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  A noise on the street caught my ear.

  A smart carriage pulled up in front, and two men emerged, one gray-haired and the other much younger, slender, blond. As I leaned over the sill to watch them approach the house, and my damp braid fell over my shoulder, the younger man stopped short. He raised his face and our eyes met.

  He was handsome, so handsome he took my breath away. And as he stared at me he let a smile cross his face, one that grew like a sweet ripple of spring breeze across water.

  But my eyes had been drawn to something else just past the young man, something on the coach behind his head, something on the door of that coach. An emblem. A seal. Something so familiar it made me suck in air.

  A golden dragon with a long tongue of flame.

  Chapter TWELVE

  March 28, 1906

  “In China the five clawed dragon is the

  emblem of royalty. Usually it is pictured

  as rising from the sea and clutching at the sun . . .”

  —“The Chinese Dragon,” Detroit Free Press, August 12, 1900

  THE YOUNG MAN GAZED UP AT ME WHILE I LEANED OUT the window and my braid swung long and free below the sill. He called up, “Rapunzel! Rapunzel! Let down your hair!” And he grinned.

  The older man, striding up the walkway, lifted his chin and scowled at me and then turned his face and his ire on the younger man. I withdrew fast, feeling stupid and not a little breathless at seeing that gorgeous face, at hearing that charming prince calling to me as if I was the heroine of a fairy tale.

  And the seal—the dragon. It seemed there was a growing riot of links and connections and surprises. I shook myself, rubbed my arms hard. This was San Francisco, after all. In a city known for its Chinese population, dragons were probably common. Even on the coach of a prince of the city.

  Now voices drifted up from the front hall; I pulled back the curtain to peer at the coach again. The dragon on that carriage was identical to the dragon in my Blue Boy’s painting. There was no mistake.

  I crossed the room, pausing in the upper hallway to listen. The men’s voices were mixed up with Miss Everts’s clear tones.

  I slipped along the passage to the stair and started down, trying to creep light-footed, as I had so many times in the woods. The voices issued not from the large front drawing room but from a small parlor closer to the rear of the house. As I turned onto the second flight down from the landing, I realized that I could not only see into that parlor from where I stood, I could see all of them standing there.

  The men had their backs to me. The gray-haired man was throwing his hands around like a country preacher; it was his booming voice I’d heard from upstairs.

  “. . . delivery for next week. This shipment is of especial importance.”

  “Is that why you’ve brought the boy?” Miss Everts’s tone was light, but I could sense the hostility in it from where I stood.

  “I’m putting my trust in young Will. I want to start turning these matters over to him. He needs to learn responsibility.” He put his hand on “young Will’s” shoulder. “Now, Phillipa. This arrangement has suited us both. I can guarantee that my son will be well trained.”

  I crept down two more treads. Now I could see directly into the room and into Miss Everts’s stony face.

  “Hmph. Trained in East Coast behavior, I take it,” she said. Her eyes flicked to the younger man. “How old are you, young man? I suppose you have a thorough understanding of the trade.”

  “I’m nineteen. And I believe I understand perfectly,” he replied. His voice was firm, but he glanced at his father; and in that glance I read deference, even uneasiness.

  So. The young prince wants to please his father.

  I crept down one more step. It was my undoing. My movement caught Miss Everts’s eye. And when her eye lit on me, the two men turned.

  “What’s this, Phillipa?” The gray-haired man had a lined face, but he might have been about Pa’s age or so. “You have a spy in the house?”

  “There are no spies in this house, William. The girl was simply descending the stairs. Come down, girl.”

  I obeyed her, straightening my back and walking with as much dignity as I could muster. A spy. I disliked this man already.

  I came into the parlor, clasping my rough hands behind my back, those rough hands that would give me away as a working girl. At least my clothes were decent, thanks to the new things Miss Everts had bought for me. I hoped the men would ignore my damp braid, which even now moistened my shirtwaist right down my spine.

