The Miner's Lady

by Tracie Peterson

  “Does anyone know if there are miners trapped below?” she asked as they joined a crowd of women who had gathered close to the problem shaft.

  “They say a half dozen or so,” one of the women responded. She held a rosy-cheeked baby on one hip, while a small girl held tightly to her skirt. “Nobody knows yet what happened.”

  As the minutes ticked by in agonizing slowness, Chantel began to search the crowd for her brother and father. When she spied Dante Calarco, she breathed a silent prayer of thanks that he was all right before she even realized what she was doing. Uncertain of why the sight of him caused her to react in such a way, she shook her head, then scanned the faces about her once again. When she finally caught sight of her brothers, she shouted to them.

  “Marco! Alfredo! We’re over here!” She waved and pointed to them. “See, Mama, the boys are fine.”

  “Where’s your papa?” Mama questioned as her sons closed the distance between them.

  “He’s . . . he’s trapped, Mama.” Marco’s expression was grave. “I don’t know how bad it is. Alfredo and I had just headed up the shaft to see a load of ore to the top. Then the explosion came. We don’t know what happened.”

  Mama’s eyes remained dry, but Chantel could hear the sorrow in her mother’s voice as she pounded her fist against her breast. “Cuore del mio cuore.” Heart of my heart.

  It was something Chantel had often heard her mother call their father. She put her arm around Mama’s shoulders and looked to Marco. “What are they doing to get them out?”

  “There’s a whole team down there digging.”

  As if to offer proof, someone called out, “They’re bringing one up!”

  The crowd fell silent. It was a heavy, eerie silence that wrapped itself around the gathering like a shroud. Chantel gave a shiver, but not from the cold. Father Buh moved toward the shaft opening. When the man’s lifeless body was brought out of the mine, the priest knelt beside him.

  “I cannot see who it is,” Mama said, gripping Chantel’s arm hard.

  “It’s not Papa,” Alfredo said. He moved away from them to draw closer to the dead man. In a moment he returned. Across the way a woman began to wail in anguish. “It’s Paulo Conti,” he said, meeting Chantel’s eyes.

  The painful waiting continued, punctuated by the sobbing of several women. As the women figured out which of their family members were safe and which were unaccounted for, the crying grew louder. Many of the Panettas’ dear friends gathered around the family to offer Mama and the family comfort. Each knew it could well be their loved one buried beneath the rubble next time.

  “They’re sending another one up.”

  Marco and Alfredo hurried toward the shaft opening. Machinery hummed and the ground even shook a bit. Chantel knew her brothers would let the family know if it turned out to be their father. She saw her sister, who was busy scanning the crowd for Orlando.

  “Secure the hoist!” someone called.

  Hearing this, Chantel moved away from her mother. She knew the other women would see to her and for reasons beyond her understanding, she needed to see what was happening. She drew closer to the shaft tower where earlier she’d seen Dante. He wasn’t there now, but several other men were.

  Boldly, knowing it wasn’t her place, Chantel moved toward the men. “Do they know what happened?” The men looked at her oddly. “My father is down there—he’s one of them.”

  Understanding instantly filled their eyes. “Premature explosion,” one of the men explained. “A charge went off in the area where the men were working. No one knows why. It collapsed the stope.”

  The blood- and dust-caked body of the next man surfaced, and Chantel could see that it wasn’t her father. She didn’t know who the man was, but he was hardly more than a boy. Father Buh moved from Mr. Conti’s body to the still youth. The priest moved the boy’s arm to place it atop his body, revealing a broken bone through a huge gash in the forearm.

  She shuddered and turned—right into the arms of Dante Calarco. He said nothing as she pushed away, but when their eyes met she could see his sadness. “Orlando?” she barely managed to whisper.

  “He’s fine. My father, too.”

  She nodded. “My father . . .” She couldn’t say anything else.

  “I know,” he replied in a whisper.

