He rode in silence, as if contemplating her words. “And I’ll keep yours.”
She stared at him, her breath tight. “I—I don’t understand.”
“Where are you from, really, Esme?” The question in his voice, as if he didn’t already know, untied the knot in her chest.
For a moment, she longed to tell him. Longed to give him the truth, to ease back into the skin of Esme Price, the heiress. Or, former heiress. But then what? Would he stop seeing her as the frontier newspaperwoman? Would he start seeing her as a wealthy woman who could save the Silverthread from bankruptcy?
She couldn’t tell him and not lose this curl of delight that kept building in her chest. She wasn’t sure why, but she suddenly longed for him to enjoy the company of Esme Stewart, without the expectations and limitations of the Price name.
“You guessed right—I grew up out East. Close enough to New York to enjoy the society page. But I came west to leave that all behind, to start a new life.”
She ended there, let the wind emphasize her silence.
After awhile, she had to fill it. “Why does Dawn call you Charlie?”
He guided them down a ravine then took her reins in hand as they crossed a creek. “My mother called me Charlie, after an older brother she lost to Custer. I like it—it makes me remember who I am.”
“Who are you, Mr. Daughtry-Charlie Hoyt? Montana cowboy, or New York gent?”
He let her mare go, urged their mounts up an incline. “I’m both. And, neither.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m not a society man, although I know how to behave. I simply don’t care about society’s nod. It’s a curse, I think, to trap yourself into living by the whims and opinions of others.”
Oh, she couldn’t agree more.
“But I’m not the half-breed whelp who got pummeled at school by the miners’ boys, either.”
“The miners’ kids hurt you?”
“My father thought it would be to my benefit to attend school with the kids from Silver City. It’s how I met Abel—his brother and I were friends. Orrin took up for me before I learned how to fend for myself.”
“I’m sorry for his death; it sounds like he meant a lot to you.”
“Listening to him call out my name as we tore into the rock separating us nearly undid me. My father sent me to Harvard just so he wouldn’t have to hear the nightmares as they woke me in the middle of the night. But they followed me and eventually drove me to recklessness. I started fighting on campus, boxing and then brawling. I got kicked out of school my second year.”
Abel had left out that part of the story. Or maybe no one knew it.
“After that, I sort of drifted until a friend took me under his wing—he’d attended Harvard also, and his family ran a shipping company. He introduced me to Wall Street and taught me how to buy and sell stocks. Soon I was managing the stocks for the Silverthread and watching them explode. We even managed to ride out the crash of the past three years.”
“So, you’re a speculator.”
“Perhaps. Or maybe I’m simply an optimist.” He caught her reins again, stopping them. He had strong arms, and sitting on his horse beside her seemed every bit a hero she might find in one of her hidden Old West dime novels. “And, I do believe in second chances.”
She stared at him, trying to place his words.
“The other night, before dinner. You asked me if there were another way to save the Silverthread, would I take it? I think the answer is yes. I do believe we can start over, if we want.” He seemed to hold something more in his gaze. “Because, even if I do sell, I’ll never truly leave the mistakes of my past behind.”
“You don’t believe in forgiveness?”
“Absolutely. I’ve made my peace with God. But like my scars”—he lifted his chin and pointed to a pucker of flesh along his jaw—“the effect of those mistakes won’t leave me. Still, I’m not the person I was back then. I’m not desperate for approval, wanting to make my own mark, wanting to atone for my crimes. I know who I am, know who I’m supposed to be now. And that man is ready to cut ties with the past.”
His words burrowed inside her, a coal against her bones. “Nobody can really break free from their past.”
He glanced at her. “Yes, they can. They can start over, become the people they were intended to be.”
“It seems to me that you are two different people. In New York, you’re Daughtry. Here, you’re Charlie. You can’t be both at the same time.”
“I disagree. It’s not about my name, Esme. It’s about my character. And about the fact that no matter where I go, what name I put on, I’m the same man. Redeemed.”
