Page 23 of Whispers of Fortune (Golden State Treasure Book #1)
T WENTY -T HREE
Lock’s injuries were many. He was a week out from his fall, and his knee was so hurt he’d’ve been using crutches to get around except that he had a shoulder that was wrenched so badly he couldn’t handle the things.
Brody shook his head. “You have at least three cracked ribs. I don’t think they’re broken, but they’re going to pain you something terrible for a while every time you move or even breathe.”
“I’m well enough. We can go now.”
“Not for another week, Lock.” Brody thought it should be more like a month. “At least. You can’t begin to ride a horse. And we’re going to have to do a lot of hiking. You can’t walk without help.”
Lock slapped the journal on the table in their kitchen. “If we wait much longer, the cold is going to be a problem in those mountains.”
The three of them had settled into the rooms over the doctor’s office. The first flood of patients seemed to have ebbed to a less frantic pace, though Brody still had folks coming in several times a day. He’s started charging each patient a dollar for a visit. Apparently, the hands at the Two Harts were well paid because they didn’t balk at the fee.
When he wasn’t doctoring, Brody joined Thayne and Lock in searching through the journal. “We need to be careful with this book,” he said. “It’s real old.”
“What difference does it make how old it is?” Lock picked up the journal. “Besides, I pretty much have it memorized by now. So does Thayne.”
“I’ve about committed it to memory myself,” Brody said proudly. “And yet we haven’t found anything to narrow our search beyond that mention of Loch Uaine.”
“I could burn the stupid thing and it would make no difference.” Lock whacked it hard against the table. Then, in a sudden fit of impatience, he grabbed it and threw it straight for the fireplace.
“Hey!” Brody scrambled to snatch it out of the fireplace. It hadn’t gone into the fire, so no harm was done except it had landed facedown, open, its pages bent with the cover ripped partway down the spine.
He could see Lock was in pain and fretting over that as much as over the stingy directions in the journal. Brody picked it up and saw that the paper glued to the inside of the front cover had been torn. “You could have destroyed it, Lock.” He was gentle with the old book as he closed it. “Even if we never find the treasure, this is something Grandpa left us. We should treat it with care.”
Thayne scowled at his little brother. “That’s what Pa tried to do. Burn it.”
Lock’s head dropped until his chin rested on his chest. “I’m sorry, Brody, Thayne—I know I’m acting like a stupid kid.” He glanced at the journal. “How bad is it?”
Brody tried to smooth the endpaper back into place, but the brittle page tore a bit more. Brody stopped touching it, hoping to do no more harm. The Hippocratic oath for books.
He froze, then moved to look closer. “What’s this?” Brody set the book on the table with the front cover lying open. Gently, he tugged on the torn endpaper. He heard a gentle rip.
“Stop, you’re making it worse.” Lock made a frantic grab for the journal. Instead, he caught the front cover, and the paper attached to it tore almost completely away.
“No, stop,” said Brody. “Don’t—”
Something fell out of the journal.
All three MacKenzie men froze now, their eyes locked on the sheet of yellowed paper that had come free—folded and deeply creased. It’d been hidden behind the front endpaper.
Brody’s hand trembled as he reached for the yellowed paper. He unfolded it. “It’s a map.” Using both hands, he carefully laid the fragile map on the table and smoothed it flat.
The three of them stared at it for a moment.
“Pretty sure that’s Grandpa’s handwriting.” Brody recognized his grandpa’s rough scrawl from reading the rest of the journal.
Lock leaned so close to the map, he blocked Brody’s view of it. “Is that mark right there—” his breath caught as he jabbed a finger to the map—“is it an X?” He lifted his head and looked straight at Thayne.
Thayne rose from his chair, his eyes darting from Lock to the map and back to his brother. “As in X marks the spot?”
Both of the boys turned to look at Brody, their eyes flashing like a fireworks display on Independence Day.
“W-we found it.” Thayne’s voice cracked as it sometimes did at his age.
“We found MacKenzie’s Treasure!” Lock pounded his fists on the table.
Both of them leapt at Brody and threw their arms around him, screaming for joy.
Tilda was finally in San Francisco. She’d have to find work right away if she wanted to eat. After asking a few questions, she had some idea of where to look for those who had knowledge about street children. She hoped she could find the boys and fast.
The answers to those questions had led her to a corner on one of the noisy, bustling streets of downtown. She listened to the clang of the trolly cars, watched the horses as they pulled the throngs of people along on the steep streets. She smelled the ocean and heard the shouts of men hawking their wares. They stood by carts overflowing with fresh food, flowers, bread, and vegetables. And they stood in the doorways of dance halls and gambling dens, promising wealth and pleasure to all who happened by.
A modest-looking door around the corner had a cross hanging above it and the words Child of God Mission painted on the single window in the door’s center. So at odds with all the city’s garishness surrounding it.
Tilda strode over to the door, eager but also a little afraid because she didn’t know where to look next. She reached for the doorknob, twisted it and swung open the door, and stepped into the noise and commotion. It was a beehive of a room, full of dirty-faced children dressed in rags. She guessed there were at least twenty of them, each one devouring bread as if it were their last meal.
A disheveled woman in a dark blue calico dress and a stained white apron stood at the front of the sweltering room. She clapped her hands loudly and demanded everyone quiet down at once. The children all looked at her with wary eyes as if ready to bolt at any minute.
The woman held an infant in her arms. A few seconds after the room turned silent, the infant burst into tears, and the children ran straight for Tilda.
The woman shouted, “Quick, shut the door!”
Tilda stepped all the way inside, closed the door, and was hit by a stampede of children who were ... what, trying to escape? But why would they want to escape a room with food being offered, a roof over their heads? Unless this was an orphanage similar to the more dreadful ones she’d seen back in New York.
And now she was being a party to keeping the children imprisoned.
She reached behind her and grabbed the doorknob, thinking for one wild moment she should fling the door open and let the children escape. Then she twisted the knob and found it securely locked from the outside.
“Please don’t leave...” The disheveled woman’s voice broke. In a moment she’d be crying as loud as the child she held. “I’m begging you.”