by Pam Crooks
James Martin’s brow shot up. “I’ll decide that.”
“She’s young enough to be your daughter.”
A slow flush crept up the man’s neck and into his cheeks. “I’ll decide that, too.”
Reed didn’t know if Bernice Wheeler was aware of her husband’s dallying. Wasn’t Reed’s business, besides, but there was a time when he’d never doubted James Martin’s devotion to his wife.
Trouble was, success, power and a feeling of being invincible changed a man. James Martin and others like him assumed an arrogance they believed spared them from the morals and dignity of the ordinary person.
As much as Reed had once admired his boss, his growing list of flaws had become too much to tolerate.
“I’ve got an interview in Washington next week,” he said.
“Territory?”
Reed shook his head slowly. “D.C.”
James Martin stiffened. “What the hell for?”
The moment had come. Reed braced for the inevitable resistance. “Congress is working to establish a bureau to collect information on labor and employment.”
James Martin frowned. “You talking about the Bureau of Labor Act?”
“Yes. As you know, it’s hoped this endeavor will lead to better benefits and compensations for the nation’s labor force.”
The air between them instantly cooled. Eye narrowed, James Martin leaned back in his chair. “Who asked you to come to D.C.?”
Revealing the name of the senator who had contacted him was not part of Reed’s strategy. James Martin would flex his muscle and manipulate the politician into pulling the interview and finding someone else.
To keep Reed right where he was. In Denver, working in James Martin’s shadow so he could be fitted and squeezed into the same mold.
A mold Reed was ready to break. He smiled. “Doesn’t matter unless he gives me the job, does it?”
James Martin glared at him for a long moment before he sighed heavily. “What do you want, Reed? More money? I can give it to you.”
“Straight from the union coffers? You’re willing to line my pockets like you line your own?” His smile disappeared. “The money you spend so freely is earned by miners whose every day is spent in back-breaking work. They’re employed by owners who think only of the earth’s riches, in an environment that’s often perilous. Should I remind you explosions remain a common occurrence?”
“No one ever claimed the life of a miner was easy.”
“It’s our job to make their lives safer instead of sequestering ourselves in offices like this one, pampered with comforts most miners will never enjoy.”
“We sequester ourselves as their attorneys who work on their behalf.”
“With women to pleasure us first? In the workplace, no less? Not good enough, James Martin,” Reed snapped. He leaned forward. “At least, in our nation’s capital, I can work to improve the miners’ conditions with a higher chance for success than I can here at the Association. I’ll make sure President Arthur gets all the information he needs to help our country’s laborers, now and in the future. I’ll do the same with his successor. And the one after that.”
“You can’t leave.”
“The hell I can’t.”
“I’m going to Europe in a few weeks. I need you here while I’m gone.”
Reed didn’t move. Europe? At what price tag he didn’t know, but one that’d be downright sinful and only reinforced his irritation and disgust over James Martin’s misappropriation of union funds for his own benefit.
“How long will you be gone?” he asked roughly.
“Six weeks. Maybe more.”
He swallowed down a groan. James Martin had backed him into a corner. To refuse could jeopardize his position at the Association, a decision which, in truth, could prove reckless.
After all, Reed didn’t have the Washington job. Yet.
But recklessness was a risk he was willing to take.
“I’m going to D.C. for the interview,” he said quietly. “Maybe I’ll come back. Maybe I won’t.”
A muscle leapt in James Martin’s cheek. “Do I need to remind you you’re still on my payroll?”
“You do not. However—”
“Then you’re still beholden to this union for the time you have left.” He yanked open a drawer and withdrew a bundle of envelopes. “Here.” He tossed them onto the desk top. “Do the preliminaries with this woman. See for yourself what her problem is.”
Reed took the bundle, scanned the neat, feminine handwriting and lifted his gaze back to James Martin. “Wildcat Ridge?”
“Yes.”
“You expect me to go to Utah Territory to meet with her?”
“She sure as hell isn’t coming to Denver, and she’ll keep sending these damn letters until she hears from us. I guarantee it.”
