The air heralds winter with its bitter cold, and everyone’s breath frosts in the lantern light. Campfire brightness keeps the stars from view, but a half-moon hovers over us all.

There is no sign of Jefferson or Tom.

“Where are we going?” I dare to ask.

“Nowhere in particular,” Hiram says. “But a father and his daughter ought to spend some time together, don’t you think?”

It takes everything I have to not rip my hand from his grip.

Abel Topper approaches. His eyes widen when he takes in my new dress and shoes, and he removes his hat, crumpling it to his chest. “Good evening, Mr. Westfall,” he says. “And Miss Westfall.”

I don’t respond, but Hiram says, “Mr. Topper.”

Topper’s gaze hasn’t left me. “You look fetching tonight,” he says.

When I remain silent, Hiram gives my arm a firm squeeze. “This gentleman has paid you a compliment,” he says.

“Thank you,” I choke out.

“It’s you I have to thank,” Topper says. “You’ve a nose for gold, no doubt about it. It’s no wonder your daddy was so lucky.”

Hiram stiffens in the space beside me.

Topper continues blithely. “We’ve met or exceeded quota all week, thanks to you.”

“I’m glad,” I manage.

“Thanks to you,” Hiram says to him. “You’re a hardworking man, Abel Topper. It has not gone unnoticed.”

It’s impossible to keep the frown from my face. Topper is an experienced foreman, sure, and capable enough. But far as I can tell, it’s the Indians and the Chinese who do all the actual work. Unless you count whipping starving people as hard labor.

“Thank you, sir,” Topper says with a dip of his head. “Thank you kindly.”

Hiram begins to lead me away, but Topper says, “Excuse me, sir. Sorry to be a bother, sir, but there’s a small matter.”

“Oh?” I know my uncle well enough to tell that his impatience is piqued.

“It’s the Indians, sir. See, they’re wearing out. Not working as hard as they should. I’ll need more stock soon, if I’m to keep making quota. Either that, or . . . would it be too much trouble to give them an extra ration now and again?” His hat twists and twists in his hands. “I know we’re trying to be frugal and such, but the biggest ones, the strongest ones . . . well, they could sure use a little more fuel for their labors.”

I peer closely at him, not sure what he just said. Is he trying to help the Indians? He called them stock. Though I’ve never seen cattle stock treated as poorly as everyone here treats these people.

“I agree with Topper,” I say before I can change my mind. “I think they’ll all work a little harder with more food in their bellies.”

“Do you now?” Hiram says, one eyebrow raised.

“I know you’ve done gentleman’s work your whole life, but those of us who have had to labor with our hands and arms and backs need full stomachs to keep us going.”

It’s an insult doing a poor job of dressing up as a compliment, but Hiram considers. He actually considers. “It would be easier and cheaper to just fetch more. I’ve been planning to send Dilley and Wilhelm anyway.”

That’s been his plan all along. To work the Indians to death, collect on their bounties, and enslave more as needed.

“Well,” I say in as cool a voice as possible. “In the meantime, we have to keep the ones we already have working to potential, don’t we?”

My uncle’s gaze on me turns soft. “Would it make you happy?” he says.

“Yes.”

“In that case . . .” He turns to Topper. “An extra ration of wheat for the Indians tomorrow and every Saturday. Additionally we will close the mine for Thanksgiving. Everyone will have a day of rest.”

One extra ration per week? That’s the best he can do?

My heart is sinking as Hiram looks to me, waiting for some kind of approval.

“That’s . . . very generous of you.”

“Thank you, Mr. Westfall,” Topper says, but his face is hard. He knows it won’t be enough.

Hiram and I continue our circuit of the camp. I’m greeted by such deference when seen on my uncle’s arm, but my gut knows it’s all rotten. By the time we return to the cabin, I’m full up on Good evening, Miss Westfalls and well-meaning hat tips, and I want nothing more than to be with people I love and trust again.

I miss Becky Joyner and the kids so badly it’s an ache in my chest. I hope little Andy has caught bucketsful of frogs, that Olive is learning good doctoring from Jasper, and that the Major has made the finest furniture for Becky this side of the Mississippi. I bet Hampton has enough gold now to bring his wife out, and Henry has composed a magnificent ode to the beauty of the Sierras.

I need someone to talk to soon, or I’ll take leave of my senses. I wish I could talk to Mary, get to know her a little, but Hiram is always hovering when she’s nearby.

Mainly, I miss Jefferson. These fancy new dresses that look just like what Mama used to wear, Hiram’s impossible claim that’s he’s my father, the way he refuses any sympathy for the Indians . . . I could figure it all, if Jefferson were here to talk to.

Most of all, this daft idea that maybe I ought to kill Hiram, probably sooner rather than later, is a decision that no one ought to have to make alone. Jefferson could help me figure it. We’ve always been a team, that way. Even just looking into his calm face, feeling his arms around me, and letting his strength seep into my body might help me understand it all.

Maybe it’s my perfect meek behavior. Maybe it’s the dress I’m wearing. Or maybe burning Daddy’s boots got something off his chest. Whatever the reason, when we return to the cabin and say our good-nights, Hiram leaves me untied.

 

 

Chapter Twenty-One

After breakfast, while Mary is washing up, Hiram leaves without dismissing her or saying a word to me. Maybe he’s gone to run more mysterious errands, but maybe to use the outhouse. So I have to make this quick.

“Mary,” I whisper, soft but fierce, as she towels a plate dry.

Her hands freeze.

“He didn’t tie me up last night.” I resist the urge to rub my red, stinging wrists.

She resumes toweling, slowly now.