Gold Mountain

Sharon Cullars

Gold Mountain
Copyright © February 2010 by Sharon Cullars
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Chapter One

Sacramento, California

1865

The hammers and chisels rang out almost in unison, the sound of metal against granite

creating a peal that echoed throughout the mountains, reverberating upward. The crewmen's tools

carved away at the rock frantically as the men raced against the sun. In less than an hour it would

be too dark to set off the charges, and the boss man would not be happy. And when he was

unhappy, he made all of them pay, literally, with a month's wages.

Beads of sweat trailed down Quiang's face as he brought up the hammer against the stone

again and again, the small chasm almost wide enough now to hold his last bundle of dynamite. In

the hours since the sun had risen, Quiang alone had already embedded fifty bundles. The other

men on the crew would have a similar count, more or less. In all, there were over a thousand fire

sticks that would blow the southeast ridge into raining pieces of shale that would shower the

valley below. Quiang's basket shook violently with his quickened motions, but he couldn't afford

to stop. Still, he was too aware that the life of any crewman depended on the virtue of the ropes

that held his basket. If the hemp gave way, a man could plummet hundreds of feet. They had lost

a man in such a way not more than ten days ago. The scream still echoed in Quiang's head,

joining the ringing peals.

The sound of the horn reached across the gorge between mountains, the boss man's signal

that they were to stop. It was time to set off the explosives. The red-haired Irishman stood on

another ridge, a safe distance from the hub of action, horn in hand.

On cue, the crewmen put matches to the long fuses attached to the dynamite. Men manning

the pulleys above began the grueling process of pulling up the crewmen as quickly as possible. It

was a precarious maneuver because too often accidents happened. Ropes sometimes sheared

2 Sharon Cullars

against jutting crags or snagged. A sheared rope was death. A stalled pulley was death. A

panicked crewman was death. Death took varied forms, all of which Quiang appreciated even as

his own basket stalled. The man operating the pulley looked down to determine the problem. He

pointed, and Quiang noted where one of the rope cables had snagged. The hemp had pulled and

knotted several feet up. Neither the pulley man nor Quiang was within reach of the snag that was

now caught on the edge of a rock. If the pulley man tried to force the rope upward, the motion

could tear through the hemp, cutting it, sending Quiang to a certain and horrendous death.

Neither could the basket be lowered.

Quiang turned to where the boss stood quietly, taking in the situation. Quiang had only

been on the crew for three months, but in that time he had come to size up the foreman. As

flaming as his hair was the temperament of a man who did not allow anything to stand in his

way. And he wanted everything on schedule for the aqueduct that had to be built by the end of

the month. All part of a plan that some white men had thought up years ago to connect miles and

miles of land with one continuous railroad. The white boss standing across the gulch would not

let a Chinaman stand in the way of that plan. He would not order the smothering of the lit fuses

to save one life. One life he thought beneath that of a bug. This part of the ridge had to be

cleared, and cleared it would be. If they couldn't raise or lower him, then they would sacrifice

him in the ensuing blast. No body to bury and no one to send his money home to his parents and

younger sister. He could not allow that to happen.

As man after man was pulled up and gained purchase on the cliff several feet above,

Quiang stripped off the only shirt he owned. His mother had sewn the tunic especially for his trip

to America, the land of Gum San, the Gold Mountain; now he dropped the tunic into the basket.

He could not afford the opportunity for any more hitches. Sending silent prayers to his ancestors,

Quiang grabbed the rope and pulled himself up until his feet balanced on the basket's edge. Then

he used the strength of his arm and thigh muscles to inch his way up the snagged rope, praying

with each motion that the rope would not give way. Finding traction with sweaty palms was

difficult, so he had to hold on that much tighter, causing the hemp to cut into his flesh. The

stinging pain didn't impede his progress. Now he was the sole man down in a race against the last

rays of the sun. He heard the crewmen crossing the temporary bridge that traversed the

mountaintops, moving away from the point of detonation.

Gold Mountain

3

Quiang refused to look up or down, his eyes focused solely on his hands as he moved them

one over the other, pulling his weight upward. The smell of sulfur from the burning fuses mixed

with the heady odor of his sweaty body, and the miasma made his head swim. The familiar

smells often lingered in the air for hours after a cliff had been brought down. He tried not to

think of how fast the fire was eating through the lengths of the fuses, tried not to listen to the

telltale sizzling. If he did not clear this mountain, the series of blasts would rip through his body.

He had to make it to the peak and cross over to safety. The pulley men and crew were long gone.

He was the only one on this mountainside. Minutes passed, and finally his eyes were level with

the cliff floor. He reached over, felt for a foothold, and pulled himself up.

“Run, you yellar coolie!”

Quiang recognized the slur. It was one the Irishman used often. Quiang ran hard, and the

pain in his abused muscles felt as though the dynamite had already torn his body apart. Just as he

reached the end of the bridge, the familiar rumbling began, and a shudder ran through the

wooden planks. The bridge shook fiercely, and he almost toppled over its side. At the moment

his feet touched solid rock, a pair of hands grabbed him and pulled him to safety. Both men fell

forward as the full blast shook the world. Quiang lay prone waiting for the world to stop its

roaring. Eventually the roaring stopped and was quickly followed by the rain of rocks. Then that

too fell silent. The other man lifted up, shifted. Quiang rolled over, breathless, and looked up into

Zhaohui's face.

“It must not have been meant for you to die today,” the older man said in Taishanese. “But

you came close.”

He nodded at the place where the bridge had hung just seconds before. Quiang stood and

turned to look at the empty space. The bridge had only been a temporary transport between

mountains and had not been expected to survive the blast. No one was to have been on it when

the dynamite went off. Across the chasm a new ledge was visible. Quiang looked up, thanked his

ancestors as well as those of Zhaohui, for without them, Zhaohui would not have been here to

save him.

A line of men, all Chinese, stood a distance from the mountain edge, some with faces

showing obvious relief. In their midst the Irishman stood, his face without expression. Everyone

4 Sharon Cullars

had reason to be grateful. They had all earned their money today. And the construction of the

aqueduct was on schedule. Most of all, no one had died today. A good day overall.

At the foreman's signal, the men headed for the mountain tunnel that would take them

down to the south end of the valley where their camp waited.

* * *

As she doused the stained shirt into the cauldron of hot, soapy water, Leah thought for the

hundredth time that she had made a terrible mistake. This wasn't what she had signed on for

when she left New York for Sacramento for what Clara had said would be a “great opportunity

for a colored woman.” Yes, Clara had told her there would be washing as well as cooking, but

she hadn't conceived that there would be so much of it. She dipped the shirt again and again.

Even the bleach couldn't whiten these stains. She sighed as she conceded defeat and pulled the

shirt from the cauldron. It was as white as it was going to get, which was basically a chalk gray

interspersed with black smudges throughout. Well, at least the shirt no longer had that horrible

smell.

Through the curtain that separated the front store from the rear area where they handled

laundry, she heard Clara's voice.

“Two fried pork chops, one baked potato, and gravy with chicken fat, guaranteed to fill

your stomach.”

“Smells good. Smells real good, Clara,” she heard Zeke say. He was one of their regulars,

both for a hot meal and a good laundry cleaning. Most of the miners came in here for one or the

other, if not both. Sometimes they just came in to look at a woman, as those were scarce in the

mining town. Clara kept a shotgun handy in case someone wanted to do more than look.

The bell rang as the door closed. She heard Clara's steps, and soon the curtains opened as

her partner stepped into the back room. Clara may have been a woman small in stature, but she

could fill a room with the presence of her will. Her black hair was pulled haphazardly on top of

her head in a bun. Even in this heat she wore her dark gray dress with a high lace collar.

“How's it going back here?” Clara asked, taking note of the half-clean shirt in Leah's hand.

Leah held it up.

“Not good,” Leah said. “Can't get these stains out.”

Clara took the shirt from Leah's hand, examined it. “You try lemon juice?”

Gold Mountain

5

“I tried bleach,” Leah shot back, not bothering to mask her exasperation. “If bleach don't

work, nothing else will.”

“No need to snap. Patience is more than a virtue; it's a necessity in this town. Now if you

can't get out the stains, we'll just charge half price. It's not like anybody needs a Sunday-best

shirt around here anyway.”

One could always count on Clara's practical sense. It was this quality that had drawn the

two women together as friends in New York, and it was Clara's business sense that had lured

Leah from her seamstress position to this godforsaken place. The gold rush that began in '49 still

filled heads with dreams of riches, and the adventurous still made their way to “Californy,”

declaring they would find their fortune. Clara figured where there was gold to be found, there

was gold to be spent. She and Leah would provide services for the spendthrifts, save enough

money to buy some land. Those who had land had insurance for the future.

“If you want, I'll take over here, and you can take the meals for the evening rush. That all

right with you?”

Leah nodded.

“Okay, then. That's settled,” Clara stated with purpose. Then she walked to the shelves to

retrieve the bottle of lemon juice.

Leah bit her tongue, then pushed back the curtain and made a quick left to the adjoining

door leading to the kitchen. The building that housed their laundry and restaurant was nothing

more than a one-story building made mostly of planks and tar. The furnishings included wooden

shelves, wooden tables, and chairs in the main room, and an old sink, an icebox, and a wood-

burning stove and oven in the makeshift kitchen. Everything was sparse, secondhand, and

threadbare, but she and Clara kept the place clean. The smell of fried chops and potatoes hung in

the air. Clara's potato medleys were the main staple around here. She had over fifty ways to pare,

fry, bake, even fricassee a potato. The latest additions to their menu were potato flapjacks and

white potato pies. The miners worked rough and long and needed starch just for the strength to

haul their shovels and pans in temperatures that sometimes hit over a hundred. And a bit of meat

took them even further. A stack of chops lay on the counter ready to be fried.

“There's some fresh chicken grease in the tin next to the flour. Use that to fry the chops,”

Clara called out from the other room. Clara had “capabilities” that sometimes reached beyond

6 Sharon Cullars

the normal. On many an occasion Clara anticipated Leah's thoughts as though she were some

Gypsy reader.

Leah pulled down the tin of chicken fat, spooned a wad into the skillet, and put the skillet

on the burner. Sizzling, popping grease touched her hands, her blouse and her skirt. Tonight she

would have to soak her own clothes to get out the oily stains.

“The door,” Clara yelled out before the bell rang.

“Woman's a witch,” Leah uttered beneath her breath as she turned down the fire and went

to the main room. A young Chinaman waited just inside the door, looking around as though he

weren't sure it was safe to enter. Leah walked behind the counter, signaled that he should come

closer. He remained at the door, his eyes on her.

“What can I help you with?”

No answer.

Leah often saw Chinamen in the town. They came to get supplies, sometimes food. Most

of the time, though, they stayed in their camps on the outskirts of town, where they were putting

down rails and building tunnels for the railroad. She frequently heard the thunder of their

explosives as they blew their way through the mountains. Her first day here the blasts had nearly

stopped her heart. Nowadays she barely paid them any mind. They had become part of the

pattern of this place where shots often rang out even in the middle of the day. Other times she

heard men screaming from the pain of bullets and knife wounds or yelping their joy as they came

running into town searching for the surveyor after finding gold, which was a rarity these days.

Most of the mines were dormant after years of excavations.

Many of the railroad workers didn't fully understand English but had learned enough words

to ask for what they needed. She hoped that was the case with this one.

“English?” she tried again.

Again the man didn't answer. Just stood stock-still like some store-display mannequin. At

least he could try to pantomime or do something. She didn't have time enough in the day to just

stand here. Those pork chops and potatoes weren't going to cook themselves. Plus there was

gravy to be made.

She looked him over. He was taller than most of the Chinamen she had seen. His shoulder-

length hair was pulled back and tied in a ponytail. And his features were more than pleasant to

Gold Mountain

7

look at, despite the smudges of dirt along his sharp jawline. One of the things she noticed about

the Chinese workers was that they rarely smelled. They managed to bathe their bodies and

clothes regularly in a place where water and soap were considered luxuries.

“Look, if you want something, you have to tell me. I can't read your mind.”

Maybe it was the tone in her voice, but finally he walked to the counter where she stood.

He pulled at his shirt. It seemed too small by a couple of sizes and stretched across a chest that

was not wide, but with hard musculature that was visible through the taut material. The shirt was

smudged as well, but she detected no really rank odor. Just a slight musk. Usually workers

waited until their clothes were rank before they sought out laundry services.

“You need your shirt washed?” she offered, pointing to his shirt, then making motions of

washing by hand. “Shirt, shirt?”

Unexpectedly he smiled. And then he chuckled. A slight sound, but she heard it well

enough.

“Sh-i-rr…” he repeated, again pulling at his clothing. And then he mimicked the washing

motions she had pantomimed moments before.

“Okay, then.” Despite her earlier frustration, she found herself smiling. “At least we're

getting somewhere now.”

Before she realized what he was doing, he had unbuttoned his shirt and had it half off his

shoulders. The sight of his naked flesh startled her, and she yelled out for him to stop, waving

her hands for effect. He paused, looking confused.

Clara burst through the curtains. “What's going on here?” She held a large wooden stick

upright in her right hand, her other weapon of choice when the gun was out of reach. She stared

at the man and his bare shoulders.

“Okay, Mister! You just keep your clothes on there!” Clara said sternly. “We don't provide

that kind of service here!”

Of course he couldn't understand what Clara was saying. But he knew a weapon when he

saw one. And an angry woman about to use that weapon on him.

“It's all right, Clara.” Leah held up a hand to stave off her friend. “Just a little

miscommunication with a customer; that's all. The gentleman needs his shirt washed.” Clara still

8 Sharon Cullars

advanced on the man, looking unappeased. Leah was sorry she had yelled out, because once

Clara got her dander up, it took a spell to calm her again.

Clara stood in front of the man now, who had by this time pulled his shirt back up on his

shoulders, although it was still unbuttoned. Even though he towered over Clara by a foot, he

resembled some small animal about to be devoured by a much larger predator. His height didn't

daunt Clara any, and she finally lowered the stick just a fraction—but only a fraction—as she

determined that they weren't in any immediate danger.

“Well, does he expect you to wash his clothes in here? You know, I'll never understand

these Chinamen,” she said, bewildered, lowering the stick all the way.

“I suspect he probably doesn't understand you either, Clara. It can't be easy being in a

strange land and not knowing the language. They must do things a lot different in China.”

“Well, if public nudeness is something they do over there, he's come to the wrong country.

I guess I'll get back to the washing since there's nothing nefarious going on up here. I'll leave this

to you to work out. If you need me”—she gave the Chinaman another stern look—“just holler

out.” And with that Clara strode back to the laundry room, trusty stick dangling in her hand.

If the man had understood any of the transaction between the two women, he gave no

indication. He looked at Leah expectantly and more than a little confused. Leah felt bad for the

fellow. All he wanted was laundry service, and he had nearly gotten his head clipped by a very

large stick. She realized his quandary now. He needed his shirt washed—obviously his only

shirt. How to do this? Then she thought of something.

“Hold on. I think I have a solution.”

No answer. Because, of course, he didn't understand. She held up her hand again. It

seemed they were going to have to communicate solely through signals.

She strode quickly to the back room, where Clara was now washing an entirely different

shirt. The shirt from earlier was hanging on a line—totally white, totally smudge free. Leah

didn't have the time to curse her own ineptitude and Clara's constant rightness. Instead she asked,

“Where're Ruben's clothes?”

“Ruben?” Clara asked impatiently. “Now why do you need Ruben's clothes? He's not

coming back for them.”

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9

That was all too true, as Ruben had been killed in a gunfight last week before he had had a

chance to pick up his cleaned clothes. He had been buried in the clothes he wore during the fight,

and no one had sought to claim the pair of dungarees and the black shirt.

“He may not need them, but I do. Now where are they?”

“They're in that trunk over there. You're lucky you asked for them today. I'd planned to

throw them out tomorrow first thing. We can't be holding on to old clothes. No room.”

Leah walked over to the iron trunk where they kept their miscellany. She pulled open the

lid, and right on top of a pile of empty bottles and empty boxes were Ruben's shirt and

dungarees.

She grabbed the clothes and left a curious Clara in the back room. When she reentered the

front room, she saw the man staring at a shelf of chewing-tobacco tins lined up on the shelf

behind the counter. Besides laundry and food services, she and Clara sold items that were

particularly popular around here. Chewing tobacco sold very well. They were forever stepping

over expelled wads littering the sidewalk planks outside.

His shirt was buttoned now. She thrust the castoff clothes into his hands.

“Take these. Then bring back your dirty clothes.”

She thought she was going to have to pantomime again, but he seemed to understand.

He nodded and smiled. Whereas his earlier smile had been shy, this one was full, bright

with very nice teeth. The smile transformed his face, smoothed out lines that shouldn't be on one

so young. She estimated that he was somewhere in his twenties, a little younger than herself. But

she imagined he had seen harder times than she could fathom. He pulled a small bag from his

pants pocket. The pants were like those the other Chinamen wore, black, flared at the bottom.

Not as sturdy looking as the jeans the prospectors wore.

He reached into the bag and pulled out several American dollars, more than was needed for

laundry services. She wondered if he knew about denomination. If not, he was in a lot of trouble

around here, where con men ruled. He tried to hand her the bills, but she shook her head.

“No, that's too much.”

He pointed to the clothes in the crook of his arm. He thought she was selling him the

clothes.

10 Sharon Cullars

“No, those are free. Free. You only have to pay for cleaning. Cleaning.”

That confused look again. Frustrated, she grabbed the shirt he had on. She pulled at it.

“Bring this back, and I'll clean it. Then you pay.”

He spoke, and now it was her turn to be confused. The voice was smooth, even if the

words were not. They were foreign, harsh sounding.

He touched her hand, pulled it off his shirt. At first she thought he was angry. But he

settled things once and for all. He took off the shirt he wore, not caring whether she yelled out or

not. His naked torso was not a shocking sight, but it disturbed her nonetheless. She'd seen half-

naked men before, men she had sewn clothes for. Working men who had taken off shirts in the

heat of a brutal sun. She never had the response she was feeling now.

A network of thin scars crisscrossed the front of his torso, ran down to his waist. On

someone else they would have been disfiguring. Strangely they only accentuated the muscles that

defined his chest. His arms weren't overly large, but there was a strength there, honed no doubt

by hauling rocks and hammering rails into the earth.

She didn't realize she'd been staring until he was totally covered with his newly gained

shirt. The black cloth brought out the sunburned gold of his skin. When she caught his glance,

she knew that he'd seen her staring. And she was embarrassed to have been caught watching him,

when any decent woman would have turned away. If he was also embarrassed, she couldn't

discern. His expression was guarded, his eyes careful not to give her any trace that he'd thought

she'd lost her decorum.

“I'm sorry,” she said, even though the words wouldn't mean anything to him. She hoped

that he could hear the regret in her voice. She'd not meant to make him feel uncomfortable.

He handed her his soiled shirt, his eyes never leaving her face. She realized that he was

deliberately trying to catch her eye, and she was determined that he wouldn't. She took the shirt

and only hoped that he wasn't going to try to hand her his pants.

He didn't. Instead he turned and opened the door. It was only after the bell had stopped its

clanking that she felt it was safe enough to raise her eyes again.

Her heart stopped its double beating sometime later.

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11

Chapter Two

Zhaohui had left him a tin plate of sweet rice, seaweed, and dried oysters that sat on an

empty box in his tent. Zhaohui was one of the main cooks in the camp because his abilities were

a little bit above adequate. Since Quiang's arrival, the older man had befriended him and made

sure that he always had a plate, even if the food was spare.

Quiang took his new pants and placed them carefully in the sack where he kept his few

possessions. Inside was the straw hat he rarely wore and a dragon-shaped talisman his father had

given him for luck, as well as the necklace of steel and ox bone his younger sister had made for

him several years ago when she was ten. He cherished that necklace and the talisman, just as he

had cherished the shirt his mother had made for him. Gone forever.

Zhaohui had lent him one of his extras until he could buy one of his own. He hadn't meant

for the woman to give him a shirt, only that she should wash Zhaohui's hand-me-down. He

looked down at the black material, pulled at it. Its texture was sturdy, durable, and it should last

awhile. He'd never had anything so rich. And she'd given it to him. That much he'd finally

understood.

He sat down on the grass that served as his floor, picked up the plate, and stuffed a clump

of rice into his mouth with his fingers. He barely tasted the sweet grain or the salt of the seaweed

he ate next. The whole meal was just to give him strength. The food the foreigners offered them

could never measure up to the meals his mother made for him back in Guangzhou. Just thinking

about his family brought homesickness.

Outside his tent he heard the sound of clicking dominoes and men laughing. Money would

be changing hands tonight as it did nearly every Saturday night. This week they had gotten their

monthly pay, and instead of stashing it away, as prudent men should do, many chose instead to

tempt fate to better their circumstances. He had no such illusions. His own money was hidden

12 Sharon Cullars

very well. Eventually he would save up enough to take home to his family, to give them a better

life. To maybe even give his sister a chance to marry up.

He had not thought of taking a wife. That was a luxury he could ill afford. Maybe after he

had made his fortune here…maybe.

The woman from the laundry flashed in his mind. He'd seen plenty of foreign women,

mostly whites and those they called coloreds. He rarely noticed the women, his mind and body

set on his duties and his goal. He had no time for distractions. Even pretty ones.

She'd been pretty. Very pretty. Especially her eyes.

