Vegas Rich

Book 1: Vegas

by Fern Michaels

Genres: Romance

Synopsis

With a heart full of dreams, Sallie Coleman leaves Texas and heads west determined to get as far from the squalor of her dirt poor beginnings. With its shifting sands, smoky saloons and bingo palaces, Las Vegas seems like a paradise. A paradise where an extraordinary twist of fate makes Sallie the most powerful businesswoman in Nevada.

Suddenly she is rich. With the help of Philip Thornton, the handsome Bostonian, Sallie is transformed into Vegas's most elegant first lady. Philip gives her two sons, Simon and Ash. One will bring her great joy, the other, heartbreak.

Enter Fanny Logan…the small-town beauty from Pennsylvania who finds her destiny in Las Vegas, where she creates a multi-million dollar clothing empire and finds happiness and heartbreak as the wife of Ash Thornton, and the daughter Sallie never had…Ash Thornton, whose life centers around his greatest triumph-Babylon, the magnificent casino that will lead to his downfall…Simon Thornton, whose search for meaning takes him to the battlefields of World War II, the trading rooms of Wall Street and finally back to Nevada where he falls in love with the wife of his rival.

Fern Michaels creates another memorable family and series of books as she did with the Texas series-Texas Rich, Texas Heat, Texas Fury, and Texas Sunrise.

Release date: May 20, 2014

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 544

Sample

The old attorney stared out his grimy windows and winced. His secretary had cleaned those windows yesterday. He’d watched her swish her soapy rag over them, then polish them until he could see his reflection. Now, less than fifteen hours later, they were dirty and grimy as though they’d never been cleaned. He looked down at his desk and saw the same grainy granules of desert sand. Irritably, he blew at them and wasn’t surprised when the offending sand refused to move. He told himself he was in the desert; sand was to be expected.

Alvin Waring, attorney-at-law, worried as he shuffled the two folders—one thick, one thin—from one side of his desk to the other. Waring knew exactly what was in each folder. If he were pressed, he could rattle off the contents without missing a heartbeat.

He saw her then, and he thought about waterfalls, summer blue skies, picnics and wildflowers. He wished, in that single second of time, for his youth. The two folders on his desk made perfect sense now. He stood, his old bones creaking as he walked around the side of his desk, held out his hand and touched hers, softer than any flower petal. She smiled, her summer blue eyes crinkling at the corners.

“Mr. Waring, I’m Sallie Coleman. I received your letter several days ago. I would have come yesterday, but I . . . I had to . . . sort through some things. I don’t have much money, Mr. Waring. I used all my available cash to pay for Cotton’s funeral. I do have this,” Sallie said as she withdrew a small burlap sack from her purse. “Cotton gave it to me the first day I started to work at the bingo palace. He said it was to be my nest egg if things didn’t work out. I’m not sure how much it’s worth. Cotton said it was seven ounces of pure gold.”

“Nest eggs should not be touched. They’re for the future.” The attorney cleared his throat as he handed back the sack of gold. He wondered what it would be like to walk with this young woman through a green meadow filled with daisies. In his bare feet. Holding her hand.

Sallie backed up a step, but didn’t reach for the little sack. The summer blue eyes were questioning. “I don’t understand. It could take me years to pay off . . . The gold would help me get to the end quicker. Did I say that right?”

“It makes no mind. There is no need for you to assume payment for Cotton Easter’s bills. First, he didn’t leave any bills. His estate would have paid for his funeral. There was . . . is . . . no need for you to assume the responsibility.”

“Yes, Mr. Waring, there was a pure need for me to be doing that. Cotton was my friend. It was hard for me here in the desert when I first got here. He helped me. He watched out for me. Cotton didn’t let anyone bother me. He was a kind man, a good man. Sometimes. . . most times, he was down on his luck, but when he had money he always shared with me and a few others who were less fortunate. I don’t regret paying for his funeral. If he didn’t leave any bills, and you don’t want my nest egg, why did you write me that letter asking me to come here?”

“Sit, Miss Coleman. I have some things to explain to you. I’m going to read you Cotton’s last will and testament.”

“Mercy, Mr. Waring, isn’t a person’s will a private thing? I don’t know if Cotton would like you to be telling me his secret thoughts. Cotton always told me a man’s life and his past belonged to him alone. He said that and a man’s good name were all God gave him when he came into the world, and when he left this world, his name on his marker would be all that was left. Now that I told you that, Mr. Waring, I’ll be getting back to work. I’m having his marker erected next Sunday afternoon. The preacher agreed to say a few words. I’m going to serve a meal at the palace for anyone who wants to come.”

