by Donna Dalton
“Very good, Ma’am. I’ll be right outside with the horses.”
She scribbled a quick note on a piece of paper and set it on the examination table. Anson should see the message when he returned and come up to the mine. She would do what she could until he got there.
She gathered her medical bag and cloak and joined the man outside at the hitching rail. Two saddle horses waited patiently beside him.
He pointed to a bay gelding with gentle-looking eyes. “I brought an extra mount, thinking the doctor would be riding back with me. Are you able to ride astride? Or should we get a side-saddle from the livery?”
She moved to the horse and fastened her medical bag to the saddle straps. “There’s no need to waste time on a side-saddle. I can ride astride.”
His face creased with relief. “I was hoping you would say that.”
She gathered her skirts. “Help me mount, if you would please.”
He assisted her up and onto the saddle. She settled in and adjusted the stirrups to her shorter length. Her skirts bunched, showing more of her calves than was appropriate. She grunted. The devil with propriety. Injured men needed her help. Society could choke on its indignation.
She gathered the reins and nodded to the man, mounted now and waiting for her. “Let’s go.”
He nudged his horse into a steady lope. She clucked and reined the gelding to follow. Being early morning, there was little traffic on the main road. Just a farmer’s cart laden with vegetables and a man crossing from one side of the street to the other.
They quickly reached the outskirts of town and splashed across Dancer’s Creek. On the other side, the man guided his mount onto a well-worn trail weaving north along the foot of the Shoehorn.
“Where are we going?” she shouted.
He slowed his horse and waited for her to catch up.
She reined in beside him. “Why are we going north? I thought the Shoehorn Mine was south of town.”
He nodded. “The main operation is. We’re going to an older mine that hasn’t been used much. Mr. Wentworth had instructed the foreman to send a small crew to inspect the site for possible re-opening.”
“Did you not take the proper precautions before entering?”
“We did, but the support posts weren’t as sturdy as we thought. The weakened wood gave way, and the tunnel collapsed. Me and two other men made it out safely; three pickers got trapped inside. We could hear them hollering, so we knew they were still alive.”
So possibly head injuries and broken bones. She could handle those. Or at least stabilize the injuries until Anson arrived or the men were transported back to town.
“Are you all right? Were you injured?” Other than being coated with dust, he looked healthy.
“I’m fine. I was lucky enough to be standing at the entrance when the cave-in started. I escaped without any trouble. My mate Joe wasn’t so lucky. A rock clobbered him on the head just as he ducked out of the mine.”
“Did it knock him unconscious?”
“Nah, he’s a tough ol’ coot. He made it to a nearby tree, but he has a bleeder than may need stitching.”
Easy enough to treat. “What about the other man? You said three of you made it out.”
“Ben stumbled out a few seconds after we did. I think he took in too much dust. He was having a hard time breathing.”
A more difficult injury. It all depended on how much dust the miner had inhaled. Too much, and he could drown in his own mucous.
A fork in the path loomed ahead. The man guided his mount onto the trail leading upward at a sharp incline. “We’re going up the mountain now. This is a trickier route, but it will be quicker. Stay behind me and keep your horse in the middle of the path. And whatever you do, don’t let him stop.”
Heights didn’t bother her overmuch. But riding an unfamiliar horse on a steep and treacherous trail set her nerves on edge. She grasped the saddle horn and shot a silent prayer skyward.
The path wound up the mountainside, zigging and zagging over the sheer rock face. At one point, the edge dropped off to a deep chasm. While her mount plodded on with no hesitation, she stared straight ahead and chanted, “don’t slip, don’t slip,” to the thud of his hooves.
Near the top, the trail flattened and led them into a sparse copse of trees. She patted the gelding’s neck and whispered a grateful, “thank you.”
After a short trek through the woods, the path opened onto a clearing that stretched to a large hole carved in the mountainside. Nothing moved in or around the mine entrance. Everything was silent and still. Odd. She would have expected to ride up on chaos.
“Where is everyone?” she called out.