The way she'd stared at him when he had taken off Zhaohui's shirt… At first he'd felt

shame about his scars, had thought they repulsed her. But then he'd looked into her eyes and had

seen something other than disgust. Something that had set his heart pounding.

The tent flap opened, and Zhaohui stepped through, bringing with him a strong odor of

opium smoke. Opium was one of Zhaohui's vices, but hardly his only one. His stuffed shirt

pockets indicated that he had won a few rounds of dominoes tonight. The older man bent with

effort as he lowered himself to sit alongside Quiang on the grassy floor.

“Oohh, I see you bought a new shirt. A very nice one at that.”

“I did not buy it. It was…a gift.”

Zhaohui examined Quiang's shirt up close.

“A gift? Who do you know what would give you such a nice shirt? My father was a tailor,

and I can tell this is not cheap material.”

Quiang hesitated, not wanting to mention his encounter with the laundrywoman, although

he wasn't sure why. Nothing had truly happened. Nothing of any real importance. Yet he found

himself wanting to keep the matter to himself. Even so, Zhaohui's face suddenly brightened with

understanding.

“Aahh, I know that look. I've seen it on the face of many a young man back in my village,

including the young man who once stood in my mirror on a particularly favorable day. I was a

little less worn back then, of course. On that day a beautiful peasant girl happened to glance my

way. Mind you, it was only a glance, but it widened my heart tenfold. I'll always remember that

glance…and that young man in that mirror. You remind me of him right now.”

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13

“I don't know what you're talking of, Zhaohui. You're speaking foolishness. There are no

peasant girls here.”

“Then it is one of the foreign women, maybe? You should be careful, especially if it is one

of the white women.”

“She isn't white…” Quiang caught himself, but it was too late.

“So there is a female, then,” Zhaohui said with a knowing smile. “And if she isn't white,

you still must be careful. These things are not looked upon favorably in this country. Even in our

own country.”

This Quiang knew. Even alliances between villages were looked on with caution.

“There was nothing…just a look.”

“Sometimes a look says more than words. It's just that trying to discern its message may

lead one down a road he did not plan for.”

“The only road I'll be heading down is the one leading to the mountains. Work is what I'm

here to do, and I have no time for anything else.”

Zhaohui sighed. “Aahh, to be a young man again with so much of life ahead of me. What I

wouldn't give to have your chances, Quiang. One last word and I'm through. Even if you find

yourself on an unfamiliar road, at least it's taking you somewhere—which is preferable to going

nowhere at all. And who knows, , maybe on this road you'll find the very thing you need to find.”

At that, the man rose and left the tent.

Quiang finished up the dried oysters still on his plate. They tasted nothing of the sea, not

like the oysters from the waters along the pier back home. What little appetite he'd had was gone

now. Why must Zhaohui speak so foolishly? There were no roads to happiness here. Maybe in

the sky where the ancestors bided, but not here. Not in this place of hard terrains and

backbreaking work. Not here, where if the sun didn't beat you down, someone eventually would,

whether that someone was one of the white bosses or the men in town who thought nothing of

killing a Chinaman for sport. Or even the men in camp from whom you had to hide your money

because currency had an uncanny ability to just walk away.

The roads here were hot and unforgiving and led only to misery.

Still…for a moment today he had felt something other than misery. He wished for many

more moments like that but knew that it could not be.

14 Sharon Cullars

Still…

* * *

“Strange, I've been smelling smoke lately, but I can't find where it's coming from,” Clara

said as she pushed her Sunday-best hat atop her head. It was made with gray silk and adorned

with white lilies, complementing her gray muslin dress. And as always she wore the near-chin-

high lace collar. They were in the parlor where Leah sat at the Singer, her foot steadily working

the pedal. She was sewing together pieces of yellow-dyed cotton cloth. If all went as she hoped,

she would have a full dress by the end of the next week.

“Smoke? You're sure?” Leah paused.

Clara thought about it, then shook her head.

“Must be my imagination. I'm always imagining something. Anyway, you coming to

church?” she asked.

“Not today, Clara,” Leah answered as she went back to the dress.

Silence and then, “You know I'm not one to judge…”

“Clara, are you really going to church with that bald-faced lie on your lips? Of course you

judge. You're always judging. And I'm telling you again, I'm not going to church today.”

“Well, it's getting almost embarrassing for me to keep making excuses for you. Last

Sunday Pastor Caldwell asked whether you were feeling poorly, and I had to cover for you.”

Leah finally lifted her head, her foot paused over the pedal. “What did you tell him?”

“I told him that you had something to do at the house. And he said that maintaining one's

house was well and good, but that shouldn't take time from the Lord's house. Why don't you

come, Leah? Your dress can wait.”

Leah said nothing but silently went back to her sewing. Clara harrumphed as she walked

out of the parlor to the foyer. Before the front door closed, Clara got in her last word. “God don't

like heathens, Leah. Make sure you don't become one.”

After Clara left, minutes passed before Leah stopped pedaling again. She didn't know how

many Sundays she could let pass before it would be plain that she just didn't want to go to that

church any longer. She was as pious as anybody, but she liked to worship in her own way. Not

within the confines of a place where the menfolk made it known they were there more for wife

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hunting than worshipping God. She had just gotten plain tired of the male parishioners coming

up to her with nary a word of wooing and expecting her to accept off-the-cuff proposals.

It didn't help that Pastor Caldwell was one of those men.

She understood too well that in a community of only a few Negroes, any unmarried Negro

woman was open game for not only decent-minded suitors, but those with less-godly intentions.

Even walking the streets or riding the streetcar was rife with hazards. Some folk would always

assume that a Negro woman, no matter how primly dressed, was a loose woman. Outside of the

church and the colored women's auxiliary, there weren't too many places she and Clara could go

to socialize. Clara was always happily busy with church things. And with trying to capture Pastor

Caldwell's eye. Clara had not admitted her secret desire, but it was obvious to anyone who

watched Clara watching the pastor. Clara not only had hopes of becoming one of the few

wealthy colored women in California, but to be first lady of First Missionary Baptist of

Sacramento as well. And Leah was determined not to stand in her way. Leah sighed, thinking

that by cutting back her church activities, she would have to fill her free time with literary

pursuits. Maybe even take up the piano like she'd been meaning to. Clara's spinet sat in the

corner gathering dust.

Leah heard the first knock and immediately thought that someone was at the front door.

Maybe Clara had forgotten something. She had gotten up and walked to the foyer when the

second knock came. It wasn't coming from outside the house, but from the attached shop next

door. She paused, wondering whether she should even acknowledge it. All their customers

should know by now that the laundry and restaurant were closed on Sunday.

The third knock was more insistent. She walked past the foyer through the door leading to

the laundry and headed to the front restaurant area. On either side of the shop door were two

plate-glass windows. She walked to the left window and peered out. The man outside stood in

silhouette. His jawbone was strong, as was his chin. The jet-black hair hung loosely around his

shoulders, its gloss highlighted by the rays of the sun. The black shirt and dungarees fit nicely, as

she had suspected they would. She'd estimated correctly that he and Ruben had been the same

size and build. Strangely she wasn't surprised to see him standing there, on a Sunday, his other

pair of pants folded beneath his arm.

16 Sharon Cullars

She unlocked the door, and the bell above it jangled as she pulled it open. She was greeted

with the familiar shy smile and a nod. She wondered why her pulse quickened at both gestures.

“I'm sorry, but we're closed today. Closed.” She stretched out the last word for effect.

He held out the pants he'd worn yesterday, expecting her to take them. He probably wanted

his shirt also. She realized then she'd forgotten to tell him when to pick up his shirt. Yesterday

had been such an exercise in frustration trying to communicate with him that she'd overlooked

that simple matter. And his being a foreigner, he wouldn't understand about Sunday observances

and that most places were closed.

He seemed to realize his mistake, and the smile faltered. She didn't know what to do. She

couldn't just shut the door in his face, for fear he'd interpret her actions as rudeness. But with

each passing moment he looked more ill at ease, and she decided she was going to have to make

an exception in his case. She opened the door wider and stepped back to let him enter. As Clara

would say, a good businesswoman knows how to size up a situation to her advantage. Money

was money, whether it was made during the week or on the Lord's day.

Leah closed and locked the door behind them and took the proffered pants. Clara had

finished yesterday's loads late into the evening, and Leah knew the man's shirt was one of those

hanging in the back room. She indicated that he should wait, and she hurried to the back room.

The shirt was one of several hanging on a rod, bright and white as though it were brand-new.

Leah had to concede to Clara's superior skills in both cooking and laundry. Where Leah had

often given up and declared a piece of clothing past the point of salvation, Clara would find the

right combination of solutions to deal with the challenge. And the magic she could do in the

kitchen bordered on something beyond human.

She put the pants in the sack where they kept the dirty clothes, then took down the shirt.

She was good at determining sizes, and this shirt was way too small for him. If he had money

enough to get it cleaned, why didn't he just buy a new one? She folded the shirt and wrapped it in

the brown paper they used before returning clothes to their customers.

He turned when she came back in the room. Was it her imagination or did his face brighten

just a little? The idea was one she couldn't fathom. But then, women were not as well represented

in this town. And he was, after all, still a man. She'd seen no Chinese women in the year since

she'd moved West, which meant that the railroad workers were forced to live solitary lives. And

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given some of the miscegenation laws, they probably didn't have access to the white prostitutes

around here. Even without the laws, no Chinaman would dare to step out with a white woman,

not around here, not if he didn't want to get a good dose of lead poisoning by way of a bullet.

She handed him the brown bundle.

“That'll be one dollar.”

Surprisingly he seemed to know exactly what she said as he retrieved a small bag from his

dungarees' pocket and pulled out a bill with the right denomination. He held the bill out for her,

and she reached for it. She grazed one of his fingers and felt it twitch. The twitch echoed in her

body, and she pulled the bill hastily away and placed it in the small gray lockbox they kept

beneath the counter. She looked up, waiting for him to leave, but he stood there with the packet

beneath his arm. What was he waiting for?

“Thaannk you.”

The pronunciation was thick, but the words understandable. She smiled, and he returned

the smile. In a place where men's teeth tended to run the gamut from tobacco-stained brown to

outright missing, the Chinaman's teeth were ivory white and strong. They brightened his smile

and his features. He was handsome in a way that was different from what she had previously

considered handsome. Like his hair. In this town the barber kept busy, but still a lot of the men

chose to keep their hair long. Without regular washing, their hair tended to mat and smell, and

she'd decided that long hair just didn't become a man. She'd been wrong on that count. His hair

framed his face nicely, making her reconsider what was actually handsome on a man. Not all

men, but on this one, it was achingly pleasing.

She mentally shook herself out of her foolishness as she realized he was waiting for some

response.

“You're welcome,” she said. He cocked an eyebrow, and she wondered if anyone had ever

returned that particular courtesy to him before. If he'd been here any measure of time, he surely

had picked up some English words. At least now he seemed to know about American money; she

hadn't been sure before that he did.

He spoke again, this time in his language. There was a smattering of English words, but

she couldn't understand them.

18 Sharon Cullars

He was gesturing to something behind her, and she turned to look. It was a small

blackboard with services and prices written across it in chalk.

“Yes, that is our price listing. Prices.”

He mimicked the last word as best he could. Even so, it sounded muddled. He kept staring

at the board and the words and numbers. Not sure what he wanted, she read off the list. The first

half listed clothing items and the cost for washing, starching, and ironing. A line separated the

bottom half, which was erased daily and touted the meal of the day. It still read pork chops,

potatoes, and gravy. Tomorrow she would change the menu to fried steak and, of course,

potatoes. And gravy.

At certain words he nodded. So he did understand some English words. He pointed

specifically at the menu.

“Food, eat,” he said simply, then pulled out the exact money needed to purchase a meal.

She started to tell him no, but for some reason she couldn't bring herself to say the word.

She didn't want to admit to herself that she didn't want him to go. That he wanted a reason to

stay. That she wanted to give him the reason. There were exactly two chops left, and she'd

planned to cook them for Sunday dinner. Clara would be in church for the rest of the day.

Enough time to cook him up the pork chops, then take out the ground beef for Clara.

She took his money and pointed to a table and chair. He sat down, placed his bundle on the

table, and looked at her expectantly.

“Well, I guess I'll go into the kitchen, then.” He nodded as though he understood.

She fired up the range, got down the chicken grease, the flour, and got the chops out of the

icebox. They were still frozen, but the bath in the golden oil would soon sear them. As for the

potatoes, he would have to just settle for fried potatoes. She wasn't about to go through the

motions of not only cutting, but mashing.

It took less than an hour by just a few minutes to finish up his plate. She hoped he hadn't

read the word “gravy,” because there sure wasn't any on his plate. Just two somewhat charred

chops and very singed potato slices. Hopefully his hunger would overcome his palate.

When she entered the front shop, he had been sitting quietly and patiently, staring out the

window. He turned and watched as she brought the plate, fork, knife, and napkin to his table and

set it before him. He looked at the half-blackened meat and overly crisp potatoes but said

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nothing. Instead he took the fork and knife and carefully cut one of the chops, then forked a piece

into his mouth. He chewed and chewed, then chewed some more before he took the risk of

swallowing. When he did, the sound was quite audible. She stood there embarrassed because this

hadn't been the impression she wanted to make. She was an average cook, with better trials than

this. Now he would always remember her dried meat and tough potatoes.

She realized she was hovering, and scooted behind the counter, where she pretended to

keep busy, grabbing a dust rag and wiping the counter, then opening the lockbox to count last

week's receipts, which she would take to the bank tomorrow. By the time she finished, he was

finishing up the dried potato slices. More audible swallowing, then he picked up the napkin and

wiped his mouth before turning to her.

“Good, very good.”

She smiled at the obvious lie and nodded. “Thank you.”

A knock at the window made them both turn to where two strange men were looking in.

Dirty and rough-hewn, they looked as though they hadn't seen the soapy end of a washrag in

quite some time. One of them reeled slightly, which might be explained by the crumpled paper

bag in his hand suspiciously shaped like a whiskey bottle.

“We're closed. Closed!” she shouted, loud enough for them to hear through the window.

The man with the crumpled bag looked pointedly at the Chinaman, sneered, then shouted

back: “What's that damn coolie doing, then? What, a white man not good enough for your

'stablishment, but a damn yellar cur is?”

She was wary of confrontation in a town where bullets were quick to fly. Even so, she

didn't like being told whom she could serve.

“Not a dirty white man such as you!” she yelled back, anger overcoming reason.

He raised the hand with the bottle, and even then it took her a second to realize what he

was about to do. She barely had a chance to duck before the projectile flew through the window,

smashing it into several shards that flew in her direction.

She heard a chair scraping against the floor and in a second was pulled roughly up by a

strong hand. The Chinaman held her by her arm and pulled her toward the back of the shop, out

of harm's way. Without ceremony, he thrust her through the curtains leading to the laundry area

20 Sharon Cullars

and then went back out to the main area. The sound of more breaking indicated the men had

more devilment to do.

The smashing door shook her out of her inaction, and she ran to the shotgun leaning

against a corner wall. She grabbed it and rushed back into the restaurant. The two men had

entered by now. One stood by the door, laughing and hooting as his friend pummeled the

Chinaman with his fists. She started to call out to let the marauders know she now had the upper

hand, but what happened next caused her to pause. Both she and the man's friend stood frozen as

they witnessed the lightning swiftness with which the Chinaman grabbed a fist, twisted the arm it

was attached to, pivoted the attacker, and grabbed him in a choke hold. The usually amiable

features she had come to associate with the foreigner morphed into something hard, almost feral,

as the man tightened his arm around his attacker's neck and began squeezing.

“Hey, now. Get off him. Get off him!” the other man shouted but made no move to

confront the Chinaman. Obviously they had no guns, or it was certain the coward would have

shot the Chinaman in the back. And his friend would have shot her through the window. After

all, there weren't any laws protecting either her or the foreigner. If anything, the law was on the

side of the white attackers.

She realized that the Chinaman was still choking the man and that he might actually kill

him.

“Stop! Stop it!” she yelled to the man. He didn't seem to hear her. His arm still held the

other man's neck, squeezing it tighter. The white man's eyes moved to the back of his head,

indicating that he was losing consciousness.

She was hard-pressed to save the man, not so much because she wanted him saved, but

rather, she knew what the law would do to a Chinaman who killed a white man. Knew that the

penalty was a summary death sentence. In the color scheme of things, yellow might be paler than

brown or black, but in many ways they were the same hue.

She cocked the gun deliberately. The Chinaman heard it, looked up to see her holding the

gun on him. That finally seemed to pull him out of his murderous stupor. His tightening arm

slackened, then fell to his side. His attacker slumped to his knees and began a coughing jag, a

good sign that the man was still in the land of the living and conscious. The man rubbed his

throat, hiccupped air.

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“Imma get the law on both of you! Have this place closed down for good!” the man's

friend threatened, finding his nerve after the immediate danger to his well-being had passed.

“This is a white man's town! It's time both your kind knew how to keep their place!”

She shifted her aim to the loudmouth. “Well, since you're going to have me shut down,

seems I've got nothing to lose by filling you with lead. I hear lead poisoning is a major killer

around here.”

Courage had a way of seeping from a porous backbone when facing the barrel of a

shotgun, as both Leah and Clara had seen on a number of occasions. The spineless wonder who

had just called himself a man bugged his eyes as he calculated the rightness of her aim. Both

barrels pointed at his heart, or where one should have been.

“Okay, ma'am, you ain't gotta get all ornery…”

“Oh, so it's ma'am now?” she goaded.

“Look, he ain't gonna tell nobody nothin',” the bested man said between coughs as he rose

from his kneeling position. “Just put the gun down.”

The Chinaman observed the exchange, looking from one to the other. If he understood any

of what was being said, he gave no indication. His face masked any emotion.

“I'll put the gun down after all the vermin clear out.”

“Does that go for your coolie friend too?” the first man, now totally restored, said with a

smirk. “Well, who'd have thought of a nigger woman and a coolie doing the Tennessee waltz

together? Make sure to wash your mattress down. I hear the coolies come with heads full of

lice.”

“You're one to talk. I think I see some livestock walking in your head right now. Now get

the hell out!”

By now a gathering of onlookers peered in at the scene. She didn't know how long they

had been standing there. She just knew that they saw her pointing a gun at a white man. Any of

them could serve as a witness if the law were brought into the matter. From the stories she had

heard, the authorities most likely wouldn't even listen to her side of the story.

Thankfully the two men shuffled out, but not before one of them spit in her direction. She

heard a couple of epithets impugning both her race and morals; unfortunately the words came

from one of the onlookers.

22 Sharon Cullars

Only after the men had left and the crowd finally dispersed did she realize she was

trembling. She had been throughout the whole episode, and no wonder; she'd come that close to

shooting a man, closer than she'd ever been forced to.

Leah heard a movement and turned to see the Chinaman walking toward the broken door.

It hung on one hinge now. Glass shards of all sizes littered the floor. She sighed, wondering how

she was going to explain this to Clara. Somehow, somewhere, she was going to have to get

someone to fix the door and board up the window before the day was over. Otherwise they'd find

themselves cleaned out of food and clothing.

The Chinaman turned back to her. He didn't try to speak, just nodded once, then turned to

leave.

The guilt she felt had made her silent as well. She'd turned the gun on him. She hadn't

wanted to but had felt that she must. But of course he wouldn't understand that. To him she'd

seen him as no better than those two parasites who'd invaded her shop and had threatened them

both.

He was so wrong, and she wished she had the words to make him understand that.

As it was, she might not ever see him again. He might decide that the pants he had brought

in weren't worth the trouble. That she wasn't worth the trouble.

Again she wished she had the words to convince him otherwise.

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Chapter Three

“What happened to the shop? My God, were we robbed?”

Leah had braced herself for Clara's fallout, even as she had earlier cleaned up most of the

damage and found pieces of cardboard to lean against the broken window. In the hours that

passed, she tried to find some male neighbors who might have some more permanent fixes for

the damage, but all the other stores were closed. She was hard put to find any male help on a

Sunday. Shop owners or handymen were either worshipping God in churches all over town or

paying homage to the devil in taverns similarly situated. With nothing more to do, she'd gone

back to the house to wait for Clara to come home. Unfortunately the hansom cab she took back

home had passed the store on the way to the front of the house. Just inside, she'd heard Clara's

squeaks and exclamations.

Now she stood with Clara in the parlor, broom in hand, sweeping at some invisible dust on

the floor. She'd needed to do something with her hands. The upset Clara hadn't even taken off her

hat or coat. She'd stood there, a very well-dressed image of angry indignation. As bad as the

encounters they'd had before in this place, nothing had been this bad.

“Some drunken troublemakers out for foolishness thought it'd be amusing to break our

window and bust down the door.”

“But why?”

Of course she knew she should tell Clara the truth about the Chinaman and how she'd

opened up the shop for him. But knowing Clara, she'd lay the blame at his door as well as the

white men's. And hers. In the end she was the one at fault; if she had not opened the shop just for

the foreigner, the other two wouldn't have tried to get in, and the situation wouldn't have

happened in the first place. It would be wrong for Clara to blame the Chinaman.

“Why ask why, Clara? Men get drunk, and they do stupid things.”

24 Sharon Cullars

Clara was near tears. “It'll take a whole month's profits to pay for all of that. I bet you we're

being robbed blind even as we stand here. Did you try to get someone to come over and fix

this?”

Leah paused in her sweeping and sighed. “Yes, Clara. I tried, but there's no one around.