Alvin Waring couldn’t believe what he was hearing. She was almost to the door when he barked at her to come back and sit. He gentled his tone and smiled when she perched herself on the edge of the hard wooden chair. The summer blue eyes were frightened.

“Now, little lady, you just sit there and listen to me read you Cotton Easter’s last will and testament. Before I do that, I want to tell you about Cotton. If I don’t, you won’t understand the will. Cotton came here to the desert with his daddy many years ago. He was just a small child at the time. His daddy was an educated man whose wife died before her time. With a small boy to raise, he decided to come here to seek his fortune the way his own father had done. He was very successful, almost as successful as his father. He sent Cotton back to Boston to get educated, and the minute the boy finished his studies, he hightailed it right back here and took his place next to his daddy. The main reason his daddy came here was because his father had mined the Comstock Lode. That would be Cotton’s granddaddy. The old gentleman left all he held dear to Cotton’s father. And, there was a lot that he held dear. Cotton’s daddy sold all the shares to the Comstock that his father left him at just the right time, and banked a fortune. Sold high, $22,000 a share, and he owned thousands of shares. Cotton’s daddy was a gambler and won acres and acres of land in poker games. He never touched that money. He struck it rich time and again. He had a big, old ugly Wells Fargo safe made special, and he kept his fortune in it. Didn’t trust banks or the stock market. A wise man. He bought up half the desert for fifty cents an acre. He grubstaked many a man who later paid back double for the stake. In some cases the veins and mines found their way back to Cotton’s daddy. When he died, his estate went to Cotton, who didn’t give a whit about the money. Cotton wanted his own strike. He amassed his own fortune, and it all went into the Wells Fargo safe along with his daddy’s money, and his granddaddy’s money. Make no mistake, Miss Coleman, Cotton knew exactly what was his, what was his granddaddy’s, and what was his daddy’s. I don’t think he knew or even cared about the amount. I tried to tell him, but he simply wasn’t interested. He wanted to be like all the other miners—spinning yarns and drinking rotgut, loving women on the run, gambling, and hitting the mother lode. He craved respect, and you were the only person who gave it to him, Miss Coleman. He said you nursed him when he came down with pneumonia, and that you fed him when he was hungry. He said you washed his clothes once or twice and said you were—ah, what he said was . . . you were, forgive me, a lusty bed partner.”

Sallie blushed, but the summer blue eyes didn’t waver.

“Cotton left all of his holdings to you, Miss Coleman.”

“Me! Now, why would he do a thing like that, Mr. Waring?”

“Because you accepted him for who he was, and he said you respected him and asked his advice. He said nobody else, man or woman, ever asked for his advice. You followed it, too. That was important to Cotton.”

“But . . . but—”

“You’re a very rich woman, Miss Coleman. It’s a short will. I’ll read it to you, and you can ask me questions, if you want, when I’m finished.”

Sallie listened to the old attorney’s quivering voice, understanding only one word: rich. Other people were rich. People like herself were never rich. If she were rich, she could go back to Texas and help her family. She would have to ask how much money that would take. She wished then that her life had been different. She wished she could read and write well. Cotton had helped her a little, but she’d been too ashamed and embarrassed to let him know how ignorant she was.

The attorney’s voice trailed off. He was finished. She needed to pay attention. He had said she should ask questions. He was staring at her expectantly. “Mr. Waring, I’d like to help my parents out if that’s possible. These past few years I’ve sent little bits of money back home, but there are quite a few young ones to take care of. How much do you think that will cost? If there’s enough I’d like to maybe move my family to a little house with a yard for the children. Maybe buy a toy or two and a new outfit. Schooling too. My pa, he . . . how much will all that take?”

“Compared to what you have, what you’re asking is a spit in the bucket. You’re rich, Miss Coleman. Let me put it to you another way. Do you know how much a million dollars is?” Sallie’s head bobbed up and down. In her life she’d never seen more than fifty dollars at a time. A million had to be a lot more than that. She wished she’d paid more attention to Cotton when he was doing numbers with her. All she wanted was to be able to count the money at the end of the day and know it was accurate.

