“I moved out here, seven years ago, to start a paper. In fact, I cabled you to ask for an interview, but was told you were too busy.”
He glanced at an aide. “I wasn’t informed of any interview request.”
“I used a different name. My…Montana name. Esme Stewart.”
He raised an eyebrow, and in that moment, her courage scattered.
She couldn’t look at Daughtry. What if she made a fool of both of them with her request? What, was she running to the president like he might be her father, about to solve her problems?
Around the table, the miners presented gifts to the president. She clasped her hands in her lap and tried not to touch her necklace, tried not to run from the room.
When the negro miner presented his gift, Roosevelt held it up, a pair of sliver scales. “This comes in the shape I appreciate—scales of justice held even. I served with many colored soldiers in Cuba, and they all honored themselves.” He turned to him then. “It’s my duty to help you get a square deal.”
She glanced at Daughtry, saw a sort of hope light his face.
The waiters finally served the first course, and she turned her skills to the art of small talk.
She hadn’t been a debutante for nothing, it seemed.
She made Roosevelt laugh, his aides grin, and Daughtry shake his head with her story of riding a horse astride for the first time, and turn solemn at the time during Christmas when four children showed up at the Times’ doorstep, hungry after their father had died of consumption. She had them nodding in agreement over the cleanup of the Butte highway by Montana vigilantes, and Roosevelt’s eyes widened at her account of seeing a buffalo for the first time.
“Daughtry has about forty head,” she said. She glanced at him and found his eyes on her, the sort of smile on his face that might make a woman blush. For all his desire to see Roosevelt, Daughtry seemed more intent on her every word.
The president turned to Daughtry. “I’m sorry to hear about your father. Send him my regards. Your family runs the Silverthread Mine Company, is that correct?”
“Yes sir. But we may be shutting down.”
Esme drew in a breath. “In fact, that’s why we wanted to talk with you tonight.” She wouldn’t look at Carter, the way his dark eyes speared her. “We believe that one of the men at this table, one of the Copper Kings, is sabotaging our mine.”
Silence drilled into the room. Roosevelt sat back in his chair. “That’s a serious accusation.”
“Men are dying. We’re extremely serious. But we believe the local law might be…compromised. We need your help to keep our miners safe.”
Roosevelt considered her, and she held his gaze. And it occurred to her then that she hadn’t been born a Price, hadn’t spent the last seven years scraping out a life in Montana, to scurry under the table. She drew in a breath.
Finally, he nodded. “I’ll have my men look into it.” He looked up at the men around the table, let his words sink in.
She somehow managed not to throw her arms around the President of the United States. She glanced at Daughtry. He wore pride in his eyes.
“About that interview, Miss Price,” the president said. “Join me after dinner. I believe I may have some thoughts for you.”
* * * * *
“I think I’m in love with you.”
Daughtry spoke the words softly, earnestly, into her ear as he draped his coat over her shoulders, drew her to himself. “You were magnificent, Esme Price.” He kissed her hair. “But I still can’t believe you didn’t tell me your real name.”
She leaned away from him, settled herself into the seat of the brougham. Overhead, the sky had cleared, the stars spilling out like diamonds. “I couldn’t. I didn’t want my name—or my family’s money—to taint how you saw me.”
“I couldn’t care less about your money, Esme. I care about you—the way you laugh, the way you make me feel like I belong in your world. ”
She slid a hand to his cheek. “I think you’re the only one who could.” And somehow, the words felt exactly right. Only a man who straddled both worlds would understand hers.
His smile dimmed, his gaze growing serious. He took her hand from his cheek, wound his fingers between hers. “I meant it. I love you, Esme Stewart.”
Suddenly, her name hovered between them. “Esme Price. Stewart belonged to a man I once loved. But he died before he could really live. He had passion, and loved me, and I was more thirsty for what he could give me than for him, perhaps. But I couldn’t find what I needed with him.”
“And what is it that you need, Esme?”
“I—I don’t know.” She looked away, but he brought her face back to him.
“I do. You need to know you’re loved.”