  “Kula, this is Mr. William Henderson. Mr. Henderson is a force to be reckoned with here in San Francisco. He owns the two largest hotels as well as our principal bank. I tell you this so that you may greet him properly.”

  Miss Everts stood behind the two men, all of them facing me. For this reason I could see her face while they could not; her meaning was plain to me. She didn’t like William Henderson. She didn’t care one fig for all his forcefulness or his hotels or his bank. A game was in play here, and she wanted me in on her side of it.

  And I was at Phillipa Everts’s mercy. Regardless of how I felt about her or these goings-on, I did play her game. I curtsied. “So pleased to meet you, sir.” I turned to the younger Will. “And you, sir.”

  When I turned to greet that young man, when my eyes truly rested on him, I caught myself. I’d seen him clearly out the window, but his good looks were magnified up close. His thick fair hair curled in all the right places; his eyes were large and deep brown—like a fawn’s eyes. I caught myself stargazing into them.

  He bit his lip, trying to appear sober, but as his father turned away, the young prince gave me a sly smile.

  Kula Baker does know how to breathe. Breathe, Kula Baker.

  While I examined the fine Persian carpet under my feet, Miss Everts went on. “Miss Baker is my new protégé. She’s an artist’s model. I think her exotic beauty will charm San Francisco. Don’t you agree?”

  An artist’s model? I tried to hide my shock by fixing my stare on one particular Oriental swirl.

  “Indeed!” William Henderson eyed me like he might eye a prized steer. “Bring her along on Thursday the twelfth, then, Phillipa. Let’s introduce her to San Francisco society properly.” He stared at me, lines forming on his brow. “What did you say her name was—Baker?”

  “I’m Will,” the younger man said.

  If I fixed my gaze on Will’s eyes, I’d fall into them. So I nodded my hello and went back to my carpet. Artist’s model? I was a servant, though I longed to be a lady. But, an artist’s model?

  Miss Everts came around from behind the two men and took my arm with a firm pinch. “Time to take your leave, gentlemen. Thank you for the invitation. The twelfth, then. Kula and I will be there. But at the moment, we have things to attend to.”

  “I look forward to seeing you again, Miss Baker,” young Will said to me, and bowed, which forced me to meet his eyes straight on. He winked, this time, as if we were now the best of friends. Goodness. Such a being walked the earth, and smiled and winked at Kula Baker.

  Jameson appeared from nowhere. His voice came out soft. “Gentlemen?” He extended his long arm toward the door, giving them no alternative but to head for it, as indeed they did, hats raised in polite good-bye.

  When the door slipped shut and Jameson turned the lock, Miss Everts sighed. “We have a new complication.” She and Jameson exchanged a look, and he vanished into the back of the house.

  The entire episode left me in a puzzlement. I turned to Miss Everts. I could only address one question at a time, and the first was also the most alarming, at least to me. “An artist’s model?”

  She waved her hand. “Yes, well. It was all I could come up with on the spur of the moment. I didn’t expect to see you make an appearance. Besides, you would make a good model, if that was your inclination. You have a unique presence.”

  “A model for what?”

  “For pity’s sake. Posing for paintings and the like.�
��

  I blanched, then blushed. “I could never—”

  “No?” she interrupted. “Do you have any idea what kind of money an artist’s model makes?”

  I took a step back. The thought hadn’t occurred to me. I’d never examined a role for myself beyond service that didn’t involve a husband. I’d been a working girl, of course, but not that kind. I was aghast. “Money?”

  “That’s right. There’s money to be made in many ways, girl, and if money is your object, why, there is your solution.” She sounded tired. “I shall be eating in my room this evening. You can take your meal in the drawing room. I wish to be left alone, so there’s no need to turn my bed down. You may take care of things in the morning. You should send word to Hannah that you have arrived safely. Send a telegram with Jameson.”

  But I wanted to know more. I wanted to understand the dragon seal, for one thing. And I couldn’t ignore my pressing need to find Ty Wong. “But, Miss Everts . . . I have to ask—”

  “No more. I have a frightful headache.” She turned and went up the stairs, her gray gown swishing as she climbed in slow pace to her own rooms. Well. That gray silk dress probably cost as much as a month’s wages at the Old Faithful Inn. Yet she disdained money—the very thing that kept her in comfort.