She’d never heard a man talk this way before. Well, once, but he was an evangelist.
He smiled. “I’m simply a man rescued from the wrath of God for a divine purpose. I’m no longer that poor, desperate sap needing to prove something. I know who I am, who I belong to, know my future. That’s the blessing of belonging to God. Security.”
She stared at him. “You sound like D.L. Moody.”
“You’ve heard D.L. Moody?”
“As a child. He came to our town.” Oh, keep it up and she’d give it all away.
“I read his sermons, sometimes. ‘If we are full of pride and conceit and ambition and self-seeking and pleasure and the world, there is no room for the Spirit of God. It’s better to be poor in spirit than be rich in self.’”
She stared at him, seeing Bette, hearing her own voice in prayer. Commit thy way unto the Lord; trust also in Him; and He shall bring it to pass.
There was a time when she’d trusted God with her future, her hopes. Her heart. He had hardly been trustworthy, had He? She’d lost Oliver. And God didn’t stop her from running to the far West, hiding in some muddy mining town, trying to eke out a living. She’d run too far—all the way across the country—for God’s blessings to find her.
She shivered.
“You’re cold. We need to get back. All this riding isn’t good for your ankle.”
She didn’t protest, his words, however, heating her through. I know who I am, know who I’m supposed to be.
After seven years, she longed to know too. Perhaps it was time to stop hiding. To return, like Daughtry had, to repair her mistakes.
To reclaim the blessing—the birthright—she left behind.
She imagined walking into her father’s Chronicle office, his back to her as she entered. Would he turn and smile? Open his arms to her?
From her mother she expected no rejoicing, but perhaps Jinx would kill the fatted calf. They’d been sisters, hadn’t they?
“You’re very quiet.”
“I’m thinking about your buffalo. Nearly extinct. But they’re such resilient creatures.”
“The hunters simply ran them over a cliff. They had nowhere else to turn and fell to their deaths. If only they’d stopped running—I imagine more might have survived. They’re buffalo, after all.”
The house came into view, lovely and white against the red barn. They rode into the barn, and he dismounted then moved over to help her.
She looked down at him, those dark eyes that suddenly seemed to possess the ability to look clear through her, and made her catch her breath.
“I can help myself.”
“I know you can,” he said, his hand on Dixie’s shoulder. “But if you would permit me, I’d like to assist you.”
Oh, she shouldn’t say yes. She’d spent seven years shrugging off help.
She put her hand on his shoulder, allowed him to catch her as she dismounted, to steady her as she put weight on her ankle. He had strong hands, and his smell—fresh air, leather, the scent of a man—lifted off him.
Perhaps being needy wasn’t such a terrible condition after all. Still, “I need to go back to town, Daughtry.”
He nodded. “Of course you do.”
An hour later, she stood on the porch before the gleaming gentleman’s brougham, with its shiny black exterior, glass windo
ws, the berry-red wheels. “I can’t ride back into town in this. Every miner from the Silverthread will see me and—”
“And?” Daughtry came around the back of the carriage where he’d just tied Dixie for their trip into town. “They’ll know you were with me?”
She clipped off her words. But, yes. However, she couldn’t exactly mention the miners’ union meeting, could she? What if Daughtry thought she was conspiring against him, searching him for information? She made a face, not sure what to say.
“I understand,” he said softly.
She hated herself, then, just a little, but she couldn’t align herself with him and keep her footing with Abel.
From behind her, two of his laborers emerged with a trunk, setting it on the back of the carriage. They secured it into place.
“What is that?”
“Your things.” Daughtry said, a funny frown on his face.
“I have no things,” she said. “I came here with nothing.”
“Yes, but my father insists that you take the dresses you wore. They’re beautiful on you, they fit you well, and we have no need for them.”
But, “What of your future wife? Wouldn’t she appreciate them?”
