A Sketch of Gold: Christian historical romance
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EnglishVoice Age
Middle Aged (35-54)Accents
North American (General)Transcript
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California, 18 51. Rozema Gilroy blinked away tears as she made the last cut to her hair. Her Papua's latest get rich scheme was the wildest yet, and as usual, it was Rose that would make the most sacrifices. After selling their home in Boston, they traveled forever on the train to San Francisco, sold every remnant of femininity Rose owned, bought two mules and supplies, and now they camped on a bluff overlooking a patch of thick forest. Tomorrow they'd reach Rich Bar, a mining town guaranteed to make them wealthy. Or so Papa said. It can't be helped dearest, Papa said, lifting the strands of hair that shot with the gold so the wind would catch them. Here. The same shade is her dear mama's had been. Women are scarce. Where we're going, I won't have you in harm's way. It's the best. You look like a lad. She turned and stared at him for a moment. While she loved him dearly. Sometimes she wondered whether he'd taken a knock to the head. As a child, Lord knows, his absent mindedness had driven Mama to distraction. At times, God rest her soul very well. Lead the way she put a foot into the stirrup of her mule named Bob and swung into the saddle. She no sooner planted her rump before finding herself lying flat on her back, staring at the mule's belly with dust, gritting her teeth need to tighten your sense a bit more dearest Papa held down his hand that could have been a bad accident. Rose spit dirt and swiped her arm across her eyes to dislodge dirt cake there. That accident. Indeed, it also did nothing for her sour mood. I think it best you stop calling me dearest. You wouldn't call your son by such an endearment. She tightened the scent on her saddle and climbed back on. This time, she stayed put very well. Boy or Rory, it is. Papa grinned and marched to Fred, his mule onward. He thrust a fist into the air. Despite her poor attitude, Rose couldn't help but smile at his enthusiasm. Hopefully that along with God's favor would see them through the next few months. With a click of her tongue and a kick of her heels, Rose followed her papa down a steep path to flatter land. As pebbles rolled before them. She gave thanks for the sure footedness of Bob and glanced to her left, where she could catch a small peak at the ocean every few minutes. The ocean was the one resounding positive to her Papua's latest so called adventure. Your mama loved the water. Papa called over his shoulder. You share that love. She'd be right pleased about this latest venture, Rose doubted that very much. Although Mama would have gone along as always, biting her tongue and praying. They didn't lose everything Rose side and shifted to a more comfortable position in the hard saddle. She didn't know a thing about mining. Neither did Papa, living in tents and hoping to find gold in freezing water. Lord help us. Her featherbed parties and mills, cooked by a chef seemed ages ago. Already. Her hands sported blisters, her nails were chipped. And if she scrunched her, knows the pain of a sunburn, warned her it was past time to put on her hat. No, friend, do you, boy? We'll make go of this and be rich by Christmas. I guarantee it. She grimaced. She would hate her new endearment by morning. All right, Papa, Have I ever steered you wrong? No, Papa. Oh, so many times