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The Price of Love © 2016 by Amanda Barratt
The Best Man in Brookside © 2016 by Angela Bell
Civilizing Clementine © 2016 by Dianne Christner
The Marriage Broker and the Mortician © 2016 by Anne Greene
The Lye Water Bride © 2016 by Linda Farmer Harris
A Sketch of Gold © 2016 by Cynthia Hickey
Love Is a Puzzle © 2016 by Pam Hillman
The Golden Cross © 2016 by Jennifer Rogers Spinola
Gold Haven Heiress © 2016 by Jaime Jo Wright

eBook Editions:
Adobe Digital Edition (.epub) 978-1-63409-911-0
Kindle and MobiPocket Edition (.prc) 978-1-63409-912-7

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual people, organizations, and/or events is purely coincidental.

Published by Barbour Books, an imprint of Barbour Publishing, Inc., P.O. Box 719, Uhrichsville, Ohio 44683, www.barbourbooks.com

Our mission is to publish and distribute inspirational products offering exceptional value and biblical encouragement to the masses.

The Price of Love

Dedication

To my dad. Thank you for your support, for reading my books despite their lack of airplanes and action, and most of all, for your love.

Chapter One

Arnold Payne wasn’t exactly known for detailed memorandums. Or readable penmanship.

Lorena Quinn studied the scrawl-covered stationery, wishing she could decipher the man who wrote it as quickly as she did the scribbled handwriting. She’d never held much fondness for waiting. Especially when the one who dangled her future was her unpredictable and capricious senior editor.

Her gaze swung to the wall clock. Only fifteen minutes left. Fifteen minutes before she must leave the safety of her little office, cross the hall…

Perhaps she was being a bit melodramatic. A fault of hers, one Payne made abundantly clear every time he covered her painstakingly written pieces with editorial marks and ink blots.

She stood, smoothing the folds of her gray silk dress with shaking hands. Though a bolder color would have boosted her confidence—mauve perhaps, or daring red—as the only female editor employed by the Weekly Observer, she did her best to appear matronly.

A glance in the mirror confirmed her failings. With a face full of freckles and rebellious curls too red to be called anything but, she was still little Lorena Quinn. Teased and tormented by every girl in Miss Harden’s Grammar School.

Lorena pressed chilled fingertips to her eyes, willing the memories to return to the recesses of her mind and stay secreted away for good. It didn’t matter what they called her. She wasn’t that girl any longer. She was successful, talented, and had a nose for news rivaling that of any male competitor.

Payne’s cavernous voice made her whirl. She squared her shoulders, straightened the cameo at her throat, and strode out of her rabbit hutch of an office.

Well, as much as a lady could stride wearing a crinoline and several starched petticoats.

As always, when she entered the senior editor’s office, a sneeze tickled her nose. Arnold Payne sat, bulky frame ensconced behind a huge oak desk, clouds of cigar smoke wafting up like a chimney at full blast.

“I’m not late, am I?” She moved forward until only the desk stood between them.

Payne opened his watch with a click. “A full ten minutes. I suppose it’s too much to expect punctuality from the feminine persuasion.”

“You said ten thirty, did you not?” She drew in a breath of smoke-laden air, the whalebone of her corset pinching.

“Forgive me for my inability to read your chicken scratch. Shall I sit down?” As with every other available surface, stacks of papers and dozens of cigar butts cluttered the leather chair. Honestly, with the thousands he made, couldn’t the man afford a simple ashtray?

“I doubt it would be worth the time it would take to move everything.” Payne leaned back in his seat, surveying her with heavy-lidded eyes. “In short, Quinn, you’ll be leaving on the next ship out to San Francisco. Gold fever is on everyone’s lips, drummed into everyone’s brain, and dreamed about on everyone’s pillow. Thus, it seems only fitting that the Observer should join the fray with a series of firsthand accounts of the neck-or-nothing excitement of striking it rich. It was a tough debate deciding whether to send you or Galsworth, but I’ve made my choice. You’ll set sail and enjoy shipboard luxury, if you can call it that, for a couple of months, dock in San Francisco, then get busy on detailed accounts of the money to be made simply by dipping a pan into a creek.” He leaned forward, his half-smoked cigar between stubby, ink-stained fingers. “Understood?”

Her mind spun like an out-of-control top. Leave New York? Her comfortable room at a downtown boardinghouse? Her reading club and literary society? And for what? To spend months aboard a ship, and even more months amongst uncivilized miners? Despite the tales of easy cash and gold for the picking, Lorena had her suspicions that very few had actually become rich. Hundreds upon hundreds had left the East and headed for these uncharted places. There couldn’t possibly be enough gold for all.

Besides, she wasn’t that kind of writer. Nor was the Weekly Observer that sort of magazine. Her specialty involved attending various social events and reporting on gossip and Mrs. Astor’s latest Parisian ball gowns. And honestly, she was content with the way of things.

“No. That is not understood. This is not just some pleasure jaunt across New York State. It will involve months of travel. How can I possibly undertake such a trip?”