  She looked back to where the Conti family was lifting up the body of their fallen loved one. Sadly no one came forward for the younger man. Chantel felt a deep sorrow for the unknown boy. Surely someone—somewhere—loved this boy-man.

  “Do you know him?” she asked Dante.

  “He was new. His name is . . . was Samuel.”

  She nodded. “Does he have no family?”

  “I don’t know,” Dante admitted.

  “You know that explosion could have been set early on purpose,” Chantel heard someone say behind her.

  Someone else picked up the conversation, apparently not seeing Chantel and Dante. “You know them Panettas and Calarcos have been fighting for a long time, and them Calarcos handle explosives.”

  “Seems a foolish gamble just to get rid of your enemy,” another man joined in. “Makes no sense to risk everyone’s livelihood that way.”

  Chantel swallowed hard, then noticed Dante was watching her closely. She bit her lip to keep from asking him about the comments. It was clear he had heard the men talking, just as she had.

  She gestured toward where her family had gathered. “I should get back to my mother,” she said, feeling awkward.

  Making her way through the crowd, Chantel resumed a place beside her mother. “It’s a young boy named Samuel.” She then looked to Isabella. “Orlando is all right. Dante told me.” Isabella closed her eyes, relief washing over her face.

  Mama took hold of her daughters’ hands. “We must keep praying for your papa.”

  “I am.” Chantel turned back to where Dante stood. His dark eyes seemed to look right through her. “I am, Mama.” Her voice barely sounded, while Isabella, eyes closed, appeared to already be in prayer.

  Nearly an hour later they announced they were bringing up another man. Chantel’s feet and face felt frozen, but there was nothing to be done. None of her family would leave the area until they knew the truth about her father.

  Again the body was brought up from the shaft and laid out on the cold ground. “He’s alive!” someone called. “Get Dr. Shipman!”

  “It’s Panetta,” someone else declared.

  Chantel felt her mother tremble. “I must see him,” she said. Marco and Alfredo were nowhere to be found, so Chantel took hold of her mother’s arm. “Come, Mama. I’ll get you up there.”

  She pushed through the onlookers, pulling her mother behind her. They were very nearly to where her father lay, when Marco appeared. “He’s alive, Mama. He’s unconscious, but he’s alive.”

  He took over and led their mother to her injured husband. Chantel felt strangely alone. She crossed her arms and tucked her frozen fingers under her arms. She again found Dante watching her from across the way. She couldn’t explain the look in his eyes, but for just a moment, it resembled guilt. Surely he didn’t have anything to do with this accident.

  Dr. Shipman ordered several men to take Chantel’s father to his office and makeshift hospital. Chantel and Isabella followed after their brothers and mother. Neither spoke, but they held each other’s hand like they might have when they were young.

  “He will be all right, won’t he?” Chantel heard her mother ask Marco.

  “The doctor doesn’t know, Mama. We have to be strong and wait,” he replied.

  Chantel noticed how much he sounded like their father. Taking charge the way he had, she could almost imagine her father as a younger man. She thought again of young Samuel. Poor boy. It could just as easily have been Marco or Alfredo. The three of them generally worked close together. If someone had wanted to end their lives, it would be relatively simple—just wait until the trio was isolated and working alone. She felt disgusted by her th
oughts and pushed aside the growing suspicion she felt.

  At the doctor’s they sat in an outer waiting area while the doctor and his staff worked to save Giovanni Panetta. The family members alternated between pacing and sitting, but all the while they prayed. Chantel had never known her brothers to be overly religious, but even they were attentive to Father Buh as he spoke words of encouragement and hope.

  Chantel took out her tatting and began to work at the rings and chains. She found the work helped to soothe her weary nerves. She wove the shuttle back and forth between her fingers, begging God to save her father.

  When Dr. Shipman finally appeared, she had created quite a length of trim. The doctor offered a stern expression. Only then did Mama begin to sob. Marco put his arm around her shaking shoulders. “How bad is it?” he asked.