Incredulous, Reed stared at his boss while his mind sifted through a mental calendar, counting the days he had left before his meeting in Washington, D.C.
“I can’t,” he said roughly. “My train leaves—”
“Make the time, Reed.”
Reed cleared his throat. He respected his boss. Most times, anyway, but now James Martin expected too much, and wasn’t it just like him, withholding this information, this assignment, to suit his own needs with no regard to Reed’s?
“You talk real fine about helping the miners and their families. I’ve never known you to be full of bluster, so don’t start now.” James Martin drove his point home in a cold voice, with the shrewdness of a lawyer who knew how to manipulate a courtroom. “You like to talk fancy about helping miners? I’m giving you the chance. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.” His attention lifted to the open doorway. “Francis! Come in here, please.”
Dismissed for the second time that morning, Reed stood, clutching the bundle of letters in his hand. James Martin’s words swirled in his head, the sting of their truth most of all, and left him with no argument of his own.
He strode out of the office, narrowly missing Francis on his way in, and scowled.
Eleanora Cavender did not fit into his plans.
Chapter 3
June 7th
Wildcat Ridge
“The wounds are healing as well as can be expected.” Dr. Josiah Spense unwrapped the strip of bandage from around Eleanora’s hand and fingers. “Truth be told, for the injuries you received, I must say they’re healing better than expected.” He shook his head. “When you came running in here after the animals’ attack, I wasn’t sure what the outcome would be.” He tossed the soiled cotton into a trash can an arm’s length from his chair.
“Nor was I.” Eleanora glanced away to spare herself an unpleasant tipping in her stomach. The lacerations were still pink and tender and reminded her far too vividly of how they’d gotten there. But the cool air of the physician’s office left a refreshing sensation, assuring her the nerves hadn’t gone numb, as she’d earlier feared might happen. “I’m most grateful for the care you’ve given me, Doctor. Your skills were a godsend.”
He sighed and retrieved a pair of tweezers. “Skill doesn’t always mean a miracle. I heartily wish I could’ve saved the tips of those two fingers.” His touch gentle, he grasped her hand, turning it this way and that in thorough examination. “Unfortunately, the infection spread so quickly. Cat bites are notorious, you know, and that badger with his long claws—well, he meant to hurt you that day, for sure.” He shook his head sadly. “The amputations were necessary, as much as I hated to do them.”
She swallowed and forced herself to study the shortened first and second fingers. A stinging sensation filled her eyes from the tears she was determined not to shed. Heaven knew she’d shed plenty already.
“No one hated them more than I,” she murmured quietly.
“Of course not.” His normally gruff voice revealed his compassion. “However, let’s not forget it could’ve been worse.”
Most days, Eleanora thought quite the opposite. No woman wanted a disfigured
hand. What mother could tolerate such an impairment while caring for a young child? The simplest tasks, from buttering bread to braiding Tessa’s hair, proved difficult, awkward and left her feeling drained of hope that she’d ever regain full use and dexterity.
To be normal again.
“You’re right, Doctor.” Eleanora forced herself to say the words. He was, indeed, putting her condition in the proper perspective. Better than she could herself.
“The stitches are ready to be pulled. That’s good news, isn’t it?” His head bent to the task, and the tweezers tugged at each protruding thread. “No more bandages, either. Fresh air is vital for healing.”
He worked with an efficiency borne of many years of practicing medicine, and she took heart as the stitches gradually disappeared, making her hand seem, oddly, less injured.
“Scarring will be inevitable, I’m afraid,” the doctor said, the last stitch plucked. He set aside the tweezers. “I recommend a therapy of massaging the muscles and tendons to prevent constriction. Like this.” One by one, he straightened each finger with enough firmness to elicit her wince, a discomfort she welcomed when already her hand had turned claw-like due to the tightening of her skin and lack of muscle use.
“I’ll do the therapy every day,” she vowed. Anything to help her hand regain its dexterity.