The moment the words left her mouth, she wanted to gulp them back for the look he gave her. “I hope so,” he said, drawing in a breath.
Oh. She pressed a hand to her face, suddenly feeling like a deb who’d been asked to dance. Oh.
Daughtry too, seemed suddenly shaken by his own words. He cleared his throat. Looked at the ground, back to Esme. “You intrigue me. Esme. I’ve very much enjoyed your presence here. It’s like the house was alive again. Your laughter at dinner and your keen conversation. I’ve never met a woman who was at once so feminine and yet so capable. I…” He blew out a breath. “I don’t suppose you would agree to allow me to call on you.”
She had drifted back to New York, half expected her mother to be standing in the shadows, watching. If she were a debutante, she would see a game behind his request—something that measured her family’s finances, their legacy in this request. But with Daughtry, she sensed nothing of guile. Indeed, she had met a gentleman.
One who just might cause her to lose everything she’d worked for. He didn’t want to live here. He wanted to sell the mine and return to New York.
She couldn’t go back to that world. Not yet. “I—I don’t think that is a good idea.”
He winced, and the expression tore through her. For a brilliant second, she wanted to take back her words, to tell him that yes, she wanted to know him better, to see if she could belong in this world, again. To even slide into his arms, to press her lips against his.
To be held.
But that wasn’t the woman she’d become.
“Thank you for doctoring my ankle.”
He stepped back, trying to hide his wounds. “You’re welcome.”
“And I can’t take the dresses, I’m so sorry.”
Another wound.
“If you insist. But I will leave them trunked for you in case you change your mind.”
No. She was done with that world.
At least until she figured out how to go home.
He untied Dixie, and she allowed him to help her into the saddle. “Thank you for the interview.”
“Was that what this was?” He patted Dixie’s shoulder, not meeting her eyes.
She turned Dixie and didn’t look back.
* * * * *
Maybe she could go home. Esme sat at her desk in the chilly office of the Times, looking over the articles Ruby, as well as the few other stringers she regularly used, had submitted over the few days she’d been holed up at Daughtry’s.
What if she let him into her life, to court her?
She could too easily fall in love with Daughtry—the way he cared for her, let her into his dreams. She’d so easily slipped back into the world she left behind, she wondered just how much she’d really despised it. More than that, he wasn’t a man thirsty for wealth, for a name, for power.
He wasn’t Foster Worth.
But she couldn’t return to New York as Esme Hoyt. No, she wanted to march into the Chronicle offices under her own byline, holding an article that even her father would run, front page, above the fold.
Like an interview with President Roosevelt. The idea had taken root, settled deep as she rode back to town. Sure, she might be able to scoop the Butte Press on a possible strike, but an interview with Roosevelt would not only scoop the Press but would be picked up and reprinted across America.
Even in her father’s Chronicle.
“Where have you been?” Ruby banged into her office, wearing a split skirt, a tan shirtwaist, a long duster. Her black hair she’d tied back, low at her neck. “I was about to ride out to the Hoyt’s place to look for you. You had Hud nearly out of his mind.”
“Sorry. I turned my ankle again when I visited Daughtry. I wasn’t fit to ride back until today.”
“Umhmm.” Ruby raised an eyebrow. “Did you get your interview?”
“Did you know him when he attended the Silver City School?”
Ruby made a face. “Some of the boys weren’t real nice to him. Orrin took up for him.”
“He said that. Orrin’s death really took him apart.”
Ruby considered her a long moment. “You fancy him.”
Esme looked up at her. Ruby smiled. “Don’t even try and lie. You’re a terrible liar.”
Actually…
Ruby shook her head. “He lives in a different world than we do, Esme. He has servants and a fancy life in New York City. He’s going to sell the mine to Anaconda and leave as soon as he can.”
“Where did you hear that?”
“Abel. He was talking to Dustin this weekend, said that if he does, then we would join the Butte Miners Union.”
“We?”
Ruby smiled. “Dustin and I are getting married.”
