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  pit. Suddenly, he was up and dancing around.

  “It’s a nugget,” he cried. “The biggest I’ve ever found. This is surely a good sign for our claim. I know we will be rich.” He ran over and showed us. A dirty yellow stone the size of my thumbnail. He gave it to me to hold and I ran my fingers over it.

  As I held the nugget in my hands, I thought of how I had felt finding

  my own gold. Lily’s death, might it have something to do with the gold

  thirst? This gold lust seemed to be the impulse behind most everything in this small, new town.

  13

  The next morning the two men of the house went off early to work

  on the claim. I was left, as my mother would say, to my own de-

  vices. I had a good morning of cleaning and putting everything to rights in the small house. At first I was content humming to myself, and then it was not enough. I needed to hear another’s voice; I needed the company

  of a woman. I tidied myself up and decided to present myself next door.

  When I knocked on Elizabeth’s door, it took her a while to answer. When

  she came to the door, she looked unwel , her face puffy and her eyes streaked red. Nonetheless, she grabbed my arm and pulled me into her house.

  “I’m so glad to see you,” she said and ushered me to a chair in the main room near the fire.

  “I thought I’d stop by.”

  “Yes.” Elizabeth nodded her head. “Yes. I’m so glad. I baked a cake.

  I’ll make some coffee. Get warm here by the fire. My husband piled up a

  whole lot of firewood for me before he went. So I’ve not been cold.”

  “It’s very cozy in here.” I looked around the room.

  The house looked very much like the one I was in although a wom-

  an’s touch was evident. What looked like gingham fabric had been pasted

  to the walls like wallpaper. Elizabeth had chosen to use a bright gingham with red and white squares. Two painted portraits were hung up high

  on the wall, a stern looking man and a mousey woman who bore a great

  resemblance to Elizabeth. I assumed they were her parents. There was a

  bookshelf filled with books, and I made a note to myself to ask to look at what she had, for books were a great treasure out in Deadwood.

  Elizabeth sunk into a chair herself. Her face looked slightly green and

  she was sweating. “I’m not myself these days.”

  “Yes,” I said. “You seem a bit under the weather.”

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  She tucked her head down and whispered, “I think I might be with

  child.”

  “Oh.” I felt part relief that she was not going to pass the influenza on to me, but also a certain alarm, not sure how to view her predicament with her husband gone and all. I tried to put on a happy face. “You’re to have a baby. Isn’t that lovely?”

  “A baby would be company.” She smiled and I saw what a pretty girl

  she must have been back in Philadelphia, before she followed her husband out to the wilderness. “And at least it won’t come till spring. That’s a blessing. The warm weather will make everything easier.”

  I couldn’t imagine having a child in this wilderness, and yet I knew

  women did it all the time. “Does your husband know?”

  “I said nothing before he left. I wasn’t sure. But with each passing

  morning I am surer of my condition.”

  “Would you like me to get you something to eat?”

  She stood and insisted on serving me. “No, let me get you a piece of

  cake. I’ll just sit and watch you eat it.”

  She brought me a piece of pudding cake and told me how she had

  made it. I wondered if her leavening was off as it seemed not to have risen much. I took a few bites and set it to the side.

  We sat and chatted about how it was to live out East, finding out we

  had lived very different lives, no surprise to me. She had been the pam-

  pered only child of a wealthy family. I did not go on about my hardships in New York, not to mention my life in Ireland, but I saw clearly that they had better equipped me for the life we were leading out in Deadwood.

  “I just don’t know what to do with myself. Every task here seems impos-

  sible. Even keeping the fire going is hard. I never knew how much wood one must haul to stay warm.” She wrapped her shawl around her thin shoulders.

  “Before I go, I’ll bring in a load for you.” I decided I’d mention it to Padraic and Billy to bring in wood for her in the morning. An easy enough task to do, but one she seemed not made for.

  Finally, I got around to the question I had come to ask. “Elizabeth, I

  wanted to ask you about Christmas Eve.”

  “When that woman was killed?” She stirred with interest.

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  “Yes. I know you said you went to sleep early, but did you hear any-

  thing unusual that night?”

  “I think I told you, the party did keep me awake for a while, but then

  I drifted off to sleep. Then later that night, toward morning even, I heard your brother singing. Lovely voice he has. Some Irish tune. You’re Irish, aren’t you? I can hear it in your voice. I don’t remember the song, but it was a happy one.”

  I could picture Seamus singing. The woman he loved had just said she

  would marry him. His sister had arrived for a visit. Early Christmas Day and he had poured enough drink in himself to float a ship. This new piece of information went far in convincing me once again that he was not a

  murderer. What killer sings as they stab their lover?

  I dressed in my second- best clothes, my gray serge dress, but I couldn’t stand the thought of trying to slosh through the mud in my lace- up boots, so I put back on Billy’s pair, Kensington’s they were called. They didn’t show much beneath the hem of my dress.