He drummed his fingers on the desk. “Shall I tell Galsworth I’ve changed my mind? That our lady employee has objections to a bit of discomfort?” His eyes gleamed with a knowing look.

She swallowed hard. There were moments when she longed for a real story, something of substance and value. Something that would shake the world, or at least New York City.

Perhaps…this was her chance. If it involved a bit of discomfort while traveling, so be it. She could manage. She wasn’t like the society misses who were featured in her columns, all prim and proper, furbelows and finery. No, she had pluck. Spirit, some called it. A spirit that could never be content knitting by the fire, while a husband conquered the world and kept her sheltered in a golden cage.

“You’ll leave a week from today. That should give you plenty of time to sort through your female arsenal and decide which weapons of dress and decorum to take along for the benefit of those lonely miners. I’ll say good-bye, Miss Quinn. It’s a sorry day when the most dedicated member of my staff leaves my employ, but so be it. I expect a thank-you note from the man who claims you.”

Confusion tumbled in her mind. “Leave your employ? You don’t expect me to return?” Was the Wild West really so dangerous that Mr. Payne feared for her life?

“Oh, I expect you to return all right.” He chuckled, the sound sending a shiver down her spine, like a spider crawling under her chemise. “But the little gold band on your finger will certainly prevent you from working for me.”

“Why, of course. Don’t you realize that there are literally thousands of men out there and not a woman in sight? Even with your…um…unusual appearance, you’re sure to find someone. Those men are desperate.”

Her hands balled into fists. Oh, if she were a man and Payne were not her employer. She’d demand satisfaction and knock some sense into his melon-shaped head with a few well-placed blows. Unfortunately, she was a lady and Payne was the man who paid her salary. Still…

“Mr. Payne! Are you suggesting that I travel to the gold fields in search of a husband? Those men may be desperate, but I certainly am not. Even with my ‘unusual appearance,’ as you so tactfully put it, I could find a man to marry in New York quite easily if I so desired. But I do not, and I have every intention of returning to New York City, and to this office, single, unattached.” She lowered her voice, making every syllable count. “And without a husband.”

“Humph!” Payne snorted. “My dear lady, the likelihood of such a happy event failing to take place is about as probable as pigs flying.”

She ground her teeth. “As I said before, Mr. Payne, I shall return, not only unmarried, but with my heart unswayed by the cadre of ‘lonely miners,’ no matter how many ask for my hand.”

He hefted his substantial bulk out of the chair. “Care to place a little wager on it?”

“Well, if…if you return without accepting a single proposal of marriage, I might…no, I will be inclined to offer you that oh-so-coveted position of assistant editor that should become available as soon as dear old Grimsby hands in his notice of retirement. Are we agreed?”

The opportunity danced before her, as golden as the nuggets residing in California’s streams. Assistant editor! Never in all her born days had she imagined holding such a desirable title. Her breath caught. Just think what it would mean for women. If she gained the position and did well, it could open up opportunities for women everywhere, showing men that not all ladies were content with only marriage and babies. And she would do well. More than well.

“Agreed.” She held out her hand, ink-smudged fingers clasping ink-smudged fingers. What traitors her emotions were. Moments ago she’d wanted to throttle the man. Now she wanted to hug him. Her nose wrinkled again at the odor of stale cigars.

“Now, get out of my office. I’ve got a load of work to do, and you have a trip to pack for.” He resumed his seat.

She nodded and let herself out, a smile finding its way to her lips. A trip to pack for. A voyage to undertake.

Caleb Maddox had boxed sixteen rounds with life. The result? Beaten, soundly beaten.

Now, all he wanted to do was close his eyes and let life go on around him. Or stop. He didn’t much care either way.

He stood, stretched some of the tension from his shoulders, and crossed the room. A cup of lukewarm coffee and a square of cornbread sat on a table near the window. He took a sip and barely suppressed a groan. As usual, his coffee-making abilities had not improved. But then, what had?

Across the street, whoops and hollers pierced the air as the saloon doors swung open and three grizzle-bearded miners stumbled out, clutching small sacks in their fists. Undoubtedly they’d just returned from the fields, ripe with their findings, with hopes of doubling their riches at the roulette wheels and card tables within. Surprising that the fellows had anything left in their hands. Most played until the greedy saloon owners had taken all but the shirts on their backs. Then the men would go back to work long enough to conjure up more dust, so they could return to town and repeat the entire blasted process all over again.

Caleb turned away from the window. He had no right to judge them. Less than a year ago, he’d been like the rest. Eager. Rash. And like the rest, he’d ended up broke. No gold. His savings spent. Thankfully, he’d been able to take out a loan and start up a printing press and newspaper office in San Francisco. As for the gold fields, he’d said good-bye for good.

Contrary to what children’s stories and Eastern newspapers said, there was no pot of gold waiting at the end of a rainbow, or the bottom of a stream. Only frostbitten feet, aching joints…

He returned to his desk and, after perusing the article he’d just written about the price of vegetables, flipped through the stack of mail. If one could call two letters a stack, though by California standards, it probably was. Mail of any kind was about as scarce in these parts as a proper, Eastern woman.

