Page 45 of The Prospector's Only Prospect
By Wednesday afternoon, it had been resolved that the question of Statehood versus Territory would be put to a general vote. The business of drawing up committees for all the different special interests commenced, and Virgil walked away in weary disgust, eager to finish up his business and get back to Quail’s Creek.
He went straight to the mercantile to ask after slates for the children’s studies. They had a few and they were expensive, but Marigold had asked him special. Teaching them was the reason she was here. He didn’t want Harley to feel left out, so he had three put on his account along with a double order of his usual lemon drops. Then he glanced over a handful of books, skipping pastThe Scarlet Letter. No use rubbing Marigold’s nose in her unearned reputation. He boughtDavid Copperfield, since it was about a young man. Levi might enjoy it.
He stared at the cushions, wondering which was softer—buying it for Marigold or buying it for himself so his travels back to Quail’s Creek would be kinder on his ass.
The fact he was hurrying through his errands, anxious to get back on the trail, was the part that made him soft. That’s why he’d been so irritated by the ponderous proceedings at the convention. He had places he’d rather be and wasn’t sure what that said about him.
He dropped by the Express office to pick up the mail and send Marigold’s letter. It was odd to send a letter to the woman who should have been his wife from the woman he should have sent back.
Damn, but he’d been relieved when she had said she would stay. He kept telling himself that’s what had been behind the kiss he had planted on her. He shouldn’t have done it, regardless. He’d promised to protect her, and that meant from himself as much as anyone else. Kissing her was pure weakness, but he hadn’t seen a lot of compassion in his life. Not the kind that came with physical warmth and gentleness. For such a salty woman, she was capable of real sweetness, and that got to him even more than the throbbing want that kept pulling at his crotch.
That lust was relentless. He’d woken from a dream about her this morning, on a cot in a room over the corral where he’d stabled his mules. He’d had his hard cock in his hand before he’d thought better of it and had come loud enough to spook the horses in their stalls below him. A man in a neighboring room had called out, “You got a whore in there? Send her to me when you’re done.”
It was fucking embarrassing, and he had to quit thinking of Marigold like that.
On his way back to his wagon, he checked on the glass for his windows. It had arrived in a larger shipment and would need to be repackaged for the trail. The mill promised the lumber for the frames would also be ready by morning.
Virgil settled up at several of the saloons, but he didn’t have much taste for lingering in any of them. He usually had a drink or two, which allowed him to get the word out that they were hiring in Quail’s Creek. In the spring, he’d brought hungry miners back with him more than once, but with Denver trying to catch up to Auraria, men were finding work in town. They weren’t interested in grueling labor and the isolation of camp life.
Virgil spared time for a brief trek out to the trading post, always on the hunt for a bargain and the latest gossip. He wasn’t planning on shopping like a lovesick suitor, but he hit the mother lode when he got there. A trail picker had taken ownership of a wagon that had belonged to an English couple who’d passed from fever on their way to Oregon.
The women from the cathouse had already taken the wife’s dresses, but there was a bonnet and an apron plus a sturdy basket of sewing supplies and an entire crate of “clouded blue” wool. There were even knitting needles and a book entitledThe Lady’s Assistant in Knitting, Netting, and Crochet.
As Virgil stood there, hands on hips, wondering what sort of fool got so tickled over buying something for a woman he wasn’t screwing, the trader knocked a dollar off his price, determined to make the sale.
The children needed socks, didn’t they? Virgil bought it all.
…
Marigold made herself stay busy so she wouldn’t worry about Virgil’s absence. Or think about their kiss. It had been little more than a peck, after all.
But she had never felt such a deep or unremitting yearning for her ex-husband. It didn’t make sense that she would suffer it for Virgil, a man she didn’t know very well.
She knew he was honorable in his way, though. He was loyal to his friends and devoted to his children’s well-being. He was hard-headed to the point of arrogance, but with moments of uncertainty and humbleness.
She wondered what he thought of her, then quickly tried not to wonder. It ought to be a relief that he was away, but over the days of his absence, her longing for him only worked itself deeper like a splinter, becoming a swollen, tender thing she struggled to ignore even though she had plenty to distract her.
It rained the day after Virgil left, and the temperature plummeted. It was still July, but she took it as the warning it was and spent the next two days sewing warmer clothes for the children. She started Nettie making squares for a scrap quilt and kept Levi home one day to help plug the gaps in the walls with mud.
On the third day of Virgil’s absence, Levi came home proud as punch, having picked off a hare with his slingshot. Yeller had already helped him skin and clean it. He’d left the pelt in a bucket of saltwater and would stretch and dry it in a few days.
“Will you make me a fur hat, Marigold?” Levi asked as she cut strips off the skinned animal for cooking on a sapling grill. The rest would go into the stew pot tomorrow.
“Of course.” She didn’t have the first idea how to fashion one, but someone here would be able to guide her, maybe even Virgil.
“I want a fur hat.” Nettie was so overcome with envy, her lip quivered and tears stood in her eyes.
“Don’t worry. I’ll get you a white one when they change color for winter,” Levi promised, leaving Nettie smiling for hours.
When they were closing in on their fifth night and Virgil still hadn’t returned, Marigold began to grow concerned. She put a brave face on it, but she could tell the children were unsettled as well. Levi was grumpy the next morning, and Nettie wouldn’t leave Marigold’s side even when Marigold used the john. Harley picked up on the general mood and became truculent as well.
At least the weather improved enough they could walk some sourdough down to Gristle and ask him to bake the rolls in his oven while it was still hot from breakfast. Marigold baked bread once a week, but if she found a few minutes—or made the time, as she had today—she made a batch of rolls. Today, she would leave a few as a thank-you to John.
They stayed while the rolls baked, helping Gristle grind corn, which kept the little ones busy. Marigold was hoping someone would offer up a word on Virgil’s expected return, but even though Owen said, “Good morning,” as he arrived and left with the coffeepot, he didn’t mention Virgil.
When it had been a full week and Virgil still wasn’t back, Marigold couldn’t stand it a minute longer. She bundled up the little ones and wrapped the last of the sourdough with her latest batch of berry syrup. One roll was for Levi’s lunch. The rest were a bribe for whoever might have some reassurance that Virgil hadn’t abandoned her in the wilderness with three hungry mouths and no reliable means of feeding them.
Levi and Emmett came away from digging post holes when they saw her arrive at the storehouse. Levi offered a sullen thanks, chomping down his roll in three bites. Emmett ate his more slowly.
