Read Chapter 5: The Locket

The assay office smelled of sulfur and heated metal, a sharp bite that caught in the back of Maeve’s throat as she pushed through the door. The bell above it rang thin and tinny, announcing her arrival to a room that seemed otherwise empty.

“Be with you in a moment!” came a voice from the back, muffled by the clatter of weights and pans.

Maeve drifted toward the counter, letting her eyes adjust to the dimness. The assay office was one of the few places in Gold Creek that hadn’t changed much since she’d arrived with Patrick three years ago. Same scarred oak counter, same glass cases with their velvet-lined trays of samples, same yellowish light that made everything look older than it was.

She was about to call out that she could come back later when something caught her eye.

A small gold locket sat on the counter beside the scale, its chain coiled beneath it like a sleeping snake, its surface dulled with the patina of wear. Maeve’s hand moved toward it before her mind had fully registered what she was seeing.

She knew that locket.

Had watched Ruthie McCallan wear it every single day since she’d come to town two years ago, a new bride from St. Louis with a nervous laugh and a habit of twisting the little clasp between her fingers when her husband Tom was away at the diggings. Ruthie had shown it to Maeve once, back when the hotel had been failing and Maeve had been too proud to ask for help—had opened the tiny clasp to reveal a curl of Tom’s red hair tucked inside.

“He gave it to me the day we married,” Ruthie had said, her face soft with the memory. “Told me it was worth more than any claim he’d ever stake. Said it would always bring me back to him.”

Tom McCallan had gone missing eight months ago. His partner had come back alone, claiming Tom had been swept away in a flash flood up on Cripple Creek. No body had ever been found.

Ruthie had stayed in Gold Creek for a month after that, waiting on the porch of her little cabin every evening, watching the road that led up to the diggings. Then one day she was gone too. Left town on the morning stage with nothing but a carpetbag and a face gone hollow with grief. Maeve had tried to write to her, care of the family address in St. Louis, but had never received a reply.

And now here was her locket.

Sitting on the counter of the assay office like a piece of scrap metal someone had brought in to be weighed.

Maeve’s fingers closed around it before she could think better of it. The little catch was still stiff, the way it had been when Ruthie had shown her. She didn’t open it. Stripped of its owner, the locket had become evidence of something she couldn’t name yet—but her hand moved as if it had a will of its own, and in another moment the chain had followed the locket into the deep pocket of her skirt.

“Mrs. O’Donnell!”

Maeve startled so violently she nearly knocked over a stack of sample trays. The assay man, Otis Pemberton, had emerged from the back room and was standing behind the counter wiping his hands on a rag that was already gray with dust, looking at her with one eyebrow raised.

“Didn’t mean to frighten you,” he said. “Wasn’t expecting company this early. What can I do for you?”

Maeve’s mind raced. She had come because Silas had mentioned that Otis handled the paperwork for claims all over the territory—had said that if anyone had been asking about the Blue Ridge Lode, Otis would know about it. But now, with the weight of the stolen locket burning against her hip, that plan felt dangerously thin.

“I need a scrap of paper to write a note on,” she heard herself say. “Penny for the paper if you have it.”

Otis tilted his head. “No charge for that. Plenty of scratch paper around.” He turned to a shelf behind him and pulled down a small sheaf of paper, then laid it on the counter. “Here you are. Anything else?”

There it was, out in the open: the empty space on the counter where the locket had lain, looking like a question mark to anyone who knew to look. Maeve forced her gaze to stay on Otis’s face, forced her voice to come out steady.

“Actually,” she said, making a show of scanning the counter, “there was a pretty piece of jewelry here a moment ago. A locket. Did it belong to your wife?”

“Not mine.” Otis’s face flickered. “Was brought in earlier this morning. Man said it came from a claim up north. Evidently the fella who found it needed quick cash. Assayers aren’t jewelers, but we buy metal.”

“Who brought it in?”

Otis’s expression tightened. He was a man who had spent years learning when to stay quiet, and it showed in the careful blankness that slid across his face. “I don’t recollect the name.”

“But you recollect the locket well enough.”

The words hung in the air between them. Otis’s eyes met hers and held them for a moment, and Maeve saw something there that looked almost like a warning.

“I’m a busy man, Mrs. O’Donnell. I don’t keep track of every transaction that crosses my counter on a given morning.”