Most of the colored men were in church, and the few whites who would help a Negro woman

weren't anywhere to be found. Not today.”

“Then what are we going to do?”

Leah looked at her friend. In the ten years she'd known Clara, she'd never seen her this

distraught. Something else was at hand here. Usually it was Clara who was the levelheaded one.

Today that role fell to Leah, and she leaned the broom against the wall and walked up close to

her friend.

“We'll get through this, Clara. You'd be the first one to say that we just have to rise to the

occasion. This here is not the end of the world.”

The words were meant to embolden. Surprisingly, and out of character, Clara broke down

and began crying uncontrollably.

“Clara, what has happened!” She pulled her friend into her arms and let the woman cry on

her shoulder. After a few long seconds Clara straightened up, pulled a handkerchief from her

satchel, and dabbed at her eyes. She held the moist cloth tightly in a fist.

“I don't know if I can do it anymore, Leah. I thought I was strong enough to make my way

in this place. But one thing after another keeps happening, and it's enough to wear down the

sturdiest soul.”

“What happened today, Clara? It can't just be the shop.”

Clara stood there looking wary for a moment, then shook her head.

“I was forced off the omnibus on my way home,” Clara said softly, her distress still visible

but not as fervent.

“Forced off? Why? Who did this?”

“The driver, that's who did this. He called me all sorts of names and said that I wasn't fit to

ride with decent womenfolk. He made it seem as though I was some kind of danger to them. The

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whole car just sat there and didn't say a word while that piece of mess actually manhandled me

and pushed me off into the mud.”

For the first time Leah noticed the black stains along Clara's gray muslin skirt.

“But if he didn't want you on there, why'd he let you on in the first place?”

“He said he didn't see me get on, but I know he was lying. He waited until after I'd paid my

fare to pull that mess. He just wanted my money. He rode just a few miles before he decided to

make a scene. Nobody came to my defense.”

Leah held her friend's shoulders in either hand. “Did you really think they would, Clara?

You remember we read about that colored woman in San Francisco who suffered a similar

experience? She didn't take her humiliation lying down. Instead she sued the owners, and the

court ruled in her favor. Maybe you could do that here?”

“Now who's the one being fanciful?” Finally Clara unpinned her hat and pulled off her

gloves. The tears had stopped, and her breath was steadier. “Well, we can't just stand here and let

ourselves be robbed. Did you at least clean up in there?”

That sounded more like the old Clara. Despite the underlying criticism, Leah felt

encouraged that things were getting back to normal.

“Yes, I cleaned up the best I could.”

Clara's eyes widened as she thought of something. “You did remember to get the box from

beneath the counter, didn't you?”

“Yes, I did, Clara. It's upstairs in your bureau. I'll take the receipts over to the bank as soon

as it opens tomorrow.”

“We have to make sure this door is locked at least,” she said, pointing to the door that

connected the house and the shop. “Otherwise someone can get into the house while we sleep.”

“Yes, I locked it, Clara. Clara, just…just sit down and relax. I've got Sunday dinner all

prepared. Meatballs with cinnamon like you like, and green beans and oven-baked potatoes. I've

already set the table.”

“I thought we were going to have those two chops left over from yesterday.” Clara put her

wrap in the closet off the foyer, then headed to the parlor. “You know we can't be wasting food.”

Leah hesitated before following her into the parlor. “I…I finished them up for lunch.”

26 Sharon Cullars

“Both of them? Leah, that was very inconsiderate. You could have at least left mine

alone.”

Leah sat down to the sewing machine, took up where she had left off hours ago. “What can

I tell you? I have a hearty appetite.”

“I'm going to sit down to dinner. You can at least stop sewing for a minute to sit down with

me. This may be a godless town, but we can at least keep some decorum like Sunday dinner.”

“I'm not hungry,” Leah said as she ran another panel of material beneath the running

needle.

“Humph. After two pork chops, I can't imagine why.” But that was all she said as she left

Leah to her sewing.

When Leah finally stopped, the sun had nearly set. The last rays were filtering in through

the sheer curtains. Clara had decorated their house on the line of the home she had left in New

York, down to all the niceties you would expect in a New York town house. She'd spent most of

her money building the house and had kept the shop rudimentary, declaring at the time that since

their clientele would basically be roughnecks, it didn't behoove them to invest much into

decorating. Just the bare necessities. The biggest concession to any type of luxury for the shop

had been the two large plate-glass windows. Those had been very costly.

A stab of guilt made her shut her eyes. Regret made her picture the Chinaman's face. Her

eyes fluttered open as she admonished herself. It made no sense that she should feel this way.

Leah heard the sounds before they fully registered. Clara had gone up to bed in the last

hour after clearing away her dinner dishes. Leah started to call up, then considered all Clara had

been through today. If robbers had gotten into the shop, there wasn't much either one of them

could do. Then she remembered that she'd brought the gun into the house to keep it from being

stolen. It was in the foyer closet, just waiting.

She rose and walked softly to the closet, got the gun for the second time that day. She

unlocked the door leading to the shop, opened it quietly, and stepped through.

Whatever she had imagined she'd find, it hadn't been the sight before her.

The sounds she'd heard had been the hammering of nails. Somehow, somewhere, he had

gotten planks and tools and had brought them back.

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The door hung as it had before. And the last of the wood was being placed over the rest of

the window.

His back was to her, but he still wore the black shirt and dungarees he had worn that

morning. His black hair was caught up in a ponytail that swung past his shoulder blades.

She took a step forward, and the sound alerted him. He turned to see a shotgun pointed at

him. Again.

His eyes widened at the prospect of again being in the sights of a gun, and he lowered the

hammer that he'd been using to nail the plank into the wall around the broken window. She

lowered her gun. He remained where he was standing, staring at the gun, then at her. He spoke in

his language, and she could only imagine what he was saying. Most likely calling her an

ungrateful, hysterical, thoughtless…

“Name” was the last word he said. Not quite a question, but she understood what he was

asking.

She leaned the gun against the nearest wall, then pointed a finger to her chest. “Leah,” she

said, putting slow emphasis on each syllable.

He said her name with a rough pronunciation, cocked his head in question until she nodded

that he'd said it right. Then with his free hand he pointed to his chest and said, “Quiang.” It

sounded like chee-ong. She repeated it back to him, and he nodded.

“Quiang, thank you very much.”

“Fix door. Window.” The words were clearly enunciated. He'd obviously been practicing.

She walked over and looked at his handiwork. She wandered from the rehung door to the

boarded-up window. The work was sturdy and should hold well until they could replace the

window. He stood next to her, and she felt his gaze on her. When she turned to him, she saw that

he was indeed staring at her. He'd been staring at her profile, and now his eyes roamed her face.

The probing unnerved her. Was he seeking some imperfection? She might not be a raving

beauty, but she'd been told often enough that she was a fine-looking woman. Still, she wasn't

sure she could stand up to such scrutiny.

“It's very impolite to stare,” she said softly as his focus settled on her eyes. “But of course

you're not understanding a word I say.”

28 Sharon Cullars

Her understanding of men was limited in her personal experiences. But she was a keen

observer, and in her twenty-eight years she'd seen things that were natural and loving, and things

so hateful and despicable that she could barely think on them even now. She'd seen pairings that

men and laws said shouldn't be. She'd also known people who'd thrown caution to the wind and

followed their hearts. She'd never been one of those people, never been one to flout the rules, to

follow an untried path. This California venture, even though far from home, was not so

uncommon. There had been quite a few Negro women who had thought to take their skills and

try to make their fortunes here in the West. As unfamiliar as this world was, she was beginning

to make a home with hopes that one day she would find someone with whom she could share this

new life. In a whole year she hadn't found someone who could even move her heart.

It beat erratically as he held her gaze.

“Done.” The word was spoken deeply, softly, his voice practically a caress. The timbre of

it made her stomach flutter, set off other tremors through her whole body. She wasn't used to

being this out of control of her emotions. She didn't like her body overriding her good sense.

She was standing much too close. Obviously her proximity to him was making her think

irrationally. She had to get away, back to the house. In her desperation she took a quick step

backward, and her shoe stepped on a slippery shard of glass she'd missed earlier in her cleanup.

The contact caused her foot to slide, throwing her off balance. She fully expected to fall

backward and hit her head. Instead he grabbed her upper arm, and she jerked forward in

response. The action was so quick that she didn't have time to straighten up, and she fell forward

against his body, her hands landing on his chest. Although his frame was slight, she felt the

strength of his muscles, hard and unmoving. His body held firm against the impetus of her body

slamming into him. He held her steady, his face just above hers.

His heart's rhythm matched her own. It pulsed fast and erratic through his chest, his shirt,

her hand. His breathing was just as erratic. She refused to look up, for fear she would catch his

eyes again—or more like let his eyes capture hers. Surely he couldn't possibly think that there

could be something between them? A decent woman just didn't feel this way about a man so

soon after meeting him, a man with whom she had barely exchanged a handful of words.

She inhaled shakily as the heat of his breath fluttered through the strand of hair along her

forehead. It moved along her skin in a caress tingling her flesh. His hands tightened around her

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29

forearms as she stood motionless, unable to move. But the trance ended as she felt his lips graze

her skin. She pushed at him, nearly knocking him backward.

“No,” she said quietly, still not looking at his eyes. “Please go.” And she pointed to the

door to press her point.

She didn't wait to see if he would follow her order or whether he even understood the

words. Instead she grabbed the gun from against the wall and walked to the door leading back to

the house. She closed it swiftly behind her, then locked it. The click of the lock soothed her. She

could at least prevent him from entering her home the way he moved into her mind, the way he

was ramming against her heart.

30 Sharon Cullars

Chapter Four

In his reverie, he sat with his father in their fishing boat just a few miles from the bustling

piers of Guangzhou. A warm breeze blew along the seawater, carrying the smell of salt and fish

up to their noses. The lines holding their nets bobbed in the water, almost motionless. Not a good

sign. On that day his father's weathered skin seemed even more etched. The network of lines told

the story of a boy born on a desolate farm to a family of five sons, a boy who decided that his

path lay elsewhere. Eventually he found his way to the piers along the South China Sea, where a

man could fill his nets with a bounty of fish and not muddle around in the muck and mire of

manure. His father had indeed found his path and was all the more satisfied that he had followed

his heart. It was on that summer day that Quiang told his father he wanted to find his own way

also, somewhere far from the familiar piers. At least for a while. He had heard word that Chinese

workers were being sought in America to build a railroad. That instead of a bounty of fish, there

was a bounty of gold for every man willing to work hard. That he could earn enough within a

few years to make their lives rich. After Quiang had had his say, his father was silent for a bit

before he spoke. Of all the things his father related that day, one thing stood out in his mind.

“Quiang, one day years ago on my father's farm, I went to bring in the wheat and found

half the crop dead. And on that day I was glad. My father had put his whole hopes and dreams in

that crop, and as sorrowful as my father was, all I could think of was that I was now free. That I

was no longer tied to that dead place. I know my selfishness may shock you, but it was during

those days after, when we all realized that the farm could never sustain five sons, that my father

finally released his sons to the world. He told us that the ancestors would not be angry if we

were to leave. I left a few days later, and I have not regretted it all of these years. I am not a rich

man when it comes to money. But I am a man who the fates have smiled on. I would not expect

less for my own son. So, Quiang, find your way, wherever it leads, and if it is in this foreign

country, then so be it.”

“What'cha waiting on? Dig, you damn coolie!”

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31

The tenor of the voice was enough to shake Quiang out of his daydream. His pickax

hovered above the rock he should have been breaking. He stepped back, swung the tool, and

brought it down hard. The rock shattered into pieces and dust. The crewmen were working just

outside a newly dug tunnel, and they had to smooth the way into the entry. It was going to

become a quagmire now that the day was promising rain. The smell of it hung in the air, and the

leaves of nearby trees shook violently. The sun hid behind a cluster of clouds after a morning of

unforgiving heat that bore heavily down on the workers.

The pickax felt as heavy as lead, and he barely had the strength to raise it. He'd never been

this tired, even when hauling heavy nets laden with hundreds of fish. But he'd barely gotten any

sleep the prior night because of his dreams. They'd tormented him, waking him at intervals. In

every one of them, she'd told him to stay away, to never come near her again. And his sadness

had pierced him out of his sleep.

But before he'd waken, just before she'd banish him, he had lived that kiss again and again.

Had relived the feel of her skin beneath his lips. So soft. And there had been the smell of lilacs

all around her. And cinnamon. He'd not smelled anything so sweet in such a long time. He hadn't

planned the kiss or even hoped for it. But being that close to her, it was as though… No, he was

making excuses. He should never have touched her that way. He had known it was wrong

because of what her nearness almost made him do. He'd fought with himself not to pull her

closer, until their bodies were nearly one. The thought even now made his lower parts flame, and

he felt himself harden. He swung the pick in one motion, breaking another rock, hoping that pure

exertion would override the sensation. He swung again and kept a steady rhythm even as the first

raindrops fell and the dirt became mud. He blessed the rain; his physical misery reminded him of

who and where he was. He was a poor Chinaman with nothing to offer a woman, a wife. At least

not now.

Hours passed during which the water pelted the workers until they were soaked through.

Even in the deluge, the men kept moving, kept digging, kept breaking rocks, kept cutting down

trees, putting down ties, and grading roadbeds. They were working the last miles of the

Northwestern Pacific, and the head men wanted the last spikes put down by the beginning of

next year at the latest. All of it was hard work. All for a pittance, but if one saved enough, one

could buy land. Build a home. Raise a family. Even in this country, where a Chinaman had to

watch his back to make sure no one stood behind him with a knife.

32 Sharon Cullars

He thought about his father's last words to him just before he sailed for America.

“Quiang, in the end a man has to find his happiness. If you are meant to come back to us,

you will. But if your destiny lies in this new country, then so be it. Do not feel that you are tied to

us, son. In the end, every man has to live his own life.”

The plan had been that he would eventually return to the land of his birth. But if he made

enough money, he could send some to his family back home and still have enough to start a new

life here. Maybe even find someone to share that life with.

But he had to earn more than the meager amount he was getting paid. All the workers

knew they were making far less than the whites who worked alongside them, but there was

nothing they could do. The one time they'd decided to strike for better pay, the railroad

management withheld their monies until they all went back to work.

There was other work, dangerous work that had nothing to do with the railroad. He had

heard the rumors in the camp, knew of a few workers who had earned enough to leave the

railroad altogether. Some of them had already bought land.

He would ask Zhaohui; Zhaohui would know. He knew everything that happened in the

camp.

As the plan began to form, he found he didn't mind the rain or the mud. Nor the Irishman's

cursing at the men to move faster. He had finally chosen his path.

* * *

On her return from the bank, Leah entered the house and heard a familiar voice coming

from the parlor.

“Sister Clara, I am just so glad that neither you nor Sister Leah came to any true harm.”

Pastor Caldwell's rich baritone filtered into the foyer, where Leah paused at the as-yet-unopened

door. “Not to say that your business hasn't suffered, but windows and doors can be replaced.

When I think what could have happened to two virtuous women… Well, I just shudder to think

on it. So I want you to know that I'm here to help you and Sister Leah in any way that I can.”

“Pastor, I don't know what to say. I can't tell you how grateful I am that you took time out

of your busy schedule to drop by to help.” Clara's voice was chirpy, almost girlish, which was

very un-Clara-like—unless she was near Pastor Caldwell.

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Leah hesitated, wondering if they had heard her come in. Her instinct told her to back out

the door and bide her time somewhere else. But where? She might try to go up the stairs,

stepping gingerly, hoping they would not hear her. But if they did, then she would have to

explain her rudeness. So instead she called out from the foyer.

“Is that Pastor Caldwell?”

“Leah, you're back.” Clara's voice was less chirpy, with an almost indiscernible trace of

irritation. At least it would be indiscernible to those who didn't know Clara well.

Leah put her wrap away in the closet, forced a smile, and entered the parlor. Pastor

Caldwell was seated on the red velvet divan that was Clara's pride. He wore his signature striped

seersucker suit, his black top hat cradling his right knee. In the time since Leah had known him,

she could not remember ever seeing the pastor when he wasn't impeccably dressed. His mustache

and sideburns were always trimmed, his eyes framed by preternaturally long lashes that would

have been the envy of any woman. All in all, he was a pretty man. And he knew it. Just as he

knew that most of the unmarried colored women had their sights set on him for matrimony,

including Clara.

Upon Leah's entry, Pastor Caldwell rested his hat beside him and rose. Before Leah could

take a seat, he strode with long legs to where she stood and took both of her hands in his. Out of

the corner of her eye, Leah saw Clara's back stiffen as she sat in one of the straight-backed

chairs.

“Sister Leah, I am so sorry to hear about your latest tribulations. I can't imagine how

horrible it was to find your place of business destroyed in such a godless manner. It must have

been a real shock for you.”

“Why, yes, it was, Pastor.” Leah swallowed the guilt arising from her secrecy about what

had really happened. “It was quite a shock to find it in such a state. But both Clara and I are

determined to soldier on…”

“As well you must. As well you must.” His hands squeezed hers slightly, but in a way that

didn't seem quite Christian-like.

Clara stood abruptly, nearly knocking over her chair. She looked rather stately in a soft

mauve cotton dress, with lace not nearly as high as on her other dresses. This dress seemed new

34 Sharon Cullars

and flattered her in a way the others did not. It was as though she knew the preacher was going to

pay her a visit and dressed in her Sunday best.

“Yes, we are strong, godly women,” Clara interjected, moving close to the pastor. Her eyes

looked to the clasped hands. “What the devil means for evil, God will surely turn it to our good,”

she said, her hands clasped together.

The pastor seemed to sense he'd overstepped some line of propriety—at least as far as

Clara was concerned—and released Leah's hands but remained standing where he was.

“Sister Leah, we missed you in church these past two Sundays. I hope this doesn't mean

you're quitting the church.”

“No, Pastor, I'm definitely not quitting the church. It's just that I've been preoccupied with

some things, but I promise to be more faithful from now on.”

“That's good to hear, good to hear. As I was telling Sister Clara, I'd be more than happy to

help the both of you get things back up and running. I see you already got somebody to board up

the window, but eventually you're going to have to put in replacement glass, and that's going to

cost you some. I was suggesting to Clara that the church would be willing to advance a small

loan, if need be…”

“Pastor, like I said before, you and the church already have enough charitable enterprises

to handle. Leah and I wouldn't dream of taking one cent that is needed elsewhere. We've dealt

with much worse than this, and we will deal with this trial the way the Lord sees fit.”

“Sister Clara, sometimes the Lord sees fit that you accept help when it's offered. This is no

time to let pride interfere. After all, pride can bring about certain fall.”

Clara looked properly censured, which was rare. Leah suspected that the pastor was the

only one who could put Clara in her place. He didn't know it, but he brought sunshine and rain

into Clara's otherwise placid life. And if he didn't know it by now, the pastor should have figured

by now that Clara would make a good first lady of the church. Sometimes men were too blinded

by other things.

“Pastor, will you be staying for supper? I plan on making a rib roast with fried potatoes

and green beans. And of course, you once told me how much you like my sweet potato pie.”

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The pastor broke out in a big grin. “Clara, you do know how to tempt a man. Your cooking

is almost unseemly, but I don't suppose the Lord would condemn a man for giving into this one

temptation. I do have a run to make, but I can surely drop in later. If you don't mind?”

Yes, there was definitely sunshine in Clara's life now, judging by her smile. Clara reserved

her expressions of pleasure for those she figured were worthy.

The pastor grabbed his hat from the divan, held it in his hand as he took his bow, and only

placed it on his head once he had stepped through the door.

Clara still had a partial smile on her face when she turned from shutting the door.

“That was very generous of Pastor Caldwell,” Leah said.

“Yes, it is. He's a very generous man. He funds the free pantry for the poor. And mind you,

he doesn't just give food away to the coloreds, but to the Mexicans and the Chinamen too.

Sometimes even poor white folk. And then there's the winter clothing drive for the children. His

is the only church which allows the members of the women's auxiliary any voice.”

“Including yours,” Leah interjected with a grin.

Clara wasn't smiling now. “Well, why not my voice? I have a right to speak up and give

my opinion like anyone else in that church.”

“Like Sister Tallulah?” Leah knew she was stepping on hot coals with that one. Tallulah

was Clara's proverbial thorn in the side and the only real obstacle to Pastor Caldwell's affection.

Not only a handsome woman, Tallulah could also give Clara a run for her money in the kitchen.

Clara had once admitted that if Tallulah ever went into the food-service business, they'd probably

have to close up shop. So Tallulah was a real sore point with Clara. Leah knew she shouldn't

deliberately vex Clara like that, but sometimes she couldn't help it.

“Tallulah? That woman talks more than she should as it is. Always standing up in church

giving that same ole testimony. Nearly has the whole congregation nodding off by the time she

finishes. What am I standing here talking about that foolish woman for? I've got a dinner to fix.”

“You know very well that rib roast was for today's menu. There're several plates in that one

roast alone.”

Clara headed for the kitchen. “Sometimes we have to improvise,” she said as she walked

away. “We won't open today. And tomorrow we can take those pounds of ground beef and cook

meatballs instead.”

36 Sharon Cullars

Now halfway down the hallway to the back of the house, Clara paused. “Who did you get

to fix that window? You never did say when I first asked you.”

Leah searched for a quick answer. “I found someone on the street. Paid him a couple of

dollars.”

