Winter Silence: Gold Camp Dreams

By Vella Munn

Trust the heart? There's no greater risk.

 

Nineteen year old Carrie Walsh was forced to marry George, a man she'll never love. She had no choice but to accompany him to Eagle Canyon, an isolated gold camp set deep in California's mountains. One thing keeps her from despair—the precious life inside her.

 

The loner known as Nevada sees Eagle Canyon as his future. He commits to making it through a brutal winter, trusting that spring will allow him to break free of his past.

 

Then George dies under mysterious circumstances. Suspicion centers around Nevada who was with George on that fatal day. As the investigation intensifies, Carrie fights her feelings for the too-quiet Nevada. As much as she wants him to be innocent, his refusal to defend himself makes her doubt everything, most of all her heart. Admitting she can't trust his dark eyes and strong arms, she commits to supporting herself until spring thaw allows her to escape. But if she does, Nevada will have to fight for his freedom on his own—if he deserves it.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Vella Munn
• Release date: Nov 30, 2022
• ISBN: 9798215747032

Vella Munn

I'm married, the mother of two sons, grandmother to four, and happily owned by two rescue dogs. My hobby, for lack of a different word, is digging in the dirt. I love going for walks and hate shopping. Also writes as Dawn Flindt and Heather Williams.

Book preview

Welcome to the untethered world of my imagination. Fair warning—it goes where it demands to go. I’m only here to record what I’m told to. Needless to say, everything I write is fiction, hopefully peopled with characters readers can relate to.....Vella Munn. 

Chapter One

California Sierra Mountains , January, 1852

A woman's like a mule. Let 'er know who's boss and she'll serve ya well. Sometimes ya gotta get her 'tention if ya know what I means. Carrie now, she...

George Walsh stopped and splayed his legs to balance himself. Looking like a confused child, the fleshy man stared at Nevada through the heavily falling snow. They was wrong, George continued, each word an effort. His breath held mist-like around his beard. It ain't near as cold as they said it was gonna be.

You'd feel the storm if you weren't half drunk, Nevada thought, but didn't say. Instead, he waited while his partner in a fledgling sawmill pulled a flask from under his knee-length overcoat and took a long pull. Nevada had wondered if George might offer him a drink, but obviously George intended to keep what was left for himself. After re-corking the flask, George placed it against his belly. He took a sliding step to his left then looked around.

It's snowin' like the very devil. A double eagle apiece ain't half enough for risking our lives doin' this. If we don get there by nightfall, we'll freeze. I say we take our sweet time gittin' back and hold onto the mail 'til they's willing to triple what they was gonna pay us.

Nevada turned so the snow-laced wind hit his back and tried not to think about his snug cabin in the small valley far below or the desperate straits that had forced him into the storm. Above him, evergreens whipped about in the furious wind, cracking and groaning like old men. He felt isolated in and by the wilderness, lost but not caring. Sheltered somehow when most of the time confinement made him half crazy.

Fortunately, it was calmer on the ground than in the trees as George and he made their slow way along the wagon road leading to Grass Valley. Still, they were in the middle of a hard snow. And whether he gave a damn or not, George was right. If they didn't reach shelter by dark, they might not be alive come morning. The rest of what George was saying, after a summer spent working alongside him, Nevada knew most of what came out of the older man's mouth was just talk.

Damn snowshoes. Straps cuttin' into my ankles.

George had been complaining about his snowshoes since they left Eagle Canyon. If he'd had anything worth putting his mind to, Nevada would have shut him out, but the snow kept biting at him, and his brain was getting numb. There wasn’t much left of him except the need to breathe and the ability to hear.

Ya never complains, does ya? No matter what, ya takes it.

Complaining doesn't change anything.

Look, Drifter, if I want your advice, I'll ask for it. Meantimes—meantimes...

When George's voice trailed off, Nevada told himself he should be grateful for the silence, but George Walsh was a talker. It didn't matter whether it needed to be said or not, his partner acted as if quiet was something to be done away with like a rattle snake.

Sometimes what? he prompted over the groan of tortured trees.

Carrie. George sounded wistful. Prettiest little thing I ever seen. He stared ahead then started trudging again, his steps nearly without purpose. Her papa wanted me to marry her right from the start, my being older and settled and all. She was skitterish as a green broke colt with her nose in a book much of the time. Only nineteen when we got hitched, did I tell you that, only nineteen. When she looked at me it was like she could hardly stand... George reached for his flask, but his fingers must have gone numb because he didn't seem to realize he only had hold of his coat.