“Then you multiply that by about fifty and that’s what you’re worth, possibly more, thanks to Cotton Easter. That doesn’t count the property. Right now it’s not worth much. Possibly someday it will be worth a fortune. Cotton’s daddy thought so, and so did Cotton. My best advice to you is to take some of that money and buy up the rest of the desert and sit on it until the time is right to sell it. It’s going for about sixty-five cents an acre. I can arrange all that for you if you want me to handle your affairs. If you have another attorney in mind, that’s all right, too. I’ll be sending you monthly reports on your finances, which pretty much stay the same since everything is locked up. Later, I’d like us to sit down and talk about the stock market. Will you be wanting to move into the Easter house? They gave it a name when Cotton was just a tad. His daddy called it Sunrise. You own the mountain it’s sitting on.” He dangled a set of clanking keys to make his point.

“What house is that, Mr. Waring?” Sallie gasped.

“Cotton’s daddy’s house up on Sunrise Mountain. A fine house it is, too. Cotton’s granddaddy had everything sent here from Boston. The finest furnishings money could buy. Real plumbing. There’s a well and an automobile. There’s a couple who look after the place. You can live there if you like. It’s yours.”

A house called Sunrise. Sally wondered if she was dreaming. “How many rooms does it have?”

“Eleven. Four complete bathrooms. Beautiful gardens. Do you like flowers, Miss Coleman?”

“Oh, yes, Mr. Waring, I love flowers. Do you?”

“Wildflowers especially. Bluebells, and those little upside-down bells, the yellow ones. My mother used to have a beautiful flower garden. Where do you live now, Miss Coleman?”

“In a boardinghouse. I have a big room. It has pretty wallpaper and white curtains on the windows. I can’t open the windows, though, because of the grit and sand. I’d like to see those curtains move in the early morning breeze. Window screens are frightfully expensive.”

“You don’t have to worry about things being expensive anymore. If you don’t mind me asking, Miss Coleman, what will you do? If you have a mind to tell me a little about your background, I might be able to help you. Plan your future, so to speak. Cotton trusted me. I’d like it if you would trust me, too.”

Sallie sat back in the hard wooden chair and stared directly at the old attorney. She spoke haltingly at first, and then, as she grew more comfortable with the truth and shame, the words rushed out. “I’m one of eight children. I’m the oldest girl. The boys, they took off as soon as they could. My pa, he drank too much. My mother took in washing and ironing. I helped. There was never enough food. I was never warm enough. I left when I was thirteen. I made my way here and sang for my supper. Cotton said I sang like an angel. He loved to hear me sing. The miners gave me tips sometimes. Cotton was always generous. He didn’t care that sometimes, when there was no money, that I would . . . take money for doing things that would shame my mother. That’s just another way of saying I was . . . am . . . a whore. You didn’t expect me to say that, did you, Mr. Waring?”

“No, I didn’t. I’m not going to judge you, Miss Coleman.”

“That’s good, Mr. Waring. I won’t judge you either. Now we can start out fair. I can read and write a little. Maybe I can get someone to teach me now. There was no time for school and no nice clothes back in Texas. The good ladies in town called us white trash. Nobody cared about us. I wanted better, the way my brothers wanted better. Someday I’m going to find them, and help them if I can. I’ll be taking you up on the offer to move into that fine house. Do you know if the windows open?”

The old attorney smiled. “I’ll make sure they do. Miss Coleman, I have an idea. Do you think you could find someone to take your place at the bingo palace, for say, six months? Maybe a year. I know a lady in California who operates a finishing school for young ladies. If you’re amenable, I can make arrangements for her to . . . to—”

“Polish me up?” Her tinkling laugh sent goose bumps up and down the attorney’s arms. “I suppose so. But first I have to go back to Texas. Family needs to come first, Mr. Waring. When I get back, we can talk again. Where’s that safe you spoke about? Do you give me the money or do I just open the safe and take it? Do I have to write everything down?”

“Miss Coleman, you can do whatever you want. When would you like to visit the house?”

“Today.”

“It’s a two-day trip on horseback. I can make arrangements to have you taken up tomorrow if that’s all right with you. Here is the combination to the safe and the keys to the house. These past few years a lot of the funds were put in banks once I felt it was safe. This box sitting here has all the bankbooks. They’re yours now. All you have to do is walk into any one of them, sign your name, and take as much money as you want. You’re agreeable, then, to my purchasing more desert acreage?”

“If you feel it’s a wise thing to do.”

“I do.”

“Then you have my permission, Mr. Waring.”

“How do you feel now, Miss Coleman? I’m curious.”

