The long-forgotten sound of a steam train whistle penetrated Tom’s dreams, the sound of an engine straining, grinding slowly up a steep grade with its load of overflowing coal cars strung along behind.
In his dream Tom was a child again, crammed three in a bed with his little brothers in a dingy row shack in a coal-mining town.
Was his stepfather home? Was he drunk? Was he fighting with his mother again?
With a smothered cry, he bolted upright and dragged himself fully awake, unable to figure out at first where he was, not even caring. Instead, he was grateful beyond all imagining that he was a grown man, far away from that coal town of his birth.
Jackson’s soft snores punctuated the darkness.
The loft was in almost total blackness, but through a small high window cut into the wall up near the rafters, Tom could see a lighter patch, a smidgen of night sky.
Through the frosty air came the sound of the train, at the top of the grade now and gaining speed. Its distinctive, throbbing rhythm faded gradually into the far distance.
Muted then, was a sound Tom recognized from his childhood, the sharp, piercing summons of the mine whistle, calling the night-shift crew into the bowels of the mountain.
Despite the frost-laden air, sweat broke out on his forehead.
He seldom loosened the tight knot he kept on the sack of his memories, but now it came undone in spite of him. He was with those miners again, a gangly, frightened teenager, walking with the others on his first shift, up the spur line to the mine entrance with his heart hammering so hard he thought it might leap out of his chest.
He felt again the sickening terror that had gripped him all those years before when he stepped into the cage and, along with the other miners, plummeted six hundred feet straight down to the coal-face.
He felt again that choking, trapped sensation when he realized he was deep underground with only a feeble lamp to pierce the darkness. Again he was seized with the terrible despair that had filled him, and the knowledge that his stepfather had thought that this was where Tom would spend all the long hours of his working life.
He’d been fifteen years old.
A Distant Echo: Chapter Ten
For two months, Tom had kept at it, his days filled with drudgery, work, sleep, and hunger.
Because of his stepfather’s drinking and his mother’s as well, there had never been quite enough food to satisfy the raging hunger of a growing boy forced to do a man’s work. Despair had grown in him.
Then one Friday morning, he’d picked up his pay packet, walked to the highway, and stuck out his thumb. A truck had come along and given him a ride, the first of many such rides. He’d been cold and frightened, penniless and alone more often than not in the months and years that followed, but he’d never gone back. After a time, he’d even stopped hearing the mine whistles and the freight trains in his dreams. Over the years, he’d trained himself not to remember.
Ironic, that now he should be trapped in a place and time where those trains, those whistles, were part of the very fabric of everyday life---sounds that he’d hear over and over again, as long as he stayed in Frank.
He convinced himself that wouldn’t be for long, and after a time he slept again. When he awakened, it was to Virgil’s cheerful whistling as he made his way out to the privy in the gray light of dawn.
Tom threw the quilt aside and gasped at the icy coldness of the morning air.
“Rise and shine, partner.” He shook Jackson’s shoulder. “Let’s go find ourselves a job.”
By that afternoon, it was obvious jobs were neither plentiful nor easy to find in Frank.
Tom and Jackson had eaten bowls of Virgil’s porridge and set out, confident that two strong men would have no problem finding work. At noon, with no success at all, they had decided to split up the town and each canvass half, taking whatever menial work they could find, agreeing to meet late in the day at the foot of Dominion Avenue.
“Any luck?” Tom leaned back against an empty hitching post, tired and discouraged.
Jackson shook his head. “Nothing steady, that’s for damned sure. The grocer paid me fifty cents to move about seventy boxes of canned goods into the storage room.” Jackson groaned. “He didn’t let on that the storage room was down in the cellar, fourteen twisting, narrow steep steps down. Didn’t do my bum leg any good, I can tell you. Then I made another dollar serving beer at the Imperial Hotel while the regular barman had his lunch. Never thought I’d have to sling beer again,” he said with a shake of his head and a rueful grin. “I can’t believe how hard a man has to work these days to earn a dollar.”