Clara continued on her trek, calling out, “You really have to be careful who you deal with

around here, Leah. You might encounter some unsavory hooligan who'll require more than

money.”

Leah remained silent, the ghost of firm lips still touching her forehead. Despite the kiss,

she'd never felt in danger with him. She somehow knew that he was not the type of man who

would force himself on a woman. Quiang. She said the name again in her head. At first the name

had sounded strange, but through most of the night, alone in her room, she'd repeated it to herself

again and again. And now it seemed the most familiar name to say.

She could never tell Clara. She could never tell anyone. She hardly knew what to tell

herself. She couldn't explain her feelings for this man, why he moved her in a way that no decent

unmarried woman should be feeling. These were feelings that should be reserved for a husband,

not a stranger. Not a strange man—strange to her, strange to her land. They couldn't even have

one decent conversation together outside of a few words and a whole lot of hand signaling.

They made no sense together.

But why did she have to keep reminding herself of this?

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Chapter Five

“Forget this plan of yours, Quiang. It is foolhardy and much too dangerous.” Zhaohui

punctuated his warning by grabbing a handful of sweet rice from his dinner plate of cuttlefish

and salted cabbage and stuffing the morsel into his mouth. This one meal would have to last

them well past noon the next day, after they had finished blasting another tunnel. Only then

would they be allowed another meal. Quiang sat in his friend's tent, ignoring his own plate.

Quiang would not be deterred. “No more dangerous than what we already do, Zhaohui. At

least the triad offers what a body is actually worth, not the insulting coins the whites pay us. And

I need to make money, true money.”

The older man stopped eating then and looked at Quiang, deliberately. After a few seconds

he said, “So you have changed your plan and are not returning home.”

Quiang wondered at his friend's sudden prescience. “What makes you say that? Of course I

will return home.”

Zhaohui shook his head. “Do not lie to me, Quiang. You're not very good at it. Which is

another reason you should not go through with this plan of yours. To work with the triad requires

certain skills of subterfuge, and you do not have these skills. You are intelligent, but you are not

calculating. And most of all, you are not cold in your heart. You cannot kill a man as though he

is no more than a bug. This is something those who work for the Triad excel at.”

“There are other things the triad requires.”

“You have to promise your soul to them. Are you willing to give them so much just for a

bit more change in your pocket? Is she truly worth this?”

“Why do you keep insisting that what I do is for a woman? I will tell you as I told you

before: There is no woman.”

38 Sharon Cullars

Quiang kept his face expressionless as he said this. Which had been harder to do lately

whenever he thought of…lay-ah. He sounded out her name in his head, as he had done since she

told him.

He knew he had not imagined her response. She had felt what he felt, but she had allowed

fear to chase her feelings.

In that moment when he'd held her, both past and future had come together. Since then he

kept returning to that moment in the boat when his father had released him, just as his father's

father had done. All his life he had worked tirelessly for the sake of working, following a life that

had been laid out for him. Now he truly wanted a life that was just his own. He

wanted…happiness, something he had never hoped to find. Never thought existed. But it did. It

existed in a pair of kind eyes and a lilting voice. In a tingling laugh that moved through him and

in skin so silken and warm that his lips had trembled when they touched it. But most of all, his

happiness existed in finding a soul that spoke to his own without even an exchange of words.

Yes, Zhaohui, she is worth this and more, he silently answered his friend's query.

Aloud, he repeated the favor he'd asked minutes after entering Zhaohui's tent. “Will you

introduce me, Zhaohui? That is all I ask.”

Zhaohui placed his plate on the ground next to where he sat and let out a deep sigh. Quiang

recognized the sigh for what it was—a sign of defeat. If his friend had thought to change

Quiang's mind, he had failed. Once Quiang had settled on his plan, he knew immediately where

to go. The older man was a notorious opiate user and an unrepentant gambler. He knew the

contacts Quiang needed to meet. More importantly those people knew Zhaohui. He needed

Zhaohui to introduce Quiang as someone who could benefit the triad.

“Yes, I will do it. And may your ghost not haunt me with bad luck when you wander the

earth looking for someone to blame for your death.”

Quiang smiled. “If I should die, I'll not hold you responsible, old man. Although I just

might make the dominoes fall in the wrong direction.”

Zhaohui sighed again, and Quiang laughed outright.

And just as quickly his laughter died as he seriously considered his friend's warning. He

might truly get caught up in something that would bring ill luck, if not outright death.

And then he remembered why he was doing all of it, and his smile returned.

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* * *

Sacramento's underground was a network of tunnels connecting the lower floors of many

of the city's older buildings. These floors had once been on street level, but after the flood of

1861, the city administrators decided to raise the streets along the city's waterfront with landfill.

The floors became basements, and eventually tunnels were built to allow passage from one

building to another. It was along this network that the tong, the strong arm of the triad, ran their

opium dens and brothels, as well as their more legitimate businesses. Quiang followed Zhaohui

as the other man led the way along the dank, barely lit paths with a sure-footedness that testified

to his decadent habits. Occasionally they passed others making their way down the tunnels. At

the end of their trek, they stood before a scratched wooden door with gold-lettered Cantonese

script that read WAO'S PIPES AND TOBACCO.

Zhaohui knocked, several rhythmic taps. After half a minute had passed, the door opened,

and a bearded man dressed in a red linen Hanfu robe stood in the entrance. Despite the gray in

his beard, he stood tall and erect, his face barely etched with age. A tobacco pipe hung from a

corner of his lips, but the smell coming from within the shop was more than the sweet fragrance

of tobacco. The pungent opium smoke reeked in the narrow tunnel way and made Quiang

smother a cough.

“Zhaohui, is it Friday already? The last I knew it was only Tuesday evening. Even so,

you're always welcome here. I can always use the company…and the money.” The man's voice

had the rasp of someone who'd smoked for years.

“Wao, I will take you up on your generosity if you have a room available. I've brought a

friend along who wishes to meet you. This here is Quiang, with whom I work the rails. He is

young, strong, and intelligent, and he wishes to pledge loyalty to the family.”

The old man turned his eyes on Quiang. The man's expression remained neutral, though

Quiang suspected that there was a whole lot of calculation going on behind those eyes. The triad

did not deal lightly with those who would pledge allegiance. Despite Zhaohui's assertion that

Quiang was naive about the ways of the tong, Quiang was very much aware of the consequences

to those who had crossed the triad, even to the smallest degree. In the more merciful instances,

the unfortunate fool might lose a finger or a limb. Then there were those who simply

disappeared. Whispers pointed to several reasons, including ambushes by jealous whites who

40 Sharon Cullars

believed the Chinese were taking away their jobs. But those who knew for certain understood

that bodies were sequestered away within the tunnels or thrown into the ocean. And it wasn't at

the hands of whites, who usually left the bodies of their victims lying on the streets and roads

like garbage.

It seemed they would be denied entry after all. The proprietor stood without comment,

looking at Quiang as though he were staring right through to the soul. Quiang straightened his

shoulders and held the man's eyes, refusing to look away. He might be measured, but he wouldn't

come up short. Not from a cursory appraisal. Then the appraisal ended as the man addressed

Zhaohui directly.

“Come in.” The invitation was for both of them.

They stepped into a small room with a counter that ran half its length. Behind the counter

were three shelves on a back wall that held tins of tobacco, while two other shelves on an

adjacent wall held a variety of smoking pipes made from either bone or fine ivory. Quiang took

note of a pair of red curtains that covered a doorway situated near the shelves. These would lead

to the actual room or rooms where patrons smoked the opium they either purchased here (the

stash would be hidden somewhere) or brought with them. Judging by the strong opium aroma,

someone had already patronized a room. He might still be there, sleeping off the effects of the

drug.

“Zhaohui, your room is vacant. You know where it is.”

Zhaohui nodded, understanding that he was being dismissed so that Wao could speak with

Quiang alone. He walked behind the counter toward the curtains, pushed them aside, and

disappeared. The odor of opium became even more acute.

Wao walked up to Quiang until they stood face-to-face. Almost. Quiang was half a foot

taller.

Quiang waited for the questioning to begin. He had anticipated every query the man might

put to him. What he hadn't anticipated was the steel point of a knife blade against his neck. The

man had moved so quickly, Quiang didn't have a chance to move away. Knowing that his life

could end with one motion, he held his breath but refused to give the old man the satisfaction of

showing his fear. Instead he smiled, a small curling of his lips. A smile that said there were

worse things than death.

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“You are a presumptuous one to think that a lowly farm boy like you can go from milking

cows to serving with those of honorable blood.”

Quiang lost his smile. “I'm not a farm boy, and if you think you see one, then maybe it is

time for you to get glasses.”

The knife blade nicked his skin, and he felt a trickle run down his neck. Quiang didn't

react, despite the pain. Wao then moved the blade to just beneath Quiang's left eye.

“I will not be the one with lost vision. You may think to fly to heaven, but if you are not

careful, you may very well find yourself plummeting to earth. Only those who are worthy can

ever hope to join the ranks of the triad. And from what I can see, there is nothing worthy about

you. You're just a snail ready to be smashed beneath the shoes of your betters. A pustule waiting

to be burst.”

“You can't seem to decide whether I'm a bird, a bug, or a boil. I would argue that each has

its use. A bird can travel great distances; a bug can be unnoticed in the right circumstances; and a

boil draws out the impurities in the body.”

All the time Wao held the knife to Quiang's face, the old man's expression never showed

the contempt of his words. It had been as noncommittal as when he first gauged Quiang at the

door. Now the man's face broke into a slight, almost imperceptible smile.

“You don't particularly fear the tong, do you? That is not wise.”

“I know when to fear—just as I know when I'm being tested for that fear. I honor those

who work for the benefit of my countrymen in a strange land just as I honor the opportunities

offered by those who know that a man is worth more than his pound of sweat.”

The knife disappeared beneath the folds of the hanfu.

“Good, good.” Wao walked around his counter, bent to retrieve something from behind it.

He placed a large silver tin on top, took two pipes down from his shelves. He opened the tin and

took out two wads of a tarlike substance, placed one in each of the two pipes.

“The essence of a good smoke reveals a man's heart, his soul, not only to others, but to

himself. Will you join me?” He held up a pipe, waved it at Quiang.

Quiang was not an opium user but knew that others used it to feel more than the drudgery

of their lives. Or to forget. Despite Zhaohui's many invitations to share in his stash, Quiang had

42 Sharon Cullars

declined each time. The stuff was too strong for some to handle, created an allure that called to a

man like a seductress again and again.

“Yes,” he said.

Wao indicated with a nod of his head that Quiang should proceed through the red curtains.

Quiang hesitated, then strode behind the curtains and found another world.

The red-carpeted hallway reeked of opium. Along the walls were chairs carved from deep

burnished wood, their craftsmanship worthy of the Great Palace back in China. Down the hall on

either side were other red curtains to private rooms. Where the front curtains looked made of

linen, these curtains were from rich silk, dyed with the deepest red. Quiang imagined Zhaohui

behind one of the curtains, nursing his pipe, feeding his habit. At the very end of the hall was

another set of curtains, wider than the others. It was through there that Wao instructed Quiang to

go, and Wao followed behind him.

Quiang hadn't expected the woman. But then, Chinese women were a rare sight in

America. Quiang had heard rumors of young peasant girls being kidnapped and brought to these

shores against their will, then forced to work in white-patronized bordellos. This woman didn't

appear to be a prostitute, but rather a hostess of sorts. She had been sitting on a red silk mattress

that lay on the floor. As soon as they entered, she rose and walked to a table where a tea service

waited. While he and Wao took seats on the mattress, the hostess poured two porcelain cups of

tea, served Wao first, Quiang last. She then exited, leaving them alone.

The tea was nearly scalding and quite bitter. Even so, Quiang finished his cup. Wao lit the

pipes, handed him one.

Again Quiang wavered, just for a second, before taking the pipe and placing it in his

mouth.

In later days he wouldn't remember the exact moment the opiate began to take effect or

when the feeling of euphoria finally took hold. He'd only remember lying back on the mattress

and letting his body lead him where it wanted to go, reveal the truth about what he had kept

buried within him these last days—days that, though just a series of minutes and hours, seemed

more like lifetimes. He closed his eyes, and the world opened.

She appeared from nowhere, standing near the entry, looking at him. Wao was no longer

in the room. It was just her and him alone. Instead of the demure dresses he had seen her

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wearing, she was draped in a red silk robe that hung off her shoulders and was partially opened

in the front. The deep brown of her skin contrasted seductively with the rich red of the material.

When she spoke, it was with the lilting tone that he heard in his dreams, but now he could

understand her every word.

“Quiang.” When she smiled, he found it hard to catch his breath.

“I'm dreaming again,” he reasoned. Yet it wasn't like his previous dreams. When she bent

toward him, placed a hand along his cheek, he felt it. Truly felt it.

“No, you're not dreaming. I'm here, Quiang.”

The hand traveled along his jawline, down the curve of his throat, unfastened the first

button of the shirt she had so generously given him. He felt himself harden as she stroked the

bare skin of his chest, and the initial feeling flared even more as a finger stroked his left nipple.

Her face moved forward until it was inches above his own; the heat of her breath tickled the skin

of his forehead as she settled her lips down for a kiss, repeating the scene in her shop. The kiss

trailed down, found his lips.

This was an opium-fueled fantasy. He knew this despite her protestation that she was truly

here. Yet the kiss was not like any dream kiss he'd experienced. The warmth, the taste of her

tongue… He moved out of his daze and pulled her down totally on top of him, deepened the kiss.

In her shop he'd had to fight not to grab her closer, knowing that he would lose her if he did. She

was not a woman who would allow herself to be handled roughly. But now, freed from all

constraints, he allowed his emotions to move him. It was as Wao had said; the drug revealed the

true self. He was not the son of a fisherman or a coolie working like a slave on the railroad that

he wouldn't even be allowed to ride. Instead he was just a man whose heart was newly opened,

and whether this was an illusion or not, he now could go with his feelings.

He grabbed her robe, pulled it down over her hips and buttocks, then let his hands find

their way up over her exposed flesh, slowly, longingly. She sighed in his mouth, and he took this

as a cue that she was not displeased. Not at all. She ground her hips into his groin in a steady

motion as her breasts pressed against his chest. He grabbed the mounds of her behind, let them

overflow his grasp as he pushed her farther into his hips, causing a friction against his swollen

but still-covered penis. He felt as though he were going to explode…

The hand that shook him awake was an unforgiving enemy.

44 Sharon Cullars

“As I said, truths are often revealed by the essence of the drug.”

Quiang opened heavy eyes to find Wao smirking at Quiang's crotch. He rose and peered

down to see an erection that was barely contained by the heavy material of the dungarees. The

heat of embarrassment suffused his face as he shifted to obscure the sight.

Wao just laughed as he stood with the agility of a man half his age.

“No need for shame, boy. That is just one of the effects of the drug. If you need help with

your…uh…affliction…there're ways to deal with it. For a price, of course.”

Quiang knew what Wao was offering. Either the pretty young woman who had served

them or someone comparable. He shook his head.

“No, thanks. I don't need that kind of help.”

“You'll find that one vice often goes well with another, like yin and yang. Your chi is

presently unbalanced. I would offer more opium, but that would lead to a dependence that will

quickly turn you yangui, much like your friend. I will let you have time to…uh…settle down.

You'll find me up front when you are ready.”

The old man exited through the curtains, leaving Quiang to his predicament. He'd not

expected the drug to have that particular effect. And definitely not with an audience.

Several minutes passed before he was ready to leave. When he entered the front store, Wao

was already with a customer. The customer, a middle-aged man dressed in a well-tended

gabardine suit, eyed Quiang warily. Wao, sensing that he was about to lose a customer, said

matter-of-factly, “No need to worry. He works for me.”

The customer nodded, and they continued with their transaction. After the man left, Wao

turned to Quiang.

“Luck has brought you here. I happen to be short a courier. Return on Friday evening. Ten

sharp. I will have something for you to transport. It is a simple task that even you cannot mess

up.”

“Zhaohui?”

“Zhaohui left hours ago. He may be yangui, but his body maintains a sufficient chi to stave

off many of the downfalls. In other words the old addict can handle his vice. Make that vices.

Unlike you, he didn't reject my graciousness when offered.”

Gold Mountain

45

Quiang mentally shook off the rather unpleasant image of Zhaohui's weathered body

wrapped around the young limbs of the girl he'd seen earlier.

He left, making his way through the tunnels, remembering each bend and turn that he and

Zhaohui had walked hours before. He didn't have a clue how early or late it was into the next

day. He'd probably missed the morning lineup. Zhaohui, the old bastard, was even now probably

hauling broken rocks or setting spikes.

“Thanks for deserting me, old friend,” Quiang whispered to himself as he made a sharp

turn on the final path that would lead him out of the tunnel. As he entered daylight, he noticed

that the sun was midway in the sky. Noon. He'd been in his fog for hours, then.

The day was wasted, and it would cost him. But starting Friday night, he'd make it up

severalfold.

He didn't want to know what he'd be transporting for Wao, knew not to ask questions. That

was the way it was going to be. Easier on his pockets and his conscience.

He made his way back to his tent, thinking to while away the day. And dream.

46 Sharon Cullars

Chapter Six

The smoke leaking through her bedroom door interrupted Leah's dream. As in all her

dreams lately, Quiang figured disturbingly. The touching had not been as chaste as it had been in

the shop with the innocent kiss. Memories of his bare torso served as architect for the map of his

body when her dream-self imagined him. She often touched him in sensual ways, and one time

she'd even awakened to find that she had been pleasuring herself.

This awakening was far less pleasurable. She coughed once, again, then finally sat up to

find she was breathing in smoke. The room was full of heat. Panicked, she leaped from her bed

and ran to the door. At night they kept a small light burning in case they had to use the wash

closet. When she opened the bedroom door, there was no light at all. A cloud of black smoke

obscured everything. She walked only a few steps before she had to drop to her knees and crawl.

She felt along the walls to direct her; they were hot to the touch.

She tried to call out to Clara but couldn't get her breath. She inched along in the direction

of Clara's room and finally found the door. She rose up from her crouch, searched for the knob,

and tried to turn it, but the door was locked from the inside. Clara treasured her privacy too

much.

Leah banged at the door, tried again to cry out, but drew in too much smoke, which made

her cough even more. She needed to get out of the burning house, but she couldn't leave Clara.

After a few moments, she no longer had the strength to knock. She slid down against the door,

no longer caring about how hot it was getting. She couldn't get her mind together to even try to

find the stairs.

She lay there, barely breathing, and realized she was dying. And that Clara was dying also,

if she weren't already dead. She closed her eyes and deliberately took in a couple of deep draws,

hoping to quicken the inevitable. She drew in a last breath, and then everything went black.

* * *

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47

In death, she felt a horrible pain in her lungs. Whenever she drew in breath, her chest

flamed as though it were on fire. She was in hell, then, being punished for her lustful thoughts.

Clara, no doubt, had gone to heaven and was looking down on her friend in the fires of hell,

harrumphing and shaking her head. Probably pointing a finger as well.

She heard the voice of one of her tormentors.

“She's coming around, I believe.”

Coming around to where?

Someone pushed something into her mouth that felt like a spoon. Something viscous and

vile ran down her throat, and she almost gagged it up. She tried to open her eyes, but when she

did, the light hurt them, and she quickly shut them again. Within a few minutes the pain eased up

some. And she welcomed the fog of death as it drew her in again, made her sleep.

* * *

She woke to find herself in a rudimentary bed in a room without windows. She turned her

head gingerly on the pillow where she lay, and saw a table with medicine bottles. There was the

smell of ether and bleach. She realized then that she was in a hospital. She lay on the bed, trying

to remember why she was there. And where was Clara?

Hours later the dreadful facts would be relayed to her by the nurse, a kindly, middle-aged

colored woman. After all was told, Leah screamed and screamed. She continued screaming until

the doctor came and shot her with a sedative.

And again she entered hell.

* * *

At one point she thought she awakened to find Quiang standing over her bed. But it was

night, and he was just a figment of her imagination. She couldn't fathom the time or the day.

Only that she'd been in the hospital when the church had buried Clara. And that she hadn't gotten

a chance to say good-bye.

She no longer had a home. Everything had been burned to the ground. Only through the

bravery of some of the neighbors had she been pulled out in time. They hadn't been able to get to

Clara because of her locked door. It was the smoke that got to Clara instead.

48 Sharon Cullars

The nurse, a Mrs. Davison, told her that the lawmen said it looked as though the fire had

been deliberately set. It had started with the shop, and after the flames ate through the building,

they moved to the house and throughout. It took hours for the fire patrol to finally put it out.

Leah didn't have to think hard about who would have been evil enough to set it. The faces

of the two vandals floated before her, laughing at their victory.

Clara was dead because of her, because she had stood up for a Chinaman. A man named

Quiang.

* * *

Quiang waited between two massive mausoleums, listening for the telltale signal. Under

the moonless sky, the tombs and tall sepulchres took on ominous shapes, casting shadows that

seemed to move. Despite the eeriness, the cemetery provided good cover for exchanges that

could never take place in the light of day. A few moments passed before Quiang heard the

whistling tune from his contact. One of the shadows grew until it stood before him as a short

Chinese man dressed in the unassuming garb of cone hat, jacket, and flared pants. Han was the

name he went by, Chinese for “gold.” Quiang suspected that wasn't the contact's birth name, but

rather his veneration of the thing he worshipped most. In the near month that he had worked with

Han, they had barely exchanged a handful of words. But the man's avarice manifested in various

ways, including the look on his face whenever gold was placed in his hands, just as now. Even in

the pitch of night, with the shadows of looming structures obscuring any light, Quiang could see

Han's satisfaction as he counted out the gold coins. He punctuated this satisfaction with a nod of

his head.

