“Worked just like we hoped it would,” Can said, wonder roughening his voice. “It’s hard to believe, but the Brits paid three hundred thousand up front, and I’ll get a two percent royalty on every ounce of gold that comes out of the Johnson Mine.” It was a sweet deal and strongly indicated that Can’s strike was a rich one.
Sam thought about Can Johnson’s good fortune as he walked home in the darkness. It wasn’t going to be like that for him. Soon he would have to accept that no syndicates would enter a bidding war to gain control of the L&D. Even if a miracle occurred and he somehow put his hands on enough development money to hire a crew of miners, there wasn’t enough time left to blast and clear a dozen drifts to map the ore branches. Even if he could prove beyond doubt that he had more trailing veins of rich ore than branches on a tree, he’d still need several weeks for Marsh Collins to contact the syndicates and nail down a buyer. But he didn’t have several weeks.
The court hadn’t decreed that he had to schedule Daisy’s surgery by the first of October. The court had decreed that Daisy’s surgery had to be performed prior to October first. Therefore, he had to contact the surgeon at least by the middle of September. That was five weeks from tomorrow.
Angie’s voice floated out of the darkness. “I’ve been waiting for you.”
A lifetime had elapsed since he’d seen her in the ice cream parlor. It wasn’t possible that had happened only hours ago.
He sank down on the bottom step of the kitchen stoop and leaned his back against her legs. She made a little movement as if he’d surprised her, but she didn’t pull her legs away.
“I guess you know about Can,” she said. He nodded. “You smell like whiskey and smoke.”
“Do you want me to leave?” He hoped she didn’t, because suddenly he felt too tired to move.
“No.”
After a while she told him about Molly’s diamonds and he smiled because buying Molly a fortune in diamonds sounded exactly like something Can would do. Then she told him about Lucy believing that she’d betray her mother if she let herself care for Angie.
“I’ll speak to her.”
“Lucy and I talked, and I think she feels better, but it would be reassuring if she also heard from you.”
He was quiet a minute before saying, “It isn’t going to work out the way I wanted it to, Angie.” He’d dreamed such grand dreams. Had planned such grand plans. “For a time I thought it would.”
The night was overcast and dark, chillier than the usual cool August nights. The only light came from Daisy’s lamp shining through the kitchen window. The leaves of the lilac bush scattered the dim light and smothered the glow in shadow.
“I’ve been thinking about how we’re going to manage.” She touched the long curl tied at his neck, surprising and pleasing him. “If we sold everything . . . your horse and tack, my garnet earrings and pin, our wedding rings. And if we sold the house . . . how much money do you think we could put together?”
“Sell the house?”
“Just hear me out: I’ve been thinking about this. We could live in your tent, up on the claim. The girls and I could help you dig.”
His impulse was to laugh, but her tone was too serious. Touched, he shifted on the step and took her hand.
“It means more than I can express that you’d willingly move into and live in a tent to help Daisy.” He could no more imagine Angie cooking over a campfire or sleeping on the ground than he could imagine the surface of the moon. Sam suspected she couldn’t imagine herself living in a tent either. But she was willing to do it. “It’s not necessary to sell the house. I’ll get the money for Daisy’s operation.”
“How?”
It depressed him to discover that Angie’s hands were rough and chapped. Molly Johnson was dripping diamonds and Cannady was buying drinks for a hundred men tonight. While Sam’s wife was sitting here with her chapped hands talking about selling the house and moving his family into a goddamned tent.
“I have a plan.”
“Can you tell me about the plan?” she asked softly. “I don’t mean to push, Sam, but I can hardly sleep for worrying. The days are flying past and there’s only a few dollars more in the Daisy jar than we had a month ago.”
“Not tonight, all right?” His plan would sound so paltry and disappointing after Can’s big news.
Angie pulled her hand out of his and rubbed the side of her cheek. “There must be something I can do to help. Winnie Govenor sold pies to help Mr. Govenor get enough money to develop his mine. I could do something like that.” She waved an insect away. “I could bottle my tomato sauce and sell it. Or noodles. Noodles take so long to make, I think women would buy them ready-made.”