  Paddy and Billy had said they’d be back in for supper. I told them I

  would be out for part of the afternoon. I intended to order a new dress

  from one of the dressmakers in town. But ever since Nel ie told me of the other men in Lily’s life, I was determined to have a word with each of them.

  Billy told me that Moses Walker lived above the dentist’s office. As I

  walked I kept my skirts in my hand because the mud was more than ankle

  deep in some places. I bet the laundry in this town did a booming business.

  A sign hung down with a pair of teeth painted below the name of the

  doctor. I supposed that was to help draw in the men who couldn’t read.

  Alongside the building was a stairway that led to a door on the second floor.

  I took the stairs up and paused outside the door, composing myself.

  All I could do was simply ask the man how he had spent Christmas Eve,

  then watch him carefully.

  However, when I knocked, a woman answered the door. Mrs. Moses

  Walker, she tartly informed me. She had a very small child in her arms and a slightly larger one attached to her skirt. Both of them with snotty noses

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  and crying besides. A heavy- set woman, she had one eye that turned away from her face. Wall- eyed. She looked me up and down and then bellowed,

  “What do you want?”

  “Is your husband in?” I asked, keeping my composure. I caught a

  glimpse inside the room and was amazed at the walls. They were covered

  with colorful pictures from newspapers and magazines.

  “Not for the likes of you. He’s off to his claim. Can’t you leave a decent man alone? We have children to feed, and it don’t help none, his bringing his money down to the theater to spend on such trash.”

  “Ma’am, I’m not— ” I got no further.

  �
��Don’t bother to tell me such lies. Woman as pretty as you. What else

  are you good for? You’ve got the look. I can tel . I’ve seen too many like you. Preying off the men, that’s what you do. And what other woman would come bothering us to see my husband? I suppose you’ll be trying to tell me you have business with him.”

  “Of a sort.”

  “And just what kind of a sort would that be?” The children had qui-

  eted, listening to their mother caterwauling at me. The baby had stuck a finger in his mouth and was sucking on it, the limpet child’s mouth was

  hanging open as he stared at me.

  I decided to be truthful. There seemed nothing to gain either by trying

  to deny that I was a lady of the night or making up a bogus story to tell her.

  “There was an accident that happened on Christmas Eve late, and I’m

  trying to find anyone who might have witnessed it. Someone said that

  your husband had been out for a walk and I wanted to ask him some ques-

  tions.” Close enough to the truth.

  “That’s a blamed lie. Take it from me— that someone is wrong.” She

  yelled at me as if I were standing clear across the room. “My dear husband stayed with myself and the children all of that blessed night. He drank

  himself into a stew and slept by the fire.” She stepped toward me and I

  backed up, feeling the railing of the stairway cut into my back. “Now, leave him be. He’s a good man if he keeps away from the drink. He wouldn’t

  look at your sort if he was sober, not my Moses.”

  “I don’t doubt that.”

  “I heard one of your kind was kilt t’other night.”

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  “Yes,” I said and stopped at the top of the stairs.

  “My husband has not a mean bone in his body. He wouldn’t do such a

  thing. And he was here with me.”

  “Thank you.” I believed not a word the woman had told me, except

  that her husband was a drunk.

  Wolf and McDonald’s haberdashery had a lovely woman’s suit on a man-

  nequin up at the front of the store. I stood and stared at it, then reached out to finger the fabric, a wool tweed with a handsome edging of satin and velvet. Wouldn’t I just love to wear such a suit one day. But first I needed a dress that I could wear for the New Year’s Eve ball. I didn’t know if it would be possible for them to outfit me so quickly. I hoped they had some nice dresses readymade.

  The store was as big as any I had seen in St. Paul, with bolts of fabric all along one wall. Men’s clothes in shelves along the other side. Overalls, big brimmed hats, and wool socks overflowed bins.

  I marched over to where the men’s boots were lined up and found a

  pair that would fit me. I also found a pair of dungarees that would come close, especially if I cinched them with a belt. Thus outfitted, I could ride out to the claim in comfort if not style.

  Piling my clothes on the long wooden counter, I addressed my re-

  quest to the man standing behind it. He looked me up and down, and I

  guessed he was trying to understand how I fit into this town. After a small exhalation through his nose, he sent me on to the back, where he assured me a Mrs. Bisbee would help me out.

  Mrs. Bisbee was formidable, dressed in enough fabric to make five

  dresses, and she was not a big woman. Her gray hair was tied up tight in a bun on the back of her head, and around her wrist she wore a kind of cor-sage made from a pin cushion. I was impressed to see a woman managing

  a part of a store. It occurred to me that I might try for such work, but my handwork left much to be desired. Stil , she was a working woman, not a

  sporting girl— which was what I wanted for myself.

  I told her what I was looking for.

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  She shook her head as if I had misbehaved in some way. “I don’t see

  how that can be arranged. However, we might be able to sell you some-

  thing off the rack.”

  Then, looking skeptical, she showed me several dresses, but they were

  not what I had been thinking of. Very dowdy, not really dresses one wore to a dance.