The handwriting on the first envelope made a sheen of perspiration break out on his forehead. He’d know it anywhere. Chicken scratch, plenty of ink blots.

Heedless of the fact that paper was scarce and the envelope could have been reused, he ripped it open, unfolded the single sheet atop his desk, and read.

Maddox,

To use a cliché, I’ll cut right to the chase. How long are you going to slave and sweat in the middle of heaven knows where? I heard from a friend that you’ve given up panning for the shiny stuff and are running a newspaper office instead. The idea is preposterous. Why don’t you return to New York where you belong? Your old job is about to come up for grabs, and I’ll let you have it back. We’ll let bygones be bygones and say no more about the events surrounding your departure.

But first, I have an assignment for you. I’m sending out one of my reporters to do some stories on the riches to be found in your lovely little part of the state. I want you to look after her and help her retrieve material for the articles. Not only that, I want you to lay on the charm heavy as iron ore, convince the miss to fall head over slippered heels in love with you, and return to New York with her in tow. Once this is accomplished, you’ll find your old office all shined up and ready for use. Only if you succeed, however.

The lady’s name is Miss Lorena Quinn. She should be arriving by ship in San Francisco right around the time you receive this letter. I expect you to be at the dock waiting to pick her up.

So long for now. Remember—enjoy yourselves.

A. Payne

Caleb scrubbed a hand over his jaw, the words taking root in his mind. What kind of a crazy scheme was this? Convince some lady reporter to fall madly in love with him? Some New York lady reporter. And as a reward for his success, he’d gain his old job. How many times since arriving in California had he dreamed of the days spent in his office at the Weekly Observer? How many moments had he mentally kicked himself for leaving that life in the first place? He’d never thought to have such an opportunity again, yet here one was, put right under his nose, dished up on a silver…no, make that golden, platter.

Never again, he’d promised himself. Never again would he let himself flirt, allow himself to be close to a woman of high society. He’d done it only once before.

Chapter Two

Never in all her born days had she imagined such a quantity of mud could exist in any place on the Lord’s green earth.

Exist it did. With an extra-large portion finding residence on the hem of her skirt and the tops of her boots.

So this was San Francisco. The place where fortunes were made, gold changed into coin.

It didn’t look like much. Ramshackle buildings with rough wood exteriors, like patchwork quilts pieced together by a child’s clumsy fingers. Huge tents mingled with a few brick buildings that stuck out like kings amid a field of peasants.

Lorena glanced behind, hoping to glimpse the reassuring sight of Brock and Melanie Jordan. Acquaintances of Mr. Payne, they’d been her traveling companions on the two-month voyage from New York to San Francisco. They seemed to have vanished, luggage and all. No doubt to act upon their visions of nuggets and dust. Visions they’d shared with her on the journey more times than she cared to remember.

Deciding there was nothing she could do except forge ahead, she lifted the sodden skirt of her traveling gown with one hand and her valise with the other. Her trunks would have to wait. Perhaps she could hire a wagon to transport them once she procured suitable lodging.

Hopefully her cases would still be there when she sent for them. No knowing how many thieves and vagabonds preyed upon this very street.

With one final glance toward the wharf and the pitiful sight of her two trunks, purchased especially for the voyage, she took a soggy step, keeping her gaze on the state of her dress.

“Well, I’ll be ding-danged if this ain’t a sight for sore eyes. Lookie here, Jimmy. A gen-u-ine woman.”

Lorena glanced up. A beast…no, a man stood a few feet away, staring at her as if she were the mother lode incarnate. A scraggly beard obscured most of his facial features and the front of his blue flannel shirt. Behind him, a younger, cleaner-shaven fellow gaped with equal awe.

“Don’t you realize that there are literally thousands of men and not a woman in sight? Even with your…um…unusual appearance, you’re sure to find someone. Those men are desperate.”

Payne’s words clanged in her mind like a gong. She sucked in a breath of fog-laden air. Surely these uncivilized miners wouldn’t have the audacity to propose marriage on the spot.

“I ain’t seen one of them for a month of Sundays.” The man called Jimmy took a step closer, his boots making sucking sounds in the muck. Not that the dirt seemed to daunt him any, for in the next second he was down on one knee, staring up at her.

“She’s real pretty, ain’t she?” He glanced at his bearded friend. Then back at her. “Little lady, will you marry me?”

“Aw, come on, Jim. I saw her first.” The other man approached with giant steps and, before she could protest, swallowed her hand in his gnarled paw. “Don’t you listen to Jimmy none, you pretty little thing. You come on and marry ole Abner Hopkins, and you’ll be as happy as a cow in a patch of clover.”

Good heavens, it was even worse than she expected. She yanked her gloved hand from the man’s grip and took a step back. A crowd had gathered, and their whistles and hollered proposals mingled with the banjo and piano music spilling from a nearby saloon.

