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his tone calm and deep. Use your voice first to cool matters, Lady Irene had always said.
    Lennox flushed angrily and cocked the revolver.
    The bullwhip cracked gently. Lennox’s hands froze. The mare neighed frantically from a few paces behind William. But neither man had eyes for her now.
    “Its classical elegance reminds me of the rigs I’ve seen in London, on Rotten Row,” William continued softly. Soothe the man’s pride as you build him a bolthole.
    “Do you really think so?” Lennox lowered the gun, all the while watching the whip with eyes as lethal as a caged tiger’s.
    “Indeed, yes. Your gelding matches it very well and his smooth gaits are calculated to win a lady’s confidence.” William’s voice was as steady as his heartbeat.
    A stiff smile slowly appeared on Lennox’s face as he uncocked the Colt. “What do you suggest for the mare?”
    The lady in question sidled farther away from the Easterner’s voice and Morgan quickly crooned to her.
    “Perhaps she’d calm down if she were stabled with other horses, such as in my barn. I can give you forty dollars for her.”
    “She’s worth a great deal more,” Lennox protested halfheartedly.
    “In gold, here and now.”
    Lennox stroked his muttonchops but wasn’t fool enough to demand a larger sum. “Very well,” he agreed finally. “After all, the gelding does match the other buggy so neatly.”
     
    Humming an Irish jig, Viola adjusted the laundry basket on her hip, now full of washing from three clients, and considered the treats tucked inside it. Perhaps the sugary cinnamon bread would divert Maggie’s attention for a few minutes. They were one of Armistead the baker’s better efforts, although not as good as Lily Mae’s scones.
    That thought brought her back to considering Mrs. Smith’s house and how William Donovan carried on with the girls there. He was a fine figure of a man, which could account for some of their pleasure. His teamster’s strength should give him stamina.
    As for more intimate equipment, well, what made for excellence? The first time she’d seen naked men was when she was fifteen years old and hunting mushrooms in the woods. She’d happened on a handful of teenage boys enjoying a swimming hole’s coolness on that hot day. She’d spied on them for a few minutes before running home ahead of a thunderstorm. Their privates had looked remarkably small and pasty white, hardly capable of causing trouble let alone bringing delight.
    Edward had always insisted on proper decorum and respect in the marriage bed. Their marital encounters had been conducted in the dark, under the covers, and discreetly screened by both nightshirt and nightgown. The only time she’d seen him unclothed was when she’d laid him out for burial.
    “Mrs. Ross, Mrs. Ross!” Little Jenny’s piping voice reached Viola as she neared the cluster of shanties. “Come see, quick! We tried to stop ’em, honest we did. But they took everything!”
    “Now, Jenny, calm down. I’m sure it can’t be as bad as all that,” Viola soothed automatically even as her skin prickled.
    “Ma sent Eli for Pa but he couldn’t do nothin’, not with Mr. Lennox’s men there. He tried talkin’ to ’em but…”
    All sound faded as Viola stared at Maggie’s deserted hut, the song dead on her lips. No washtubs, no washboards beside the stream. No goat for the milk that Maggie claimed made coffee bearable.
    The Golconda’s stamping machines, usually strong enough to shake the fragile dwelling, now seemed distant and unimportant.
    She broke into a run but stopped dead at the hut’s threshold. It was completely empty, showing every inch of the dirt floor and papered-over mud-brick walls. Edward’s photograph had vanished. In the far corner, Viola could clearly see an empty hole where her cashbox had been, containing her few funds and the mourning brooch for Grandfather Lindsay. Her heart stopped beating.
    That piece of jewelry was the one item she’d kept from