A Sketch of Gold

By Cynthia Hickey

Rose McIlroy poses as a young man for safety in the rough mining fields. Jackson Westin fishes her out of a creek and immediately knows his newspaper readers will love a story of a young man helping his injured father to keep their claim going. But how long can this charade last, especially when Jackson discovers Rose's true identity?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Cynthia Hickey
• Release date: Oct 11, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215522103

Cynthia Hickey

Multi-published and best-selling author, Cynthia Hickey, has taught writing at many conferences and small writing retreats. She and her husband run the publishing press, Winged Publications, which includes some of the CBA's best well-known authors. They live in Arizona and Arkansas, becoming snowbirds with two dogs and one cat. They have ten grandchildren who them busy and tell everyone they know that "Nana is a writer."   

Book preview

Chapter One

California 1851

Rose McIlroy blinked away tears as she made the last cut to her hair. Her papa’s latest get-rich scheme was the wildest yet, and as usual, it was Rose that would make the most sacrifices.

After selling their home in Boston, they’d traveled forever on the train to San Francisco, sold every remnant of femininity Rose owned, bought two mules and supplies, and now they camped on a bluff overlooking a patch of thick forest. Tomorrow, they’d reach Rich Bar, a mining town guaranteed to make them wealthy, or so Papa said.

It can’t be helped, dearest, Papa said, lifting the strands of hair the shot with gold so the wind would catch them. Hair the same shade as her dear Mama’s had been. Women are scarce where we’re going. I won’t have you in harm’s way. It’s best you look like a lad.

She turned and stared at him for a moment. While she loved him dearly, sometimes she wondered whether he’d taken a knock to the head as a child. Lord knows, his absentmindedness had driven Mama to distraction at times, God rest her soul.

Very well. Lead the way. She put a foot into the stirrup of her mule named Bob and swung into the saddle. She’d no sooner planted her rump, before finding herself lying flat on her back staring at the mule’s belly with dust gritting her teeth.

Need to tighten your cinch a bit more, dearest. Papa held down his hand. That could have been a bad accident.

Rose spit dirt and swiped her arm across her eyes to dislodge dirt caked there. Bad accident indeed. It also did nothing for her sour mood. I think it best you stop calling me dearest. You wouldn’t call your son by such an endearment. She tightened the cinch on her saddle and climbed back on. This time she stayed put.

Very well. Boy, or Rory, it is. Papa grinned and marched to Fred, his mule. Onward. He thrust a fist into the air.

Despite her poor attitude, Rose couldn’t help but smile at his enthusiasm. Hopefully that, along with God’s favor, would see them through the next few months.

With a click of her tongue and a kick of her heels, Rose followed her papa down a steep path to flatter land. As pebbles rolled before them, she gave thanks for the sure-footedness of Bob, and glanced to her left where she could catch a small peek at the ocean every few minutes. The ocean was the one resounding positive to her papa’s latest so-called adventure.

Your mama loved the water, Papa called over his shoulder. You share that love. She’d be right pleased about this latest venture.

Rose doubted that very much, although Mama would have gone along, as always, biting her tongue and praying they didn’t lose everything. Rose sighed and shifted to a more comfortable position in the hard saddle.

She didn’t know a thing about mining. Neither did Papa. Living in tents and hoping to find gold in freezing water. Lord, help us. Her feather bed, parties, and meals cooked by a chef seemed ages ago. Already her hands sported blisters, her nails were chipped, and if she scrunched her nose, the pain of a sunburn warned her it was past time to put on her hat.

No fretting, de...uh, Boy. We’ll make a go of this and be rich by Christmas. I guarantee it.

She grimaced. She would hate her new endearment by morning. All right, Papa.

Have I ever steered you wrong?

No, Papa. Oh, so many times.

By late afternoon, a niggling feeling told Rose something was wrong. Papa? Shouldn’t we have reached Rich Bar by now?

It’s right around the bend. I guarantee it.

The sun will be setting soon. Aren’t there bears in this country? She thought she’d read about them in the guidebook Papa had given her. It’s growing chilly. Maybe we should set up camp.

In a bit.

She sighed and continued to follow as she had always done. By nightfall, Papa admitted they were lost and would find their way in the morning. Rather than pitch tents, they rolled up in bedrolls by a fire. Rose tried to block out the rustling of nearby small animals and what seriously sounded like a growl. The fire kept wild things away, right?

Dear...uh, Boy?

Yes, Papa?

It will be all right. I guarantee it.

She smiled despite her reservations. I know. She did love him so.

You won’t regret leaving Boston. Soon, you’ll have all the fancy gowns a young woman could want. Wealthy men will seek your hand in marriage. Why, I’ll have to beat them off with a stick! We’ll be rich, and you’ll leave me all alone.

I’ll never leave you, Papa. How would he survive without her?

Marriage wasn’t something she thought on anymore. Not since Mama’s death of influenza, or since leaving Boston with few coins jingling in their pockets. God had abandoned the McIlroys. Her one-line prayers of Lord, help us were whispered more out of habit than a desire to converse with God. If the McIlroys were to prosper, or survive until the next day, it would be because of Rose’s efforts, not divine intervention.

Papa’s snores carried from the opposite side of the fire and mingled with the other night sounds. Rose sat up and put another log on the fire then poked halfheartedly at the embers with a stick. What if they didn’t reach their destination in the morning? What if they wandered the forest until their remaining supplies ran out?

She wrapped her blanket around her shoulders. Lord, help us.

***

Jackson Westin checked his saddlebags to make sure his sketching supplies were secure, then directed his mule to head down a five-mile hill so steep, there were times he wondered whether the mule’s hind legs were in front. When he reached the bottom, he removed his hat to let the breeze cool his perspiration. How did men do that on a regular basis without their heart giving out?

Whoo-ee, mister. I ain’t never seen anyone fool enough to ride down that hill. Most folks lead their mules. A grizzled old man spit a wad of tobacco at Jack’s feet.

Well, that explains it. It probably wouldn’t be his last greenhorn mistake. Where can a man lay his head here in Rich Bar?

The Empire is a good place, I reckon. You can’t miss it. Has the name painted on the outside wall. The man’s watery gaze