California Caress

l, she had quickly grown used to hearing its annoying, crushing sound long into the night, as the newly dug gold was separated from the quartz.

The building’s services were in such demand that another mill was under construction, this one wisely located closer to the diggin’s. It was only a skeletal shell right now, but by the time winter set in, it would be in full swing. The new mill would rob no business from the old, but it would make the chore of loading and toting the heavy rock much easier for the miners.

“Hope!” A craggy, weathered voice called as she neared the outskirts of the gathering crowd. “Over here!”

She looked up to see a scrawny old man standing to the left of the sparse circle of men. He was waving his hat in the air to grab her attention. A worn leather vest draped his bony shoulders, covering the faded gray shirt beneath. A pair of limp, faded green trousers that had seen better years hung from his waist. Wispy pieces of beard coated his pointed jaw. They were almost as scarce as the tufts of sun-whitened hair clinging to his well-seasoned scalp. His eyes, an indeterminate shade of hazel, were crooked. One bulged while the other narrowed into a permanent squint. That, in combination with a chin that jutted from his face at an unusual angle, as though he was always in the process of mid-chew, lent him a decidedly unfriendly appearance.

At Hope’s smile and nod, Old Joe nudged the man beside him.

Bart Bennett was four inches shorter than his son Luke, and not nearly as thick. Unlike his old friend, his worn clothes fit his lanky frame well. He mumbled something to Old Joe before parting from the group. Eying his daughter warily, he approached the burro. His gait still held a trace of the swagger of a man used to roaming the rolling hills of his Virginia plantation.

“Thought I told you to stay put, missy,” he said in the same thick southern drawl that had spun many a late night story. Though he wasn’t large, Bart Bennett had the voice and carriage of a man twice his size.

“You did.” Hope nodded, as she slipped from the burro’s back, sending her father her most charming smile. As always, it melted the frosty demeanor Bart constantly strove to maintain with what he’d grown to regard as his sinfully wayward daughter.

“But you came anyway. Now, why aren’t I surprised?” His sharp gaze scanned the crowd, noticing the men’s hungry reaction to his daughter’s presence.

Hope’s smile weakened. She wasn’t as oblivious to the stares as she pretended; however, they didn’t bother her nearly as much as they bothered Bart. “Where’s Luke?” she asked with forced cheerfulness. She watched, amused, as her father gauged the reactions of the men closest to them.

“Just sent Old Joe to fetch him.”

“And the twins?”

“Keeping an eye on the Swedes,” Bart snorted as he glared at a young, tow-headed fellow who had the nerve to stare longingly at the high-buttoned neckline of Hope’s dress.

The thick cord of hair, caught at her nape with a peach ribbon, swayed at her waist as she followed her father’s gaze. The young man in question was quick to turn his lecherous attention elsewhere. Hope anxiously scanned the crowd of eager, grubby faces. Her spirits dropped. Drake Frazier was not to be found.

Bart’s gaze also followed suit. “Where is he?”

“He’ll be here. Give him a chance.”

“Hmph! We’ll see about that, missy. We’ll just see.”

He will be here, she told herself, he promised. Even a rat like Drake Frazier wouldn’t go back on his word. Or would he?

Unfortunately, her conscience chose that moment to remind her that she, too, had made a promise she never intended to honor. The memory of the pact did nothing to ease her tension. What if Frazier suspected her deception and decided not to fight because of it? No, he couldn’t suspect. She’d given him no reason to think she wouldn’t keep her end of the deal. But what if he had—?

Hope had no time to finish the thought as a murmur of approval rushed through the men. She turned to see Old Joe escorting Luke toward them. A few men reached out to pat the large back. One or two voices raised to call out a word of encouragement. Luke looked at them all as if they’d lost their minds. The look he sent his sister was filled with even more confusion. Hadn’t Hope said he wouldn’t be fighting today? Hadn’t she said Frazier would be taking his place? Luke peered over the crowed with a scowl. The towering blond head was nowhere to be seen, and his sister looked more nervous than he’d ever seen her.

Old Joe opened his mouth to speak, then snapped it shut when Luke asked the very question he’d been about to voice.

“Where is he, Hope?” Luke asked as he joined them.

“How the hell should I know?” Puckering her lips, Hope turned her attention back to the crowd. For a split second, she saw a head whose coloring could rival that of the gunslinger’s. When the man came into full view, she recognized the narrow shoulders and scrawny chest as belonging to Mac Snidley, the man whose coyote hole bordered theirs.

“You are the one who hired him.” Bart’s voice drew her attention back. “Didn’t he say what time he’d be here?”

Her spirits dipped again as Hope nibbled her lower lip and frowned. “No, he didn’t say,” she lied, her throat constricting. Only now did she realize that, in her nervousness three nights ago, she had forgotten to tell Frazier what time the fight was. What if he thought it was to be in the afternoon? Worse still, what if he’d thought it was earlier this morning—and had already come and gone?

Bart’s jaw tightened. “Well, missy, didn’t you ask him?”

“Don’t matter if she did or didn’t.” Old Joe’s craggy voice saved her from answering. He nodded his fuzzy chin to a spot just beyond her shoulder. “He’s comin’ now.”

Drake Frazier walked down the narrow dirt path with a gait that bespoke a man ready to win. His determination was reflected in each long stride as his boot heels crunched over the bits of dirt and gravel cluttering the trail. One by one, his commanding presence captured the miners’ attention.

The gunslinger had come prepared to fight. Unlike the snug denims of three nights ago, the pants he wore now were loose-fitting, chocolate brown trousers. A cottony green plaid shirt billowed appealingly over the muscles in the broad shoulders and sinewy arms. The sleeves of the shirt were rolled to just below the elbows, exposing a good deal of bronze flesh and enticingly proportioned forearms. Since no hat graced his head, there was nothing to stop the light stirring of the breeze from blowing at the golden mane that framed the broad forehead and rugged cheekbones.

His confident, bordering on arrogant, stance set him apart from the rest of the men. Hope noted that, as he reached the outskirts of the crowd, there was something about his mannerisms that showed him at ease with the others. He didn’t openly greet the men surrounding him, yet he didn’t peer down his nose at the prospectors, either. Instead, he joined the circle as though he belonged there, and, even though he towered above most of the others, he appeared oddly at home.