Read Online Josiah's Treasure by Nancy Herriman - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Nancy Herriman
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from me?” he asked.
“I didn’t bring you here to impress you with my empty shop and its filthy floors.” She pulled in a long breath. “I brought you here because, if you succeed in gaining Josiah’s estate, I want you to invest in the studio. I would pay you back, with interest.”
“I can’t do that.” Even if he wanted to help Sarah Whittier, for the sake of Lily’s and Marguerite’s futures, he couldn’t.
Sarah gave him a withering look and retrieved her reticule from the countertop where she’d left it. Apparently she had let herself hope for more from him.
“You were right.” Her eyes were deep brown, the color of cocoa or polished walnut. Lovely even when dull with disillusionment. “I did waste my time.”
Soon, me boy, soon you’ll be rich.
The tip of his cigar flared orange as he inhaled. A curl of blue smoke writhed above his head, dashed away on the wind, and he shifted his foot to let the ashes fall to the plank sidewalk. Frank thought, with an upward contortion of his lips—which no one who knew him would ever call a smile—that it would be funny if the wood caught fire and burned down the entire block. All these rich folks in their fancy houses, the glass of their bay windows blinking like diamonds in the setting sun, the fancy flowers, bright as rubies and sapphires, in their gardens scrabbling to take root in the sand, showing off like they’re better than everyone. Pretending, just because they were lucky and struck gold—or figured out how to swindle the ones who’d struck gold—that the twirls of their carved wood doorways and banisters made them superior. Made them forget that they’d been grubbing in dirt once, sprouting blisters on blisters, patching old clothes and stuffing newspapers inside their shirts to stay warm when the fog clung like soot on a chimney stack.
Well, he’d be lucky too. And then he’d build himself a houseright next to theirs on Nob Hill. Show them all what it meant to be rich. Just like he’d always planned.
Frank watched through the window as the light in the kitchen flared and held. The cook was at work starting a late dinner, for her and that Whittier woman who owned that house too big for just the two of them. How preciously sweet that old man Cady had left her everything, according to what his woman had found out. Frank chuckled. He knew men like Cady. When it came time to meet their Maker, they suddenly turned as generous as a saint.
Well, she could keep the house. He just wanted the gold, thank you very much. And he wasn’t alone. When that reporter had come around the saloon that evening, asking questions about Cady, he’d set off a frenzy of speculation. Frank had supplied a few answers to the fellow—wasn’t a problem at all, not when the reporter was handing out silver coins like they were going out of fashion—told him about Cady’s mine in the Black Hills, but Frank wasn’t going to tell the reporter more. Not if the stories were true. He was here for the main chance, because if there was gold for the getting, he was the man to get it.
Shifting his hips on the stone steps of the unfinished house across the way, he dragged on the cigar, a final puff that filled his lungs, and felt satisfaction in his bones. It’d been worth roughing up Manuel for one of these Havanas. When he was rich, he’d buy himself as many as he wanted. Dozens. By the box. By the case. He felt so good, he grinned at the Chinese boy hurrying along the street with a sack of cleaned laundry slung over his shoulder. The boy, slitted black eyes judging pretty fast, wisely trotted to the other side of the road, steering clear. Maybe he’d get himself a Chinese servant boy when he was rich. And an Irish girl to do the cleaning. Yep, that sounded good.
Soon. The next time the Whittier woman was outta the house along with the servant, he’d find that gold. The nuggets old Josiah Cady had stored away in a hidey-hole. If it took more thanone visit . . .
“I didn’t bring you here to impress you with my empty shop and its filthy floors.” She pulled in a long breath. “I brought you here because, if you succeed in gaining Josiah’s estate, I want you to invest in the studio. I would pay you back, with interest.”
“I can’t do that.” Even if he wanted to help Sarah Whittier, for the sake of Lily’s and Marguerite’s futures, he couldn’t.
Sarah gave him a withering look and retrieved her reticule from the countertop where she’d left it. Apparently she had let herself hope for more from him.
“You were right.” Her eyes were deep brown, the color of cocoa or polished walnut. Lovely even when dull with disillusionment. “I did waste my time.”
Soon, me boy, soon you’ll be rich.
The tip of his cigar flared orange as he inhaled. A curl of blue smoke writhed above his head, dashed away on the wind, and he shifted his foot to let the ashes fall to the plank sidewalk. Frank thought, with an upward contortion of his lips—which no one who knew him would ever call a smile—that it would be funny if the wood caught fire and burned down the entire block. All these rich folks in their fancy houses, the glass of their bay windows blinking like diamonds in the setting sun, the fancy flowers, bright as rubies and sapphires, in their gardens scrabbling to take root in the sand, showing off like they’re better than everyone. Pretending, just because they were lucky and struck gold—or figured out how to swindle the ones who’d struck gold—that the twirls of their carved wood doorways and banisters made them superior. Made them forget that they’d been grubbing in dirt once, sprouting blisters on blisters, patching old clothes and stuffing newspapers inside their shirts to stay warm when the fog clung like soot on a chimney stack.
Well, he’d be lucky too. And then he’d build himself a houseright next to theirs on Nob Hill. Show them all what it meant to be rich. Just like he’d always planned.
Frank watched through the window as the light in the kitchen flared and held. The cook was at work starting a late dinner, for her and that Whittier woman who owned that house too big for just the two of them. How preciously sweet that old man Cady had left her everything, according to what his woman had found out. Frank chuckled. He knew men like Cady. When it came time to meet their Maker, they suddenly turned as generous as a saint.
Well, she could keep the house. He just wanted the gold, thank you very much. And he wasn’t alone. When that reporter had come around the saloon that evening, asking questions about Cady, he’d set off a frenzy of speculation. Frank had supplied a few answers to the fellow—wasn’t a problem at all, not when the reporter was handing out silver coins like they were going out of fashion—told him about Cady’s mine in the Black Hills, but Frank wasn’t going to tell the reporter more. Not if the stories were true. He was here for the main chance, because if there was gold for the getting, he was the man to get it.
Shifting his hips on the stone steps of the unfinished house across the way, he dragged on the cigar, a final puff that filled his lungs, and felt satisfaction in his bones. It’d been worth roughing up Manuel for one of these Havanas. When he was rich, he’d buy himself as many as he wanted. Dozens. By the box. By the case. He felt so good, he grinned at the Chinese boy hurrying along the street with a sack of cleaned laundry slung over his shoulder. The boy, slitted black eyes judging pretty fast, wisely trotted to the other side of the road, steering clear. Maybe he’d get himself a Chinese servant boy when he was rich. And an Irish girl to do the cleaning. Yep, that sounded good.
Soon. The next time the Whittier woman was outta the house along with the servant, he’d find that gold. The nuggets old Josiah Cady had stored away in a hidey-hole. If it took more thanone visit . . .
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