“You’re a man who keeps track of everything,” Maeve said. “That’s why everyone brings their business to you. And I’ve never seen a piece of metal come through that door that you don’t remember the weight of precisely.”

Otis didn’t answer. But his hand moved to a ledger book on the shelf, and his fingers skipped across a page before he caught himself and pulled it back. “If you find a locket that’s missing, I’d suggest you return it,” he said. “Thievery’s a hanging offense in a town like this, whether the thief is a man or a woman.”

For a moment, Maeve thought she’d misheard him. But Otis’s gaze had drifted to the spot on the counter where the locket had been, and then back to her, and there was no mistaking what he meant.

She gathered the paper with steady hands and smiled. “I’ll thank you not to spin stories, Mr. Pemberton. I’m sure the locket will turn up.”

The bell above the door rang before she could make her exit, and Eli Hawk stepped into the assay office like he’d been summoned by the mention of trouble.

He wasn’t in his marshal’s coat this morning—just a gray shirt with the sleeves rolled up and a vest that did nothing to hide the breadth of his shoulders. His eyes went from Otis to Maeve and back again, cataloging something in the space between them.

“Mrs. O’Donnell,” he said. “You’re out early.”

“Paper,” she said, holding up the sheet as if it were proof. “I was in need of stationery.”

“From the assay office.”

“They have the cheapest scrap in town. Ask anyone.”

Eli didn’t smile. He moved past her to the counter, laying out a small pouch that clinked when it hit the wood. “Need this one assayed,” he said to Otis. “Payroll coins, from the robbery on the Ridge Road.”

Maeve’s blood went cold. She made to leave, but Eli’s voice caught her at the door.

“While I’m here, Mrs. O’Donnell—mind telling me what you were doing down at the Saddler’s Row yesterday afternoon?”

She turned. “Paying a bill.”

“Saddler’s Row is a dead-end street. Only business down there is the smithy, and the smithy was closed all afternoon because the smith was out at the diggings pulling a wagon wheel.”

Maeve’s heart was slamming against her ribs, but she kept her face tranquil. “Then you know more about my business than I do.”

“I know that you were there,” Eli said. “And I know that the building you were standing in front of was the old Donovan property.” He stepped closer, close enough that she could smell the leather of his vest and the soap he’d washed with that morning. “The same property where the Blue Ridge Lode is registered.”

The name hit her like a bucket of cold water. She opened her mouth, but no words came.

“I know more than you think, Maeve,” Eli said quietly. “And I’m starting to think you know more than you’re saying. The question is whether you’re protecting yourself—or protecting someone else.”

His eyes dropped to her pocket—the one with the locket burning against her hip—and stayed there for a long, telling moment. Then he stepped back, tipped his hat, and walked out into the morning light without another word.

Otis was watching her with sharp, knowing eyes.

“Interesting morning,” he said.

Maeve’s hand was trembling. She pressed it flat against her skirt so he wouldn’t see. “You can keep your judgments, Mr. Pemberton.”

She made it out the door and halfway down the boardwalk before she allowed herself to breathe. The locket pressed against her leg, and the weight of what Eli had just revealed—that he knew about the Blue Ridge Lode, knew about the Donovan property—sat heavy in her chest.

She had to get back to the hotel. Had to look at the deed again, to see what she’d missed.

But first she had to open the locket.

Her fingers found the catch, twisted it open with a soft click. Inside, where she’d expected the curl of red hair, there was something else. A tiny piece of paper, folded so small it fit inside the oval frame. She smoothed it open with shaking hands.

It was a receipt from the Bank of Gold Creek, stamped three weeks earlier.

Made out to a mining company called McCormick & Associates.

For the purchase of a claim deed.

The name McCormick hit her stomach like a stone dropped into deep water. Patrick had never talked about a man named McCormick. But Silas had—had mentioned him just yesterday, in the context of the dead man’s inquiries.

Silas had said the dead miner believed someone had been paid to keep the Blue Ridge Lode quiet.

Maeve looked up. The street was filling with morning traffic—wagons and horses and men heading up to the diggings. A town full of people going about their business, unaware that beneath their feet, something foul was spreading.

She clutched the receipt in her fist, the locket swinging from her other hand, and did the only thing she could think of.

She began to run.