Page 14 of The Saloon Girl's Only Shot

“Have you shared all your best tips for finding gold?” Temperance asked Owen brightly. “My father maintains that iron staining is a good sign. It might be yellow or purple, but red soil and quartz are definitely things you ought to look for.”

Well, shit. Owen turned his head to stare at her with bemusement.

“I thought your father wrote feasibility studies,” he said.

“What do you think those are?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea.”

She huffed with exasperation, but she was right here. It completely spoiled the effect when he could watch her chest rise and fall in the edges of his vision. Her position on his knee put her eye-to-eye with him. He’d never noticed a woman’s eyebrows before. Hers were a playful shape that swept up from the center then down and quirked expressively as she spoke.

“My father is an academic in the study of natural sciences. He schooled at Oxford. He’s taught at many fine institutions, most recently at Chicago University. He has considerable experience in geological survey, having spent years preparing almanacs in Canada.” She drilled that into Owen with a severe look. “One was very well-received at an exhibition in London.”

“He sounds smart,” one of the Harry-Darrys said with awe.

“He’s very intelligent and well-educated. I only wish he had applied his knowledge to prospecting.” She leaned forward, making Owen want to catch his arm around her to steady her. “Then I would be an heiress to a gold-mining company. Instead, I will only inherit his best advice on how to find it.” She sat up straight again, sending all of Owen’s senses swinging afresh.

The boys chuckled, eager to hear more, their attention fixated on her.

Her advice wasn’t bad. Not on the face of it, but Owen had been one of these boys. He’d chased the ‘signs’ in California and damned near starved to death.

“Your father is misinformed,” he told the instantly thorny Rose. “You boys can run around looking for rusty dirt all you want, but a better strategy would be to head out to Quail’s Creek. You’ll get a regular wage while you learn what’s involved. Meals are included when you’ve put in a full day’s work. There’s even a new bunkhouse to keep everyone alive through winter, with work available at the mill or the stone crush.”

Temperance’s bottom had stiffened against his thigh as she sat tall as a pike, hanging her jaw open with affront at him.

“If you go it alone, you’ll be building a cabin rather than panning,” Owen continued. “The cricks are already freezing. You’ve missed putting in gardens or putting up preserves. You’ll be starving until the spring thaw. Trust me, I’ve been there. I did it in California for a year before I gave in and hired on with the companies. Those were hard lessons, but that’s how I knew what to do when we found gold here.” That was the absolute truth.

“How did you find it?” one asked.

“Dumb luck,” Owen scoffed. “My partner Virgil wanted to go home to his family in St. Louis. I convinced him to come this way. We’d heard there was gold in these mountains, so we put together a company—that’s another thing we learned in California. One or two people isn’t enough. You have to pool your smarts and work together if you want to make a claim pay. Even at that, all of us were freezing and miserable, ready to eat our own boots. When spring came, Virgil said he was done with gold and going home. He couldn’t resist one more pan, though. Who can? And there she was.”

“Gold?” Harry asked with reverence.

“A nugget the size of my thumbnail.” Owen showed the tip of his thumb. “If you want to hear a very entertaining story about that nugget, you ask him to tell you when you get to Quail’s Creek.”

Virgil would chew down his own teeth before relaying that story, but it was entertaining. Hell, anyone who’d been here this summer had heard it. Owen had told a dozen versions of it himself, none as good as being there for it.

The boys’ curiosity was roused. They were looking at each other, rethinking their plan.

“Take the ferry across first thing,” Owen prodded. “The ferryman will point you onto the trail to Quail’s Creek. I’m heading back there myself, once I finish conducting my business here in town. I’ll see you there.”

Temperance had heard enough. She abruptly stood.

“It’s a busy night, boys. The gentlemen at the other table look thirsty. I’ll speak to you later.” She sent a glare toward Owen that vowed she would die before she spoke to him again.

Temperance had made several mistakes this evening. The worst one had been sitting on Owen’s knee.

She could have refused. She should have refused. It had been highly improper. She had known it as she did it, but some libidinous part of her had wanted to take him aback and, yes, revel in the physical closeness. To her great shame, she found him attractive. She had thought she could sit on him and flirt with the other men and somehow show Owen that he wasn’t getting to her.

Instead, she had been strummed with yearning while he maligned her father.

She avoided him for the rest of the evening, beyond annoyed with him. Now, however, the rest of the men thought they could pull her into their lap. She had been fending off grabbing hands all night.

“I’ll walk you home, Rose.” Owen appeared beside her as she accepted her wages from Mr. Dudley and dropped them into her purse. Mrs. Dudley had already gone to bed.

“It’s not far. I’ll manage,” Temperance insisted, but her stomach was pitching with premonition, especially when another man slurred, “I’ll walk her home.”

“I’m not sure you can walk at all.” Owen stepped in front of the man, blocking him from lurching after Temperance as she headed for the door.

---