The man snoring at her feet grunts, rolls over, and curls himself around an upturned bottle of whiskey. She picks up her skirt, steps over him onto the porch. Can’t predict the weather this time of year. Fools even the wild flowers. Mistake three days of sunshine for the start of May when one hard freeze will snap the petals right off and kill the early batch of mosquitoes already swarming. Across the road, the chapel’s canvas roof sags like wet clothes on a line. It won’t take another snow like the last. Klein promised to fix the damn thing, but he’s probably knee deep in the creek with the rest of them. It’s no wonder nobody in these parts has struck pay dirt yet, what with their canvas tents and frame cabins so easy to desert. Why would the earth give up its gold just to be abandoned on rumor of another strike? The soil is a shrewd old whore and has learned better than to give her gold for free. A person should have a solid foundation, Emaline always says, some sort of permanence in her life, a place for luck to grow.