“Sad. Cotton was such a good friend to me. I cannot believe that he would leave me all this money. Is there something in particular he wants me to do? I guess what I’m saying is, why? Why me? He had friends. There must be family in Boston. Are you sure it is meant for me?”

“I’m sure.” Waring rose, walked around the desk, and held out his hand. He held her delicate hand a moment longer than necessary. “Enjoy your new fortune, Miss Coleman.”

“I’ll try, Mr. Waring.”

Sallie held out her hands for the small wooden box containing the bankbooks.

Outside in the late morning sunshine, Sallie stared up and down the street. She wondered how things could look the same as they had looked an hour ago when she first walked up the steps to the attorney’s office.

Sallie’s eye traveled to the line of stores whose owners she knew by name. Toolie Simmons owned The Arcade where beer on draft was sold, The Rye & Thackery run by Russ Malloy, the Red Onion Club, The Gem Counter with the letter N backwards on the rough sign, and on to the Arizona Club, whose sign proudly proclaimed its whiskey was fully matured and reimported. Men sat in the small pools of shade on spindly chairs, tilted back at alarming angles, talking, smoking their cigars and pipes as they waited for the saloons to open at noon. Those men would work if there were work to be had. Maybe she could do something about that. Some of them waved to her, others tilted their straw hats in recognition.

“Gonna sing us a pretty song tonight, Miss Sallie?” one of the hard rock miners shouted.

“Not tonight, Zeke, I’m heading for Texas to see my family, and I have a lot to do. Soon, though. You just tell me what you want me to sing, and I’ll do it just for you.”

“Heard the Mercantile got some canned peaches yesterday, Miss Sallie.”

“Thanks for telling me, Billy. Would you like some?”

“I purely would, Miss Sallie.”

“I’ll get some on my way back and drop them off. You gonna be at the Arizona Club?”

“Nope. Don’t got a lick of money in my poke today. I’ll be waiting right here for you.”

Sallie nodded as she skirted the barrels of hardware and produce outside the Mercantile Company. She smiled at Hiram Webster as he stopped sweeping the sand from in front of his doorstep to let her pass. “Good morning, Mr. Webster. It’s a fine day, isn’t it?”

“ ’Tis that, Miss Sallie. Lots of blue sky today.”

Sallie was convinced no one knew about her good fortune. As she walked along she remembered the tents and the smell of frying onions that permeated the air the day she’d first arrived. The tents were all gone now, replaced with newer wooden buildings. It was still a rough town, a shoddy town, a man’s town. She realized she could fancy up the town now if she wanted to. She could buy up whatever she wanted. She could knock down all the shabby buildings and start over. Cotton said if the price was right, a person could buy anything.

Sallie stepped aside as three ladies walking abreast passed her, straw baskets on their arms. They didn’t acknowledge her in any way. Sallie smiled anyway, and said, “Good morning, ladies.” The scent of sagebrush seemed to be all about her as she walked along, past the bakery, the icehouse, the pharmacy, and the milliner. A gust of sand swirled past her. She tried to dance away from the circular swirl that spiraled upward, but her shoes were covered with sand. She stomped her feet and shook the hem of her skirt.

“Mornin’, Miss Sallie. What brings you to this end of town? Can we do anything for you here at the Chamber of Commerce?”

“Yes, you can, Eli. How much do you think it would cost to plant cottonwoods up and down this fine street, on both sides?”

“Why do you ask?”

“I’d like to donate them and pay for the labor to plant them in memory of my friend Cotton Easter. Maybe some benches under the trees for the ladies to sit on. I think they’ll make the street real pretty.”

“That they will, Miss Sallie. The town’s coming back to life a little at a time. I like that.”

“I do, too, Eli.”

Sallie fought the urge to dance her way down the street. It was a dream—but if it was a dream, what was she doing with the box in her hands? Well, there was one way to find out for certain. She stopped in a shop doorway, stuck her hand into the box, and withdrew one of the bankbooks. She looked at the name of the bank embossed in gold leaf on the front. Sallie retraced her steps, walked around the corner, and continued walking until she came to the bank. She entered, walked up to the bank teller and handed him the small blue book. “I’d like . . . five hundred dollars, please.”

Five minutes later, Sallie walked out of the bank in a daze, the five hundred dollars safe in her purse. It was real, it wasn’t a dream. She tripped down the street, giddy with the knowledge that everything Alvin Waring had said was true.