She lifted her chin, wishing she possessed more than her five feet, four inches in height.

Lord, if it wouldn’t be too much trouble, I’d appreciate some help right about now.

“Mr. Hopkins! Much as I am gratified by the honor of your proposal, I cannot accept. And that goes for every last one of you.” She scanned the motley group, comprised of rough-looking miners and dark-skinned foreigners attired in flamboyant sombreros. Even a few men with long black pigtails, who surely hailed from China.

“You don’t mean that, missy. Give us a chance,” came the calls from the crowd as they moved closer, circling her like hunters around a fox.

“I most certainly do!” Using her valise as a battering ram of sorts, she shoved through the fray, crinoline swinging. Her bonnet tipped off her upswept hair and dropped in the mud, only to be trampled by booted feet as the men surged around her.

Free from the confines of the crowd, she barreled forward, intent on moving as fast as she could from these much too eager, so-called gentlemen. All of a sudden her foot slammed into something hard. Strong arms wrapped around her, steadying her. Her breath stopped mid-inhale. The valise landed in the mud.

“What the deuce!” muttered the something. Another man. One with no beard, broad shoulders, and a rather pleasant-smelling brown flannel shirt. The cloth actually smelled clean. Like soap and the faintest hint of spice.

Lorena struggled to extricate herself from his grip, pressing both palms flat against his chest. His arms held her like an iron band.

“Let go of me.” She whispered the words through gritted teeth, indignation soaring. He had no right, no right at all, to manhandle her. Did no one in this golden city possess any sense of propriety?

The man stepped back. Gracious, he was tall. Hair a cross between brown and blond brushed his shirt collar, and as his caramel-colored eyes found hers, amusement sparked in their depths.

“My apologies, miss.” He tipped his broad-brimmed felt hat. “I didn’t know quite how to respond when you slammed into me like that.” He rubbed his ribs, wincing slightly.

“Good. Because I’d hate to infuriate the only genuine lady in the city of San Francisco.”

Her fingers fumbled to secure her unkempt hair as she swung her gaze behind. The crowd had silenced some, but still watched them. She cut her voice low. “You cannot possibly mean I am the only respectable lady in this…city?” Though she didn’t know this man, at least he was well kempt, a virtue in itself in such a dirty place.

A breeze scoured the air, sending the scent of soap and spice wafting over her again. “Perhaps not the only lady, but there aren’t many of you, Miss Quinn.”

A grin softened the angles of his jaw. “Forgive me for not introducing myself sooner.” He stuck out his hand. Her reporter’s eye instantly noted the ink stains on his fingers. “Caleb Maddox from the San Francisco Herald, at your service.”

“I know.” Another smile. “I just received Mr. Payne’s letter. I’ve been expecting you.”

Her grip tightened on her valise. “You know Arnold Payne?” This had to be some sort of joke. Someone who dwelt in these…wilds couldn’t possibly know the editor of a New York magazine. No matter how fine such a person smelled.

Caleb Maddox nodded. “He told me he was sending one of his reporters out and asked if I might help with some of your research. I used to work for Mr. Payne back in New York, before I came out here.”

“He told me nothing of the sort.” She jolted as Mr. Maddox pulled her out of the path of a group of swerving men exiting one of the buildings, bottles held aloft, obscenities spewing from their mouths.

“Then I guess you’ll just have to trust me, won’t you, Miss Quinn?” He released his hold on her.

Trust him? She’d only just met the man. Every lesson learned amongst high society came flooding back. A single woman never put her trust in an unknown man. No matter his behavior, his attire, or how charmingly he might grin.

But a single woman also didn’t travel alone to a town populated by characters such as she’d seen in the past half hour. A single woman didn’t seek a high position, adventure, or anything other than a wealthy husband.

She sighed. Though she knew them like the steps of a quadrille, she’d never been one to follow the rules of propriety laid out for a single woman.

The lady studied him as if he were no better than a bucket full of mud. Clad in a pretty dress, the likes of which he hadn’t seen since arriving in California, she stood tall, though he dwarfed her by half a foot.

Blast it all, did she ever have a face full of freckles. They dusted her forehead, covered her nose, and sprinkled across her cheeks like tiny flecks of cinnamon on an otherwise creamy white canvas. And her hair…It hung in disarray; long, wavy, and very red.

“I guess I will.” Her syllables were clipped, her nose lifted high. By George, she emitted society the way these men emitted stench. Clear. Unmistakable. No apologies.

And Payne had instructed him to capture her heart? What a laugh his former boss must be having at his expense. Knowing how cucumber-cool Miss Quinn was, Arnold Payne was undoubtedly sitting at his desk this very minute, jowls jiggling and stomach heaving with giant bursts of laughter.

If he’d been a sane man, Caleb would’ve turned on his heel and let Miss New York fend for herself. A couple of days alone in this city of vice would knock her down a peg or two.

Yet nearly a year in this town, this place of broken dreams and easy bloodshed, had rendered him anything but sane.

