”
“Well, this is me, giving it back to you.”
I blink at him, my knees suddenly quivery. I knew he had kept it. I found it in a box of his things the night Frank Dilley set our camp on fire, but I’d had no idea why he kept it. Tears prick at my eyes. “Jefferson, this is the nicest thing. Making that nugget into a ring . . .”
“Put it on.”
I do, and it slips onto my finger and sends tingling warmth through my whole hand, like it was meant to be there all along. I hold it up, admiring the way it shines in the light. A little piece of home, a bit of shared history, tying us together as powerfully as any wedding vow.
“Thank you.”
“So does this mean you’ll marry me after all?”
As if there was any question. I lean down and throw my arms around him, almost knocking him back. Everyone around us cheers like it was a proper proposal, even the Chinese miners.
Jefferson gets to his feet and hugs me back, his face nuzzling my hair. Reluctantly, I disentangle myself. There’s a lot to do before our wedding tomorrow, and I need to get back to work.
Someone clears his throat. It’s Old Tug, standing from the table, hat crumpled tight in his hand. His friends give him nods of encouragement. “You can do it, Tug,” says one, as another slaps him on the back.
“I guess this is as fine a moment as any,” he says. For once, he wears a clean shirt and pressed trousers, and he’s obviously made an attempt at combing his thistly hair. He takes a deep breath.
Jefferson and I exchange a puzzled glance and sit on the nearest bench, glad to cede the stage to someone else.
“Miss Mary,” Tug begins, and he starts twisting that hat in his hand.
Mary freezes, like a rabbit who’s sighted a fox. Slowly, carefully, she sets her basket of biscuits on the table and folds her hands together over her apron.
Twist, twist, twist, goes Tug’s hat. “I know I’m not a fancy man. And even though I’m mighty fine looking, I concede that I am but the fourth best-looking fellow in this town.”
Fourth? At least he doesn’t lack optimism.