And then he kissed her. Nothing like Oliver, or even Abel, Daughtry took his time, his lips on hers so soft it might be a whisper. Then, as she moved toward him, as his touch awakened something locked inside her, he deepened his kiss, moving his hand behind her neck, exploring her mouth. He tasted sweet, of the chocolate dessert and the after-dinner cognac, and smelled husky and dark, the cowboy hidden under that refined waistcoat. She let her arms move around his waist, let herself hold him.
Let herself be held.
Daughtry. His name seemed so right, so rich in her mind. Daughtry Hoyt.
“Marry me.” His voice was in her ear, soft, urgent. “Marry me, Esme. Marry me tonight. Right now.”
She leaned back, the words rushing through her.
He caught her face in his gloved hand. “I know we haven’t known each other very long, but I can’t stop thinking about you. You are in my head, in my heart, and in my hopes for the future. And, yes, you were amazing tonight, but I fell in love with you when I saw you in dirty britches lying in a puddle on my barn floor. You’re strong and trustworthy and brave and I don’t care what your name is as long as you’re my wife.”
She hooked her hands on his arms, stared up into his face, those eyes that could see right through her. “You forgive me for my secrets?”
“I told you I knew you had them. Why would I be angry?” He tipped his forehead to hers. “Marry me, Esme. I’m not afraid of your secrets.”
Oh, she longed to say yes. Maybe it was time for her to fall in love. Except… “I can’t move back to New York, Daughtry. Not yet. I’m not ready.”
He searched her face. “Then we’ll stay. I’ll figure out a way to keep the mine open, make repairs so that it’s safe.”
He would stay, for her? “How much in debt are you?”
“We can cash in our investments. Maybe fifty thousand?”
She reached up and unlatched the dog collar. Pressed it into his hands. “Will this cover it?”
He stared at her, back to the jewels. “I can’t take this.”
“If I’m going to be your wife, then what is mine is yours. We’re in this together. Take it. I don’t need it anymore.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure, Daughtry. I know who I am.”
Still, he asked twice more as they drove through the city, as they tracked down a judge.
Asked her one final time before he agreed to be her husband.
They made it back to the hotel before dawn flushed into the sky, and she left a note for Ruby under the door, from Mrs. Daughtry Hoyt.
* * * * *
“Are you nervous?” Daughtry sat on the bench beside Esme in their train compartment, looking out the window as the train cut through the greening hills and gullies of Montana. Behind them, the Rocky Mountains rose crisp and white, parting the sky. “You are so quiet today.”
“I just don’t want it to end.” She slid her gloved hand onto his on her shoulder, squeezing. It seemed right to have procured a new toilette—two split skirts, a blouse. She couldn’t continue to wear Daughtry’s mother’s clothing, but she hadn’t felt like slipping back into her britches either.
“What do you fear will end?”
“This happiness.” She turned, pressed h
is face between her hands, finding his eyes, seeing herself in them. She liked what she saw—a woman unafraid to be in two worlds, a woman at peace. “I think God has finally forgiven me. Finally decided to bless me.”
He drew in a long breath, frowning. “Esme, God has always blessed you.”
She shook her head. “No. I disappointed Him. He gave me so much, and when I rejected my family, my duty, he took Oliver from me. But now he’s given me you.” She leaned up to kiss him, but he drew away.
He took her hands in his. “Oliver’s death was not about God not blessing you. He wasn’t punishing you because of something you did. Oliver simply died. And I’m sorry. But it has nothing to do with God’s love for you.”
She pulled away from. “No. No. God knew I’d turned away from my birthright, the life I was supposed to live. I had no choice but to run, to strike out on my own. Depend on myself.”
“You’ve never been on your own, Esme. That’s a lie that the devil wants you to believe. Don’t you know that nothing you do can ever separate you from the love of God?”