“I know what you’re saying,” Tom agreed. “Makes you realize how generous it was of Virgil to fork out a buck on our behalf.”
“They’re paying the royal sum of $2.75 a day to laborers at the construction camp on the edge of town,” Jackson reported. “It’s backbreaking work. I put our names in, and the foreman said if we get there at daybreak tomorrow he might hire us on one day at a time. He isn’t hiring steady just now.”
“Neither is the mine. I put our names on a waiting list, but there’s a dozen men ahead of us.”
Jackson gave Tom a curious look. “Thought you told me once you’d never set foot in a mine again, as long as you lived, no matter what.”
“Yeah, well, beggars can’t be choosers, and maybe something else will turn up before we’re forced into going underground.” Tom tried to keep the despondency he felt out of his voice. “The mine’s about the only place there is to get a steady job around here. Miners are making $3.50 a day, which I now figure is a pretty good wage.” He gave a rueful grin. “Shows you how fast a person adapts. A month ago, I turned down that contract with South America. Would have netted us a cool ten grand for three weeks’ work.”
“The wages here make sense when you check the prices being charged for things, though.” Jackson replied. “Fancy hotel rooms are two bucks a day, you can get a fair meal for twenty-five cents. That breakfast we had was overpriced, I figure Gertie saw a chance to make a profit on two dumb strangers.”
“You’re right,” Tom agreed. “I checked the menu at the Frank Café. Most breakfasts are around a quarter.” He held up his hands, bleached from strong soap and dishwater. “In fact, I washed dishes there most of the afternoon, and they paid me a buck fifty. Haven’t washed dishes at a café since I was a kid on the run. Well, at least we’ve got enough between us to pay Virgil back the dollar we owe him and maybe buy some groceries to help out with supper.”
Virgil, and Zelda too, had insisted they come back if they hadn’t managed to find work that included room and board.
“C’mon, Tom. Let’s head on over to Dypolt’s Store and see what we can get for a measly two dollars. Sounds insane, if you figure what things cost where we come from, huh? But I checked out prices when I was carrying boxes, and I figure we might just do okay.”
Half an hour later, with an overflowing bag of groceries, they made their way back to the Ralstons, feeling better about their efforts.
“Didn’t realize at first that mincemeat meant hamburger,” Jackson said gleefully. “At fifteen cents a pound, it’s a bargain. And how about cabbage at three cents a head? And milk, a dime a quart? With those onions and carrots, I’m gonna make up a big pot of hamburger hash. Old man Dypolt was generous too. Threw in that soup bone and only charged us ten cents for the spuds, and we each have a razor of our own now, so we don’t have to borrow that lethal weapon of Virgil’s like we did this morning. Damn, these straight razors are somethin’ else. Thought I’d cut my throat with his for sure. Now I get to practice with my own. Y’know, I’m glad now I didn’t say a word to Dypolt about those damned cellar stairs. The old goat was more than generous.”
“He probably took pity on us because we look scruffy and half-starved. God knows, I feel it. They gave me a bowl of soup and a hunk of bread at the café, but that was hours ago. I’d give a lot right now for a cheeseburger and fries, with a double malt and an a
pple turnover.” Tom’s mouth watered just thinking of it, and Jackson groaned in sympathy.
They turned into Virgil’s yard, waving and calling a friendly “hi” to the kids next door. They made their way around the back of the house, where Eli was bouncing a softball against the barn and catching it on the rebound. His face lit up when he saw them.
“Hey, you came back. Zel said you might. She’s in the house. You want to toss a ball with me?”
It suddenly dawned on Tom that every step of the way home, he’d been looking forward to seeing Zelda again. She hadn’t been up yet when they left the house that morning.
What was going on here? He’d never let a woman get under his skin this way. The last thing he needed right now was even more complications.
“You go ahead in, Jackson. I’ll test this fellow’s throwing arm awhile.” He caught the ball Eli slung at him and sent it back hard, putting a curve on it that forced the boy to run, then leap high in order to catch it.