“Do so multiple times,” he said. “Whenever you think of it, as long as it’s tolerable.” He retrieved a small jar from a cabinet shelf. “Petroleum jelly will keep the skin supple and smooth as it learns to stretch again.” He smeared the salve on her palm, around and between each finger, over the top of her hand, clear to her wrist. After recapping the jar, he wiped his own hand on a towel. “Unless you have questions, Mrs. Cavender, I’d like you to come back in a couple of weeks so I can see how you’re progressing. Martha will make the appointment for you.”
Eleanora thanked him again, and they said their goodbyes. After meeting with Martha Spense, his wife and nurse, Eleanora made a small payment on her bill, noted the scheduled time she’d be back and collected Tessa, who’d been quietly drawing with pencil and paper in the empty waiting room under Martha’s watchful eye.
“Are we going to the hotel now, Mama?” Tessa skipped alongside her on the boardwalk lining Front Street, her little hand clutched in Eleanora’s left one, which hadn’t been rubbed with petroleum jelly.
Her daughter never called the Crane ‘home,’ a distinction no small child should have to make. That she recognized the difference, even innocently, as a place and not a house where one grew up and lived a happy life like most other families, saddened Eleanora.
If not for Mortimer Crane’s blackmail, she would’ve found a way to repair their little cabin outside of Wildcat Ridge, and they’d be living there still, even without Darvin. Tessa would be free to run and play to her heart’s content, and Eleanora wouldn’t be shackled to a hopeless debt that would take forever to repay.
“We will after we go to Tweedie’s,” she said. “We can’t leave Tillie in charge too long, so we have to hurry.”
“What are you going to buy? Can I get some candy?”
Her daughter’s sweet tooth coaxed a smile that felt much better than her morose thoughts. “I can’t buy you a treat every time we go to the mercantile, Tessa.”
“Please, Mama?”
“I’ll decide when I get there, and you’re not to ask me again until I do, all right?”
Eleanora expected her protest, but Tessa didn’t so much as nod a response. She stared, fascinated and wide-eyed, at a Wells Fargo stagecoach, with its team of strong mules and jangling harnesses. Heavy hooves clop-clop-clopped down the packed dirt street. The day was Wednesday, and the driver had arrived on schedule, staying just long enough to drop off passengers and mail then pick up more of the same. Thank goodness, Eleanora had delivered her letter to Diantha before her appointment with Doctor Spense. Another one painstakingly written to the Miners Association with her injured hand.
For all the good it had done so far.
With the clatter of the stagecoach fading behind them, they crossed Chestnut Street and entered Tweedie’s Mercantile. The bell on the door announced their arrival, and Mrs. Tweedie, still spry in her seventies, looked up from the counter. She appeared to be taking inventory of a case of sardines and, though her glance likely didn’t linger any longer than it did on other customers who walked into her store, self-consciousness rushed through Eleanora.
The removal of the bandage left her hand raw-looking and ugly, bared and obvious for anyone to see. She’d known this day would come, but no amount of reconciling made it any easier.
To hide the ugliness, she clenched her right fist against her chest. Most everyone knew by now she’d been bitten and attacked by the cat and badger. Expressions of sympathy from the widows had been quick and genuine, and though Eleanora didn’t consider herself a vain person, now that her deformity was exposed, she didn’t want anyone trying to hide their pity.
Except for minimal supplies she needed for the Crane Hotel, Eleanora rarely shopped, and certainly not for herself. But today, she had to make an exception. Footsteps echoing on the wooden floor, Tessa trailing behind her, she strode toward the shelf of women’s accessories and sifted through a box of gloves.
Business at the mercantile continued around her while she contemplated the pair she’d need. The doorbell jangled, voices rose and fell, and customers meandered along display cases. Once she settled on gloves of good quality at a decent price, she headed toward the cash register.
“Can I have some candy now, Mama? I’ve been good.”