She watched as they rolled toward Silver City, the outlying homesteads, the bitterroot flowers peeking their pink and white buds through the silvery grasses. “I grew up very wealthy. I could buy anything I needed, we lived with a host of servants. I thought we were blessed. But I never felt blessed. And, I was ashamed of that. How could I have so much and be so miserable? I thought maybe I should try to be poor—D. L. Moody says that it is better to live in suffering than prosperity, because you find God in suffering. But where is God’s blessing when you make a living tunneling under the earth, making just enough to feed your family? Is that God’s love? What does it mean to be blessed by God?”
He turned her, drew her to himself. “Esme, being blessed by God isn’t being wealthy, or healthy. Nor is being poor a lack of His blessing. The Bible says the Almighty makes the rain fall on the just and the unjust. Being blessed is about being safe in His hand. It’s about belonging to Him, and knowing you are secure in His care.” He put her away from himself. “ ‘O taste and see that the Lord is good: blessed is the man that trusteth in Him.’ God’s love, His blessing, isn’t about getting things, it’s about knowing that even in our suffering, He is holding us secure and can make good things come out of it.”
“Like losing Oliver, but marrying you.”
He cupped her face in his hand, a smile that told her he approved. “God has never abandoned you, my beautiful Esme. He has gone with you, cared for you, and protected you. And you will find everything you need, and more, as you trust in Him and His love for you.”
He kissed her then, and she believed him.
As they pulled near the station, he gathered their bags. “Do you want to keep this paper?” He held out a copy of the San Francisco Examiner, with the front-page interview with President Roosevelt. “I like the byline.”
She took it, ran her finger under the name. “Is it okay that I wrote it under Esme Price? I—I could start writing under Esme Hoyt.”
He tipped up her chin. “You write every article under your name, Esme. You earned it.”
She considered the paper then folded it, and left it on the seat.
They stopped and he took her hand as they exited. But, even as they stepped into the sunshine, even as the pigeons scattered before them on the platform, she heard the siren.
“The mine,” she said. “There’s been an accident.”
Beside her, Daughtry’s face tightened. “Come.” He said nothing, his eyes on the headframes on the hill beside the mine as he helped her into the brougham. He didn’t wait for their trunks, just headed toward the Silverthread.
Esme spotted Ruby in the crowd pressing against the fencing. Mine officials stood at the gate, the doors closed, yelling at the women, the other miners. Ruby stood with her hands pressed to her mouth.
“Stay here,” Daughtry said. She gave him a look, and he reached up his hand to help her from the carriage.
They pushed their way through the crowd, to the gate. The guard there, a man whose fear rattled through Esme, let them through. Ruby pushed in behind her.
“What’s going on?”
Ruby shook her head. “There was a cave-in. Dustin—he’s down there. With six others.”
Daughtry turned to her. “Was it sabotage?”
“No—they’ve had extra security on the mine since the Federal investigators were here. This one is deep inside the mine—they blasted and a tunnel caved in. It’s just an accident.”
Esme read the flash of pain in Daughtry’s eyes. He shucked off his coat, handed it to Esme. “I’ll be right back.” He stalked over to the office and emerged five minutes later holding a carbide light, wearing a pair of dirty overalls, Abel behind him.
Abel appeared as if he’d spent the last week underground, his reddish hair matted with dirt, his skin blackened. He carried a pickaxe.
When he saw her, she recognized a ghost of a smile, something sad. “I always knew you’d look pretty in a dress.”
She tried to find a smile for him.
He glanced at Daughtry, now talking with the shift boss. “We’re taking another crew down. But you might want to talk your man into staying behind. The drift they’re trapped in is unstable, and it might cave in.”
Even as Abel said it, Daughtry glanced at her. His eyes told her the truth. He wasn’t sending Abel someplace he wouldn’t go himself.
“Take care of him, Abel,” she said softly.
Abel’s mouth tightened into a solemn line. He looked at Ruby. “I’ll find Dustin, I promise.”
Ruby wrapped her arms around herself and nodded.
Esme did the same when Daughtry returned to her, his hat lopsided on his head. She wanted to wind herself tight, to hold in the words. Don’t go. But she’d married a man who knew where he belonged. Who knew what he had to do. He cupped her chin. “I love you, Mrs. Hoyt.”
