Read Online Heart of Gold by Robin Lee Hatcher - Free Book Online
Authors: Robin Lee Hatcher
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bedroom into shadows. Then she left without another word. When she reached the kitchen, she stopped and made a slow turn. It was a wonderful room with an icebox and a stove that hardly looked used. Several windows let in plenty of light. Oh, how she could envy Alice Jackson such a kitchen.
Only Alice most likely would never prepare a meal in this room. Alice was dying.
Unexpected tears sprang to her eyes. She didn’t want to feel sorry for Alice or for Alice’s son or her brother. And yet she did. Shannon knew something about losing one’s mother, knew what a hole it had left in her life—an empty space that nothing else seemed to fill. At least she had been sixteen. Todd was only nine, and he’d already lost his father. Now he was losing his mother too. The only family he would have left was the uncle he’d met for the first time last week.
“What’re you doin’?”
At the sound of Todd’s voice, Shannon quickly wiped away any trace of her tears. Then she turned. The boy stood in the doorway that led from the kitchen onto the veranda—a veranda that wrapped around three sides of this house on the hillside. Cheerily, she answered, “I was thinking what a lovely room this is.” It wasn’t truly a lie. She had thought that a short while ago.
“Just a room.” Todd held the pup named Nugget in his arms, and as he spoke he rubbed his chin against the puppy’s golden head. “How’s Ma feelin’? Can I go up to see her?”
Shannon forced a confident smile. “She seems stronger to me, but she’s sleeping now. I left her to rest while I came down to fix some tea.
Do you need something?”
The boy shook his head but came into the kitchen and sat on one of the chairs at the table in the center of the room. Shannon’s mother never would have allowed a dog in her kitchen, but Shannon suspected Alice Jackson wouldn’t mind.
“Why don’t I fix you some hot chocolate? You would like that, wouldn’t you?”
From the moment Matthew had been hired as a clerk for Wells, Fargo in San Francisco, his goal had been to become a driver. He’d worked his way from clerk to agent in a matter of weeks, and in a matter of months, he’d become an express messenger. In that capacity, he’d sat beside the stagecoach driver, armed with a sawed-off double-barreled shotgun, a breech-loading rifle, and a Colt revolver. It had been his responsibility to protect the important documents and express mail entrusted to him, not to mention the valuable minerals—called “treasure”—that were placed in the safe beneath the driver’s feet. He’d made numerous trips between the Missouri River and the Rocky Mountains in those early years, catching what sleep he could while the stage crossed sagebrush-covered plains or climbed rugged mountain passes.
But drivers were at the top of the staging hierarchy, and that’s where Matthew had wanted to be. At the top. He’d wanted to slip on those silk-lined buckskin gloves and lace three pairs of reins between his fingers. He’d wanted to snap the whip above the heads of the horses or mules and feel them give another measure of speed. Sure, drivers were exposed to all extremes of weather—rain, wind, snow, sleet, the dry heat of a summer’s sun and the icy cold of a winter’s night—but no more so than a poor fool messenger.
He’d finally gotten his chance to drive at the age of twenty-five, and that’s what he’d done for the last seven years.
One thing he’d learned from his many years driving stagecoach for the company—speed was addictive. At first he’d driven hard to keep on schedule. Sometimes he’d done it to avoid getting scalped. But after a while, he’d just craved the rush that came with the race from one location to another.
After ten days in Grand Coeur, Matthew missed that speed more than he’d thought possible. He found the work of an agent even more confining than he had eleven years before. He spent almost the entire day indoors, buying gold dust,
Only Alice most likely would never prepare a meal in this room. Alice was dying.
Unexpected tears sprang to her eyes. She didn’t want to feel sorry for Alice or for Alice’s son or her brother. And yet she did. Shannon knew something about losing one’s mother, knew what a hole it had left in her life—an empty space that nothing else seemed to fill. At least she had been sixteen. Todd was only nine, and he’d already lost his father. Now he was losing his mother too. The only family he would have left was the uncle he’d met for the first time last week.
“What’re you doin’?”
At the sound of Todd’s voice, Shannon quickly wiped away any trace of her tears. Then she turned. The boy stood in the doorway that led from the kitchen onto the veranda—a veranda that wrapped around three sides of this house on the hillside. Cheerily, she answered, “I was thinking what a lovely room this is.” It wasn’t truly a lie. She had thought that a short while ago.
“Just a room.” Todd held the pup named Nugget in his arms, and as he spoke he rubbed his chin against the puppy’s golden head. “How’s Ma feelin’? Can I go up to see her?”
Shannon forced a confident smile. “She seems stronger to me, but she’s sleeping now. I left her to rest while I came down to fix some tea.
Do you need something?”
The boy shook his head but came into the kitchen and sat on one of the chairs at the table in the center of the room. Shannon’s mother never would have allowed a dog in her kitchen, but Shannon suspected Alice Jackson wouldn’t mind.
“Why don’t I fix you some hot chocolate? You would like that, wouldn’t you?”
From the moment Matthew had been hired as a clerk for Wells, Fargo in San Francisco, his goal had been to become a driver. He’d worked his way from clerk to agent in a matter of weeks, and in a matter of months, he’d become an express messenger. In that capacity, he’d sat beside the stagecoach driver, armed with a sawed-off double-barreled shotgun, a breech-loading rifle, and a Colt revolver. It had been his responsibility to protect the important documents and express mail entrusted to him, not to mention the valuable minerals—called “treasure”—that were placed in the safe beneath the driver’s feet. He’d made numerous trips between the Missouri River and the Rocky Mountains in those early years, catching what sleep he could while the stage crossed sagebrush-covered plains or climbed rugged mountain passes.
But drivers were at the top of the staging hierarchy, and that’s where Matthew had wanted to be. At the top. He’d wanted to slip on those silk-lined buckskin gloves and lace three pairs of reins between his fingers. He’d wanted to snap the whip above the heads of the horses or mules and feel them give another measure of speed. Sure, drivers were exposed to all extremes of weather—rain, wind, snow, sleet, the dry heat of a summer’s sun and the icy cold of a winter’s night—but no more so than a poor fool messenger.
He’d finally gotten his chance to drive at the age of twenty-five, and that’s what he’d done for the last seven years.
One thing he’d learned from his many years driving stagecoach for the company—speed was addictive. At first he’d driven hard to keep on schedule. Sometimes he’d done it to avoid getting scalped. But after a while, he’d just craved the rush that came with the race from one location to another.
After ten days in Grand Coeur, Matthew missed that speed more than he’d thought possible. He found the work of an agent even more confining than he had eleven years before. He spent almost the entire day indoors, buying gold dust,
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