This was not a thought that often occupied Martha Vinings’s mind at this particular time in the day. But it was a thought that had certainly come back to haunt her time and again since her marriage to Robert Vinings. Being of practical mind, she did not waste time lamenting the fact that the Robert who had wooed her so fervently and sincerely in Virginia—with promises of undying love and devotion—could become the dispassionate plodder who, pragmatic in his devotion to his mining claim, had seemingly lost all traces of the desire he had at first expressed. Maybe he was not to be blamed. The work was hard, and there were few pleasures offered in the rugged, unforgiving land that taunted and teased the many hopeful souls who sought to find their fortunes in her streams and washes. Few were the fortunate ones who struck it rich. For the majority, it was an endless succession of grueling toil over a ten-foot sluice box that offered little more than a pinch of the precious metal.She straightened up to give her aching back a few moments’ rest.