She nodded, her eyes wet. “Come back to me, Daughtry. I’m not going anywhere. I’ll be waiting right here until you return.”
Then he disappeared into the dark cradle of the earth, carrying her heart with him.
Section 4: Heiress
New York City
1917
Chapter 16
For a man who wanted to kill their son, Foster Worth managed a serene expression as he recited the Nicene creed.
“We believe in one God, the Father, the Almighty, maker of heaven and earth, of all that is, seen and unseen.”
Jinx stood beside him, focusing her gaze on the light streaming through the glorious stained-glass windows arching over the chancery behind the altar of Grace Episcopal Church. Such a glorious Resurrection Day, the violets and lilies in bloom outside, the smell of spring in the air despite the early April nip of the wind.
Foster stood attired in his best—a gray waistcoat, charcoal gabardine suit, a bowtie at his neck, looking regal and righteous, as if he hadn’t a sin in the world to chase him, to linger in his soul.
If anything, he lied better than she.
Behind their third row, left-side pew—which he’d purchased early in their marriage—two hundred voices recited with them. “We believe in one Lord, Jesus Christ, the only Son of God, eternally begotten of the Father, God from God, Light from Light, true God from true God, begotten, not made, of one Being with the Father. Through Him all things were made. For us and for our salvation He came down from heaven… .”
Next to her, Rosie refused to look at her mother—apparently punishing Jinx for not allowing her to escape to Eleanor Fish’s house after the service. Perhaps she should have relented—Easter dinner would certainly be nothing short of suffocation for all of them.
If Foster even decided to join them.
“For our sake He was crucified under Pontius Pilate; He suffered death and was buried. On the third day He rose again in accordance with the Scriptures; He ascended into heaven and is seated at the right hand of the Father.”
She glanced at her son Jack—Jonathon
—and tried not to let the conversation she’d overheard before services curdle the moment of worship.
The one involving Jack’s appointment to West Point.
She curled her gloved hands over the dark wooden pew before her. “He will come again in glory to judge the living and the dead, and His kingdom will have no end. We believe in the Holy Spirit, the Lord, the giver of life, who proceeds from the Father and the Son.”
Foster surely did it on purpose—routed her efforts to urge Jack into Harvard. She’d already arranged to buy out his enlistment. Sometimes she had to wonder if Foster knew the truth, if he deliberately intended on making her suffer.
On sending her only son to war.
Everything had changed the day she’d announced her pregnancy to Foster. She’d hoped for something amicable, even warm. Hoped for a truce.
Instead, Foster had gradually turned brutal. Mostly behind closed doors, and she was thankful he’d never turned his fists on their children—neither Jack, nor the daughter he’d given her one drunken night in anger.
Beside her, Jack’s voice raised, clear and solemn. “With the Father and the Son He is worshiped and glorified. He has spoken through the prophets. We believe in one holy Catholic and apostolic Church. We acknowledge one baptism for the forgiveness of sins.”
The words on her own tongue tasted like ash. She had to be sorry to ask for forgiveness, didn’t she? But she hadn’t had one moment of regret since Jack’s birth, despite Foster’s hatred. Even now, looking at Jack’s beautiful, strong face as he recited his salvation could root her to the spot with gratitude. She’d never known how to really love until she held Jack in her arms, until she pressed her lips to his damp, chapped cheek. Until she held him to her breast.
Jack had saved her.
And Foster meant to send him to war.
“We look for the resurrection of the dead, and the life of the world to come. Amen.”
She sat in the pew and folded her hands on her lap, listening as the priest led them in prayer for the church, the world, the sick. She managed to concentrate with a list of things she thanked God for—Jack, and Rosie too. And her mother. She lifted a prayer for Esme, somewhere, when the priest began his petitions for the dead. She wasn’t dead, but sometimes it seemed that way. Oh, to return to that day when Jinx had longed to take her place. Perhaps Foster would have loved Esme. She, certainly, would have never betrayed him.
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