Lord, I know I’m not in the habit of conversing with You as much as I used to, but if ever I needed Your help, it’s now.

“Did you bring any luggage?” He glanced at the fancy valise clutched in her gloved hand. Surely she’d brought more than this, what with all the Eastern gewgaws she was wearing now. Women of her ilk never traveled with less than half a dozen luggage cases.

“Two trunks. They’re at the wharf. As soon as the sailors docked, the crew vanished. Thankfully, one of them was kind enough to bring my luggage ashore.”

“I’ll have them sent for. There isn’t much in the way of respectable rooming houses, but I do know of a place. You don’t mind a bit of a walk, do you?”

For a second, her shoulders wilted, the skirt of her dress following suit. Apparently she’d concluded it was fruitless to try to protect her garments from the mud any longer. Yet a glint of determination lit her emerald eyes and she nodded. “I don’t mind.”

He moved to carry her bag, but she clutched it tight, despite the trail of mud it left on her skirt. “I can manage on my own, thank you very much.”

Years spent among New York City’s gentry made him hold out his arm for her to take. She gave it the sort of glance one might a poisonous spider, before sashaying ahead. That is, as much as a lady could sashay wearing a skirt weighted down with a whole lot of mud.

Right, then. So fancy Miss New York didn’t want chivalry. Fine by him. He stood for a moment, watching as she stormed ahead.

“Do you have any idea where you’re headed?” he called. “Because I do. Straight toward the center of San Francisco’s saloon district. ’Course it matters little to me whether or not you’ve a taste for the gaming tables. And if it’s cards you’re interested in, I can recommend a few places that offer a decent hand of poker.”

The words brought her around. Something akin to a flush enveloped her freckled cheeks. He noted it with satisfaction. Valise swinging, she returned to where he stood.

“Very well, Mr. Maddox.” She held out the bag with the tips of her blue-gloved fingers. “I shall trust myself entirely to your estimable sense of direction. As long as you actually know where you’re going.”

For a moment, he considered taking her luggage case and chucking it in the mud. It would serve the lady right, her with all her airs and graces and superior attitude.

Just think about that office. If he thought of that, he’d make it through somehow. Those fine leather chairs, the smell of ink, his elegant letterhead. The tidy brownstone he’d called home. Evenings at the theater, lunch with his colleagues. A month or two of charm would be well worth it, when at last he returned to his life.

So with a smile and a wink, he took Miss Quinn’s valise from her finally willing hands.

Chapter Three

The longer she traversed this golden city, the more convinced she became of its utter lack of moral principle. Prostitutes hung out brothel windows, brazenly advertising themselves to the passing men. Gunshots erupted at the slightest provocation, and she’d already witnessed one fistfight.

Lord, this must have been the state Sodom and Gomorrah was in. And honestly, I don’t blame You in the least for wanting to destroy it.

The room Mr. Maddox had procured was little more than a canvas-partitioned closet on the top floor of a restaurant. At least the lady who ran the place seemed respectable. Kind even. Though with her graying hair and substantial middle, Mrs. Dougall probably didn’t experience the constant ogling.

Lorena studied her reflection in the mirror. The pitcher and basin on her bedside table had been a godsend, and she’d managed to wash most of the dirt from her face and hands, though unfortunately not the hem of her skirt. With damp fingers, she smoothed back her hair, repinning it into a knot at the nape of her neck.

She turned and bit back a cry as the corner of her trunk connected with her shin. An obliging man had hauled both trunks up the narrow stairs, and they now occupied most of her floor space.

A sigh lifted her chest. After lending her the help of his muscles, the man had proceeded to offer her his hand, heart, and home in the bargain.

I hate to admit it, Arnold Payne, but you’re right. These fellows are nothing if not desperate.

Thus, it would be a more tedious task than she’d first envisioned to keep refusing them all. But she would manage. She hadn’t become a reporter based on her looks, that’s for certain. She had mettle and wouldn’t be daunted.

She spun around, bumping her shin again. Sparks of pain shot up her already bruised leg, and she thrust back the canvas.

Caleb Maddox stood outside, hair neatly combed, a bouquet of flowers in his hand.

Oh good heavens. This civilized man wasn’t about to join her troop of admirers.

“Yes?” She smoothed a hand down the front of her skirt and discreetly rubbed her leg.

He held out the flowers. She had to admit, they were some of the loveliest she’d ever seen. Blue and pink, with a fresh, wild scent. The first bit of anything resembling nature she’d seen since leaving New York. Yet she couldn’t take them. For to do so would imply mutual interest. Something she could not afford. Especially when the man offering was tall, reasonably good-looking, and smelled almost as good as the wildflowers.

“These are for you.” He shifted a bit. “I also would like to extend an invitation to dine. Mrs. Dougall makes a fine vegetable stew, and her biscuits are lighter than any this side of the Sacramento River.”

At the mere mention of biscuits, her mouth watered. The food on the ship had been edible at best, weevil-ridden at worst. Yet it was out of the question to even consider accepting his invitation. She straightened her shoulders and put on her best society tone. “How kind of you, Mr. Maddox. Regretfully though, I must decline. I am rather tired from my journey and would prefer to dine in my room.”