“Tell Wao it is always good to do business with the Hung Mun.” He handed Quiang a

package wrapped in paper, tied with hemp. “Until next time.”

Han merged with the shadows, disappeared. Quiang waited a few minutes more, then

walked toward the gate at the eastern end of the cemetery and hoisted himself over. He landed

with a thud over the other side. He walked several miles, heading toward the waterfront. Even

before he saw the piers, he smelled the salt of the ocean. At near midnight the streets were

deserted but for the most base of the citizenry, whether white, Irish, Chinese, Negro, or

Mexican—races kept apart by the laws of man, brought together by the pursuit of illegal or

lascivious distractions.

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49

He entered the tunnel, made his way to Wao's shop, and dropped off the package. In turn

Wao handed him his pieces of gold.

In the month that he had been working for the tong, for Wao specifically, he had earned

twice what he would have earned working three months on the rails. He had nearly earned

enough to return home and build a comfortable life for him and his family.

But he would need to earn much more to settle here in America. To build a life. He did not

plan to be a mere worker but was now forming plans for so much more. Maybe a business of his

own.

After he left Wao's, he headed for the Negro hospital, to the piled boxes he had hidden in

the alley to give him access to one of the higher windows in the building. Those who ran the

building usually kept the window open, most likely to air out the stench of sickness and death.

He knew the routines of the night nurses who tended to the patients, knew when to duck into

alcoves, beneath tables. Eventually he opened the door to her room, entered as silently as a ghost,

the ghost that he would appear to be in her drugged state.

She was mending physically, but he knew she still suffered emotionally. He'd found out

about the fire and the death of her friend and partner two nights after it happened. Zhaohui had

told him.

“I'm not a very wise man, but even I can figure out things that are obvious to my senses,”

Zhaohui had begun that evening, as Quiang paced frantically in Zhaohui's tent. “I asked myself

why you would go into the town to have laundry done, when there are men here who are

exceptional at that craft.”

“That was none of your business!” he had railed, but the older man remained unwavering

and continued with his tale.

“So I followed you on the day you took in your shirt, or rather, my shirt. She thought that

you'd come simply for laundry. But we both know that is not the case.”

Quiang remained silent but stopped his pacing. In his frustration, the truth poured out of

him like water through a sieve.

“It is my fault, but I never meant her harm. I saw her enter one day, and I was curious.

Since the shirt you gave me was foul…”

“Ungrateful cur, that was one of my best shirts.”

50 Sharon Cullars

“I didn't know what to expect. Up close, I couldn't even talk to her. I was an idiot. And she

was so patient and generous. After that I thought to see her again, but that day I stayed too long.

It was because of me that those bastards destroyed her shop. You see, I knew she was closed, and

I pretended not to understand. If I'd only left when I should, her friend would still be alive.”

Zhaohui shook his head. “Those are the sort of men who need no excuse for what they do.

If not you, they would have found another reason to go after her and her friend. The fact that

they are women and colored made it only a matter of time before someone acted on impulse. And

given the fact that your friend is not hard on the eyes, the attack could have been much worse.”

“But it did get much worse, Zhaohui! Her friend was killed! Her home destroyed! All

because of me and my stupidity and my…” Quiang ran fingers through his hair in frustration. “If

I knew who did this… If I could only find them…”

“And what would you do, Quiang? Kill white men? And how long do you think you would

outrun the rope they would knot up for you?”

“It'd be worth it, just to feel their necks snap in my hands.” Quiang drew up half fists,

imagining the culprits lying broken at his feet.

“Forget about revenge and think on your plans. You are no longer a rail slave. Be grateful

for that. You can make your true path now.”

Quiang turned to Zhaohui and stared silently. The man shook his head fiercely. “No.”

But the unasked question hung between them.

“I want to find them, Zhaohui. And I will find them, with or without you, but I would

appreciate your help.”

The next day Zhaohui handed him the information written in Chinese script on a scrap of

paper. Now he pulled that piece of paper from the pocket of his dungarees. It contained the street

where the men who had attacked him were often seen. There was a bar near the address where

many white men gathered. Somehow through his many contacts, Zhaohui was able to track the

two Quiang sought. The idiots had eventually bragged about the fire to so many that even the

Chinese knew of their infamy. Not that any white man would bring them to justice. But Quiang

would know them when he saw them. And he would make them pay.

Gold Mountain

51

In the dark of the room, he heard her moan from the depths of her dream…or her

nightmare. The sound tore at him. Despite all the Western medicine in this place, she would

never get better here. What she needed wasn't held in these walls.

Neither was it held in the attention of that preacher man who visited her nearly every day,

hovering during the day as Quiang hovered at night. Quiang did not trust him and knew the

reason for his distrust lay more with jealousy than anything the man had actually done.

He shoved the scrap of paper back in his pocket, left her room, then retraced his steps to

the exit. As he did nearly every night when he wasn't running errands or doing some other work

for the tong—or as others knew them, the Hung—he headed to the address written on the paper.

For almost a month he'd been staking out the bar, keeping to the shadows in the alleyway, hoping

to finally find the men who had burned down her home. Rats scampered near his feet, sniffing

the garbage strewn about. Broken bottles of beer and ale littered the wooden pavement. The alley

stank of urine and much worse. Still he waited.

Because he'd promised her that he would, even though she hadn't heard him. He'd said the

words that first week in the hospital while she lingered in her haze. It was a promise he planned

to keep, because until he avenged both her and her friend, he could never be worthy of her.

In the distance he heard the raucous sound of drunken male laughter. On this street the

nighthawks wandered freely, drinking, gambling, and whoring. In their revelry, a lone Chinaman

would be invisible to them, because how could any of the Chinese be a threat? If anything the

Chinese were often the victims of those who resented their good fortune in this land. That was

why the esteemed families had come together as the Seven Companies, as the Heaven and Earth

Society, to protect those who were regularly beaten and sometimes even murdered. Among their

strong arm, the tong, he was now one of the night brothers running under the cover of darkness,

delivering parcels, tracking information. The night running was often dangerous because several

families were in contention for the opium trade. And certain independents without honor thought

to push their way into the competition, making the running even more hazardous. On two

occasions he'd had to take extreme measures to protect himself. One man would never walk

again. And he had gained a few more scars to join those already mapped on his body.

Quiang's ears perked at a familiar voice. His command of English was a little better than it

had been over a month ago; he was taking great pains to learn the language. Wao had given him

52 Sharon Cullars

a dictionary of foreign words, because at least a couple of the tong's contacts were enterprising

Irishmen who had tired of the laborious jobs of prospecting and mining. Right now Quiang

recognized the cadence of words that had been spoken that day in Leah's shop in a voice that he

would never forget. He stood near the alleyway entrance, looking out at the scene before him.

The man had indeed come from the tavern; the slight wobble betrayed him. He stood

beneath the ambient glare of a streetlamp arguing with another man. Quiang recognized the hard

features of the despot for whom humanity was a foreign idea, especially if the humanity

belonged to someone who was not quite Western. Quiang had no patience for any man who

would attack women, who would burn down their business, their home, with them helpless

inside. After waiting a month's time for this opportunity, he would finally settle the score.

He watched intensely as the men seemed about to come to blows. Then Quiang's attacker

pulled out his gun, and the other man held up his hands as though to say he conceded the

argument. The first man waved him off with his gun, and the second man quickly scurried away,

probably thankful to get away without a bullet through his back. After he was gone, the first man

looked around warily before putting his gun away. It was nearly one o'clock, and only a few

stragglers were out now. For that reason Quiang had to be stealthy, in case his prey turned

around and saw he was being followed. Quiang had no gun, just a knife that Wao had given him

to carry on his first assignment. It would have to do.

The man headed in the direction of the area the whites called J Street. The street ran along

the waterfront and was home to a lot of Sacramento's businesses. A few of the horse-drawn cabs

still rode the street, looking for fares among the nighthawks. But Quiang's quarry kept walking

toward his unknown destination. Quiang was going to have to make his move soon or lose the

opportunity that night. And if he lost his chance, he couldn't be certain that he would ever get it

again.

The sounds of another tavern were now apparent, and Quiang realized where the man was

heading. Soon he would disappear through the doors of the white establishment, and Quiang

wouldn't be able to follow. Luckily this stretch of street was nearly deserted. Quiang quickened

his strides, taking a chance that his quarry would hear the steps on the wooden planks that served

as the walkway. But the man was obviously distracted by the anticipation of more liquor and

didn't turn until Quiang was up on him and grabbed him by the shoulder.

Gold Mountain

53

“Hey, what the fuck d'ya want?” he slurred. “Get your yella hands offa me, coolie!”

Quiang reached the man's hand before he could pull out the gun. He bent the hand

backward until he heard an audible snap. With his other hand, he muffled the man's scream as he

pulled him into a nearby alley.

“Ohhh Goddd, you broke my wrist!”

Quiang had practiced the words he would say to both men if he ever got the chance. At

least he had the chance with this one.

“You burned down shop, house. Killed woman. This is for her.”

“You crazy son of a yella bitch! You broke my hand! I'm gonna kill you for that!”

Quiang understood the words well enough. The man held his injured wrist in his left hand,

and Quiang doubted that he could make good on his threat. Still Quiang wouldn't take down an

unarmed man. He would give him the chance the man never gave the two women whom he tried

to burn—probably anybody else he'd hurt in his life.

Quiang backed several feet from the moaning man until he was a distance from him.

“Get your gun. Shoot.”

Quiang waited. He knew this coward for what he truly was. Even in pain he wouldn't pass

up the chance to kill a seemingly unarmed man. Especially one who had bested him twice now.

And a Chinaman at that. The man did not disappoint him.

As quickly as he reached for his gun with his uninjured left hand, Quiang pulled out his

knife and threw it with lightning speed across the few feet that separated them. His father had

taught him years ago the ways of the knife, and he had learned those ways well enough until they

were second nature to him. The knife found a resting place in the killer's chest, near his heart. He

slumped to the ground, his eyes still open, his mouth in an eternal O.

Quiang closed the distance and pulled the knife from the dead man. He wiped both sides

on the man's shirt before he placed it back in his pocket.

He left the alley and headed up J Street toward the small room he now rented in

Chinatown, far away from the workers' tent camp where he'd lived just weeks ago. The sun

would soon be up, and he needed to get at least a few hours of sleep before he started a new day.

54 Sharon Cullars

Chapter Seven

Leah spluttered on the weak tea but managed to choke down a few more sips. Behind her,

Mrs. Davison plumped up her pillows, then stood over her, waiting for her to finish. Afterward

the nurse took the empty cup and set it on a nearby table, next to an empty plate with the

remnants of a breakfast meal.

“That was very good. Once you get your full appetite back, we'll get you fattened up,

'cause you've lost way too much weight in these last weeks.”

Leah quietly lay upright against the pillows. In these few hours she'd found being fully

conscious more painful than her days of delirium. Whenever she thought of Clara, she burst into

tears, so she'd taken to not thinking of Clara at all. She kept her mind empty of everything but the

dreary room that was her temporary home. Mrs. Davison came back to stand over her. The

woman's face reflected compassion and pity, both of which Leah had had a steady diet of—

including the healthy helping of self-pity she fed on daily. Despite her efforts, thoughts and

feelings flowed. And as hard as she tried, Clara's face appeared before her, chastising her for her

laziness. She heard Clara's voice in her head. You've been sitting on your behind too long. You've

got a business to start up again.

“I know this is a hard time for you, but sitting here just staring at walls ain't gonna make it

better.” Mrs. Davison's voice joined Clara's ghostly chorus. “You've got to start eating, get

yourself well again so that you and the preacher man can start your life together.”

Now Leah turned her full attention to the nurse. Mrs. Davison must have seen her

confusion, because she said, “You know, that Baptist minister. He's been by nearly every day

since you arrived. I just assumed—the way he looks at you, the way he looks after you—that you

and he… Obviously I might have read more into it than what it was. Anyway, he's going to be so

glad that you're awake now and getting better.”

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55

Pastor Caldwell. Leah couldn't think about the minister without thinking about Clara. Poor

Clara had pinned her hopes on a future with Pastor Caldwell, but now she would never have that

future. It was all so unfair. Clara shouldn't be the one lying in her grave. That grave should

rightfully be hers. There were so many things she wished she could undo, she could live over. If

only she could go back to that day and refuse to open the shop for the Chinaman. If she hadn't

gotten so cheeky with those men, pointed a gun at one of them, maybe Clara would be alive and

they would still have a home and their shop.

A home. She had no home here. Nor a business, no matter Clara's dreams. Yes, she could

try to start over, but where would she get the money? Anyway, everything was so painful for her

here. When her mother died nearly eight years ago, she'd felt a tearing in her heart, a wound that

had only started to mend. Now that tear was ripped open anew. Clara had been more than a

partner. Despite her constant criticisms and strict demeanor, Clara had possessed a good heart.

And such determination that she'd made Leah feel that they could overcome anything. Even in

that last evening, Clara had decided to bring suit against the trolley company that had insulted

her so. The light in her eyes had blazed during dinner with Pastor Caldwell.

“I won't just take that kind of abuse. We Negroes have to know that we have every right to

be treated with the dignity afforded the white citizens of this country.”

“Amen, sister,” Pastor Caldwell chimed in before he took another healthy bite of Clara's

roast. Clara had outdone herself that night. The meat had been so tender, as had the potatoes. It

seemed that Clara had finally made headway with the pastor that night, had found the spark she

needed to soldier on despite the vandalism and hardships. It was too unfair that Clara was dead.

“I have to go,” Leah said softly to herself as her mind came back to the present; she'd,

forgotten that the nurse was still in the room.

“Go where, honey? Do you have somewhere to go?”

Leah couldn't answer, but her silence did.

Mrs. Davison nodded in sympathy. “Well, until you find someplace to stay, you can rest

assured we will not turn you out onto the streets.”

The nurse left the room, abandoning Leah to her thoughts.

* * *

56 Sharon Cullars

The sound of the door opening woke her from her noonday nap. She'd been dreaming

about Clara. In the dream she and Clara stood side by side in the restaurant's kitchen, frying up

sliced potatoes and chicken for the evening rush. Clara's famous stock gravy waited in a tureen

on the wooden table. Clara had been wearing her gray muslin dress along with her gray silk hat

adorned with white lilies. Her Sunday best.

Pastor Caldwell stood just inside the doorway, hat in hand. Instead of his usual seersucker,

he wore a dark green, sharply cut gabardine suit. He seemed unsure whether to step in farther.

She'd never seen him without his veneer of holy confidence.

“I didn't mean to wake you, Sister,” he said softly. “The nurse told me you were doing

better, so I thought I'd just look in.”

She didn't want him there. It didn't seem right that he was there with Clara gone. She

wished she could tell him to go away. Instead she nodded her head and said, “Come in, Pastor.”

He walked in, grabbed the chair that sat next to the table against the wall. He pulled it up to

her bedside and sat down, balancing his hat on his knee.

“You look wonderful, Leah.” Not Sister Leah as before.

“I doubt that I look all that wonderful, Pastor. I've not been well for a while.” For the first

time in a long time she was conscious of how she must appear. Bed-mussed hair, a plain hospital

gown. She must be a sight.

“Yes, I know. It's just that, well, you always look wonderful to me.”

Leah cast her eyes down to her hands folded together on the bedspread. She did not want

this to go further.

“Leah, I know these weeks have been especially hard for you, what with Sister Clara's

death and all. I don't know what your future plans are. Whether you want to start up again…or

go back to New York. I reckon you have people back there. One wouldn't blame you if you

wanted to leave this place forever. But to be honest, Leah, I truly wish you'd think about

staying.”

He reached over and placed a hand on top of her folded hands. His face told it all.

Her heart jumped. This was not the way this should go. This was Clara's wish, not hers.

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“I know you don't have a place to live right now. There's a room above the rectory where

the church puts up visitors. I can have it made up all feminine-like for your comfort, and you can

stay as long as you like. I know people will probably talk—they always do. But maybe in a few

months, we…we can make the talking stop by… I don't know any other way to bring this up. I

haven't courted you properly, but I think you might have figured out by now that I have a soft

spot for you, and I would be honored and privileged—”

Leah shifted her hands from beneath his hand. “Pastor…you're right. I haven't made any

plans yet. I don't know whether I'll be staying in Sacramento or not. But right now I just want to

get better and think things through. I haven't even had a chance to visit Clara's grave. And I do

want to thank you for taking care of the funeral and burial. I heard it was lovely.”

He pulled back his hand, his eyes shifting in embarrassment. “It was the least that I could

do for her. She was a good parishioner.”

Leah couldn't help the angry surge. “She was more than that, Pastor. Much more. She was

a stalwart worker who stood by the church—by you—no matter what was needed. She gave of

her time, her money…her heart. But I guess that wasn't enough.” Her eyes brimmed with tears

that threatened to course down her face.

“I'm sorry, Leah. If Sister Clara had more than Christian feelings for me…”

“It is Christian for a woman to love her pastor. It is also human. But like you're trying to

say, sometimes feelings aren't the same between two people. One may feel one way, and the

other's feelings may not go in that direction. Obviously that is how it was between you and

Clara…and that's how it is between you and me.”

The rush of heat flushed her face. She'd not meant to be cruel, but she would not let him

just brush aside Clara's memory. Clara had loved Pastor Caldwell. And even if he hadn't felt the

same, he didn't have the right to make light of it either.

The pastor took up his hat and stood. His face was stern and formal. “I'm sorry to have

overstepped myself. You can trust that I will not make that mistake again. I wish you well,

Sister. And…if you ever do need anything…well, the church is always open to you.”

Only after he had left did her heart stop beating so fast. The anger subsided, and cold

reality hit her. She might very well have to turn to him for survival, or at least a room to stay for

a while. Although there was some money in the bank, half of it belonged to Clara's estate. Leah's

58 Sharon Cullars

half would only take her through a few months and wasn't nearly enough to start over. But it was

enough to get her back to New York, where she could rent a room to take in sewing. Get on her

feet again. Rose, her friend back in New York, had written to let her know that things had settled

down since the draft riots a couple of years before, where marauders had killed Negroes left and

right. Even children. Still, nowhere was particularly safe. President Lincoln had been killed just

sitting in a theater box, enjoying a play. Violence was everywhere.

By even considering returning to New York, she felt she was letting Clara down in some

way. It was a feeling she couldn't shake, as though the woman's spirit were standing there in the

room, urging her on. Although she didn't really believe in spirits, she wouldn't put it past Clara's

stubbornness to hold on to this world a little bit longer. And if earthbound spirits were truly here,

then she could only hope that Clara had not witnessed the betrayal of her feelings by the man she

had set so much hope and faith in.

“Clara, what should I do?” she asked softly, of course not expecting an answer.

* * *

In the darkness she heard the slight creak of the room's door opening. At the edge of sleep,

she awakened, expecting to see Miss Farley peeking in on her nightly rounds. There were other

patients in other rooms; sometimes she heard their moans, sometimes their screams.

She almost closed her eyes, used to the nightly ritual, but something wasn't right. She

remembered then that the young nurse had already peeked in hours ago. Besides, the movement

was stealthier than usual, as though the person didn't want to be heard. Usually at night a

kerosene lamp burned to give light, but tonight the light was off.

She didn't panic, not right away. Even as she tried to adjust her eyes to the dark, she

reasoned that the person standing in her dark room was just another hospital worker going about

his or her duty. Whoever it was just stood there, though, stood without making another sound.

And then the panic did set in.

“Who's there?” she called out. “Who are you?”

No one answered. “Please, tell me who you are.”

She heard a match strike, smelled the sudden sulfur in the room. The whiff of light moved

through the air, hovered over the kerosene lamp, lit the oil-drenched wick. The small flame grew,

as did the light in the room.

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She'd thought that if she ever saw him again, she would pour out her anger onto him, turn

every pain inside out, douse him with it, set him aflame as her home had been set on fire. But

even as she'd had those thoughts, she knew they were misdirected. Clara's death was not his

fault.

And yet the anger began to rise. She sat up and stared at him, hoping that he would come

closer so that she could reach up and slap him. How dared he come here? Why didn't he just

leave her alone, leave her life? But as she stared into the unwavering eyes, she understood that it

was his guilt that now drew him here to her.

“Get out,” she said softly but sternly. “I don't want you here.”

She wanted to believe her words. She fought that part of herself that called her a liar. She

had become a pure heathen. She'd turned down a man of God who would give her whatever she

wanted. And she longed for this man standing silently in her room, a foreigner, a heathen,

someone who didn't even understand the words she had just spoken.

“I am sorry.”

The words were so clearly spoken, she thought she'd misheard them. They confused her.

“You understand me?”

He nodded slightly. “Little.”

He remained standing near the table. His features were harder than she remembered, as

though he had aged a few lifetimes since she'd last seen him. The angles of his face were sharper

also, as though he hadn't eaten regularly since then either.

“I am sorry…for friend.”

The words were soft, solemn. They tore through the healing scab of her emotions, made

them raw again. She thought she'd cried herself dry, but a torrent let loose. She muffled her sobs

into her hands, her eyes squeezed shut, her breaths short. Her whole body shook.