Tom backpedaled so there was the entire width of the yard between them, stretching high to catch the throw Eli sent his way. He was close to the fence that divided the Ralstons’ yard from the one next to it, and the small boy and girl came running to watch the ball game, peering through the wire.
Tom and Eli had been throwing the ball back and forth about fifteen minutes when the hollering began in the house next door, a man’s deep voice raised in anger, a woman answering in a softer, pleading tone. The words weren’t in English, but it was obvious from their volume that the Ralstons’ neighbours were having a brawl.
Tom’s stomach tensed. He hated domestic quarrels. He tried to tune out the angry voices, keeping up a steady banter with Eli.
“Look out, look out. Here it comes. Stretch…Aaaahhhaaaa, missed it. So that’s your weak spot…”
There was a frenzied exchange of words from the other house, and then a male voice cursing in a steady stream. The outside door slammed.
Tom turned to glance over his shoulder. A stocky, muscular man in workman’s clothes was coming down the steps, pulling on a brown coat. The little girl and boy, who’d been watching the ball game, cowered against the fence, their faces anxious.
The door burst open again and a plump, little fair-haired woman came running out after the man, sobbing something in a language Tom didn’t understand. But the appeal in her voice was plain.
She was obviously begging him not to leave. She lifted up her long skirts and rushed toward him, catching him by the arm halfway across the yard.
Tom, embarrassed at being a witness to such an intimate scene, turned back to the ball game, but the woman’s voice brought him whipping around.
The crud had hit her. She was sitting on the muddy ground, her long hair loose around her shoulders. One hand nursed her ear, the other held up to ward off what she obviously thought were more blows about to descend on her. The man was standing over her, his fists raised.
Tom didn’t remember hopping the fence. The man’s back was to him, and he caught him by surprise and whipped him around. Tom had a fistful of coat and one arm drawn back to deck the punk when he remembered the two kids, cowering against the fence, scared out of their minds. And this was their father.
Damn. Tom couldn’t bring himself to beat the man to a pulp with his own kids watching. With a muttered curse, Tom unclenched his fist, but he retained his grip on the man’s coat.
The coward didn’t seem eager to fight with a man, Tom realized with disgust. He was holding his hands up, palms out, abject fear on his face.
Eli, too, had jumped over the fence. He was helping the woman to her feet, his eyes bulging as he watched Tom.
“Take her over to your sister, Eli, and the kids, too,” Tom instructed.
As Eli shepherded the weeping woman and the children through the back gate and into the Ralstons’ yard, Tom gave the man a vicious shake, still longing to plant a fist in his jaw. He had bloodshot eyes and a red nose, and he reeked of liquor.
“What’s your name, you drunken slimeball?”
“Vandusen.” The words were accented, but it was plain he understood some English. “Nestor Vandusen. Don’t punch me. I am sorry for hit Isabella,” he whined.
Tom suddenly remembered the scene at the jail the previous day. Zelda had mentioned Vandusen and the fact that he regularly drank and beat his wife. Tom was sorely tempted to give him a taste of his own medicine, but the man was such a cowering wimp, he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Instead, he deliberately tightened his grip on the coat, which he knew was cutting off oxygen.
Nestor began to struggle, and his face turned deep red. When he began making gasping sounds and started to claw at Tom’s hand, Tom shook him again, long and hard.
“I’m gonna be right next door from now on, Nestor,” he lied, his voice low and lethal. “And I’m going to pay regular visits over here, understand? If I see one single indication that you’re drinking and that your wife is having a bad time with you, Mister, or I find out that you ever again lay a hand on her or those kids, you better clear out of town before I catch you, because I’m gonna beat you to a sodden pulp. Got it?”
Nestor’s face was turning blue. He nodded vigorously, and after a long moment, Tom dropped him. The man sank to his knees, dragging in deep lungfuls of air, and stayed there, his head down, as Tom turned his back and walked to the fence. He vaulted over and headed for the back door, his muscles quivering in the aftermath of the ugly scene. He turned to look back at the other man, just in time to see him get to his feet and scuttle out the gate, setting off down the street at a determined trot.