He took a sudden step back, as if startled. Though why should he be? It wasn’t as if the ratios were reversed and he the only man amid dozens of single women. Why, she could have her pick of a hundred men to sup with, if she chose.

If the people she’d seen so far were any indication of the type of dinner companions she could choose from, it would be more agreeable to eat in the barn.

“Very well. I’m sure your journey was most fatiguing. But you must at least take the flowers.” He held them out again.

She shook her head. “I’d prefer not to.” Then she pushed the canvas closed, leaving him standing outside. Whether he left or continued to stand there, she couldn’t care less.

Hitching up her skirts, she sank onto the lumpy cot, pressing her fingers against her eyes. How ironic that she, who had been rejected her entire life, was now the one rejecting. A tiny stab of guilt pierced her conscience. She just as quickly shoved it aside. It wasn’t as if she wanted to break men’s hearts. This whole affair had been Payne’s idea. Not hers. She only wanted the position of assistant editor. The security it provided. The success of proving to the world, or at least a small part of it, that women were not mere playthings. That they could do more than wait upon the whims of conceited men like those she’d encountered all her life.

Determination brought her to her feet. She would succeed. No matter how many marriage proposals, dinner invitations, and flower bouquets she must refuse.

So this was where kindness got him. Caleb had purchased some flowers from a street vendor, donned a clean shirt, and prepared to take Lorena Quinn to dinner.

He’d skipped dinner himself, any appetite forgotten, and now sat in his room at the back of the newspaper office.

It had been just the same with Emily. Only she had begun by giving him smiles, showing him attention. He’d fallen for her hard, spent what he’d been saving for an encyclopedia set on a ring, and laid his heart out for the taking. Oh, she’d taken it all right. Stomped on it with her silk-slippered foot. Crushed it with her lily-white hands.

That moment—branded into his memory—had been enough to obliterate any thoughts of marriage and love. With anyone. For though all women might not behave as Emily did, they were all the same deep down at their core. They didn’t care. To them, men’s affections were laughable. Replaceable. They didn’t realize the sacred gift a man bestowed on them when he offered them his heart, overcoming months of hesitation to get up the courage to ask. They couldn’t care less.

Which was why he had no qualms about leading Miss Quinn on and making her fall in love with him.

A knock sounded on the front door. He stood, grabbing his shirt from where it hung on the back of a chair. Who in tarnation could be knocking at this hour? Of course, San Francisco rarely slept, much less silenced. The bars and brothels were never closed, always ready to snatch the sprinklings of gold dust in exchange for a temporary antidote to the loneliness all men experienced.

With one hand on the pistol at his waist, Caleb opened the door a crack. He grinned at the sight of his friend Mitch Laramee.

“Come in, come in. Haven’t seen you in a while.” He held open the door, and Mitch entered.

“That’s why I decided to pay you a visit.” Mitch crossed the room and took a seat in front of the small fireplace. Caleb followed suit. “I thought to myself, I wonder what good old Caleb Maddox is doing tonight. So I decided to wander on over here and sit a spell.”

“I’m glad you did.” Caleb took the pot of coffee from where it simmered over the fire and proceeded to pour a cup for Mitch and one for himself. “How’s the business of getting rich?”

Mitch downed the cup in a thirsty gulp, obviously not caring how bad it tasted. “Glad you asked. That’s what I like about you, Maddox. You don’t beat about the bush like some fellers do. Truth is, my friend, things aren’t as good as they used to be. My last claim turned out to be nothing but dirt, and I came into town tonight with my last few ounces of dust, hoping to double them enough to buy a decent meal at a restaurant. A man can only eat salt pork and beans for just so long, you know. But luck wasn’t in the cards for me tonight, and I lost everything. Not only that, I lost my grandfather’s watch and that fancy pair of woolen socks Susan knitted for me just before I left.” He let loose a doleful sigh, rubbing bony fingers through his scruff of a beard.

Caleb wanted to echo the sigh with one of his own. Simply because he no longer panned for gold like the rest of them, men assumed he had a constant supply of ready cash for the loaning. He wasn’t above helping those in need, but this wasn’t the first time Mitch had asked.

“Mitch, in San Francisco, ‘some grub and a few supplies’ can cost ten times more than they do back East.” Not that Caleb didn’t have the money. But he’d been saving for some time, and if things went the way he intended, he’d soon need every cent to pay for passage back to New York City.

“I know, old friend. But it’s just a loan, mind. I’ll pay you back. I’ve got my sights on a new claim, and I’ve an inkling this will be the one. I feel it in my very bones, I do.” Mitch leaned forward, anticipation in his eyes. Eyes that were becoming more sunken and bloodshot as the weeks wore on.

“Tell you what.” Caleb set his cup down and placed both hands on his knees. “I’m of a mind to be out of this place in a couple of months, and I’ll arrange for your passage in lieu of a job with the crew. You can return to Pennsylvania. Take up your life with Susan and the children again. Until then, I’ll see you have enough to eat and a place to stay.”