She didn't push him away when he sat on the edge of her bed and placed his arms around

her. Instead she settled there as though it were the most normal thing to do. As though they had

done this a thousand times before. She let her head rest on his shoulder, took comfort in the

hardness of edges and muscles. Through her grief, she felt the slight kiss on her cheek. This time

she did not move away but pressed herself closer out of need. As much as the pastor had

unnerved her, Quiang unnerved her in ways that the pastor never could. In ways that took her

60 Sharon Cullars

breath away. The sobs subsided, and when he moved to give her room, she held him tightly,

grabbing handfuls of his shirt. The shirt she had given him.

He inched his cheek along the length of hers, until the tip of his lips met the corner of her

own. The kiss was soft, chaste. His flesh, the heat of his breath, stirred her flesh, made her feel

liquid and fire. Freed her from her pain for that moment. She moved her lips fully over his, and

he opened to let her enter, tightening his arms until she was pressed against him. Whatever

compunction that would have stopped her subsided with the kiss. She didn't care if the whole

world labeled her a loose woman or made her wear a scarlet letter. She wanted this, needed him.

Still locked in their embrace, she pulled him down on the bed, on top of her. He pulled back,

then broke the kiss. In the barely lit room, she could see his questioning eyes. For a second she

felt ashamed of her desire and thought he shared this shame. She directed her eyes away from

his, her hands still attached to his shirt. That was when she noticed the necklace dangling over

her. It hung from his neck in a loop of steel and bone. She released his shirt, touched the smooth

bone.

He struggled for a word, then whispered, “Sister.”

“It's beautiful,” she whispered back, a new stream of tears running down the side of her

face. Throughout her life, she'd wished she'd had a sister. He had a sister, maybe more than one,

maybe brothers, a whole family. She knew nothing about this man. She wanted to know

everything about this man. She wanted to know him in every way. She reached up a hand to

stroke his cheek. Her shame was gone.

She took one of his hands and laid it on the gown covering her left breast. She heard his

intake of breath. His touch was tentative at first, cupping the breast softly. His thumb found her

nipple and began to stroke it. The calloused thumb caused a friction that made her squirm and

moisten, made her breath stop in her throat.

His breath had also quickened as he continued stroking. As good as it felt, she wanted

more, much more. She reached up to pull the neck of her hospital gown down over her shoulders

until her breasts were fully exposed. This time she didn't have to encourage him. His hands

settled around each breast, stroking the mounds of flesh, softly squeezing her nipples. She

moaned and pushed up into him, felt his erection. He settled his lips on a breast, touched his

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tongue along a nipple, teased it, sucked it until her body went into sweet convulsions, the nascent

warmth between her thighs hot and wet now.

She ran her fingers over his head, found the ribbon that held his hair in a ponytail, and

pulled it off. She played with his hair, the texture of it silky, strong, and wonderful. She pulled

him up from her breast, reached her lips up to his, moved her tongue into his mouth. He sucked

her tongue just as he'd sucked her nipple seconds before. He rested his full body on her, making

it hard to breathe. She didn't care. The length of him was hard as he pressed into her.

He broke the kiss to rest on an elbow, then reached his hand down to the hem of her gown,

pulled it up to her waist. His fingers moved between her thighs, stroking through the sticky

wetness, massaging the tender, swollen orb that made her almost scream. The motion set off

waves of something too exquisite to name. They seemed to go on forever until they finally ebbed

into just a soft shimmer.

He had been silent through his ministrations, but when she reached up to unbutton his shirt,

he whispered, “No.”

At first she didn't understand. Then she remembered the scars.

“It's all right,” she said.

His breath was raspy but steady. He looked uncertain but didn't stop her as she continued

unbuttoning the shirt. She pulled it off his shoulders, down over his arms. In the soft ambient

light, the scars didn't look as startling. On his arms, she saw fresh ones, barely healed. She ran a

finger along them; he winced.

“I'm sorry. I didn't realize. How did you get these?”

He shrugged, and she decided not to press him for an answer. Maybe one day he would tell

her.

She cupped his cheek in her hand, and he rubbed his face into her palm, his eyes closed as

he took comfort from her touch.

Before now she would never have considered a man beautiful, but he was indeed very

beautiful. She wanted to remember him like this for as long as she could.

62 Sharon Cullars

Her hands touched his flesh, set it on fire along his deadened scars, soothed the pain in the

newly injured ones. Pain and pleasure. He hadn't realized how wonderful it could be to feel both

at the same time. His heart was bursting with a joy that he'd never thought he would feel in this

life. He didn't have to rise to heaven; it had settled on earth, here in this room, this bed. To know

that he could give her pleasure, that she wanted the pleasure he could give filled him.

His fingers explored her wet folds again, the scent of her release sweet and musty in the

room. He was finding it hard to contain himself in the tight confines of his pants but dared not

release himself just now, or he would surely come. He wanted to make these moments last

beyond just this night, wanted her to remember him, to remember the pleasure they'd found with

each other. He settled his face in the crook of her neck, let his kisses and breath caress her flesh

even as his fingers continued their exploration. Her breathy cry was like the tinkling of the wind

chimes outside his family's home in Guangzhou.

“Ni zheng ke ai.” He moaned against her throat. “Wuo yao yong yuan he ni zai yi qi.” You

are so lovely. I want to be with you forever.

He couldn't wait any longer. He moved moist fingers to unbutton his pants and released his

swollen cock. Carefully he slid inside her, and she gasped slightly. He froze, uncertain whether

he had hurt her. Yet her hands grabbed his shoulders, held on, and the look on her face was a

merge of pain and pleasure. He knew he should stop, and would have if she'd whispered her

entreaty in a word he understood, but her eyes told him what he wanted to know. He didn't move

at first, just savored her wet heat encasing him. But they both needed a release. His eyes locked

with hers as he began to softly, slowly thrust upward, trying to disappear inside her depths. Time

and seasons could pass, and he wouldn't know it. He would live forever inside her, their two

bodies melded.

She whispered his name, and a shudder ran through him. He quickened his motions, the

thrusts moving even deeper. The bed shifted beneath them, and he knew at any moment one of

the workers could come through the door to check on her. And he didn't care. Nothing could

move him away from her, not at this moment. Not when her face reflected the ecstasy running

through him. He'd been with women before but had never felt connected beyond just flesh. But

this flesh was sweet also, the touch of her lips against his as she once again pulled him down to

her, the mounds of her breasts pressed against his chest, the feel of her thighs tightening around

his, her legs moving over the hills of his covered buttocks, pressing him into her. If she had

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seemed shy before, she was no longer so. She was pushing up against him, taking her own

pleasure. He loved her selfishness, loved that she was draining him with the fierce spasms that

were squeezing his life force from him, pulling his liquid chi up inside her, where it would

remain hours after he was gone, marking her as his for those hours. Her eyes squeezed shut as

her hips began bucking, the motions rocking the bed violently. Her scream was muffled by his

lips and tongue.

Minutes passed before he could catch his breath. He had nothing left inside him, neither

life force nor the strength to move. Yet he had to leave or bring shame to them both if caught.

And he would not do that to her.

He shifted off her, stroked her face, reached for his shirt, and put it on. She reached for

him, reached for another kiss, which he gave to her willingly, eagerly. Then finally he pulled

away and said the word he had gotten from the dictionary and practiced just for her.

“Love,” he said in the quiet of the room before snuffing out the lamp.

Then he walked to the door. He wasn't sure, but he thought he heard her whisper the word

back to him as he closed the door behind him.

64 Sharon Cullars

Chapter Eight

Compared to the white part of the cemetery, the colored section was much more modest

and less tended to. Tangled overgrowth obscured many of the markers. Only the most prestigious

of the interred were afforded tombstones that rose inches above the ground, where at least

inscriptions could be read. Tallulah Jones led the way through the confusing maze of graves,

some old, others with newly turned dirt. Proceeding cautiously, she stumbled occasionally as the

heels of her boots sank into sodden earth. For the past two days the city had been deluged with

heavy rains that had only subsided earlier that morning. Still weak, Leah followed behind

Tallulah, who despite the heat and humidity wore a shawl and an ever-present hat with an

ostentatious flower trim. Leah always suspected that Clara's penchant for extravagant hats had

more to do with her self-inflicted competition with Tallulah than with any personal choice.

When Tallulah finally stopped at a grave near the north border of the cemetery, Leah's

heart dropped. The plain marker was soiled with mud. There were no flowers, no niceties that

properly memorialized the proud woman that Clara had been. Leah took a handkerchief from her

borrowed purse and leaned down to wipe some of the mud away. The inscription read Sister

Clara Williams, Born October 13, 1835—Died August 3, 1865. Leah wished that someone had

thought to add something more. Clara had been a faithful member of the church and community.

Would it have been so costly to have stated that?

“Sister, don't exert yourself so. They've got workers to clean these markers.”

Leah straightened up, stuffed the muddy handkerchief back into her purse.

“Clara deserved better than this.”

Tallulah looked down at the marker. “Yes. Yes, she did.”

Leah was surprised by the regret in the woman's voice. When Tallulah had visited the

hospital and offered Leah a room in her home, Leah suspected that the woman had only done so

at the encouragement of Pastor Caldwell. Leah's gaze once again fell to the unassuming diamond

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ring that Tallulah sported on her left ring finger. The pastor obviously had not let one frustrated

endeavor keep him from pursuing a more amenable one. A victorious Tallulah could now afford

to be generous to Clara's memory, although at times she had been less charitable to the woman

herself.

Tallulah's charity now extended to Clara's best friend. Not only had she offered Leah a

place to stay, but she had given over several pieces of wardrobe. The dress Leah wore now was

of fine linen in a nice shade of blue. It might have been a little wide at the waist, but Leah was

just grateful to be out of the hospital gown.

“So have you decided what you're going to do, Leah?” Tallulah asked. “Are you going to

stay in town?”

The question was innocent enough, but Leah knew Tallulah was no fool. The woman had

already figured that she was not a first choice. And she knew that the ring on her finger did not

set things in stone. Her charity would only extend so far and for so long. Leah wished she could

assure the woman that she was not a rival for the pastor's affections—at least not on her end. Her

heart was full for someone else, someone whom she could not acknowledge. Since that first time

in the hospital room, he'd visited her nearly every night. On some nights he'd brought along his

dictionary, and they'd conversed in that way, cherry-picking simple words to try to express so

much more. Afterward they'd made love through most of the night, and he'd left before the nurse

and doctor made the early rounds.

That first morning Mrs. Davison had enthusiastically noted, “Well, that bit of sleep you got

last night has done you a world of good. You finally look like you're among the living again.”

Yes, she was among the living once again. In those few nights she'd regained her health

and strength, enough to finally leave the hospital. But in the world of the living she had many

decisions to make. Rose had written a letter giving her condolences about Clara and imploring

Leah to move back to New York. Of all the choices that lay before her, New York seemed the

most rational, the safest. This venture in California now seemed the foolhardy excursion folks

had told her it would be. What made her think that two lone Negro women could make their way

in a world still so untamed?

66 Sharon Cullars

Yes, she should return to the civility of New York. She could resume her quiet, safe life as

a seamstress. She could probably even let the same apartment she'd left or one similar to it. And

everything would be as it was before.

With that thought, she finally answered Tallulah.

“Yes, Tallulah, I'm staying in town.”

“Well, I guess if that's what you really want…” Tallulah said unenthusiastically.

“Yes, that's what I really want,” she said with finality.

* * *

The locals called the place Chinatown. It ran along the banks of Sutter's Lake, named for

Sacramento's founder, John Sutter, and was nothing more than a collection of shanties that

housed noisy markets, a few laundries, and more than a few gambling enterprises. The streets

smelled of spicy, foreign foods and horse manure. Leah navigated the muddy, plankless walks,

ignoring the curious looks of the Chinamen who were not used to seeing a colored woman

walking in their midst. She heard many conversations; some of the words she now understood

since Quiang had begun teaching her.

She came to a ramshackle two-story building outside of which a vendor hawked fresh

trout, bass, and shrimp. The man's wizened face expressed no surprise upon seeing her. He

bowed his head in acknowledgment as she walked past him to enter the structure. Even inside the

saline odor of fish followed her as she climbed the three rickety stairs that fronted the door to the

upper apartment. She knocked two times, and within seconds a shirtless Quiang stood in the

doorway. He hung back to let her enter, then closed the door behind her.

An arm snaked around her waist as a foot kicked the door closed. Quiang pulled her

against him, leaving no space between their bodies as his breath caressed her cheek. She should

have been used to the effect he had on her, but every time he was near, sensations trilled through

her. In the length of her life she'd seen friends courted and wed, had been courted herself on a

number of occasions. Throughout all the rigid formalities and the social niceties, she'd never

known that a body could literally shake with passion, that walls could tremble, that a bed could

nearly break as had happened the first night he'd brought her to the apartment, offering her

shelter. She'd refused his generosity because she knew that their living together was impossible.

At least for right now.

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His lips trailed the curve of her neck, moved past the stiff lace of her collar to the soft swell

of her breasts. The brush of his breath tickled her flesh, as did the soft kisses along the swollen

mounds. After an eternity of moments, he finally stopped long enough to unfasten her dress, his

fingers moving skillfully along each pearl button. The blue linen dress fell unceremoniously to

the floor, leaving her clothed only in a modest corset and a small bustle. The first time he'd

encountered those curious mechanisms of female clothing, he'd cocked his head to study how

best to get them off her without ripping them apart. Now he deftly unstrapped the corset and

yanked the bustle to the floor. Her stockings and shoes followed.

It was a familiar ritual, his undressing her without subtlety or ceremony. In these weeks his

initial wariness had given way to an assured possessiveness. There was no time for an elaborate

courtship because most nights he was away on his assignments, trips he refused to tell her about.

Since losing Clara, she was vulnerable to the fear of how quickly life could change, how

completely she could lose someone. Now that she'd let him into her heart, she knew it would not

survive another loss.

The chill in the room hardened her nipples as she stood naked in front of him. He bent and

fastened his mouth around one of them, and the sudden contact made her gasp softly. His tongue

licked and sucked her flesh, and then with increased fervor, he pulled the small orb farther into

his mouth as though he would swallow it. The sensation made her tremble, and she felt her sex

creaming between her thighs. Almost delirious, she tugged at the ribbon holding his hair,

releasing a cascade of black hair that flared over his shoulders. She grabbed the loosened strands,

bunched them in her hand as the feel of his lips on her flesh became almost agonizing. The other

hand traveled over the ridges of musculature along his back. She loved the feel of his strength

beneath her hand.

His arm tightened around her waist as a calloused hand softly grazed the skin of her

buttocks, causing nerve endings to scream. Her legs weakened, and she felt as though she would

collapse to the floor from the myriad sensations. At that moment his lips pulled back from her

breast, his breath heavy, his heavy-lidded eyes dark with passion. He lifted her and carried her to

the pallet he used as a bed on a hard wooden floor. Even with a mattress, the pallet was

uncomfortable, but instead of diminishing her pleasure, the discomfort increased her senses. He

hovered over her, captured her eyes. His lips trailed a path from her breasts, down her stomach,

settling in the fleshy lips between her thighs. This was still so new to her, even though he had

68 Sharon Cullars

done it a few times before. She arched her back as his tongue entered her, licking the inside of

her walls. The teasing licks brought her to a breathless, shuddering orgasm.

He rose and discarded his pants, releasing his tumescence. She watched it, mesmerized,

knowing in minutes it would be embedded deep inside her. The thought made her tremble even

more. She reached for the swollen member, stroked it lightly. His face, already beautiful, became

angelic in the throes of his bliss. His hand moved to release himself from her ministrations

before he reached a point of culmination. Not to be thwarted, her hands moved to the scars on his

chest, her fingers trailing along the rubbery mass of skin. In one of their assignations, in halted

English, he'd relayed the story of a young boy who had fallen out of a fishing boat and gotten

entangled in wires along the piers near his home. Helpless to move, his father had cut him from

the watery trap, but the sharp wires had scarred him for life. Now she reached her lips up, traced

her tongue along one of the more prominent scars that ran from beneath his throat down the

smooth, pale skin just past his navel, almost down to the thatch of soft hairs.

In their times together, she'd never taken him into her mouth, but today her lips moved of

their own accord. The pungent sweet smell of his sex, of his sweat, his sharp intake of breath,

only added to the experience. The taste of his flesh was acrid but not unpleasant. Her tongue

traced the head of his erection, and he groaned. Daring herself to go even further, she took his

fully engorged penis in her mouth, surrounded him, teased him with her tongue and the edges of

her teeth. She felt him shudder slightly. He pushed her away, and she looked up to find him

gritting his teeth, attempting to control himself. She knew he didn't want to come, not just yet.

He pushed her on her back, entered her abruptly. She felt the breadth and width of him

taking up her whole space. For a few seconds they just lay there, savoring their connection. Then

he began to move slowly, achingly, the friction of his taut flesh sending waves through her. She

shifted her hips, wrapped her thighs tightly around his back, pushed her hips into his groin,

encouraging him to quicken his pace, to deepen his thrusts. He took her cue, driving deeper into

her. She grabbed the edge of the mattress, squeezed hard, harder, mimicking the tension of her

body which was preparing for another explosion. Waves moved through her, through limbs,

down to her fingers. She held out as long as she could, but she couldn't hold it back. She cried

out in elation, in frustration. She hadn't wanted to come so soon.

His face mirrored the pain of withholding the tumult moving through him. His rhythm

shook her, caused the floor to creak. She imagined that the whole building shook and that the

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little old man outside smiled with understanding. In seconds she was rising again, ready to meet

him at the apex. The orgasm flared, singed her from the inside, caused her spasms to squeeze the

hot liquid of his release deeper inside her. He hadn't cried out like she did, but had moaned

helplessly as his self-control failed him at last. He collapsed fully on top of her, nearly

suffocating her before he finally rolled off, giving her back her air.

When he could talk again, he got up and walked to the loose floorboard in which he

secreted his belongings, including his dictionary that translated basic English words to Chinese

and vice versa; it had become their main lifeline of communication. Unconscious of his

nakedness, he sat down on the pallet beside her, sought words.

“Here,” he said, pointing to each word he needed.

Go - days. Return - soon.

He paused in his search to look at her, to see if she understood. She nodded. “Yes, you

have business.” He might not have understood, but he too nodded, then proceeded with his word

search.

More - money. For - future.

And then he laid the dictionary on the floor and said, “Our future. Want this?”

And finally she could see her future and knew that she would never see New York again.

She loved this man, would follow him anywhere.

She smiled broadly. “Yes. Yes, I want this.”

He smiled also, bent to kiss her. She grabbed the back of his head, pulled him down on top

of her. They began their lovemaking again, celebrating their future long into the present

afternoon.

* * *

Later that evening he picked up his clothes from the local Chinese laundry. They were

new, bought with his earnings. And they were the basic Chinese working clothes that most of his

countrymen wore. He needed to be as unassuming as he could possibly make himself, and that

excluded Westernized clothing. The outfit Leah had given him was safely tucked away in his

trunk, as clean as when she had first given it to him. That seemed so long ago, not just three

months. In those three months he'd lived several lifetimes.

70 Sharon Cullars

Tonight would be the beginning of another lifetime, one shared with a wife, and hopefully

children. He'd sent a letter home to his family through one of the railroad workers who'd returned

to China via Shanghai. He'd written of his success here in the land of the Golden Mountain as

well as the joy he had found.

His mother and sister might not understand why he would not be returning to Guangzhou,

but his father would. And for now that had to be enough. Maybe one day he would visit and

make all his family understand that destiny was not set, could not be planned for, as he had once

thought. He'd believed that it was money and riches he sought, that having wealth would enrich

his life. Finding a wife would have followed. He'd imagined his children running along the piers

of his city, overlooking the sea. Instead of working the hazardous life of a fisherman, they would

have inherited whatever business he'd set up with his monies. And he and his wife would have

played with their fat grandchildren, feeding them candies and sweet cakes.

His grandchildren would still be fat, and his children would still look out on a wide

expanse of water. Except it would not be in his old homeland, but his new adopted land. A land

he planned to conquer enough of to provide a good life for him and Leah. For their children and

grandchildren.

After he finished this run, he would have money enough to purchase some land on which

to build a decent home. He wanted to give her as great a home, if not greater, as the one she'd

lost in the fire. That was why it was important that nothing go wrong on the run. He was taking a

boat that night that would sail him up to Tie Fow, the Big City, the city the whites called San

Francisco; once there he was to meet with the man who held the position of dragonhead.

Whereas Wao was a red pole with at least fifty men beneath him, the dragonhead was over

the whole triad. Jianyu of the Huang family was recently elected to the prestigious post. Rumors

surrounded the enigmatic head. Some said he had amassed a fortune as a prospector, searching

out exhausted gold mines, where through the luck of the ancestors he was able to find untouched

veins. Others claimed he had robbed white men of their gold, killing them to keep their tongues

from bearing witness.

However he had managed to subsidize his power, he now had command over two cities,

which meant he ran the opium trade almost unchallenged. Almost. Quiang's runs were becoming

even more dangerous now. The white man's law prohibited the use of opium by whites, but that

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didn't keep the white men from patronizing the dens. The lawmen were cracking down on dens

that catered specifically to whites, which cut into the triad's overall profits. And some of the

more aggressive houses thought they could take down the Hungs and establish another family

over the trade. The war between families that had begun hundreds of years ago in China had now

found another battlefield. Quiang just had to make sure he didn't become one of the casualties.