The man reined his horse to a stop and dismounted. “I’m not sure. Maybe they’re inside digging out the others.”
Perhaps so. He crossed to her side and helped her to the ground. She reached to unfasten her medical bag, but something hard pressing into her side stopped her.
“You won’t be needing that bag,” the man said, his tone harsh and threatening.
Her pulse hiccupped. “What? I don’t understand. Why won’t I need—”
“You’ll find out soon enough.” He waggled the pistol at her. “Now, start walking toward that mine, and don’t try anything stupid.”
Her head whirled. What was going on? Why had this man escorted her to a cave-in, only to stop her from bringing her medical bag? And why hold her at gun-point?
As they drew closer to the gaping maw, footfalls echoed from within the black depths. A few seconds later, two figures emerged. One toted a Bible. The other, an older woman with a vulture feather bouncing from her cap, held a length of rope. Jack Thacker and Mrs. Wentworth. Her veins turned to ice. This was no cave-in.
The only one needing help was her.
****
The wall clock welcomed him with joyful dongs, not the death march it had tolled when he’d first arrived. For the first time in years, he looked forward to the future. All because of one woman. Moira had brought sunshine and happiness back into his life. Had helped him conquer his guilt over Alice’s death. She showed him that he couldn’t control how other people lived their lives. He could only offer help and friendly counsel. It was up to them to heed that advice or not.
A wise woman, his Moira. She was everything he needed. Everything he wanted. He would do whatever necessary to have her in his life, even swallow that monumental pride his grandfather had said would one day be his downfall.
He sailed into the foyer. A quick glance at the examination and waiting rooms confirmed they were both empty. He whistled his way down the hall and stopped at the bottom of the stairs.
“Moira, I’m back,” he called out. An image rose up of her reclined on the bed, naked, with those raven locks spread out beneath her. His blood quickened. A toss beneath the bedsheets would be a most invigorating welcome.
The tick of the wall clock was his only greeting. “Moira?” he tried again, louder. “Are you up there?”
Silence. Where the devil was she? He’d only been gone for two hours and most of that had been spent on horseback. Zeke Brown had luckily sustained a minor bruise to the knee. A compress of chilled cloths was all the treatment the farmer required.
He pushed away from the newel post. Perhaps she had been called out to help someone in need. If so, she would have left a note. She was mindful of things like that.
A quick check of the storage room and kitchen turned up nothing. He returned to the examination room. A folded note rested on the table. Thoughts of sweet lips had kept him from seeing the obvious.
He picked up the note. She’d been called to a cave-in at the Shoehorn Silver Mine and urged him to join her as soon as possible. Miners had been trapped and some were injured. The missive fluttered back to the table. A cave-in. There could dozens of patients needing treatment. Moira was a competent healer, but she might be overwhelmed. He had to hurry.
Medical bag in hand, he rushed out of the office and down the boardwalk to the liv
ery stable. Claude Gunderson was just starting to remove the saddle from the horse he’d ridden to Zeke’s place.
“Wait, Claude,” he shouted. “Don’t untack that horse. I have need of him again.”
Gunderson stilled his unsaddling and turned. “What’s going on, Doc?”
“There’s been a cave-in at the Shoehorn Silver Mine. Some miners were injured.”
Claude frowned and scratched his chin. “That’s strange. Joe Tillman just rode in from up there. He didn’t say anything about a cave-in.”
“I can only go by what Miss Devlin’s note said. She implored me to join her post haste. She has no reason to fabricate something that dire.”
“No. She wouldn’t do anything like that.” Gunderson tightened the girth strap he’d loosened and stepped back. “Alrighty, Doc. Here you go. I hope you find the cave-in was a simple misunderstanding.”
Him, too. He reached for the reins. “Thank you, Claude. What’s the quickest way to get to the main mine?”
“Only one way to get there. Cross over Dancer’s Creek and take the south trail along the base of the mountain. After ’bout a half mile, you’ll come to a wide gap. Follow that through to the other side. There, you’ll see a path leading up the mountainside. The main mine entrance and outbuildings will be at the top.”