Mitch shook his head slowly. “No. Sorry, old friend, but I ain’t leaving. I’d be a fool to give up my chance at getting rich. There’s gold in these parts, and I’m aiming to find it. Every day someone gets a lucky strike, and if I leave now, I’ll miss my chance.”

Caleb loosed the sigh building in his chest. “I panned for gold for six months and in all that time, I saw two men find enough gold to make them rich. Two. I thank the Lord I realized my odds and came to my senses when I did. You can do the same. I’ve got enough put by to return home and intend to do so once the promise of my former job is assured. It isn’t too late, Mitch. You have a wife and young ones back home who need a father and provider. You may not be up to your ears in gold dust there, but at least you have a life.”

Mitch stood, jamming his hat down over his ears. If ever gold fever wrote itself upon a man’s face, it was written upon Mitch Laramee’s. “I hate to disagree with friends, but disagree I do. You’re wrong, Maddox. There’s gold out there. And I won’t rest until I find it.”

Chapter Four

Rubbing the last traces of sleep from her eyes, Lorena made her way into the warm sunshine of a San Francisco morning. She lifted the skirt of her green delaine walking dress with one hand, stifling a yawn with the other. The sound of gunshots had bolted her out of bed half an hour ago, far too early for her travel-weary body. At least she would be free to explore at leisure.

Some of the mud had begun to dry, but she still took care, making her way down the street. If one could call it such. With half of the buildings constructed of canvas and the other half rough, unfinished wood, San Francisco’s architecture was a far cry from the elegant brownstones and brick homes she’d grown up around.

Few paid her any mind this morning—thank goodness—and she passed only a handful of people on the streets, mostly shopkeepers preparing for business.

She drew in deep breaths of the surprisingly fresh air, letting the faint breeze stir the matching green ribbon on her bonnet. Though it was perhaps at odds with her professional aspirations, she did love fashion. Bright colors. Rich silks. Fanciful trim.

Lorena turned down another, narrower street, passing a large wood building bedecked with an ornate front door and lavishly carved sign.

A shiver wrapped chill fingers around her spine. “Those” sort of women worked there, catering to the base needs of disreputable men. Revolting. How could any woman subject herself to such a thing? Why did they not seek decent work? Surely in a town of this size they could take in laundry, run a restaurant, or—

A faint cry. The sound halted her thoughts, sending her gaze upward, toward the curtained windows at the top of the building. It came again, low and mewling. Hefting up her skirts, she followed the sound behind the building. The cloying scent of rotting garbage assailed her nose, and she swallowed back the bile rising in her throat.

Heedless of the mess, she gathered the bundle in her arms as the cry came again.

“Why, hello there, sweet one. Whatever are you doing here?” She bounced the infant in her arms, soothing the babe’s fussing. Wide blue eyes gazed back at her, drool leaking from the tiny pink mouth.

Kneeling down, she unwrapped the tattered gray shawl. Beneath the woolen covering, the baby girl wore nothing at all. Bereft of her clothing, the infant began to wail afresh and Lorena rewrapped the blanket.

What now? She couldn’t very well leave the baby here. Yet she also couldn’t take the child to her hotel room…could she?

Why not? It was her room after all. She’d find the little one and herself something to eat and then go in search of the baby’s mother. Though the thought of where she’d have to begin her quest made her skin crawl.

She glanced from the baby in her arms to the hem of her dress. A sigh found its way to her lips. She couldn’t very well protect her skirt and carry the child.

In a quarter of an hour, she stood outside the hotel, considering how to open the door while carrying an infant. The child had fallen asleep, lulled perhaps by the warmth of the sun and the shelter of her arms. Lorena gazed downward, throat tightening.

What desperate circumstances had some poor soul found herself in to abandon her precious baby?

She started forward, stopping herself from running into Mr. Maddox just in time. Seemed to be a habit of hers, darting forward and smacking into this man. “That is a baby.”

“I know what it is, but why are you holding it?” He put his hands in his pockets, looking genuinely befuddled.

Lorena raised her eyes to his, surprised by the tears that threatened to spill forth. “I was taking a walk and found her. She was in a trash heap. A trash heap! Can you imagine that? An innocent baby abandoned.” Her arms tightened around the bundle as if, by the shelter of her arms, she could resurrect the story of this child’s past.

Concern flecked his eyes, and he rested his hand atop the baby’s head. “I can, actually. I’ve seen things during my stay here…”

For a moment, they simply stood. The warmth and weight of this tiny person sent a sudden spark of longing through her heart. Once, she’d been just as abandoned as this little girl. Not in a rubbish heap, of course, but the memories returned with painful clarity. The darkness and isolation of her bed at the orphanage. The ache every time another child was adopted by a family. The tears she muffled night after night, the anticipation and anxiety when a couple decided to take her on. She’d dreamed, prayed that Mr. and Mrs. Ramsay would prove to be the loving parents her heart longed for.