The other night he'd made his way to the old camp to visit Zhaohui in his tent. Since

working with the tong, he'd had little time to visit his friend, even though Zhaohui was one of the

trade's best customers. He'd told of the several ambushes he'd survived and how Wao had taken

to calling him Fu because of his benevolent luck. Zhaohui had shaken his head.

“I don't know that I did a good thing introducing you to Wao. The railroad may be

dangerous, but at least with the fire sticks, there is a chance to survive. The same cannot be said

of the dealings between the tong.”

“Life is dangerous, Zhaohui. A man can lose his life falling off a mountain or falling off a

hill. In the end it will not matter how he died, but how he lived. The important thing is to grab the

life you can and make the most of it. And I plan to make the most of my connection with the triad

until there is nothing more to receive.”

Zhaohui reached inside his shirt pocket, pulled out a wad of opium. “This here is not worth

your life. I'll be the first to extol its many virtues. Wouldn't want to be without it. And if it kills

me, it at least will have done so at my choice.”

“And if I die, Zhaohui, it will be my choice also,” Quiang countered.

The older man placed the stash back in his pocket. “The death should befit the man. All a

man can hope for is that his death will be a good death.”

Quiang nodded in agreement.

Zhaohui was quiet. After a few seconds, he asked, “You never found your other quarry?”

This time Quiang shook his head with regret. Since avenging Leah's friend by the death of

the first man, he had had no luck finding the second.

“What have you heard?” he asked Zhaohui.

“Nothing much, although rumor has it that he might have left town. The fire destroyed

more than your woman's home. It spread to at least one other building. After the death of his

friend, it would be reasonable to assume that he connected the death with retribution.”

72 Sharon Cullars

Quiang regretted that he could not fulfill his unspoken promise to Leah to fully avenge her

friend. Given that failure, he would provide her with everything it was in his power to give her.

He'd left Zhaohui just as the man began lighting up his nightly smoke. Yes, customers like

Zhaohui kept the Tong going. Also kept money in his own pocket. But one day he would have

saved enough to leave behind the world of the triad.

But that time was not tonight. He secreted the gold that Wao had given him in the folds of

his tunic shirt, placed the cone hat on his head. In his other pocket were the pieces of gold that

would secure passage on the boat. Walking to the door, he looked toward the pallet where hours

before he and Leah had made love. It would be good to one day take her in a real bed, with a full

mattress and pillows. To wake up with her without one or the other having to leave by the first

light of either sun or moon.

He headed out of the apartment and down the stairs. The fishmonger, Liwei, had closed up

hours ago after placing most of his wares on ice in the back of the shop. Still, the smell of fish

permeated the dank walls, even suffused the chilled air just outside. It was the season of Qui tian

when the winds quickened and pushed back the heat from Xia tian. Back home the waters would

be whipping up the waves. His father would have hired another hand to haul in the fishnets. The

precarious sea would make the endeavor treacherous. Often boats overturned and men were

thrown into the choppy waters. Some never made it back to safety. Quiang shook the thought and

guilt from his mind. It did no good to worry things into existence. His father was one of the best

fishermen in Guangzhou, probably in all of China. He would be all right. He thought this even as

he walked through the streets of Chinatown, heading to the pier where the scow that would take

him to Tie Fow was moored. The river waters here were rough, causing the small boat to bob

fiercely. The Chinese owner stood at the end of the pier. Quiang walked up to him and handed

the man the fare. The man took the money, then with a nod of his head indicated that Quiang

should board the craft.

Two other men sat in the boat, and both he and the sailors operated the oars, taking up the

grueling task of moving the craft through resistant waters. The days of travel were long and cold

and gave Quiang too much time to think about the task ahead. Although he could have gone by

land, there was less opportunity for an ambush on the water; there were too many miles between

the two cities. He had his knife with him, and it had served him well. But his words to Zhaohui

came back at that moment to haunt him. Yes, his death would be one that he had risked and

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chosen. He said a quick prayer to the ancestors to spare his life on this journey, on this

assignment. Maybe they would be as benevolent as they had been months ago when his basket

had snagged on the mountainside just before the explosion that would have killed him.

He passed the several hours picturing Leah, wondering what she was doing that night.

Wondering if she was thinking of him as he was thinking of her.

74 Sharon Cullars

Chapter Nine

Tallulah had outdone herself with a dinner of roast chicken, green beans, and mashed

potatoes. Looking at the tureen of gravy, Leah remembered another dinner so many weeks before

where, as tonight, the pastor sat at the table. Only that night Clara had been the one to cook the

meal and to coo over the minister, asking him if he wanted seconds. The pastor had indeed taken

seconds that night, as he did this night. As tender as the chicken was, the meat might as well

have been sawdust in her mouth. She could barely taste anything; her mind filled with thoughts

about Quiang.

“Is something bothering you, Sister?” Pastor Caldwell asked as he put down the napkin he

had just wiped his mouth with.

“No, I'm fine. I'm just enjoying this delicious meal.” She picked up a bean with her fork,

tasted it. It was savory with chicken juice. Sawdust.

“Well, if that is the face of joy, then I've been under the misconception of what joy is all

these years.”

“Leland, she's obviously still missing Clara,” Tallulah offered.

Even in these weeks of being a guest in Tallulah's house, Leah still couldn't get used to the

intimacy between Tallulah and the minister. In church Tallulah had taken to sitting in the front

pew as befitting the affianced of the head pastor.

“Of course, of course,” the minister said quietly. Leah took silent satisfaction at the trace of

guilt she heard in his voice and wondered whether Tallulah had heard it too. She forced down the

rest of the meal, washed it down with a tall glass of sugary tea. The tea tasted much different

than the cup she had shared with Quiang in his apartment. His offering had been hot and bitter

and somewhat more satisfying.

After the meal, the pastor took his leave, planting a chaste kiss on Tallulah's cheek. Leah

diverted her eyes, not sure whether the minister meant the display for her.

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Tallulah was quiet as they both cleared the table and carried the dirty dishes into the

kitchen. The small kitchen was functional and clean, much like Clara's had been. Still, Clara had

tried to brighten each room of the house with flowers and small figurines. By the austerity of

Tallulah's rooms, she was much more practical, a trait probably suitable to being a minister's

wife. Leah knew that she could never have been happy as a dutiful wife, never could have settled

into the mockery of happiness that was the underpinning of many social marriages. And since

she had discovered passion, she could never do without it again. The kiss between Tallulah and

the pastor had been so perfunctory, without any true affection. But it seemed to have been

enough for Tallulah, because despite her silence, she smiled to herself.

“Have you and Pastor Caldwell set a date for the wedding?” Leah asked as she dried the

washed plate Tallulah handed her.

The smile widened a bit. “He says that a spring wedding would be just right, and I agree.

The flowers are just blooming, and everything is beginning again.”

Leah was surprised at how soft Tallulah's voice had become, much like a young girl's. She

realized then that she had misjudged the depths of Tallulah's affections.

“You truly love him, don't you?”

Tallulah turned to her, her face naked with her emotions. “I've loved him for so long, Leah.

I can't tell you how happy I am.” She stopped, remembering whom she was making her

confessions to. “I'm sorry. I know how Clara felt about him…”

Leah shook her head. “You don't have to apologize to me, Tallulah. I understand that you

have to follow your heart wherever it leads. I'm so glad for you.” Leah realized that she truly

meant what she said.

Tallulah unexpectedly reached over and gave Leah a slight hug. Obviously all was

forgiven between them. When Tallulah pulled back from the hug, she had tears in her eyes. And

she was still smiling.

“Leah, I hope you find your heart one day. I really do.”

The charitable statement took Leah by surprise, and she had no chance to hide her own

emotions. Tallulah, ever astute, paused with a plate in her hand.

“Leah? Have you found somebody? Are you in love?”

Leah opened her mouth, closed it. She knew at that moment that she could not lie. “Yes.”

76 Sharon Cullars

She would have left it at that, but like Clara, Tallulah was an avid questioner when she

wanted to know something.

“Is he one of the members of the church? Ooh, I know. It's Deacon Jeffries, isn't it? He's

always been sweet on you.”

Leah shook her head, becoming more resistant to Tallulah's prying. But her silence began

to give her away.

“Is it someone from the town?” A pause and then much more quietly, “Is he…white?” The

last word was spoken as though the thought were unimaginable.

“No, he is not a white man. But neither is he a Negro.”

“If he's not Negro and he's not white, then what is he? Indian, Mexican?”

Leah shook her head again but didn't offer an answer.

Now Tallulah looked really confused. “But there's no other men around here except the

Chinamen, and you would never—I mean, you couldn't—”

Leah crossed her arms in defiance, no longer allowing shame to hold her tongue. “His

name is Quiang…and we're going to be married.”

The plate almost dropped from Tallulah's hand. She caught it in time and placed it back in

the tub filled with soapy water.

“But, Leah, you can't possibly marry one of them. I mean they're so…foreign. And they're

heathens. They don't believe in our God.”

Leah uncrossed her arms. No, they didn't believe in the same God. It was one of the things

that she'd never truly pondered. “That doesn't matter. It's the love that counts. And love should

be good enough for anyone's God.”

Before Tallulah could raise another objection, Leah quickly posed a question. “If Pastor

Caldwell was just an ordinary man and not a man of the church, would you still love him?”

Tallulah's face reflected her insult. “Yes, I would still love him.”

“Why? Why would you?”

“Because…because…”

“Do you love the man despite everything? Or is it what he represents as a man of God that

makes you love him?”

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Tallulah was quiet for a second, her expression less bellicose, more contemplative. “I can

admit that I do not mind the thought of becoming first lady of the church. But even if he weren't

the pastor, if he were to leave the church altogether, I would go with him wherever he decided to

go. You ask why? I really don't know why. All I know is he is the one who makes my heart beat

faster.”

“Quiang makes my heart beat faster, Tallulah,” Leah confessed softly. “And he's a good

man. I didn't plan to love him, but I do, and I don't want to remember a time when I didn't. It

doesn't make any reasonable sense, but then, I'm tired of being a reasonable woman. I just want

to love who I love without judgment. So if you want me to move out, I can find somewhere else

to stay.”

Tallulah slowly shook her head. “No, I would never do that.” After a pause, “Where will

you live, then? It won't be easy being the wife of a Chinaman.”

“No, I guess not. But then again, it's not going to be a bed of roses being a pastor's wife

either.”

Tallulah's smile was back. “No, I guess not. Lord help us both.”

They laughed, and for a second Leah wished it were Clara laughing along with her,

accepting her joy.

* * *

When the dragonhead refused the proffered gold, Quiang realized that things were not as

they should be. Wao had told him that this would be a straight exchange of opium for gold.

Huang Jianyu sat in a chair that was very much like a throne, with red velvet seating topped with

golden dragons as decoration. His robe was made of red silk; red was the color of the Hung. On

either side of the large room, red Chinese lanterns with elaborate gold script hung from the rich

mahogany beams. Under each of these lanterns stood a soldier of the tong, all dressed in red

robes trimmed in gold—as was Jianyu.

“Word from the second city is that business is doing quite well. Yet my coffers are not as

full as they should be. Tell me why that might be?”

Quiang's initial confusion cleared as quickly as the realization that he would die tonight

descended upon him. Clarity heightened his fear as he understood why Wao had sent him on this

journey. He was not a courier assigned to pick up a valuable parcel. Instead he was the sacrifice

78 Sharon Cullars

that would be made to hide another man's sins; most likely the sin was Wao's or one of his

associates'. The pilfered gold would never be found, but in its place would be the slain body of a

larcenous courier who had unwisely thought that he could cheat the dragonhead himself. Wao

would have offered the dragonhead the gift of killing the betrayer with his own hands.

Knowing there was no escape, he resigned himself to his fate. He had only himself to

blame. His impatience had brought him to this point, to this destiny. As Zhaohui had warned,

dynamite would have been safer. He had gambled, even though he had not honed the skills of a

gambler, and for that he would pay the ultimate price. His real regret was that he would never see

Leah again, and she would not know what had happened to him. Would she think that he had

abandoned her?

“Before you kill me, you should know the truth.”

“I am not interested in the truth of vermin who rob me and insult me by lying,” Jianyu said

angrily.

“I am about to enter the house of my ancestors, and I will not do that with a lie on my lips.

I would not dishonor them in that way. I am a fisherman's son, and I have not always been

honorable. But I tell the truth when I say that I am not the one who has robbed you.”

Jianyu smiled. “You have the honor of living long enough to show your impudence. It's

actually amusing to see one begging for his life.”

“I do not beg for anything, including my life, since at this moment it's yours to take. And

whether you believe the truth or the lie that Wao has told you, you take a chance of being made a

fool of. I offer you this: If I am guilty and you kill me, all is good. But if you kill me and Wao is

guilty, then you have killed an innocent man, and Wao laughs at you in private. And at some

other time, later in the future, you will find yourself facing another courier, missing another sum

of gold. And you will remember my words.”

The smile turned into a smirk as Jianyu contemplated Quiang's words. “So what you offer

is…”

“That if you kill me, you should also kill Wao. That way you will not be the fool he

believes you to be.”

Jianyu shrugged. “A tempting offer, but Wao has brought me many riches. Why would he

decide now to rob me?”

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“Maybe because he found the perfect fool in me, someone so eager to forge his own future

that he blinded himself to his present truth. When the perfect sacrifice comes a man's way, he

will not hesitate to put the creature to use, as I'm being used here.”

Jianyu was no longer amused. He turned to the man to his nearest right.

“Bring Wao here. Quickly.”

The soldier hurried out of the room. To another man, Jianyu barked another order, “Secure

him until Wao arrives.”

The man turned to Quiang, his face impassive. His grip was strong as he pulled Quiang

from the room and down one of the carpeted corridors that led to a closed door. Quiang assessed

the chances of escaping from his present captor, but even as he entertained the thought, he knew

that he wouldn't make it out of the building. A knife thrown in his back would surely stop him.

And even if by some fate he did escape the guard, there would be others outside who would

make sure he didn't travel even a few steps past the door.

The door opened to stairs that led to a dank lower floor, where they walked along another

corridor lit by wall sconces. They stopped at a scarred wooden door. The guard took out keys,

unlocked the door, and unceremoniously pushed Quiang in. There were four windowless walls

and a foul smell of urine. Nothing else. Quiang sat on the floor, his back against one of the walls,

and waited.

* * *

Leah awoke abruptly, pulled from a disturbing dream she lost as soon as her mind cleared.

Sitting up in bed, she let her eyes adjust to the moonlit darkness. The house was quiet; Tallulah

had gone to bed hours ago. Outside the window, a rush of wind blew against the seams.

Sometime while she had been sleeping it had begun to rain, and the pitter of drops hit against the

panes.

She reached for the dream, but the more she tried, the more elusive it became. Maybe she'd

been dreaming about Quiang, about their future together. She just couldn't remember, and for

some reason it bothered her.

She lay down on her pillow and shut her eyes, willing herself to go back to sleep. A few

minutes passed before she conceded defeat. She slipped out of the covers and walked over to the

windows. The second-floor view looked out over a small garden in the back. It was lit with

80 Sharon Cullars

nothing but the moon. Tallulah had planted a flower garden, but now most of the flowers had

wilted. The garden was edged with medium-sized rocks whose rain-slick surface reflected the

moonlight. For some reason there seemed to be more light than usual, more than there should

have been without any streetlamps. A shadow moved across the rocks, seemed to bend toward

the wilting flowers, put out a hand to touch them.

Thinking that it was an intruder, Leah stepped back from the window but moved to where

she could look out undetected. The stranger seemed to glide as he moved along the garden. In a

brighter spot of light, Leah realized that her presumption was wrong. The stranger was wearing

women's clothes. She moved again, and Leah was able to make out a long skirt that seemed to

shimmer like silk. Leah wondered why the woman had no coat or wrap, given the cool weather.

The woman wore a hat trimmed with flowers that looked like lilies.

The impression grew on her, made her heart jump. She told herself that she was dreaming,

that she was still in bed asleep.

The woman looked up then, facing the window where Leah shouldn't have been visible to

the eye. She lifted her hand in a half wave, and then her face broke into the sweetest smile that

Leah had ever seen on Clara's face. And in the warmth of that smile, all her fears dropped away,

and she wished more than anything to be in that garden with Clara. She started for the door…

…and woke from her sleep, remembering the sweetness of a dream she wanted to chase

but couldn't. Instead she cried softly into her pillow, wishing for both Clara and Quiang.

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Chapter Ten

Quiang didn't know how many days had passed before the guard finally came for him.

During the time alone, he had thought of Leah, of his family back in China, and of all the things

he had hoped to do. He had also thought of the children and grandchildren he would not have.

Strange how so sure he had been that he had found his path. But how could a man truly know

which path would lead him to all he sought and which one would lead to ultimate darkness.

Sometimes the path to darkness deceivingly began with enlightenment leading men astray.

The door opened, and the darkness was broken by the light from a wall sconce. The guard

entered and dragged him up from his sitting position, pushed him out the door, and led him back

up to the main floor. When they reentered the throne room, Jianyu was in his seat, waiting. The

tong soldiers again lined the walls beneath the lanterns. And standing in the place where Quiang

had first stood was an ashen Wao, who did not look as though he had traveled well. Usually

staunch and erect, Wao's frame was slightly stooped, making him look every day of his age. The

immediate thing that Quiang noticed upon entering was that his boss was very much afraid. Both

Jianyu and Wao turned eyes to Quiang as the soldier brought him in and led him to stand next to

Wao.

He stood within a hand's reach from Wao, close enough to hear the man's labored

breathing, probably due more to fear than actual exertion. The bruise along the side of Wao's

face indicated that Jianyu's men had begun their interrogation during their travel between cities.

During his time in the dark room, Quiang had accepted his fate. He had lost his fear in the

darkness, and his breathing was calm and even.

“Diang Wao, you sent word that the man standing beside you stole money meant for my

coffers. A serious charge that will bring death to the guilty—whoever that man may be. That is

why I requested your presence here this early morning. There is some confusion as to how my

82 Sharon Cullars

money came to be stolen, and I brought you here with the hope that you can clear up this

confusion. You accused this man…and he has accused you.”

“Dragon, I have been a loyal servant,” Wao stammered.

“Yes, a loyalty well paid for. But even the price of loyalty can go up without notice.

There's been many a fool who has overestimated his worth and has sought to recompense himself

on the sly. Before I put a man to death, I want to be sure of his guilt—and that no other should

stand in his place. So you will again explain to me exactly when and how my gold was stolen.

And why it is this man you accuse.”

The small amount of blood left in Wao's pallor drained completely. He stood there, a ghost

of himself, a man who had been asked for an accounting and who realized he was about to come

up short.

“It was during the last run that I discovered that only part of the payment I entrusted to

Quiang actually made it to its destination. The dai lo who was to receive the money informed me

that the sum was short by at least one thousand. I sent word of that shortage as soon as I was

told.”

Jianyu did not say a word for a few seconds, his expression one of contemplation.

Then: “From the short conversation I have had with your ma jai here, he does not appear to

be a careless man. And it would be quite careless, even foolish, to take such a large amount

without a plan of misdirection for the blame. He would know that any shortage would

automatically be attributed to him.”

“Not to contradict you, dragon, but you have given undeserving credit to this man. As you

have just said, men can become quite unwise in the matter of money. As for foolishness, I was

quite foolish to take him into my employ. I trusted when I should not have.”

The smile that Jianyu shone was not from mirth.

“No, Wao, you were not foolish. If anything, you made a very strategic move.”

Without looking directly at Wao, Quiang sensed the man's confusion as well as his fear.

“I do not understand,” Wao said uncertainly.

“Then let me explain what I know, Wao. In the days it took for my men to bring you here,

I also sent word to spies I have among the Hip Sing Tong. Of late, there have been rumors that

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my every move was being tracked by my enemies, that couriers under your protection were often

beset by those of the Hip Sing Tong, even when we have taken measures to diverge from our

routine. One always suspects that there is a leak in these circumstances, but I was not sure until a

few hours ago whose name to broadcast. I had my spies set up a ruse and inquire how to defeat

the House of the Hung Mun, my house. And sure enough, I received word that there was even at

this moment one who was trusted in the Hung Mun who was working against me, against my

house. I was quite disappointed to hear the name of one as loyal as yourself, Wao.”

“But those are lies!” Wao insisted in a panic. “This one here has worked against me! He

seeks to replace me in my position! I should never have trusted this snake!”

“I guess you realized that the death of yet another courier would be too obvious. Even so,

you could still have your extra share of gold, because once it was discovered that even one piece

was missing, the obvious culprit would be your ma jai here. You counted on your unblemished

years of service to me to cover you in a disguise of loyalty. Before I announce your judgment, I

want you to know that I am not as foolish as you trusted me to be. I have suspected you for some

time, Wao. I also want Xu Quiang here to know that I had no true plans to kill him. He was the

cheese to your mouse, the mouse to your owl. Besides, I always like a bit of theater. It livens

things up. And I do get bored at times.”

Jianyu, dragonhead of the Hung Mun, said to Quiang, “I bought you here for more than

entertainment. Every man should have a chance to face his accuser. And when the accusations

are false, that man should have the privilege of watching his accuser put to the knife—unless you

wish to do the task yourself.”

“No, no!” Wao screamed. Two soldiers detached themselves from their positions along the

wall and walked to either side of the panicking man.