The money secure in her purse and loose bills in the pocket of her dress, Sallie stopped first at the Mercantile Company for a bag of canned peaches that she immediately handed over to Billy along with ten dollars. She handed out money to all the hard rock miners, admonishing them to eat some good food and to take a bath before they spent the rest in the Red Onion.

Sallie opened the door to the bingo palace with her own key. In the bright sun filtering into the large room, it looked like a sleazy, smoky, rinky-dink parlor with rough furniture, a rickety bar, bare windows, a cashier’s cage, and a small stage that doubled as the bingo stand, where the bingo numbers were called, and where she sang at the beginning and end of the evening. She walked around, touching the felt-covered poker tables at the far end of the room, sitting down and then getting up from the bingo benches. She straightened the stack of bingo cards into a neater pile. Maybe she should throw everything out and start from scratch. She sat down again and closed her eyes. How best to pretty things up? A real stage, small, with a red velvet curtain that opened and closed. Matching draperies on the windows that could be closed in the winter. Chandeliers over the tables for better lighting. Perhaps a spotlight for the stage. A new bar, the kind the Arizona Club had, shiny mahogany with a brass railing. Leather stools with brass trim to match the bar. A new floor with some sections of it carpeted. No more spittoons. Definitely a new front door with glass panels, maybe even colored glass. She’d have some trees planted around the building, flowers if they would grow. She walked over to the farthest corner of the room, where she sat when things were slow or when she just wanted time by herself. She sat down on a wobbly chair and leaned her arms on a table whose legs didn’t match. She smiled when the table rocked back and forth the same way her chair did. Cotton said the man who made the chair and table had a crooked eye. She wondered if she would miss things the way they were now. Old things were comfortable. New things took some getting used to.

Sallie stared at the small stage where she called out the bingo numbers hour after hour. She was always happy when a grizzly miner won his four bits and whooped in delight, his dirty boots stomping on the floor, the other miners cheering him on.

The bingo palace didn’t make a lot of money, barely enough to pay the winners and herself. The doors opened at noon for her regular customers. By paying close attention she was able to tell which customers were hungry, which customers came to gamble, and which ones just wanted to hear her sing. The hungry ones were her biggest problem. Jeb, the owner of the steak house, allowed her to run a tab for hard-boiled eggs and pickles that she handed out on a daily basis. Most days if she had thirty customers she was lucky. The three poker tables covered in green felt had dust all over them. Most of her customers didn’t have enough money to start up a poker hand, and those that did had to extend credit and write IOUs. The bingo cards were safer. Often she sat at one of the tables with her customers, playing poker for dry beans. She always lost. On rare occasions when one of the miners had a little extra in his poke, he’d lay money on the bar for her. Right before she closed at midnight she’d slip that same money under Jeb’s door to pay off her marker.

What she really loved about her customers was the fact that they did their best to act like gentlemen when they came into the palace. They’d spruce up by slicking their hair back, shaking the dust from their clothes and boots. Most times they washed their hands even though they didn’t have enough money for a room and a hot tub. She could always tell when they trimmed their whiskers, and she’d always compliment them and tell them they looked like fashionable Boston gentlemen. They’d cackle with glee and then she would laugh, too, when she was forced to admit she’d never seen a proper Boston gentleman.

Things were going to change now. For the first time in her young life, Sallie felt fear of the unknown. If only she weren’t so ignorant of the world. There wasn’t much she could do about the fear of the unknown. She could get some learning, though. She wished again for her brothers, Seth and Josh. If only she knew where they were. All in good time or, as Cotton said, Rome wasn’t built in one day, whatever that meant.

In her room at the boardinghouse, with the door closed and locked, Sallie opened the wooden box. Sitting cross-legged in the middle of the bed, she looked at all the bankbooks—red ones, blue ones, green ones, two brown ones. So many numbers. She tried to comprehend the number of zeros. Mr. Waring made it sound like she could buy the world. The world! She wept then at her ignorance.

When there were no more tears to shed, Sallie’s thoughts turned to Cotton Easter, her benefactor. I don’t understand, Cotton, if you had all that money, why did you live like you did? There were times when you were hungry and didn’t have the money to rent a room. You didn’t have a dollar for a bath. Life could have been so much easier for you.