  Chapter 7

  Dante saw his father speaking with the mine captain and knew he was giving an accounting for every stick of dynamite and every bit of nitroglycerin. He couldn’t help but notice the looks of the people around him. They watched him and his father with an expression that suggested blame. Even so, no one said anything about it—at least not to his face.

  By the time his father joined him, Dante had seen them move two more men from the mine. Both were badly hurt, but alive.

  “Where’s your brother?” Father asked.

  “I sent him to let Nonna know we were all right. What did the captain have to say?” Dante asked.

  “He said there will be a thorough investigation to figure out what caused the collapse. Neither of us is convinced that there was actually an explosion. The noise heard might simply have been a large piece breaking loose. That in turn could have weakened the entire structure.”

  Dante nodded. “I think plenty of folks see it otherwise. I heard some of the talk. They want to pin it on the old feud.”

  His father shrugged. “I’m never heartbroken to see a Panetta die.”

  Rage heated Dante’s face. “How can you say that?” He lowered his voice considerably. “We aren’t murderers. But talk like that will convince folks we are.”

  His father seemed surprised by Dante’s reaction. Again he shrugged. “You are right. We are not murderers, but if God chooses to remove Panettas from the earth, I for one will not mourn.”

  Dante shook his head at his father’s comment. “Men lie dead and others are injured—and this is your thought on the matter? With this response, it’s no wonder people suspect we set an explosion to kill.”

  His father swore and spit. Moving closer to his son, he raised his fist. “You forget yourself, Dante. I am your father and you will show me respect. Capisce?”

  “Yes, I understand.”

  Dante watched his father move off toward one of the other mine shafts. To him this was just an unexpected interruption in the day’s work—at least it seemed that way. It was already growing dark, and soon their shift would be over and the next shift would come on. A great many men would be needed to clear debris and ore from the collapsed stope. If luck was with them, tomorrow it would be back to the same routine and they would learn if the injured men had survived the night.

  Frowning, Dante couldn’t help but wonder about Panetta. He hadn’t looked good when they’d pulled him from the shaft. If he died, what would happen to Chantel and her family? Marco and Alfredo were perfectly capable of seeing to their family’s needs—if they were inclined to stop spending so much of their money in the saloons. Marco had gained a reputation for his drinking at the Fortune Hole, and both boys seemed to have a passion for gambling.

  Dante clenched his jaw. It was impossible to forget the grief in Chantel’s eyes. If her father died, Dante knew she would be heartbroken, and for reasons he couldn’t begin to share with his father, he didn’t want to see that happen.

  “They’re bringing up the last of them,” a man called from the shaft.

  Dante made his way to the area and waited while the final victim was brought to the surface. When he heard that the man was still alive, he offered his help to get him over to the hospital. The mine captain met Dante’s determined look and nodded.

  “Find out how the others are doing, Calarco, and get word back to me.”

  “Will do, Captain.”

  They made a makeshift litter from a long wooden plank and carefully balanced the older man’s body on it. Dante knew the man, but not well. The men called him Spud because he always brought a baked potato in his lunch. He’d only recently joined them from another nearby mine.

  Taking one end of the plank, Dante lifted in unison with the man who held the other end. A third man walked with them to keep the unconscious patient from rolling off. None of the men spoke as they made their way to Dr. Shipman’s. Dante was grateful for the frozen ground. Even with the drifts of snow, it was easier to traverse than dealing with the mud.

  Shipman’s place was packed with people just as Dante had known it would be. But as they approached, the crowd parted much like the waters of the Red Sea had for Moses and the Israelites. Dante kept his gaze on Spud’s pale face, afraid that if he glanced around at the people there, he would see accusation in their expressions.

  They made their way up the steps and into the building where one of the doctor’s staff directed them to take the litter. Once they’d deposited the patient on a table, the other men quickly exited the room. Dante, however, approached the orderly who prepared to tend Spud.