She didn't disobey her papa, but I knew she didn’t want to come west. Maybe she didn want to marry me neither, but when her papa said how it was gonna be, she went 'long with it. He shook his head. Nothing mattered more to her than gittin' 'way from him. I figured that out easy 'nough.

George said something else Nevada didn't catch and probably didn't want to. George's young wife and he called each other by their first names, not that they had much to say. George was right. Carrie was lovely, soft-spoken with a way of fixing her gaze on her surroundings that made him wonder what she was looking for. If she had opinions about him, Eagle Canyon, her cabin, or the business George and he had gotten into, she kept them to herself.

The truth was, he didn’t know what to say to Carrie beyond observations about the weather or how hard it had been to divert shallow Rattlesnake River so miners could work the stream bed or whether there was enough gold to keep people around. She didn't think it was right that nature had been changed to fit man. He'd seen a flash of anger and helplessness in her eyes when he pointed out that moving the so-called river away from a pay streak so miners could reach bedrock was the way things were done at promising placers.

She'd started to say something about what that did to fish spawning beds, but George had spoken her name in a clipped tone that silenced her. He wondered why she cared about how miners worked and if she was afraid of her husband. At least he'd thought about such things in the past. Today the storm had taken away his ability to do anything except walk.

Walk. If he didn't, the folks who lived in Eagle Canyon wouldn't get any mail for maybe another month and he'd probably starve.

When the wind hit him in the face, he pulled his hood close but didn't slow his pace. At least Carrie Walsh hadn't asked why he'd sunk every coin he had in a sawmill instead of staking a claim or working at the nearby Yuba Mine. That way he hadn't had to lie.

Because he'd been carrying the larger and heavier of the two mail sacks George and he were being paid to take to Grass Valley, he'd let George lead the way. They'd traveled less than three miles, but George had been wheezing for the past two. Granted, dealing with the storm had taken something out of him as well, but he felt strong enough to finish the job. It might not be the same for George, and there was no way he could carry the older man.

Why hadn't he come alone? Why hadn't they waited until this storm was over? Not saying anything, he moved ahead of George on the excuse for a road so he could set a pace that hopefully would keep them from freezing.

Christmas had been little more than two weeks ago, and it had snowed some every day since he'd shared venison and beans with Nate Jordan and tried not to think about the Christmases that had come before this one. Thanks to a succession of storms, the only route to Grass Valley had been impassable by wagon or even horseback for over a month which was why they were walking. Looking into the wind, trying to anyway, forced him to once more acknowledge he might be risking his life. However, a man down to his last coin didn't have much choice in where he went if he wanted enough beans and potatoes to keep him going until the sawmill was back in operation.

You—you juss keep at it, don you? George sucked in a loud breath. He started to cough but managed to stop. What do you think I am, some damn mule?

You agreed to this the same as I did.

What choice did I have? George's snowshoes made a crunching sound like he was coming down hard instead of letting leather and wood glide over close to five feet of snow. A married man, he's gotta hold up his head. Least wise that's what I tole Carrie, he said with a thin chuckle. A wife, all she's gotta do is sit by the stove sewin or readin. All that readin she does, I don't hold with it. Carrie knows better'en to take her mind away from me when I'm 'round, but I caint help what she does when I'm gone. George sighed. I been itchin to get back to Grass Valley. There's card games waitin fur me.

That's why you're doing this? Because of the gambling?

Yes. George drew out the word like he didn’t want to have to say it. Once I’ve picked up my winnings, I intend to indulge in some of the action above Grizzly Saloon.

By action George meant the whores who did business in the bordello. What George did wasn’t his business, but he'd be willing to bet every fleck of gold dust he'd ever held that Carrie hadn't once looked sideways at another man. It didn't seem right, George paying good money for something that was waiting for him at home.

You ain't sayin nuttin. You disapprove, don you?

Although the need to make twelve more miles before nightfall ate at him like a long-running hunger, Nevada looked over his shoulder at George. There'd been no letup in the storm. As a result, the trees were little more than murky outlines with a thick white layer over them. Dread sank into him. You're married.

That's right, I'm married, but a man's got needs a modest God fearin woman ain't never gonna understand. A fit of coughing overtook George. When he straightened, his face was more flushed. He reached for his flask, this time managing to bring it to his lips. He swallowed several times then shoved the flask in a front pocket.

Hey, Nevada warned. Keep doing that and you'll want to stop and curl up. You'll freeze.

The hell I will. George started toward him with his fists clenched inside his heavy gloves. Don tell me what to do, Drifter. Don you ever tell me what to do.

Drifter. George had called him that the day they met, and the name had stuck. It had once been true but moving around like he was caught in the wind was behind him. Roots. Damn it, he would put down roots in Eagle Canyon or die trying! I'm telling you— He emphasized every syllable. if you pass out, I’ll have to leave you.

