Page 7 of A Good Prospect

Chapter Four

Tamasin Norris lifted a hot rock with the pair of metal tongs and stood erect. She waddled to another fire several feet away and dropped the blazing rock into an Indian basket of water, making the water jump and sizzle. Now she bent down to lift the heavy lid with a long stick to replace it on the basket, or the water would cease to boil. Sighing deeply, she faced her next task of waddling back to the fire pit of rocks to wait for the next rock to become hot enough to boil water. She decided that instead of wasting time waiting for another rock, she would adjust the splint she’d made for her arm that appeared to be broken. She knew it had been broken when Niall had zealously tossed her to the ground, but she had no real opinion or emotion either way about this.

Tamasin was accustomed to doing most everything with a marked absence of emotion, but today the baking spring sun bouncing everywhere off the naked rock of the canyon walls let her know she was thirsty. Even a lizard doing calisthenics on a nearby boulder appeared to be gasping for water. Was “thirst” an emotion? It was necessary to know when one was thirsty, Tamasin had learned from the agonizing overland excursion across the Plains. Her group had once gone eight days with no water, and three men had actually expired. It was obvious one could go a lot longer without food than without water.

So she treated herself to a big dipper full of cool water she had brought up from Mariposa Creek. Briefly, she vaguely enjoyed several butterflies flitting over a patch of periwinkle blue lupines. She knew the names of many flowers in California. Whenever they encountered groups that included other women, she would ask the names of flowers. It was useless as an occupation, but it was something to talk about while doing the laundry. In secret, when Niall was laid out corned, she liked to paint the flowers with a watercolor set a kindly prospector had given her. She hid her painting supplies at every camp spot, because Niall had a habit of rifling through her belongings and flinging them about. But she was almost out of paper now, and had to paint over old paintings. When they had visited that trader Savage in Bear Valley, she had peeked about to see if he had any more paper. There had been many novels, silk hats, and sawdusty crackers, but no paper that she could see.

Yes, she supposed she was refreshed, and now another rock was hot enough to boil the basket full of beans.

“Thomasina!”

Halfway to the bean pot, her husband’s piercing yelp caused her muscles to flinch, and she dropped the burning rock directly on the toe of her boot. Oh, Lordy. Tamasin found that even merely thinking Oh, Lordy somehow alleviated intense pain. Having been accustomed to various pains most of her adult life, she still resorted to that epithet once in awhile, such as now. Why was Niall returning from the river so early in the day? That was not a good omen.

“In need of penitence again?” he barked as she scrambled to grab the rock with the tongs. Of course, now the rock wasn’t hot enough to make the water boil, she’d have to return it to the fire pit, and then she hadn’t even started the tortillas, having not expected him back so soon. “Give me water! It’s hot as blazes down there.”

I only have two hands. Tamasin plopped the rock back into the fire pit. She started for the bucket of water she’d placed in the shade—why couldn’t Niall drink the water from the river he stood knee-deep in?—but his real reason for returning so soon became evident, when he grabbed the whiskey keg and poured himself an enormous cup full.

“Ah!” He smacked his lips loudly when he was done drinking half of it. He looked around for something else to criticize. “Where’s dinner?”

“I didn’t expect you back so soon.” Tamasin positioned herself over the flat rock she’d chosen as a seat, where she could shape some tortillas as she’d seen Indian women do.

“I ran out of whiskey. This dad-blamed flask is only big enough for about three swallows. Now I’m starving because you didn’t make enough to eat last night.”

Maybe it was the pain in her arm distracting her. She should have known better than to protest the truth. “You arose around midnight and finished the last of the beans.” He wouldn’t recall having done that.

Niall frowned at the way she had to look over her shoulder in order to fall back correctly on her behind, and not miss the flat rock. She probably looked a sight, if she had a mirror to look into, with her arm in that makeshift splint, bruises on her face, and her distended pregnant stomach neither one of them had really prayed too hard for. It had just happened, much to Niall’s disgust. So he shoved her, so he wouldn’t have to watch her trying to sit in such an awkward manner.

The result was even more awkward. For some unknown reason, lack of balance perhaps, she actually went flying several feet, bashing her head with great force against the heavy black iron rock-boiling pot. Water jumped out of the pot, splashing her broken arm, and she must have cried out involuntarily, for to make his point, Niall kicked her in the thigh. Just one sharp rap that seemed to resonate up her spine, as though all her nerves were being wrenched. With her eyes squeezed shut, she only saw black with explosions of burgundy red.