It hadn’t worked out as she had dreamed. She’d gotten parents. But they hadn’t been loving. And as time went on, it had become apparent that they viewed taking her on as a mistake more than anything else.

“What are you going to do?” Mr. Maddox’s voice brought her back to reality. As did the touch of his hand on her shoulder.

“Find her something to eat first. Then search for her mother. She’s got to be out there somewhere. There aren’t that many women…even improper ones. Someone should know.”

His hand lingered on her shoulder, the sensation foreign. In New York, respectable men didn’t take such liberties with a single woman. No matter how badly comfort might be needed, no matter how much one might want the connection that came with another’s hand against theirs. “You intend to do this all by yourself? Go into these establishments, rub shoulders with the patrons? You’re not from these parts. Around here, if a decent lady set foot in places like those, she’d be, well, the only way I can say it is…eaten alive.”

He cocked his head, as if in thought. “This child’s mother wouldn’t have abandoned her if she had any way to keep her. What would be a more logical thing to do is to pay a visit to Reverend Howell. He runs the largest church, well, the only church, in town and might know of a God-fearing couple willing to give this child the home and the love she deserves.”

Lorena hesitated. They had told her Mr. and Mrs. Ramsay would give her love, provide her a home. They’d done the latter, at least.

Still, if she interviewed the couple and found someone with a tender heart. Someone who could provide more than what this child’s mother could possibly offer. And Mr. Maddox had agreed to help her. Not that she’d ever relied on help from anyone of any kind. Though it would be of use to have someone with her who had been in the town longer than she.

He raised a brow. “A cow might be the only thing scarcer than Eastern ladies around these parts. Lucky for you, I have connections.” He tossed her a smile, one that crinkled the corners of his eyes, making butterflies take flight in her stomach. Caleb led the way down the street. She followed.

So Miss Friendlier-Than-a-Rattlesnake had a woman’s heart beneath those layers of petticoats and propriety. He had to admit that when she’d stood there, the slightest trace of tears in her eyes, something inside his heart had twisted.

She clutched the child close against that pretty green dress she wore, a strand of hair falling from its pins and fluttering in the breeze. He had to force his fingers into a fist to refrain from reaching out, brushing it aside.

They reached the half-canvas, half-wood structure that served as Reverend Howell’s church and living quarters. Motioning for Miss Quinn to wait outside, Caleb stuck his head in the opening that, in civilized New York, would have been called a door.

The middle-age man emerged from his living quarters in the back. Ascertaining he was decently attired for visitors, Caleb turned and called outside.

She stepped inside, the baby in her arms. At the sight of a well-dressed, genteel-looking lady, Reverend Howell ran his hands down the front of his suit coat and advanced, hand outstretched.

“How do you do, Mrs. Maddox? I’m Reverend Howell. Though I’m surprised that Caleb here hasn’t mentioned you, I’m glad to finally make your acquaintance.”

Beneath the freckles, Miss Quinn’s cheeks turned a dozen shades of red. Heat crept up Caleb’s shirt collar.

Reverend Howell shook his head. “That is indeed a surprise. And a disappointment. I expected better of you as a man of God, Caleb. Of course, sin can be forgiven and we can remedy the situation with a marriage license posthaste.”

Caleb cleared his throat, the confines of the tent and the intensity of Reverend Howell’s stare making him shift from foot to foot. “You’ve got this all wrong, Reverend. This lady here…Miss Quinn, we’re not romantically entangled. She’s a magazine columnist from back East. I only just met her yesterday.”

“Well now, that puts things in a different light.” Reverend Howell’s face broke into a relieved smile. “My apologies for the mistake, Caleb, Miss Quinn.”

“No offense taken.” Miss Quinn’s answering smile rivaled the glitter of gold.

“We came to see you about a different matter entirely. Miss Quinn found this child abandoned in a rubbish heap, and we were wondering if you might know of a Christian family who would be willing to consider caring for and possibly adopting the little girl.”

Miss Quinn stepped to his side, her petite frame barely reaching his shoulder. That wayward strand of hair brushed her face, and he once again resisted capturing it.

No doubt last night’s lack of sleep had started to turn him into a dad-gummed fool.

“Whereabouts did you find the child?” Reverend Howell leaned forward, peering down at the baby.

“Behind the Mansion, abandoned in their trash heap.” Another flush stole over Miss Quinn’s face.

Caleb sucked in a breath. She hadn’t told him that. What had the lady been thinking, taking a walk near San Francisco’s most notorious brothel? Had the California sun scrambled her brain? She could have been accosted…or worse.

Reverend Howell heaved a weighty sigh. “That doesn’t surprise me. I’d like to help you, Miss Quinn. My heart goes out to cases like this, truly it does, but with prices so high and gold harder to find by the day, I can’t think of a single family around these parts with the financial means to take on a child. There are prosperous farmers, to be sure, but I’m not personally acquainted with them. You could make inquiries on your own, of course, and that might be your best course of action.”

Table of Contents

The Price of Love

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four