Quiang, fully vindicated, felt no vindication. Neither did he feel vindictive. Many men

would have gladly killed the one who had sought their death. But he was not those men. Neither

was he one who would forget being used as a piece of cheese to lure the rat. He would not play

Jianyu's game.

“Do with him what you will. I want no part of it, no part of the triad.”

84 Sharon Cullars

“I will respect your decision regarding Wao.” Even as he said this, a soldier moved to

Quiang's side and grasped his arm. The soldier pulled him a distance away from Wao, who was

now sobbing uncontrollably. The old man was even more bent.

With a nod of his head, Jianyu signaled to one of the soldiers standing beside the bawling

man. Without even blinking, the man pulled a saber from his robe. Wao's mouth opened as the

soldier stepped back and, in one swing, separated Wao's head from his body. The headless man

fell to the floor, his mouth forever frozen with his last scream. The cut was quick and clean; a

small pool of blood leaked from the stump that had been Wao's neck. All the soldiers stepped

back to their former positions, leaving Quiang and Wao's body alone in the middle of the room.

Jianyu cast a withering look at the body before settling fierce eyes on Quiang. “There is

only one way to leave the triad, and that is the way that Wao has taken. Return to the second city

and wait for word on your next assignment. As you can see, we are one man down, so expect to

be contacted frequently from this point on. And who knows, maybe in a few years, you will rise

to take Wao's place.”

Again the smile was cold as Jianyu dismissed him with a wave of his hand. A soldier

moved once again to escort him from the room. Instead of turning down the corridor to the lower

level and solitary confinement, the soldier led him to the main entrance. He shoved Quiang from

the building and said cursorily, “The boat is waiting.”

With that, Quiang turned in the direction of the docks toward the boat that would take him

home.

* * *

She thought he was another apparition walking in the garden. But this was no dream, and

she was very much awake. He shifted from shadow to moonlight, looking upward at the second-

level windows, his features indistinguishable from the distance. He was wearing strange clothes;

even so, she knew him. Knew the gait of his walk, the stance of his body when he stood still. He

was waiting for her there in the moonlight.

In the days that he had been gone, she'd become increasingly worried, her distress apparent

in the dishes she'd dropped after that evening's meals, in the pacing she often did in Tallulah's

parlor, and in the restless dreams she'd been experiencing nightly.

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She was in one of the nightgowns Tallulah had given her, its lightweight material hardly

suitable for the cool autumn weather that had descended in the last days. She should have

dressed, but her feet didn't care as they led her from the room and down the stairs in seconds. She

exited to the garden from the kitchen door, half running to meet him. He caught her up in waiting

arms.

His lips were cold, but the kiss heated her body. She tasted his need and desperation as the

kiss lengthened for minutes. When he finally broke the kiss, she saw his expression, and it

frightened her.

“What is it?” Her breath frosted in front of her. She barely realized the dampness of the

grass beneath her feet.

The first time she'd seen him he had looked so uncertain, as though he didn't know exactly

what he wanted. He looked that way now.

“What?” she asked again, her heart speeding its pace. Something was wrong.

The words were spoken slowly. She made him repeat them.

“Leaving tonight. Alone.”

She backed away from him, her heart as chilled as her body.

“Alone?” She shook her head in disbelief. “Without me?” she asked accusingly.

He nodded. At least he had the decency to show some regret. But now she felt like a fool

for having opened up her heart and her body so easily, so indiscriminately.

“Fine. Go, then!” she said angrily. She turned toward the house, fighting back tears. He

grasped her arm.

“Don't want to go!” he nearly yelled. After a second, he said more calmly, “Have to go.”

“Why?”

He ran a hand through his unbound hair and sighed, seemingly unable to give her an

answer. Finally: “Dangerous men. My work…dangerous. Will kill me, will kill you. I…do not

want you hurt.”

He'd never talked about his work. She only knew that he had worked the railroad and that

he no longer did so. She couldn't understand what he had gotten into that would bring danger to

him, to both of them, that would force him to leave town.

86 Sharon Cullars

Dangerous men. She had almost lost her life because of dangerous men. Had lost Clara

because of dangerous men. Now they were about to rob her again. Her anger surged.

“Do you want to leave without me? Forever?” She put the question as an ultimatum.

“No,” he said. The moonlight reflected the tears in his eyes.

“So when do we leave?”

He shook his head. “No. Too dangerous for you.”

“I don't care about danger. There's always going to be danger. I want to leave with you…if

you want me.”

In the moonlight she saw the conflict cross his face as he contemplated her words.

Friends had warned her not to come West. That it was dangerous. That her life would be

forever changed. They had been right. Right now her life was about to change again. Or so she

hoped.

His silence seemed to go on forever. They were both standing there cold, getting colder.

“Our boat leave in hour,” he said quietly. “Meet me here in garden.”

“Good.” She smiled. “I was about to get frostbite.”

He cocked his head, indicating he hadn't understood all her words. They were bound to run

into that problem again and again. But that was all right, because they would have a lifetime to

work on it.

* * *

When she stepped inside the kitchen, someone had lit one of the lamps. Tallulah stood in

the middle of the room dressed in her nightgown, her hair covered with a night kerchief, her

arms akimbo, and a very displeased look on her face.

“Did you actually go out dressed like that?”

“Yes, I did, Tallulah.”

“I saw you out there with him. What were you thinking standing out there half dressed this

late at night? I could hear the both of you from my window.”

“I'm leaving tonight…with Quiang.”

The shock knocked Tallulah's arms to her sides.

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“But…why now? Can't you wait until a decent hour?”

“He has to leave tonight.” Leah didn't offer any more.

“Has to? Leah, I hope you know what you're getting yourself into. Lord knows that living

with a Chinaman is going to be—”

“Wonderful,” Leah filled in. “Living with a Chinaman is going to be wonderful. And I

plan to be very happy.”

For one of the few times in her life, Tallulah was struck dumb.

“Be happy for me, Tallulah. I need a friend to be happy for me right now.”

Tallulah's stubborn look faltered. After a few seconds, she walked over to Leah and

enclosed her in a hug. Leah returned the hug gratefully.

“I do hope you'll be happy, Leah. I truly do. But if you ever need to return, for whatever

reason, know that my door is always open to you.”

The two women separated, and Tallulah impatiently brushed away a tear.

“Thank you, but I really don't think we'll be returning to Sacramento for a long time,” Leah

said sadly.

“Where do you plan to settle, then?”

Leah shook her head. “I don't know, but it really doesn't matter.”

Tallulah sighed. “Well, I can be happy for you and still hope you know what you're doing.”

“Wherever we go, we're going to face obstacles. But whose life doesn't have a few

obstacles? I promise when we do settle, I'll write and let you know where.”

The women hugged again. This time Leah broke the embrace. “Well, I guess I have to

pack.”

“I've got some clothes to give you, especially if you move near any mountains. I hear it

gets cold near mountains with snowdrifts. And if you're moving back East, you'll need something

for the rains…”

They discussed the weather as they left the kitchen, Tallulah forgetting to blow out the

lamp. In a corner, away from the ambient light flickering from the lamp, a gray shadow moved,

then disappeared.

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* * *

They had been traveling nearly a week when Quiang finally knew they were being tracked.

He'd known Jianyu would have him watched from the time he had been released, but he'd been

careful not to be followed. Or so he had thought. But tonight as he'd pitched their tent in a grassy

clearing, he heard the calls of two nightingales, birds that were not native to this part of the

country.

He finishing placing the burlap over the upright pole, making sure the pole was securely

embedded in the ground. Leah was near the fire he'd made in the center of the clearing,

attempting to boil some sticky rice and fry the two fish he'd caught. He'd already fed the horses

and tied them down for the night.

He'd thought it would be safer traveling by horse instead of taking a coach. Coaches were

easily tracked. With horses, you could diverge from any course if necessary. And if you were

followed, you could take care of the matter without witnesses.

Each night he slept lightly, the knife Wao had given him always at hand. At one of the

many towns they passed, he gave Leah money to purchase a six-shooter. He could not do so

himself since many of the stores refused to sell weapons to Chinamen. He made her keep it

beside her at all times.

That Jianyu's men were so careless tonight said to him that they were planning to make a

move, no longer satisfied with merely following their quarry. He stood erect after pitching the

tent, walked over to Leah. Without making a big show, he leaned to her ear.

“Someone is here. Do not leave spot,” he whispered.

He'd never discussed the extent of his involvement with the tong, and she'd never asked

any questions. Still, he'd warned her that this moment would come eventually—and about what

he might have to do to keep them safe.

She gave him a slight nod to let him know that she understood.

He walked past the fire toward the wooded area just to the south. This was not where the

nightingale calls had originated. He hoped their pursuers would assume that he was answering a

call of nature.

He lost the moonlight under the covering of trees. Still, instinct guided him as he stood

listening. After a minute, he realized they were waiting for him to return to the clearing. Maybe

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they'd planned to follow them to wherever they settled and then take word back to Jianyu. He

wouldn't give them the chance to.

Two more calls, this time coming a little farther west in the dense stand of trees. Whoever

they were, they were not adept at tracking. During his many runs, he'd learned quickly the

signals to use to communicate to his contacts, learned how to become invisible even in a crowd.

He moved toward the direction of the calls, treading silently. What they were signaling to

each other, he would never be sure. He rounded the area where he had determined they were

hiding, so that he could come up behind them.

The night he'd killed the white man, he thought it honorable to give him a chance to defend

himself. He could not afford to be honorable tonight. The first man was crouched behind one of

the trees; from this vantage point, their tent and horses were visible. The watcher would know

when they slept and when they rode off. The man was overconfident, not keeping a constant eye

on his prey. Because now his prey was behind him.

Quiang did not see the other man. Were there more than just two pursuers? He'd just have

to take the chance that he would be outnumbered.

Quiang had already retrieved the knife from his pocket; in a swift motion, he covered the

man's mouth before he could call out. The knife slipped in, between the vertebrae, and he twisted

it to complete the task. It took an effort to pull the knife out because it had caught on a bone. The

heat of the man's blood warmed his hand.

Quiang listened for the sound of the second man but heard nothing. In the seconds he

decided that maybe they'd had only one pursuer, he heard a muffled cry from the campsite.

Quiang raced along the path that had led him to the first man, the path that would lead him back

to the campfire where he'd left Leah.

The sight of the man pulling a struggling Leah to the ground sent an inferno blazing

through him. The man still hadn't looked up to see Quiang coming toward them at a leopard's

pace. He was trying to pull Leah's skirt up and keep his hand over her mouth, but he was having

a hard time doing both. At the moment Leah's assailant finally heard Quiang, he jumped up to

defend himself against Quiang's approach, leaving Leah on the ground.

The man pulled a gun, and Quiang stopped in his tracks. Quiang recognized him as one of

the soldiers who had stood in the room where he was forced to witness Wao's execution. The

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man, seeing his advantage, broke into a smile that was more evil than Quiang had ever seen on

any man, including Jianyu.

“You were a fool to think you could run from the tong. And for what, a slave woman?

Although I admit she's got a pretty face, a good shape. Does she squirm when she's beneath

you?”

Quiang's hand tightened around the handle of the knife, desperately wanting to push the

blade through the attacker's heart. Although the man had forgotten Leah's presence, Quiang was

aware of her all the while, was glad that she could not understand the words spoken about her.

The man's eyes shifted to somewhere beyond Quiang. As though he were looking at

something. “Well, you're a greedy one, aren't you? Two slave women for your choosing.

Although that one over there isn't nearly as nice as this one.”

Quiang didn't have time to puzzle over the man's nonsense. At one moment the attacker

was looking beyond him, distracted by whatever he thought he saw. Then the sound of a gun

made Quiang think the man had pulled the trigger. Instead of feeling pain, though, he heard the

man's grunt, saw his eyes glaze as his body fell to the ground. He looked down at Leah, who had

retrieved the gun from beneath her skirt where she had tied it to her leg. It was in her hand, its

dark sheen glinting by the blaze of the fire.

He fell to his knees beside her, dropped the bloody knife, and pulled the gun from her

hands.

“You all right?” he asked her.

She nodded silently, her eyes glistening with tears. He saw that she was trembling and

reached over to pull her into his arms.

“I've never killed anyone before,” she whispered. He stroked her hair as he nodded his

understanding. She needed to rest. He released her, reached over to the knife to clean it against

the grass, then placed it the pocket of his shirt. The same shirt Leah had given him weeks ago.

He took the gun, which still smelled of gunpowder, and placed it in his dungarees' pocket.

He pulled her up from where the dead man lay and carried her to their tent.

Inside the burlap shelter, he laid her down on the bare, cold grass. Their bedding was still

tied up with their belongings on the two horses. He stood to go get the blankets, but she reached

up and grabbed his arm.

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She reached for the top button of his shirt. He put his hand up to stop her; he didn't want to

take her now, not like this.

But the fear in her eyes was quickly being replaced by something more feral, more

desperate. She needed him, the safety of him next to her. Or maybe she just needed his touch to

replace the memory of the other.

It took him several minutes to undress them both; then he lay down beside her. He barely

registered the cold as he took her in his arms. Her body trembled, and he knew that it was more

from what had just happened than from the chill. He wanted more than anything to let her know

that he would always protect her.

As he lay there holding her, he thought of his home back in Guangzhou. He imagined his

father struggling with the fishing nets in his boat, saw his mother in the kitchen, stewing fresh

chicken or preparing the cabbage his father loved. Beside her, his young sister would watch and

learn the skills she would one day need as a wife. He loved all of them and hoped to see them

again one day. Hoped to introduce his wife to them. When that would be, he did not know.

Eventually the trembling subsided. She shifted out of his arms and sat up. Her eyes no

longer held fear or desperation. He wasn't sure what he saw there. For a second his blood ran

cold to think that maybe she was reconsidering their future. After all, he had almost gotten her

killed. He was asking a lot from her to leave everything she knew, to settle down with someone

who was basically a stranger. And he couldn't promise that their days together wouldn't be

without trouble. The tong had a way of tracking down those they sought.

She shifted again until she sat on top of him. And she smiled widely. The coldness of his

blood warmed considerably.

He held her hips as she maneuvered to take him inside her. She moved more confidently,

wanting control this time, and he gave it to her. He knew with her movements she was claiming

him as hers, and she was letting him know that she belonged to him.

When they reached Colorado, he would find someone to marry them, to sanctify all that

was between them.

Soon thoughts were pushed away by the sensation of moist heat, of friction of skin against

skin. He pulled her down, his lips reaching for hers. He moved his hips up to meet hers, to

imprint himself inside her. Her moisture gathered around him, seared him. He quickened his

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thrusts, and she moaned into his mouth, the feel of it sending tremors through him. The

happiness in his heart swelled.

His flesh grew inside her, and she hung her head back, delirious with a mixture of

emotions and sensations. With each thrust, he exorcised the fear and uncertainty. She had been

unsure from the moment that she decided to leave with him. She knew nothing of his world, and

the small taste of it that she'd experienced here in the clearing told her that she would live to

regret loving him. Might even pay with her life. But when she looked down upon his face, saw

the beauty of his ecstasy, the reflection of the love she felt inside, she knew she was willing to

pay that price if she needed to, as long as they were together.

He shifted upward again, taking her breath away. His calloused hands were rough against

her skin; she loved the feel of them as they moved up and down her hips, then toward her behind.

He held the mounds in his hands, stroked her, guided her motions, made her walls throb with a

desire she could barely contain.

Every touch was excruciating, teasing her to a summit that made her catch a scream in her

throat.

She wanted to live her life with this man, wanted every night to be this mind shattering,

this body shattering.

In the clearing, beneath the burlap tent that allowed only a sliver of moonlight to penetrate,

where a fire blazed in the distance next to a man's body, Quiang felt her spasms pull his life force

from him. Even as he came with convulsions of his own, he said a prayer to his ancestors that

they would have many children, that they would have a long life together.

As they recovered from their climaxes, he whispered passionately in her ear, “Wuo ai mu

ni!”

I adore you!

He knew she didn't understand his words, but he promised himself that one day she would.

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Epilogue

Central City, Colorado

1890

Leah pumped the pedal as she straightened the panel of silk beneath the rapidly moving

needle. The Singer machine was the latest model on the market, and the Sears catalog had

advertised that this newer, improved model had a special treadle that would make sewing

“seamless.” Quiang had given it to her for her birthday last month, and she'd accepted it as

graciously as she could. She didn't have the heart to tell him she missed the old Singer machine

he'd gotten for her when they'd first moved to Central.

She was creating a dress for the mayor's wife; it would be the last order she would fill here

in Central. In the next two weeks, they would also no longer be taking in laundry. After twenty-

five years, they were pulling up stakes and moving the family to Chicago. Although she would

miss Central, the economy was changing, despite the gold boom of 1868, when a new rush of

gold prospectors flooded into the city. Quiang had managed to find gold in one of the abandoned

mines, enough for them to start their laundry and dressmaking business. She'd put every skill

she'd learned from Clara to make their business one of the most lucrative in the city. Still, the

time was right to go. There were too many with resentment against the local Chinese, and even

though she would not ever admit it to Quiang, she feared that one day a crazy local would pull a

gun or knife on him.

Anna burst into the room, her face flushed with excitement. The sun had tanned her

already smooth brown skin a darker tone, a beautiful contrast to her eyes, which she'd gotten

from her father.

“Anna, I've told you about running around like some tomboy. You're seventeen. It's time

you started acting like a young lady.”

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Anna grimaced with mock offense. “Mom, young ladies sometimes run. Just like the boys

do.”

Leah shook her head. “I can't even pretend to understand you young girls nowadays.”

Anna smiled. “Anyway, here you go.” She held out an envelope. “It came today at the post

office.”

“Jian?” Leah asked, a slight smile breaking.

“Yep.”

“That's yes, young lady.”

“Then yesss,” her daughter mocked.

Leah looked at the return address. Jian Xu, Harvard University. Jian had chosen not to

follow his parents into business, but to become a doctor in a school that had only recently started

admitting Negroes. He always used his Chinese name in his correspondence home, but to the rest

of the world and his friends he was John.

Jian, her firstborn. It seemed like only yesterday when she first held him, with Quiang

looking down on both of them in wonder. But it had actually been twenty-two years now. And he

was engaged himself to a young woman he'd met in Massachusetts. One day in the near future he

would make her a grandmother.

“Put the letter on the table in the parlor. We'll read it together at dinner.”

“Oh, Mom, can't we read it now?” Anna whined, which she knew Leah hated.

“We're going to wait until everybody can read it together, at dinner. Your sisters aren't

back from school yet.”

Sadie Xu was another handful. Only fourteen, she was becoming a little too womanish for

her age, which was causing all kinds of distress to her very traditional father. Maybe this move

would do the sassy young lady some good. In contrast, Clara was very studious for a twelve-

year-old.

“What're we having for dinner?” Anna asked, standing over her mother, studying the panel

of silk with its lace edges. “Pretty,” she said as she fingered it.

“We're having stewed chicken and potatoes,” her mother finally answered.

“Potatoes again?” Anna whined.

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“Yes, potatoes again. Potatoes are good for you. And since I'm busy with the dress, you

can do me a favor and start peeling a few. They're in the icebox.”

Anna pouted but didn't say anything else as she trudged out of the sewing room. Leah

sighed and went back to her project.

Less than fifteen minutes later Quiang entered from the door leading to the laundry shop.

Although his steps were quiet, she always knew when he was in the room with her. His hands

settled on her shoulders, giving each one a gentle squeeze. After a second a whisper of breath

was at the side of her neck as he bent over her.

“Wuo ai ni,” he said against her flesh. I love you.

Even after all these years, his touch sent tremors through her.

“Wuo ai mu ni,” she answered in turn. I adore you. “By the way, a letter came from Jian

today. I thought we could read it with the whole family at dinner.”

“Yes, that would be fine.” He straightened, and she looked up at him. Over the years he'd

never worn a traditional queue, choosing to tie his hair in a ponytail. He didn't have a trace of

gray, and his face had barely aged except for a few lines.

“I've got a surprise for you. We're going to have nian gao for dessert tonight. Hopefully

I've gotten your mother's recipe right this time.”

“I'm sure it will be good…this time.”

They both laughed remembering when she'd first tried to make the traditional sticky rice

pudding. It'd taken her days to wash the pasty result out of the bowls.

She stood and went into waiting arms. They were especially adept at grabbing moments

when they could.

Young Clara Tallulah stopped at the door to the sewing room. Her parents were at

it…again. They were always hugging and kissing. It was soooo embarrassing. Especially the

sounds she sometimes heard coming from their room at night.

She backed away from the door and walked over to the parlor table where she had placed

her schoolbooks. Sadie had already gone upstairs to their room and had probably locked the

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door. Probably playing with her hair in the mirror. She'd always been a little vain, but she had

become even more so since Rodney had told her she was beautiful during recess. For pity's sake!

Clara picked up the book on Shakespeare that included some of his famous sonnets. They

had to write their own sonnets using iambic pentameter. She might as well study it now before

dinner.

As she began reading, she sensed her friend standing in the corner. No one else seemed to

ever see her. Maybe it was because Clara had a gift the rest of her family didn't seem to have.

Like those times when she knew someone was coming to the door before they even knocked. Or

when she sensed that any of them were sad or not feeling well.

She'd figured out her friend's name years ago, when Mama had described the friend she'd

had in California, the one who died in the fire. The one she was named for.

“Hi, Clara,” she said softly and then waved at the woman who always wore the same gray

silk dress along with a hat trimmed with lilies.

The woman smiled slightly and waved back at her namesake before shimmering away.