Easy enough. He fastened his medical bag to the saddle and then footed the stirrup. Once settled in the saddle, he gathered the reins and urged the gelding into a quick lope through town. A few minutes later, the animal splashed through Dancer’s Creek, and once on the other side, he reined the horse to the south.
As the sure-footed gelding loped along the path, worry leeched into his gut. Was Moira all right? Was she rattled by having to treat a large number of patients all at one time? Was she faced with critical injuries and wondering what to do? He grunted. No. Knowing her, she was doing just fine. She was smart and kept her composure. He trusted her to provide the care the injured miners needed.
It had been foolish of him to question her potions or her treatment of Charlie Gunderson. She had done nothing wrong. She was as devoted to helping others as he was. She deserved better from him. As soon as they got through this cave-in fiasco, whatever that turned out to be, he would make it up to her.
A quick ride through the gap and up the steep mountainside brought him to the Shoehorn Mining compound. Several small shacks sat outside a large hole hacked into rock face. Only a handful of men loitered in the clearing, and they didn’t look the least bit distressed or impaired. His nugget of fear ballooned into a boulder.
One of the men left the group and advanced toward him. He wore work trousers and a clean cotton shirt. His expression was more curious than concerned. Anson dismounted and turned to meet the man.
“I’m John O’Malley, the foreman of the mine. Can I help you, sir?”
He nodded. “I hope so. I’m Dr. Locke, the new town doctor. I was told there was a cave-in and that some minors had been injured.”
“No cave-in here, thank the Lord. It’s been quiet all morning long.”
Damn. Damn. Damn. Where was Moira? More importantly, was she safe? “Are there any other mines in operation on the Shoehorn?”
The man wagged his head. “None that I know of. The Wentworths own all the mining rights on this range. And right now, this is the only one that’s operational.”
“Are there any others that aren’t operational?”
“There are two. One is to the south about half a day’s ride. The other is closer, fifteen miles north of here. Both have been shut down and boarded up for years. Shouldn’t be any mining activity in those.”
“Is it possible someone trespassed without your knowledge and suffered a cave-in?”
“I reckon it’s possible. Not likely, but still possible.”
Possible would have to do. He had no other clues as to where to look for her. A mudslide sloughed through him. He couldn’t lose her. Not now. Not after he’d just found her.
He dragged in a deep, calming breath. He wouldn’t let fear take control. He would be methodical and precise, just as Moira expected him to be. He would search the other two mines, and if she wasn’t at either of those, he’d keep looking. No stone would be left unturned.
“You all right, Doc?”
He gave himself a mental shake. A clouded head wouldn’t help him find Moira. “How do I get to those other mines?”
The man provided directions which he committed to memory. He thanked the foreman and re-mounted. He sat there staring at the path. Which should he go to first? North? Or South? If he chose wrong, he risked wasting time…time that Moira might not have.
“Go to the north mine,” a voice echoed in his head.
He twisted around in his saddle and scanned the clearing. The foreman and his men had disappeared. No one else was about. “Who said that?”
There was no answer. Not even a peep. Whatever the source, he wasn’t going to ignore the advice.
As he nudged his mount forward, the voice rushed back into his head. “Hurry, Dr. Locke. Moira is in danger. She needs you.”
Chapter Nineteen
An old, musty smell clogged the air…as if an ancient tomb had been opened for the first time in eons. Cold seeped up from the smooth rock floor and chilled her legs through skirts and petticoats. A blanket and a warm cup of coffee sounded wonderful…but asking for such comforts from captors bent on retribution would be futile.
They stood across from her, talking with the man who had fabricated the tale of a cave-in. He had certainly sounded convincing. Her internal nose for sniffing out untruths and ill-intentions never jangled. Not even a twitch. She had become too complacent, too trusting. And now she would pay the price.
“Go and watch the entrance,” Thacker ordered. “No one in or out until this is over.”