  My mind was in a muddle, now. I went into the front parlor and paced, one hand to my forehead and the other to my waist, as I tried to put pieces together. I wanted to understand how these pieces connected.

  There was that dragon seal for one. I had a good eye for pattern, and I was sure that dragon shooting his flaming tongue was the same on Mrs. Gale’s ring, on the rolled-up parchment my Blue Boy held tight in his fist, and on the Henderson coach.

  I sat down and drafted a telegram to Mrs. Gale, to let her know I had arrived, and then gazed through the parlor windows across the hills of the city as dusk gathered at the windows and lights winked on here and there.

  An artist’s model—I wasn’t completely ignorant. An artist’s model was no better than an actress or a dancer, performing for money. For all her talk of my soul, Miss Everts was quite content to see me part with my dignity.

  Yet because of my new “profession,” I’d just been invited to a social event in San Francisco. I’d never been invited to any social event before, anywhere. The very thought was frightening and exhilarating. A social event, at what I assumed was the Henderson home . . . If that coach was anything to go by, their home could be grander than all the hotels in Yellowstone put together. I put my hand to my chest and felt my heart gallop.

  At the Henderson home . . . that meant I’d see Will Henderson again. His eyes were drowning eyes, deep brown and forever.

  And he had money and social standing—respectability. Now here was my dream, walking and talking. Despite Miss Everts’s assertions, I found nothing wrong with desiring the comfort of money. Only the wealthy said money didn’t matter—those of us who worked for a living knew better the comforts money supplied. My soul would survive such pampering, thank you.

  Yet I hadn’t spoken a word of my desires to anyone in San Francisco, so how was it that Miss Everts read me like a book? “ . . . if money is your object, why, there is your solution.” Money had always been my object and no mistake; it had not been a hard lesson for me to learn, want having instilled it early. If I had to bet, I’d bet Miss Everts had never been left wanting.

  I thought again of the overheard conversation. What had they been discussing that Miss Everts found so distasteful? What was so secretive that had William Henderson worrying over spies?

  There was much to ponder here. My curious nature gnawed on the bones of these peculiar doings. But as distracting as the Hendersons may be, I had to focus on my purpose here in San Francisco: helping Pa.

  Though, if I could help myself along the way, say by attracting such a one as young Will Henderson, that may do more to help Pa than any mysterious box could. The chance of allying with such a young man, one of wealth and power . . . I could truly aid Pa and myself at the same time. And Will, with his drowning eyes . . . I shook my head clear.

  Kula Baker knows that to get what she wants, she must not lose her wits.

  I found myself a soft chair by the fire in the drawing room, and Jameson brought my meal. I gave him the carefully folded telegram—hiding it from his prying eyes—to send to Mrs. Gale, and he left me to ponder all these doings for the remainder of the night.

  Chapter THIRTEEN

  April 3, 1906

  “Notwithstanding all that has been done . . .

  San Francisco is still remarkably hilly,

  and may properly be termed ‘the Hundred-hilled City’. ”

  —A Guide Book to San Francisco,

  John S. Hittell, 1888

  IT WAS A CLEAR, BRIGHT DAY, THIS, MY SIXTH DAY IN San Francisco.

  “Jameson!” Miss Everts commandeered from the hall, as she donned her gloves.

  He was right there, in an instant. Did this man live in the air, like one of those djinns from the tales of Arabia?

  “Bring the automobile around front. We’re going for a drive.”

  I tried to quell my nerves. We were about to be off in a horseless, and I could scarce believe it. My first experience in such a contraption.

  Miss Everts lent me gloves, and had given me a hat from her own closet—“far too young for my aging face”—that had just the perfect, most fashionable large and rolling brim and a trimming of the softest feathers.

