9
September 2, 1849
San Francisco, California
The noise from the nearby gambling halls and saloons on Montgomery Street never quieted. Whether it was midnight, four in the morning, or one in the afternoon, the sound permeated the canvas walls of Bess’s Place. In the darkness, it felt louder, and when I opened my eyes the next morning before the sun had risen over California, it was especially raucous.
Thankfully the sound didn’t seem to bother Father, who snored in the large bed, or Hazel and Johnnie, who slept peacefully, still holding hands.
I yawned and quickly dressed in the dim room, conscious of the thin walls separating me from the dangerous outside world.
It was still early, though I wasn’t sure how early. I couldn’t keep sleeping with everything I’d learned in 1929. And today, the hotel and restaurant would be in full service again, which meant I would be feeding dozens of men this morning. I shuddered to think about how that was going to happen. The food wouldn’t be fancy, that much I knew.
But the first thing I needed was a sponge bath, which I took care of in the small confines of the shared space. There was a waterpitcher and a washcloth, which I used quickly, and a small mirror. Though it was dim, I could see my reflection enough to pin up my hair. I hadn’t had the opportunity to clean myself properly since we’d arrived in San Francisco, and though I longed to wash my hair and put on fresh undergarments, this was better than nothing. I would need to wash our clothes today and give Father and the children a bath, as well.
My to-do list was growing faster by the second, and I had so many questions about accomplishing it. Johnnie would be little help, and Paddy could answer some questions, but it would take a lot of his energy to communicate with me. I hated to tire him out with talking, since I could see it was hard for him.
Which left Sam.
I couldn’t even begin to imagine how I’d face him now that I knew we were supposed to be married. And there was the matter of finding Cole Goodman. I wasn’t sure what answers he could give me, but I needed to know what Bess had changed and how it had altered things for me. I was certain my name would not be by Sam’s inThe Annals of San Franciscoif she hadn’t changed history.
Quietly, I slipped out of the bedroom and stepped into the dark kitchen, almost tripping over Sam, lying on a pallet near the door.
I had to stifle a cry of surprise and step around him.
He stirred and sat up, glancing at me as he did. He wasn’t wearing a shirt, and though the room was shadowed, I could see his muscles ripple with the movement—and the scars that were slashed across his back.
Who had done that to him?
He was a strong and handsome man, but the life he’d led before coming to San Francisco must have been fraught with pain and difficulties. Compassion wound its way around my heart, though I had to remind myself that he’d spent time in a penal colony for a heinous crime and that he’d probably received the scars from a lashing.
If he had committed a murder, why wasn’t he still at the penal colony?
It left me wondering what else he was capable of doing.
He reached for his shirt. “I didn’t realize you’d be up this early.”
I crossed the room to put a little space between us. “I couldn’t sleep. And I didn’t know you’d be in the kitchen. I—I thought you slept somewhere else.”
“I slept in the shed out back to give Bess—” He paused, as if remembering all over again that she was gone now. “It’s safer for you and the children if I sleep in here.”
He started to put his shirt on. I realized I was staring, so I turned toward the cookstove, though I had no idea what to do with myself.
The silence felt awkward, so I asked, “Where does Paddy sleep?”
“Upstairs with the men to keep things under control. And to make sure no one brings a—” He cleared his throat. “It’s a men’s-only establishment, if you know what I mean.”
“Ah.”
I could hear Sam moving around, probably pulling on his boots and tucking his shirt into his trousers as I stood motionless next to the stove. I was still at a loss for what to do with myself, and the sooner he knew the truth about my cooking abilities—or lack of abilities—the better. “Mr. Kendal—”
“Call me Sam.”
“Oh.” I wasn’t sure how I felt about calling him by his given name. It felt too personal. History might claim we’d be married, but I was determined to keep things as professional as possible.
His footsteps sounded behind me, and I turned, hoping he was dressed, but he’d come so close, I had to press against the cold cookstove.
At least he was clothed.