Then I'd better stop, George said, his sudden smile disarming. Cause I need a night of poker. And this time, I'm comin out on top.

"This time? Is that where you were when you went missing before Christmas?"

Never you mind about my activities. I figures the less anyone knows what I do, the less the little woman's gonna find out, if you git my meaning.

He did, and he didn't like what he was hearing. Sharp blasts of snow forced him to concentrate on where he was going, but hardly for the first time he questioned if getting hooked up with George Welsh had been a mistake. He’d wanted to build and run the sawmill by himself, would have if he'd had enough money to finance it on his own. But he'd been short what he needed to buy the necessary equipment, and George had been looking for a business to invest in. Now he had a partner who'd owned a brewery before selling it for a tidy profit and was stuck with a drinking, gambling, whoring–

You think I don know why you was so all-fired eager to take the mail, George said after a long silence. Same reason as me. Eagle Canyon's only got the one saloon and juss Belle Cora's burned up whores, 'less you wanna count the young widow Beecher with those two little girls and she ain't accommodating no one, least wise not that I know. Young buck like yurself, you gots to be more’n ready to—

I don't have any money.

You can git it soon enough. A little shufflin of the cards and we're—

The only one who wins is the man running the game.

Not if you know what yur doing. I been caressin' cards most of my life. They says things to me no one else hears. Sometimes they don’t and that... He stared to his left. Tell ya what. Do what I tell you at the table and soon you'll have enough to have every whore in town rubbin up against you.

Nevada cast his attention skyward. The clouds didn't seem any darker than they'd been when they'd set off, but he knew how deceptive that could be. Cold took a deeper bite out of him, forcing him to cover his nose and mouth.

Tell me you ain't randy, George challenged. Tell me you can't hardly wait to—

Shut up.

What?

I said— Nevada rounded on his partner. Save your breath. If you break down, I—

I won’t. I ain’t never leaned on anyone and ain’t gonna start now.

After turning away, Nevada concentrated on his next step and the one after. The snow, heavy and wet, flattened under his snowshoes, leaving criss-crosses to mark where he'd been. Three miles behind them. Twelve to go. Don't think. Just walk.

I know ya, George continued. Better’n anyone else in Eagle Canyon does. They say ya ain't got what it takes to make the sawmill succeed, but I seen somethin in yur eyes. That somethin's gonna keep us both alive. I been thinkin about something else. You have to have some gold dust hidden. Every man 'round here does. And there's soiled doves ready to separate you from a little of that in a way yur gonna like.

I said—

You juss listen to me first, juss lissen. Let me massage your cards for a few hands. Then when you’ve won enough, when we both have—

IT HAD BEEN DARK FOR hours, but because it was winter, it wasn't yet time to go to bed. Restless, Carrie Walsh put down the book she'd been reading. A SHORT HISTORY OF CHINA was nearly 600 pages long which wasn't a short anything. Still, given what had happened in that far-off country since the beginning of time, there probably wasn't any way the authors could have condensed it more than they had.

She'd been fascinated and repelled by Shih Huang Ti, the dictator who'd ordered the Great Wall of China begun. She tried to imagine living under his rule when he commanded that all books be burned, and the scholars killed. If she knew someone else who loved books as much as she did, they would have worked together to hide a few precious volumes.

Was she the only person in Eagle Canyon who felt as if she was entering another world every time she opened the pages of a book? Who felt half sick when she was deprived of that escape?

With that thought driving her, Carrie pushed herself out of the rocker Doctor Piper had insisted on giving her when she admired the finely carved oak arms. She'd had to replace the caning with strips of leather, but she could easily move it about the room depending on the amount of heat coming from the cast iron cooking stove. Folks called Doctor Piper what they did because he knew how to treat the town’s few animals and had splinted more than one broken bone. She liked the elderly man but hoped she’d never need his services.

It hadn't stopped snowing all day, and she could just make out the fat flakes. When she pressed her cheek against the thin piece of paper she'd painstakingly waxed so she'd have a window, her cheek quickly became numb. Still, she was tempted to go out to the wood pile for another armload, not because she hadn't already brought in enough for two days, but because the walls were closing in on her.

She should be used to it. After all, she'd felt trapped ever since George had brought her here last spring.

Spring. The weather had been perfect the first time she'd seen the tents, cabins, and handful of houses huddled beneath the mountains that ringed the small valley cut by Rattlesnake River. If she hadn't been lulled by a meadow full of wildflowers, scrawny-legged fawns, and the river running full, wild, and sweet, she might have run back to her disapproving father, silent mother, and beloved brothers.