  “I was hoping for something a bit more elegant. A dress for the ball.”

  Suddenly, she snapped her fingers. “I had a dress that I had started

  but . . . Let’s see if that might fit you.”

  She walked behind some curtains and brought out an elegant dark

  blue dress, with some flounces, but not so many that you looked like you might fly away. I tried it on and Mrs. Bisbee went to work with her pins, her hands pinching my sides, plucking at my arms.

  “The shoulders must be let out. The waist is just right. The hem let

  down an inch or two. I think it will do.” She talked to herself as her hands flew around the dress.

  When she was done fitting me, she stepped back and turned me to-

  ward the mirror.

  I let out a gasp. Never had I seen this creature who stared back at me.

  The blue brought out her eyes, and the sheen added glossiness to her hair.

  She looked like she could walk into any party on the continent of Europe and fit in. This dark- haired young woman looked like a princess. Running my hands down the skirt, I stared and stared and still couldn’t believe that the woman in the mirror was me.

  “Oh, yes,” I said. “This will do nicely.”

  The price was very reasonable. I guessed it was probably already par-

  tially paid for. This Mrs. Bisbee was a businesswoman. For all I knew, she was getting paid twice for the dress. I did not care. I would not have been able to leave that dress behind.

  Because the gown was so reasonable, I decided I could also buy a pair

  of shoes. I chose a pair of pumps that were soft as suede, almost like little slippers. I slipped them on my feet. They fit like they were made for me.

  “I’m so pleased that the dress fit you,” Mrs. Bisbee said as she ushered me to the door. “We’ll have it ready by the day after tomorrow.” Then she added, “Poor Lily will not be needing it where she’s gone.”

  14

  Billy said he wouldn’t go to Lily’s funeral. He made no pretense

  about it. He stated it was a woman’s affair and that he hated all that

  wailing and weeping. Said he had better things to do than watch them put a body in the ground. I think all the sorrow frightened him.

  Padraic had said he would go, but in the end he changed his mind.

  “I’m not much into church affairs,” he explained.

  I was dressed and ready to go, standing by the front door when he

  said this. He looked at me to see what I would do. I pulled on my gloves.

  “I feel like my family should be represented. After all, she was my brother’s fiancée.”

  “I think you’re taking this engagement more seriously than either Sea-

  mus or Lily would have taken it.”

  “Really?” I asked.

  “In this place, people promise much, but it doesn’t often happen.”

  Padraic shrugged his shoulders.

  “Wel , I gave my word to Nel ie that I would go to this funeral and I am going.” I straightened my hat.

  “As you like,” he said and told me how to get to the cemetery.

  The weather had turned bitter again. I had to walk up a very steep hill

  to get to the cemetery, which overlooked town. From this vantage point,

  I could see the slate- gray clouds moving in. The clouds looked as stuffed full of snow as pillows are of feathers. As I rose higher above the town, the wind grew in force and buffeted my skirts about me.

  When I made it to the top, I saw the funeral cortege and moved to

  the back of the gathering. There were about ten women and a handful

  of
men. I saw Ching Su next to Nel ie, dressed all in white. How odd, I

  thought. But her hair stood out against her coat like the trees against the 94

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  snow. Nel ie had on a purple coat that made her look a bit like an eggplant.

  She was crying into a handkerchief, a harsh sound that was raw with grief.

  Behind the two women stood a Chinese man. He had eyes that cut

  across his face and a small silk hat that tucked tight to his head. I guessed that he was Ching Su’s brother. Although a small man, he looked very

  forceful. Except for Sugar Sue, I had never met a Chinese person before, or a “celestial,” as they were called in Deadwood.

  Lily must have been of some Protestant sect, for the service was not

  familiar to me. I bent my head and listened to the words that droned on.

  Then suddenly everyone looked up as charging up the hill came a carriage, which pulled in behind the funeral carriage. Out stepped Charlie Hunt.

  To see him here unnerved me. My hands turned cold, then hot, and

  my face flushed. I bent my head to be unobserved. Charlie appeared larger than I remembered. Maybe it was his high top hat and a dark and handsome waistcoat that fit him to perfection. His shoulders pushed through

  his jacket and his face looked so healthy and clean, in such contrast to the men I saw on the street in Deadwood. Clearly he was no miner. He was a

  businessman with hands soft and smooth as his mother’s.

  Charlie had with him a man who had been at the Christmas Eve party.

  I particularly remembered this man because he had such a large mole on

  the end of his nose. He was all over a knobby man, about forty years of

  age. Unfortunately, I did not need to wonder why Charlie Hunt was at this funeral: he was paying last respects to one of his mistresses. It made me angry to think he had kissed me too.

  I lifted my head to get a glimpse of him and found him staring at me.

  Now that I was not a servant girl in his house, I did not need to watch myself around him. I stared right back, then turned back to the proceedings.

  The pastor said something and people responded. I needed to attend.

  I managed to hear his next few lines and answered, “Amen,” with every-