The man nodded and wheeled around. He strode past her without any acknowledgement and was quickly swallowed up by the darkness. They were deep in the mine. Farther than sunlight would reach. Farther than any cries for help could be heard.
The note she’d left for Anson would send him miles in the other direction. Not finding her or a cave-in, he would have no idea where to look for her. Survival would be hers alone to achieve.
Harsh lantern light spilled over the jagged rock walls and illuminated water trails oozing like blood. The overhead cross timbers sagged with age and rot. Gooseflesh crawled over her arms. If Thacker didn’t kill her, the decaying mine very well could.
Thacker had bound her hands behind her back. She wrestled with the ropes, ignoring the burn of rubbed skin. A little discomfort would be worth the effort if it helped her escape. She wanted a life with Anson. Wanted a home. A family. She couldn’t have those things if she died.
“There’s no sense fighting the inevitable, Devil woman. You’re going to get what’s coming to you.” Thacker shrugged out of his jacket and slid a thick-bladed knife from a sheath strapped to his waist. “You’ll pay for what you did to my boy. Painfully.”
She looked up and into eyes that held no sign of life. Just a dark, bottomless pit of hatred. Her stomach knotted. Her mouth went dry. She shoveled strength into her backbone. She had to stay strong. Had to buy herself enough time to get free of her trusses.
“Think about your son, Mr. Thacker. Little Jimmy wouldn’t want you to do this. He was good and kind.” She wriggled her wrists and worked at getting her thumb under a loop. “Remember when he placed bread crumbs on the sill outside his window? He was so weak; he could hardly sit up. But he found the strength to feed the birds struggling with the harsh winter.”
Even now, her heart ached at the thought of the brave little boy who had refused to let death steal his goodness. Why God took the good people early and left the bad ones was beyond her.
Red outlined the harsh lines etched in Thacker’s face. His upper lip curled into a snarl. “Shut your mouth. You have no right to say his name, much less talk about him.”
Pandering clearly wasn’t going to work. T
he man’s anger had him totally unhinged. Any further mention of his son might push him over the edge. She needed more time before he attacked. Best to shift her attention to someone less volatile.
Mrs. Wentworth stood a few feet away, staring at a framed portrait sitting on a rocky shelf jutting from the wall. A nearby lantern poured orange streaks over her sagging face. Tears streamed over pale cheeks and dripped like raindrops from her jowls. Moira sighed. She knew that pain. A desolate, unbreakable ache that never truly went away. It just dulled over time until it merely became manageable.
“Is that a picture of your daughter, Mrs. Wentworth?” Her skin burned beneath the friction of her struggle with the rope. She kept at it. “Surely Alice wouldn’t want you to turn your grief into something ugly. From what I have heard of her, she was a beautiful person, inside and out.”
Mrs. Wentworth traced a finger over the portrait. “She was beautiful. Like an angel. She was the only one who could make Stanley smile.”
Thacker fished a cap from his pocket and set it next to Alice’s picture. “You miss your daughter as much as I miss my Jimmy. They were taken from us far too soon.”
The familiar cap made her pulse stutter. Tweed with a blue bird embroidered on the brim. Every time she visited, Jimmy had insisted on wearing it. Said he wanted to look presentable for their guest, no matter how badly he felt. It killed her knowing she couldn’t save such a gentle soul.
Mrs. Wentworth sniffed into a handkerchief. “Alice pleaded with us to let her live with her grandparents in Philadelphia. I was against it; she was so young. But Stanley convinced me to let her go. I wish I had heeded my motherly instincts. If she had stayed in Mineral where she belonged, she might still be with us.”
Soft sobs echoed in the mine. Moira stilled her efforts. She wanted to offer comforting words. Wanted to wrap her arms around the grieving woman. But she knew from experience that grief often twisted people into strangers. Some turned that agony onto themselves. Others projected their pain outward. Mrs. Wentworth seemed to be straddling both. The wrong push could send her slipping onto the dark side with Thacker.
