Wagons drove by on the street behind me, and people passed, their curious glances sent in our direction.
“I want to ask you about Bess,” I said.
His expression didn’t change, but he let out a long breath and nodded. “I’m sure Sam has filled your head with nonsense about me and Bess.”
“He hasn’t told me much. That’s why I wanted to talk to you.”
He came a little closer. “How about you and me go into Sadie’s and get something to drink? This conversation will be a lot more enjoyable if we have a little fun first.”
I stepped back, shaking my head. “I just want to know about you and Bess. Nothing more.”
He ran his hand down my arm. “I’m afraid it’s gonna cost you.”
“I know you were supposed to meet the night she died,” I said, my voice stiff with indifference as I pulled my arm back from his touch. “I don’t think Sam knew that, though. Did she meet you? Did you poison her?”
I knew he hadn’t, but I needed to get him talking.
Cole crossed his arms, a little more respect in his gaze. Finally, he shook his head. “Usually, I went to see Bess at her place when Sam wasn’t around, but that day—the day you walked in on us in the kitchen—she suggested we meet down at the docks close to sunrise. She said she wanted to run away to Sacramento with me. I went down there and purchased passage for us to take the ferry across the bay, but she never showed up.” He worked his jaw back and forth for a minute, and I could see he was genuinely upset. “When I was on my way to confront her, I ran into Paddy, and he told me he was going for the doctor.”
I had no reason not to believe Cole, and I suspected that Bess had arranged the fake meeting, knowing that Cole was going to do something foolish that night. Something that would cause a fire that would kill her and condemn Sam. And she probably knew that by the time Cole realized she wasn’t going to show, she would already be dead.
“So, you see, Miss Adams,” he said, pain in his voice, “I was the victim that night. Not only did the woman I love deceive me, but she also died, and I don’t think my life will ever be the same.”
I wasn’t sure what Cole and Bess’s relationship entailed, or why Sam disliked him so much, but I didn’t doubt that Cole really cared for her. Grief hung around him like a dark cloud, and when he let his guard down, as he was doing now, I could see it was raw and devastating.
“Bess told me you want to be a writer.”
His eyes sharpened as he lifted his gaze to my face, but he didn’t say anything.
“Go to Sacramento and write that book, Mr. Goodman. Get out of San Francisco and start over. You owe it to yourself and to Bess to live the life you’ve always wanted. Nothing good will come from being in Jim’s gang. You know that, and so do I.”
He studied me for a moment, looking like he was going to say something, but hesitated.
I needed to get back to the children, so, without another word, I left Cole on the street and returned to Bess’s Place, glancing over my shoulder as I opened the front door.
Cole was still standing where I’d left him, but he was looking into the distance. Slowly, he put his hands back in his pockets and kept walking down the street.
Later that evening, after supper had been served, I stood at the counter with Sam washing dishes, but my thoughts weren’t far from my conversation with Cole. I wasn’t surprised by what he had told me, but it still made me sad for Bess.
Sam glanced at me from time to time, a question in his eyes, as Father sat at the table readingOliverTwistby Charles Dickens to the children and Paddy. Sam had been quieter than normal today, and I hoped he hadn’t learned that I’d spoken to Cole, though I wouldn’t have been surprised if someone had seen us and told him.
At the moment, however, I had more important things to worry about, like whether Father would defy the doctor’s prognosis to go to the mines.
“I think that will about do it for tonight,” Father said as he finished reading chapter eight, tearing me out of my thoughts.
“But what happens to Oliver now that he’s in London?” Hazel asked, her blue eyes wide.
“You’ll have to wait and see.” Father’s face lit with excitement and anticipation. He loved drawing out curiosity in children, his own daughter especially. “After we get all our work done tomorrow, we’ll read the next chapter.”
“But I don’t want to wait.” Hazel pouted. “Tomorrow is an awful long time away.”
“Good fiction is a reward after a hard day’s work.” Father patted Hazel and Johnnie on the head. “It will make the work go faster and the story more enjoyable.”
“It’s time for bed.” I put the last plate on the stack and closed the cupboard.
Hazel moaned in complaint, and I saw a bit of rebellion in Johnnie’s eyes, but he didn’t say a word. No matter how much I tried, he still refused to speak.
“Wash your face and hands, and I’ll come in to say good night,” I told the children.
