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becoming ill. She knew Mrs. McNeil did her best to stretch the meager rations and was not to be faulted if their palatability suffered as a result. That conclusion, however, did little to relieve her unsettled stomach.
    “Ladies, this is Miss Sara Beth Reese, an old friend and former resident,” Ella told the other women. They looked up from their labors and shepointed to each in turn. “That’s Mrs. Clara Nelson, our cook, and Mattie Coombs, her helper.”
    Sara Beth managed a wan smile. “How do you do?”
    “Fair to middlin’,” Clara said with an impish grin, made more amusing by her twinkling blue eyes, apple cheeks and snow-white hair. “You visitin’ or stayin’?”
    “Visiting. But I do want to make myself useful while I’m here. I’ll be glad to help however I can.”
    Mattie snorted as if in disbelief, turning her thin wiry body back to the stove. Clara welcomed the offer. “You surely can,” she said. “As soon as you’ve eaten a bite you can help me serve the boys while Mattie takes care of the girls.”
    “Oh, good. My brothers are here, too, and I’d like to look in on them.”
    Mattie huffed. “I knowed she was stayin’. She’s got that look about her. Same as they all get.”
    Did she? Sara Beth supposed there was a lost quality to her demeanor, although she was not about to openly acknowledge it under the present circumstances. As soon as she had a chance to talk to Mrs. McNeil in private, however, she intended to tell her everything and ask for advice.
    The more she pondered the situation, the more she felt there had to be a connection between whatshe’d overheard her parents discussing and their untimely deaths. Not that their conversation made much sense, even in retrospect.
    For one thing, Papa had mentioned someone he worked with in a disparaging manner. The Reese family had treated his partner, William Bein, as part of their intimate circle, including him in social events and even asking the children to call him “Uncle Will.” Surely he could not be responsible for anything that had happened.
    But there certainly could be other nefarious forces at work, she reasoned. Papa had often expressed disdain for Sheriff Scannell, and that man was proving every bit as disreputable as rumor had painted him. Plus, there was the gold to consider. Anyone who knew that Papa worked for the new mint must also assume he would have samples of gold on hand in his lab. Sara Beth knew many a man had died for riches, especially in the years since 1849.
    Reviewing the tragedy, her thoughts drifted to her new benefactor, Dr. Taylor Hayward. His was a difficult profession, one that rarely produced a better cure than most grannies could mix up from their favorite roots and berries. Men like him were an asset to the wounded in wartime, of course, but otherwise might just as well stay in their offices andlet the citizenry treat themselves for the ague and such.
    Chagrined, she felt empathy for the man. He had obviously attempted to help her parents, and for that effort alone she was grateful. His lack of ability was less his fault than the fact that doctors were little more than hand-holders and tonic dispensers—unless they had served on the battlefield or studied in one of those fancy hospitals back east. At least that was what Papa had always said when he’d gotten sick after spending long, tedious hours in his lab.
    Dr. Hayward’s presence at the scene of carnage on the wharf had been very comforting, she admitted. But then, so had Abe Warner’s, and his calling was not in the healing arts.
    Thoughts of the kindly old man brought a slight smile to her face. In a day or so, after she got her thoughts sorted out and decided what course to take, she’d have to walk over to the Cobweb Palace, thank Abe for everything and assure him that he needn’t worry.
    Taking a deep breath and releasing it as a sigh, Sara Beth realized that she had no certainty that her family would be all right. The way things