She hadn't because anything had to be better than what she'd left behind. She missed her brothers so much it sometimes hurt, but they were so involved in their lives she suspected she seldom crossed their minds.

Unwilling to let that thought engulf her, she picked up her book, but her concentration had been broken. Hardly anyone had been about today. George's and her cabin, situated a distance from the village itself and all but swallowed by trees, prevented her from seeing anyone unless they practically came to the door which almost never happened, but she'd gone outside several times and been acutely aware of the lack of human sounds.

Trouble, the orphan fawn she mothered, had spent the day curled up at the back of the cabin on the pine needles she'd put there for the deer’s comfort. She'd told Trouble where George and Nevada had gone, which meant the deer and she could do what they wanted when they wanted for the next several days. If it hadn't been for the snow, she would have taken Trouble with her while she explored the area around Yuba Mine, but the storm—

How did a man survive a fifteen-mile walk in this kind of weather? George and Nevada—did he have any other name—were out there somewhere, struggling...

No. George had reassured her that an able-bodied man could reach Grass Valley in an easy day's walk. She'd let him convince her because they needed the money and because she'd wanted him gone so she could work through...

Although George refused to talk money matters with her, she knew he'd buried most, if not all, of his capital in the saw mill. She'd asked why he’d invest in the dreams of a man he barely knew, a man who filled the cabin with his presence and sometimes stared so fiercely it was all but impossible for her to gaze into Nevada’s night-black eyes. George had told her that what he did with his money was none of her business.

Only, it was.

Wind shook the cabin. The roof had leaked the last time it rained but she'd climbed onto it and reset the wood shingles that had come loose. George had come home—he'd been drinking at the Nugget—as she was finishing up and ordered her to never embarrass him like that again. Eyes downcast and respectful like she’d learned to present herself, she'd agreed, but she knew who would be back on the roof if it sprang another leak—the same wife who'd chopped wood today.

Once more, she tried to go back to reading, but she'd made the mistake of asking herself what the point of all this learning was if it remained in her head. Although she'd written her mother yesterday so the letter could go with George and Nevada, she took a precious piece of paper out of the Bible where she kept it for safekeeping and began.

Dearest, dearest Mother. It is still snowing. I'm sure there have been sunny days since winter came, but my mind doesn't seem capable of holding onto them. Like I explained in my last letter, George and his partner are on their way to Grass Valley with the mail. I hate thinking I'm trapped here, but that's what I am.

Last week Mr. Wocks' mules floundered before he'd gotten more than a mile. He’d ventured the trip with his wagon hoping to pick up supplies for his mercantile. The shelves there are nearly empty. I do not know if it was like this last winter when Mr. Wocks first opened the doors. I don’t know what Eagle Canyon’s residents will do without the supplies he provides if he closes up. So much depends on whether there’s enough gold around to keep the town going.

Nevada said he and George will be back as soon as they can, but the last time my husband went to Grass Valley, he was gone nearly a week. I know what he does there, but—

After a moment, she inked through the last few words. If she'd been certain only her mother would read this, she might have told her about the gambling and drinking, maybe even the other thing she was certain George did, but nothing entered her parents' house that didn't come under her father's scrutiny. After running her mouth over the pen's feather tip, she continued.

My fondest wish is that you will be able to mail me some vegetable seeds. I am not sure what will grow here. With mountains all around, the valley doesn't get a lot of sunlight. If I could ask—

Once again, she paused. She'd been about to explain that if she asked one of the few other women in what really wasn’t a full-fledged town, she’d have a better idea of what to plant, but her mother would wonder why she didn't visit her neighbors. She wouldn't say—not because she was still afraid of her father's reaction, but Mother had enough burdens without worrying more about her only daughter than she already did. George's insistence that she didn't need anyone except him was something she kept to herself. At least...

CARRIE FELL ASLEEP curled in the rocker. A little after ten, she undressed, ran her fingers over the cover on the feather bed she shared with George, and tried to convince herself to get into it where smells and memories waited. Instead, she returned to the rocker and made herself as comfortable as possible. Despite the kink in her neck, she couldn't rouse herself enough to try to do anything about it. Neither could she talk herself into extinguishing the lantern and letting darkness surround her.

When she first heard the sound, she thought a strong gust had struck the door. Then, it was repeated, hard thuds that chased all sleep from her mind. She jumped to her feet, her hand going to her throat. Who is it? she called out, hating the fear in her voice.

Carrie, it's me.

Nevada. She was halfway across the room before it dawned on her that George and he couldn't have walked all the way to and from Grass Valley in this amount of time, and she couldn’t imagine Nevada turning back