  “Captain told me to ask about the men.”

  The man looked up and nodded. “Doc’s busy working on one now. He thinks most of them will pull through, with exception to one man. He was pretty badly wounded.”

  Dante didn’t want to ask which man. He was afraid of hearing the truth. If the man told him that the dying soul was Giovanni Panetta, he wasn’t at all sure what his reaction might be. Spying Father Buh arriving to offer prayers for the new man, Dante left the orderly and went to the priest.

  “Father,” Dante said, giving a slight nod. “How are the men?”

  “They are doing as well as can be expected. It’s in the hands of God. Frankly, it’s a wonder that any of them have survived.”

  Dante licked his dust-dried lips. “And . . . what of . . .” He was unable to ask about Panetta, the words sticking in the back of his parched throat. Dante noticed Chantel slipping out the front door. He decided to follow her and ask after her father. His report to the captain could wait that long, and besides, Dante would be inquiring after one of the mine’s best workers.

  By the time he exited Dr. Shipman’s and made his way through the now less than cooperative crowd, Dante could see no sign of Chantel. He frowned, wondering where she might have gone. Heading east on Chapman Street, Dante kept a watchful eye for any sign of the young woman. He finally spied her on the boardwalk and hurried to catch up to her.

  “Miss Panetta!”

  She stopped and turned to meet him. Her face was tearstained and her eyes were red from crying. His heart sank. “Your father . . . is he . . .”

  Chantel’s brows knit together as if confused, then realization seemed to dawn. “He’s going to be fine. His injuries are not life threatening.”

  Dante let out a heavy breath that he hadn’t even realized he was holding. “I’m glad.”

  “Are you?” Her tone suggested disbelief.

  “I am,” he confirmed. “I wouldn’t wish an accident like that on anyone.”

  “Not even your Panetta enemies?” she asked.

  Dante shook his head. “That isn’t my way. Neither is the setting of premature explosions in order to continue a vendetta.”

  Chantel brushed back errant strands of brown hair and fixed him with a hard gaze. “This has to end. It’s ridiculous, and you know it.”

  Dante knew she was right and gave a hesitant nod. “It does need to end.”

  She looked surprised. “I’m . . . glad . . . you agree. Now perhaps our families can be friends.”

  “I wouldn’t go that far,” Dante replied. “I just agreed that the see
king of retribution should end. Not that this was an act of such,” he quickly added. “Our two families would do better to simply ignore each other. Separate and go our own ways. I’m going to suggest to my father that we consider moving to the Mesabi Range and offer our services there.” It was the first time he’d really considered such a thing, but it made perfect sense. There were other iron ranges, and it was pure stubbornness that had kept both families at the same mine.

  “You would do that rather than choose to be at peace?”

  “It will bring peace, believe me.”

  She shook her head. “We’ve not been in the company of your family until the last five years, and the animosity lives on. Especially in the old country. When I was in Italy, there were several incidents. This feud—this need to perpetuate the anger and hatred of generations—will never end . . . until someone chooses to forgive and let the matter go.”

  “It will take a great many someones, if you ask me.”

  Chantel raised her chin in a determined manner. “Well, it has to start with someone. Someone who will take a stand and tell the others that enough is enough.”

  Dante didn’t know what to say. He knew that what she said made sense from the perspective of lessons taught in Sunday services, but from family oaths sworn and honored . . . there would be no letting the matter go. Their very culture was steeped in such traditions.

  “Are you heading home now? It’s getting dark, and I could see you there safely,” he offered.

  Chantel’s expression became guarded. “Ah . . . no. That’s all right. I might need to stop at . . . ah . . . the Morettis’ to let them know about my father.” She looked as if she’d just decided this fact, making Dante more than a little suspicious.

  “If you’ll excuse me,” she said and gathered her skirts. “Good evening.” She hurried to the end of the boardwalk and stepped out into the street. She glanced quickly up one side and down the other before crossing.