Page 90 of The Prospector's Only Prospect
“I know I still owe you for the stagecoach ticket,” she said with agitation, shaking the notes at him. “As soon as I find a job, I’ll continue to pay down my debt to you.”
“My bride is here. Your debt for the ticket no longer needs to be repaid. I’ll settle up with the men. Keep that as payment for minding my children all summer.” He pivoted and walked away.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Marigold had already said her goodbye to Pearl, insisting that she visit the camp and make a decision for herself as to whether to marry Virgil.
“I can’t marry him,” she had said. “I would always wonder if he would have preferred you. I’m sure he will.” Marigold waved them off with a brave smile.
Once the cart had pulled away—without a backward look from Virgil—Marigold turned into her drafty box of a room, locked the door, and fell to the dirt to cry her heart out.
She had never felt so abandoned! Or betrayed. She didn’t know which one of them she resented more, Virgil for taking Pearl or the other way around. Or herself, for all her past mistakes, making her an impossible choice for Virgil.
Shedidn’twant a husband. Not once she realized her past was always going to cause him strife, too. Of course, if he had said he loved her—
But he hadn’t. Because hedidn’tlove her, which was the real source of her heartbreak. She had hoped right up to the last second that he would say,I can’t marry Pearl. You’re the one I want. I love you.
He had only turned into the hard, practical man life had made him and took her at her word, throwing money at her as though…
She turned her face into her bent elbow, sobbing with humiliation, never been made to feel so cheap. He had already paid her to mind his children. They had agreed on her wage before she left for Quail’s Creek with him. For him to give her so much moneynow, after she’d given him her body and her heart and her sister… It felt as though he was paying for something else entirely.
If only she had thrown it back at him! But she didn’t have that luxury, did she? No, she was truly starting over now.
All she had ever wanted, from the time her parents had died, was a sense of permanence again. Security. A home.Love.
Every time she tried to achieve any of those things, she wound up discarded and bereft. It was beyond disheartening. How would she carry on? What sort of life was she to havenow?
“Missus Davis?” Rufus’s voice called out right before a light knock sounded on her door.
“I—” Her voice was a garbled choke. She fought back her convulsive sobs as she searched out her handkerchief and blew her nose, trying to regain her composure. “I don’t need a loan after all, Rufus,” she called, voice high and thin. “But thank you.”
“Oh.” He sounded disappointed. “Well, that’s fine, but there are a couple of fellas here. I told them you write letters for men who can’t. They wondered if you’d be willing?”
Marigold shifted to set her back against the wall and took a few shaken breaths as she continued mopping her face. The last thing she wished to do right now was take dictation, but sitting in the dirt wasn’t likely to improve her situation, was it? She had brought her writing things in case she wanted to add a few lines before posting her letter to Pearl.
Oh, Pearl. Her letter had proudly announced,By the time you receive this, I’ll be Mrs. Gardner.
She found a dry edge on her sleeve and pressed that under her leaking eyes but didn’t let her emotions collapse again. Self-pity was another luxury she couldn’t afford. It was time to take stock and think.
Writing letters was hardly a living, not for twenty-five cents a page, but it was a foothold toward supporting herself. Perhaps the barber would let her sweep hair and learn how to trim. Perhaps there was a woman in town who needed help with her children. Was there a schoolhouse that needed a teacher? She could teach miners to read and write if she was deemed too disreputable to teach children.
With the tiniest spark of resilience coming to life in her breast, she called, “Will you give me a minute, please, Rufus? I need to wash my face.”
…
Virgil wanted to despise Pearl Martin, he really did. If she hadn’t turned up—
If he had only written one stupid letter…
Damn it, it had happened. Marigold had rejected him, but he was still getting what he needed, wasn’t he? He had someone to mind his children.
Would she be up to that task?
She was proving to be an amiable companion, especially to someone who was as sour as a green apple. There had been no fussing for new shoes or flashing of underwear, no stroppy dickering or purchasing of cushions. When they passed the tree where he’d first wondered if Marigold was pregnant, he thought to ask Pearl if she felt all right—which was also when he realized they’d barely spoken since leaving the saloon.
“Am I traveling too fast? You’ll tell me if it’s too much for your stomach.”
“Oh, I’m not like Marigold. She’s always been a poor traveler,” she said with a pity-filled shake of her head. “No, this is a lovely change after the horse and wagon to Denver. That felt endless. This is pretty country, too. It’s nice to see so much of it so quickly.”