Niall did not seem as good of a husband as the husbands she’d viewed on the trail, treating their wives with gentle seeming respect, but it was better than being in the asylum. Maybe those husbands beat their wives in the privacy of their own tents. And “Out West,” she was in the open air, sun, and flowers. She could speak with strangers once in awhile—on the trail, they had even joined in a few shindigs. And certainly, Niall’s drunkenness meant that he didn’t collect nearly as much gold as the prospectors she’d spoken to. Or maybe those prospectors were exaggerating their luck. Niall was probably no worse, but certainly no better, than any other man.

Tamasin was attempting to open her eyes and crawl back to the flat rock when she noticed two shadows looming overhead. Two men on horseback apparently, and one of them was saying to Niall in the flowery Castilian tones of the native Californio,

“I seriously doubt that girl did anything to deserve that treatment, señor.”

“Oh, yeah?” Niall responded, backing toward the tent, no doubt to get his revolver. “I doubt you know what she did.”

The other man, who sounded like an American but appeared much darker, said “She doesn’t look capable of doing anything terribly offensive.”

“Oh, yeah?” Niall said again. It was true, he didn’t have a very wide vocabulary. Tamasin didn’t think he was very educated, but she didn’t know too much about him. “Well, I don’t see where it’s any of your business, amigo. Especially when you’re coming here trying to horn in on my claim.” He ducked inside the tent.

The Californio man dismounted just as Tamasin struggled to her feet using the tongs as a sort of crutch. She should make these men some coffee, although offering them the precious whiskey was much easier. My, this man was certainly grand, in all the trappings of the royal native, his buckskin boots armed with heavy spurs bristling out into six points, steel plates rattling when he walked, his colorful serape flowing. As the black spots evaporated from before her eyes, she saw he had an imperious swagger, as though he owned the place, his stride sure in his calzoneras with elaborate gold buttons up the sides. “Californios don’t kick their women, señor,” this grand man said. His long arms dangled at his sides where two six-shooters were holstered at the ready, and he cocked one hip arrogantly. “And they don’t squat on land that doesn’t belong to them.”

“Oh yeah?” Niall said intelligently for the third time as he emerged from the tent empty-handed—he had probably left his revolver down at the creek with his gold pan. “This here is public land, belonging to the United States of America, of which I’m a member, and I doubt very much that you can say the same. Hey, you! Don’t you go touching my wife!”

For the darker American man had also dismounted when he saw Tamasin struggling to stand with the tongs, and had dared to come forward and take her arms in his large, warm hands. Bending at the knees with concern, he gazed directly in her face with raised eyebrows of the silkiest night. Tamasin knew at once that Niall was not the best husband—although he certainly may be the worst. He had never once looked at her with eyes of concern. Now the American pivoted about without letting go of Tamasin’s arms and shouted, “She doesn’t look well to me. How’d she break her arm?” He asked Tamasin directly, “How’d you break your arm?”

“I…I fell,” she said truthfully. Although she wouldn’t have fallen if Niall hadn’t shoved her.

“Hey now!” Niall barked, and started for Tamasin. “You darkie, get your hands off my wife! She’s perfectly well, and I can take perfect care of my own property!” He yanked her arm that wasn’t broken, and the American took his hands off her, much to Tamasin’s regret. She didn’t feel one shred of fear from these two other men, and only now was she realizing she felt fear when around Niall. Fear. Was that an emotion?

The Californio came so close to Niall, their noses were only inches from touching. It was interesting the way Niall shrank back slightly in the proximity of this haughty, regal man who was really overwhelmingly handsome, if one cared about such things. “Property, is that so? Well, you are squatting on my property—Rancho Las Oliveras, the property of Don Salvador Palomares!”

The American said, “Why don’t you clear out north of the Merced River, and there won’t be any trouble.”

Niall threw Tamasin’s arm away in disgust. “Property? Oh, that’s rich. A greaser owns everything from here to the Merced River?”

Señor Palomares practically breathed fire down onto Niall’s upturned face. “Indeed I do, amigo. And I could shoot you right now and never be obligated to report a dead body that was trespassing on my land, but I wouldn’t be so cruel as to leave a poor beaten woman without a husband.” Withdrawing a little, Señor Palomares finally looked back at Tamasin, his features softening, his stunning lupine blue eyes glittering with what Tamasin believed people described as “kindness.”