  “It suits you.” She pushed the feathers back so they rested within the crown. The kindliness of the gesture only added to my befuddlement. I stared at my reflection, noting the surprise that lit my face. Six days in San Francisco with Miss Everts. Cleaning and tidying after her. She came and went at odd hours and kept to herself the rest of the time, making it difficult for me to press further on Ty Wong. I couldn’t read her on anything.

  My second morning there I’d caught her in her drawing room and begged for help in finding Ty Wong. She’d raised her hand to silence me. “I do not wish to speak of this now.”

  “But that’s why I’m here!” My impatience wore a sharp edge, and I clenched my fists. Anger unleashed my tongue. “Ty Wong knows about something of my pa’s. The whereabouts of a box. I need to find Ty Wong and that box.”

  “Box! Containing what?”

  I’d forgotten I’d said nothing about the box to her before this. I still wasn’t sure if I could trust her, and yet I had no choice now but to confess all. I took a deep breath. “I don’t know. But whatever it is, it must be something valuable.” It surely was to Josiah Wilkie. “Valuable to my pa, at least. He said the only way to help him was to find it. Please, Miss Everts. Time is of the essence.”

  She tapped her fingers against her lips. “I understand your time constraints, Miss Baker. You’ve told me enough. But you meddle in things you don’t understand. Your father’s situation will not be improved if you rush headlong into a fiery pit.”

  Rush! And a fiery pit! My pa rotted in some miserable cell awaiting trial and a hanging for a murder I was sure he didn’t commit. But Miss Everts only turned her back on me.

  I wanted to take her by the shoulders and shake her until her perfect, coiled-up hair fell about her. But I didn’t. I bowed my head. I was at the mercy of her kindness. I bowed my head, but my fists were still balled up.

  Then, as if she read my mind, she turned right back around to face me.

  “Kula. We shall tackle this situation. But not today. I have other business to complete.” And then she swept off with Jameson, leaving me stewing for the rest of the day.

  In an attempt to distract myself, Mei Lien and I had walked down the hill to purchase thread and fabric so that I could occupy my restless hands with embroidery. We stopped in a shop at the edge of Chinatown filled with silks and other fine imported fabrics. The shopkeeper was a well-fed Chinese man who was eager to show me all his wares.

  I’d asked the shopkeeper if he knew a Ty Wong, and he shook his head, thro
wing his hands in the air, and repeating, “Wong? Wong? Many people named Wong. All over Chinatown.”

  Mei Lien flat refused to lead me into Chinatown on a search. She shook her head and planted her feet, and tugged me hard in the opposite direction, saying, “No, no.” Finally, I had to relent.

  That evening, I had received a return telegram from Mrs. Gale. Pa was to stand trial for the murder of Mr. Black, the trial to commence on April 20. She would try to see him within the next few days—she would have to travel to Deer Lodge and the state prison and beg for an interview.

  Mrs. Gale also answered my question, put to her in my telegram. She and Phillipa Everts had had a “falling-out.”

  And so there I stood on this sixth day here, in Miss Everts’s hallway, wearing a hat she’d planted on my head, her kindness and meanness and peculiarities all mixed up. Mixed up! Just like the thoughts tumbling through my mind. I thought of Pa, the last time I saw him, all gaunt and cornered, there in the snowy street. My eyes welled, and I blinked to clear them.

  I should be in Deer Lodge, fighting for my pa, and not here in this odd city.

  I’d denied him on the streets of Bozeman in order to flee Josiah Wilkie and his snake eyes. I’d run away: fled Montana, run away to San Francisco. I shook my head. No. I’d come here because Pa had asked me to. I’d come here because he needed me here, to find Ty Wong, to find that box.

  I could not allow myself to feel guilty for being in San Francisco. Pa’d sent me to San Francisco to find him something that would buy his freedom.

  And if I also happened to find something for myself . . . say, the security of the right marriage—well, that was just a bit of good fortune. Meeting a Will Henderson, who it seemed right off took a fancy to me, that was extra.

  I lifted my chin and admired Miss Everts’s hat that sat perched on my head, and strived to ignore the warring voices within me. Kula Baker does the right thing.