I wish you had let me know what you were planning. What should I do with all your money, Cotton? I never knew there was so much money in the world. You must want me to do something. What? She looked around, half-expecting to hear Cotton’s voice. She flopped back against the ruffled pillows, the wooden box toppling over. She saw it then, the crinkled piece of white paper. A letter. Maybe it was for her, from Cotton. She crossed her fingers and then blessed herself. Please let it be printed letters. Please, God, let me be able to read the words. Don’t let me be ignorant now. I need to know why Cotton was so good and kind to me. Please, God. I’ll build a church. I swear to You I will. I’ll call it St. Cotton Easter. Cotton was a religious man. He prayed every day. He taught me a prayer. I promise I’ll say it every day.

Sallie squeezed her eyes shut as her fingers played with the folds of the crinkled letter. When she was calm, she spread the single sheet on her lap. The block letters and simple language brought tears to her eyes.

Sallie rolled over on the bed and burst into tears. “I never got a letter before,” she whispered into her pillow. “I’ll keep this letter forever and ever. I’ll read it every day and I’ll do what you say. I’ll visit and we’ll talk. I’ll talk and you listen. That’s what you said, Cotton. You have my promise that I won’t . . . you know, do what you said.” A moment later she was off the bed and out the door. She ran, skidding around the corners, not caring who saw her or what they thought. She had something to do. Something important. Later she could worry about acting like a lady.

When she arrived at the cemetery she was breathless and disheveled. Her eyes were frantic as she searched out the mound of dark earth that waited for the marker. When she saw the dried flower petals she knew she had the right grave. She’d spent the last of her money on the small bouquet. Now she could bring fresh flowers every day if she wanted to.

Sallie sat down on the hard ground. She brought her knees up to her chin and hugged them with her arms. “Cotton, it’s me, Sallie. I got your letter today. It was in the box with all the bankbooks. It was real nice of you to leave me all your money. I’m going to take the train to Texas and visit my family. I took some of the money out of the bank. I’m going to buy my mama a nice little house and a new dress. I’ll get things for the young ones, too, and maybe see about getting them some learning. I can’t wait to see my mother’s face when I walk in the door. She always said Seth would be the one to make a lot of money. Seth was the oldest. I never knew him because he lit out before I was born. So did Josh. Ma was so proud of her two oldest sons. Every day she’d say they’re coming back and will bring presents for everyone. They never did. Then Ma stopped talking about them. I don’t even know what they look like, Cotton. Ma said they were the spittin’ image of Pa. Maybe someday I can find them and help them out. It don’t seem right that I don’t know what my own brothers look like. All I can see, Cotton, is Ma’s face. I know she was pretty when she was a young girl, but Pa, he drained the life out of her. I used to hear her cry at night, but she always had a smile on her face in the morning.

“I haven’t seen that house up in the hills yet. It must be a beautiful place to be called Sunrise. Maybe Mama will want to come here and live with me. That would be okay, wouldn’t it, Cotton? I’ll get her a fancy chair so she can just sit and do nothing. I’ll bring her flowers and give her steak to eat every day. I’m going to get her the prettiest dress in the whole world. Fancy shoes, too, and stockings. A pearl necklace, Cotton. I’ll rub glycerine on her hands, file her fingernails, and maybe put some polish on them. I don’t know what I’ll do about Pa. Maybe I’ll just let him drink hisself to death. That seems to be the only thing that makes him happy.

“I’m going to buy a new dress, Cotton, for the trip. I want Ma to be proud of me when she sees me. I want to thank you for all this good. I promised God I was going to build a church and call it St. Cotton Easter. Maybe the preacher will let me sing on Sunday. I’d like that. I’ll sing for you, Cotton. You look down on me, you hear. Do you have wings, Cotton? Jeb McGuire said angels have wings and they ring little bells. Course he was drunk when he said that. I like the way it sounds. I have so much to learn, Cotton. I don’t hardly know nothing. I’m going to be twenty years old and I’m ignorant as some of them miners who never had any schoolin’ at all.

“I know you wanted to be planted here, Cotton, but I been thinking. If I move into that house up in the hills, I won’t be able to come here too much. I don’t want you gettin’ lonely here all by yourself. I’d be willing to dig you up and take you up there. Mr. Waring said there’s all kinds of flowers and gardens. I could make you a cemetery and talk to you every day. I want you to think about that, Cotton, and when I come back the next time, I want a sign that you think it’s okay. If Jeb is right, ring your little bell. It’s going to be a couple of weeks till I can come back here. I’ll tell you all about my trip to Texas on the train. Maybe I’ll have my whole family with me when I come to visit next time. My mama will want to thank you personal like. She has manners, my mama does.

“I n