“Oh Ruby, that’s wonderful.” Esme moved to get up, tested her ankle, then leaned forward to hug Ruby. “When will you do it?”
“In two weeks. After the miners’ dance.” Ruby returned her hug. “I want you to be next.”
“What?” Esme leaned away from her.
“Abel. I think he likes you. He was looking for you this weekend. He couldn’t stop talking about you.”
Abel. He had a passion about him, coupled with enough confident tease to make him dangerous to her heart. Most of all, he reminded her, right down to his easy smile, of Oliver. Except, look where that ended. She shook her head. “Abel is handsome, but—”
“Good men are hard to find in this town, Esme. Isn’t it about time for you to fall in love, to be happy?”
Happy. She was happy, wasn’t she?
No, most of the time, she was just scared. Scared that she’d walked away from any chance of happiness. Scared that no matter how she tried, God simply couldn’t bless her. Scared that, truly, she was on her own.
Esme looked at her choice of articles—a robbery at Adeline’s, Aggie’s list of eligible women, a notice about the upcoming miners’ dance, Ruby’s article about the union brawl, the mine report and her so-called interview with Daughtry—
A shrill cry pierced the air.
Ruby jumped, turned pale even as Esme recognized it as originating from the mine.
Trouble.
The whine of the whistle rattled the flimsy windowpanes in the front of the saloon.
Ruby whirled around, ran for the door, Esme behind her.
They stood in the street watching the plume of dust rise from the Pipe mine, choke the air, and darken the town of Silver City.
Chapter 14
“These accidents are going to keep happening unless we unite and strike!”
Abel stood at the front of the assembly of miners, many of them still black-faced and wrung out from a week of digging through the dust and rubble for the survivors.
A cage had broken free as it transported a shift of miners to the surface. They’d falle
n a half-mile.
Sixteen men dead. Esme had interviewed the living, wrapped her arms around the grieving, written countless articles about the loss, and stood at the gravesides as, one by one, young men returned to the earth.
She’d seen Daughtry that first day, just hours after she’d left him at the ranch, his jacket off, his shirtsleeves rolled up, dirty and sweaty as he worked alongside the miners for rescue. He’d even attended the funerals—standing away from the graveside grief, but close enough to offer the Silverthread’s condolences and hand over an envelope of sustenance on behalf of the mine. Usually, Archie sent one of his representatives—she had no doubt Daughtry’s past accounted for his presence at the gravesites.
That, and he might have been trying to avert the very event happening in the Miners’ Recreation Hall. The room stank of earth and sweat and not a little whiskey, and for the first time, Esme questioned the wisdom of her attending the meeting.
“Don’t you see, if we don’t band together and strike, we will die for the same pittance our brothers did? The Silverthread owes us, owes our families. The Hoyts sit in their mansion, eating off golden plates, while we go to bed with dirt in our mouths.”
Abel made a passionate leader, with his brown eyes on fire, his shirtsleeves rolled up, jacket off, suspenders securing his workpants. He gestured with his hands, probably working up a sweat as he prowled the front of the room, stirring up their anger.
“What about our families?” someone yelled from the audience. “If we strike, how will we buy food? They’ll shut down the mine store.”
“That’s why we plan ahead. We store up for trouble. We don’t play their games. The Silverthread can’t stay idle forever—”
Another man— “The Anaconda brought in strikebreakers—Pinkerton men. I don’t want to hang!”
Near the back, Ruby stood slightly behind Dustin. He’d barely made it out, having ascended with the first half of the crew.
“This is our fifth accident in as many weeks. Ground falls, misfires, explosives accidents with the caps and fuses, a ladder fall, and just a few days before the cage fall, an unbalanced load of timber crushed two of our guys. No one wants to say it, but this mine is jinxed. It’s time for the Silverthread to close, to make repairs, to pay us a decent wage for our work. All we want is a fair shake.”
Heiress Page 22
