Page 42 of The Prospector's Only Prospect
“Good girl.” Her braid was given a gentle tug. “As for you…”
He touched his bent knuckle under Harley’s chin.
Harley held up the cloth dog Marigold had made him and flapped his lips in his version of a horse’s neigh, because that’s what he’d decided it was.
“As long as we have an understanding,” Virgil said drily.
He didn’t meet her eyes as he nodded at Marigold and went back outside.
…
As Virgil came back from cleaning the stew pot and fetching fresh water for the morning, he saw Marigold sitting by the fire. The flames had died down to a glow of red amongst the charred logs. They were headed to bed, so he wouldn’t stoke it, but he almost went looking for wood just to put off talking to her.
He still felt like a shit for his remark implying she was dishonest.
She was, though. He was still taking grief over his haircut.Is that what they’re wearing in Paris this season? You have a head wound that needed stitching? Singe your beard blowing out a candle, boss? Gotta be more careful.
Jackasses.
Even so, that moment earlier when he’d realized she might jump ship, or more likely jump into his wagon with the intent to get herself back to Topeka, had driven a stake straight into his heart. In many ways, Leyohna had been easier to have around because she knew how to live rough and being married to another had killed any sexual tension.
Marigold was a pain in his hide and forced him to spend way too much time double-thinking what he said, but he also needed her. Leyohna was gone, and starting over looking for a new bride or childminder would take the rest of the summer, time that he needed to be working alongside his partners.
It was a rock and a hard place, for sure.
“My letter to my sister,” she said, holding it out to him. “And this is my accounting of my wages against my debt and expenses so far. I’ve added the cost of purchasing a stamp.”
He felt like the worst pinch-fist when he saw how carefully she was keeping record of the things she picked up from the storehouse and what she used them for.
1 lb. cornmeal (dinner biscuits, 3 leftovers to Gristle for goodwill)
Leyohna had been perfectly kind to his children and had fed them well, but she had known she would leave and had maintained a small distance because of it.
Marigold, on the other hand, seemed determined to turn this pile of matchsticks into a home. She kept it neat as a pin, spent a good portion of each day preparing meals, and was putting up what she could for winter. Literallyup. She’d asked him to suspend a rack from the ceiling that she had covered with paper. Berries were drying, and she’d added some onion tops the other day.
He pocketed her letter and offered her back her accounting. Maybe he’d buy her a proper ledger book. Would that only reinforce what a miser he was? He must be one, since he knew all the words for it. Parsimonious. Frugal. Tightwad. Churl.
“I meant to bring my sewing out, but it’s nice to rest.” Her eyes caught the moonlight as she looked up.
“Why do you think I make these trips to town? I finally get to sit down,” he said facetiously.
“Is that another joke? Or—?”
“I don’t know.” He was dead tired, but he rose to pace out of the light, suddenly feeling like a boy who couldn’t say anything right. “I didn’t mean what I said earlier.”
“I was beginning to hope you trusted me a little,” she said faintly. “At least I know where I stand.” She sounded hurt. That bothered him. A lot.
“I don’t trust many, so don’t take it personal,” he said gruffly.
“Isthatwhy you make all the trips to town yourself? You don’t trust anyone else to do it?”
“No. Other way, maybe. I trust my partners with my life, but I don’t want to risk theirs.” That’s why he’d taken the lead with Sureshot. That and, “Owen gets too friendly. People take advantage of that. A man big as Stoney shouldn’t get harassed, but he does. Men want to test him because of his size.” Virgil scratched under his hat. “The men go when they need something, but I’ve taken to doing the supply runs so I can stay informed on politics.”
Marigold made a pained little noise at that dirty word.
“I don’t have any passion for it, trust me. The damned paper printed my name as a representative from our mining district, after I went to a meeting in April. Ever since then, I guess that’s what I am.”
Maybe there was a part of him that liked that the men looked to him to handle their business. Not ego, but it felt good to know they trusted his sense. It was validating. He wasn’t “nothing” if he was overseeing a mining operation and had the ear of future statesmen.