The round clock hanging high above a shelf of men’s boots revealed Eleanora had been away from the Crane longer than she liked. Tillie would wonder where she was, or worse, Mortimer Crane would show up demanding to know the reason for her absence. She’d have to hurry to avoid his temper.
“Can I, Mama? Mama, can I?”
Eleanora set her teeth at her daughter’s persistence. The elderly woman ahead of her engaged in some dispute with Mrs. Tweedie about the tally on her bill. A minute dragged by, then another.
“Mama!”
Only strict self-control kept Eleanora from snatching the list of the woman’s purchases and adding them up herself, since Mrs. Tweedie possessed more patience than Eleanora and had no other place she needed to be than right here in her own store.
“Mama, I want some candy!”
Tessa teetered on the verge of a full-blown tantrum, and Eleanora bent toward her, eyes narrowed in warning.
“Tessa Cavender,” she said in a voice low enough that her daughter would know anything less than full attention and complete obedience would result in unfavorable consequences, at least in a three-year-old’s opinion. “Not another word from you about candy or you’ll be sent to your room when we get back, and you won’t get a treat ever again.”
“Seems to me, ma’am, she’s been more patient than most kids her age would be.”
Eleanora whirled at the low, masculine voice; her glance locked with a pair of male eyes, dark-lashed and deep brown like tarnished pennies, and the earth shifted beneath her.
She took a quick step back. Awareness of his handsome, chiseled face rolled through her, capturing her breath and stealing all logical thought. Shaven cheeks and a square jaw, a tall, lean body that fit into a well-cut suit that must’ve cost a fortune, and he was so unlike any other man in Wildcat Ridge—not a cowboy or a miner or a proprietor of any sort—that she could only stare.
And try to breathe.
“Pardon me?” she said.
He smiled, a slow and easy curving of his mouth that revealed cool amusement, perhaps a vein of disapproval, too, and who did he think he was, anyway? Eavesdropping on her conversation with Tessa?
“Why not give her the candy? She deserves it,” he said.
Eleanora blinked. She could hardly think... until the realization set in that this stranger dared to usurp her authority as a mother with Tessa standing right there, taki
ng in his every word, her wide eyes bouncing between them.
“I believe that’s a decision I alone will make for my child,” she said, her tone frosty.
He regarded her for a long moment; then, as if acknowledging the truth in her admonishment, he inclined his head. “Most certainly.”
“Eleanora? You’re next.” Mrs. Tweedie leaned around the elderly woman, who, apparently satisfied with the results of her negotiating, gathered her purchases and wobbled away.
Eleanora quickly took her place. After releasing Tessa’s hand, she set her gloves on the counter and laid her purse beside them. While Mrs. Tweedie prattled on about the day’s weather and how everyone, herself included, looked forward to the arrival of summer, Eleanora’s attention fastened on a half-dozen jars of candy sticks.
Her lips thinned. Every nerve stirred with cognizance of the tall stranger behind her, waiting his turn. Listening, too, no doubt. Watching to see if she would, indeed, buy her daughter a treat.
Her rebellion withered. As much as she hated to admit it, he was right. Tessa had been well-behaved, at least until she’d reached the end of her patience, and wasn’t that Eleanora’s fault for being so immersed in her own impatience with the elderly customer that she hadn’t listened to Tessa’s?
“You may have a stick of candy now,” she said to Tessa, reaching into the nearest jar. “Here’s a pretty red one.”
But Tessa eyed the candy with grave suspicion. “What kind is that?”
“Cinnamon.”
“I don’t like cim-anon. It tastes hot.”
Eleanora returned the stick to its container. Awareness of the man behind her increased to an uncomfortable level. This feeling of being watched, likely judged, of time ticking while she made him wait as she strove to please her daughter rattled Eleanora’s composure.
“Fine, Tessa. What kind would you like?”
“Peppermint!”
Of course. Peppermint. How could she have forgotten? It had always been Tessa’s favorite. Eleanora reached for one with her right hand, without thinking, from a lifetime of always using her right hand, and the sight of its ugliness catapulted her into instant self-consciousness.