Probably going straight to the Mounties to charge me with assault. I’ll be back in lockup before nightfall, Tom thought wryly.
Jackson was in the kitchen stirring an iron pot on the stove, his sweatshirt sleeves rolled high and one of Zelda’s gingham aprons tied incongruously around his hips. “Eli gave me the headlines on what was going down, so I figgered you could handle it just fine alone,” he said laconically. “Everything turn out okay?”
“Fine,” Tom said tersely.
At the table, the little boy and girl from next door were eating jam sandwiches and drinking milk. The boy shot a look at Tom, his small face pinched and frightened.
Jackson jutted his chin toward the hallway. “Zelda took their mama in there. I sent a pot a’tea in with Eli. They seem to use the stuff like valium around here. Virgil’s at work, afternoon shift, Eli says. I’m addin’ some stuff to this hash so there’ll be plenty for all of us.”
Tom hadn’t had much to do with little kids, but he didn’t want these two afraid of him. They’d seen him threatening their father, and much as Vandusen deserved to be threatened, it must have been terrifying for them. Awkwardly, he crouched down beside the table and smiled at them.
“What’s your name, big fella?” he asked the boy, wondering if the little guy spoke any English. His tawny hair was cut in a perfect bowl shape, and he was chewing methodically on a bit of sandwich. His dark brown eyes were wary.
The child swallowed hard, and said, “My name Eddy.” He pointed a grubby finger at his sister. “Her Pearl.”
“How old are you, Eddy?”
The boy promptly held up four fingers.
“Four years old? Hey, are you ever a big fella for four. An how old’s your little sister?” She had a tangled mass of golden-brown curls, and there were tear tracks down her cheeks. Her button of a nose was running. She dipped her head and wiped it on her sleeve, looking up at Tom through long, wet lashes, and his heart constricted with pity.
Eddy was holding up three fingers now.
“So Pearl’s three. Well, whad’ya know about that.” Tom had no idea what to say next. In his entire adult life, he’d probably said less than ten sentences to any child. His and Jackson’s lifestyle wasn’t one that included much contact with children.
Jackson solved the problem. “Hash is all done here. Wash up and set this table, Tom, my friend. Then big Eddy here can go tell the lad
ies to come and eat. Eli,” he bellowed, and when the boy came hurrying down the hall, Jackson ordered, “go bring in that bench that’s out in the barn, soldier. It’ll do for extra seating.”
Eli grinned, snapped off a salute, and hurried away. Jackson jerked a thumb at a napkin-covered mound on the cupboard. “Zelda made bread today and some cookies. We can eat them for dessert.”
He grinned at Tom, his wide, wicked pirate’s grin. “I always figgered I’d open a little pub someday, Tommy boy, when I got too old for the adventurous life,” he drawled. “This here is real good practice. All that’s missin’ is the draft beer. And, man, do I miss it,” he added in a stage whisper.
He whistled and broke into snatches of a Western song as he served up the meal, and Tom was suddenly envious of his partner’s ability to adapt like a chameleon to whatever circumstance sent his way.
Tom filled the washbasin with hot water and stripped off his grubby shirt, doing his best to scour away the sweat and grime of the day. More than almost anything else, he longed for the comfort of a long, hot shower, the simple luxury of having clean clothing to put on afterwards. After two full days wearing them, his jeans were grubby, his shirt sweaty and stained, and he’d have to wash out his underwear and socks tonight for sure.
How did people stay clean in this day and age? When the hell were Laundromats invented, anyhow?
Virgil had loaned them a comb, and Tom raked it through his unruly curls. He was pulling his shirt back on when Zelda walked in. He shoved the sleeves high.
“Tom, I must thank you for what you did for Isabella.” She came over and stood close to him, speaking in a low voice so the others couldn’t hear. She smelled good up close, a homey smell, of fresh bread and cinnamon. “Eli, said you gave Nestor a taste of his own medicine. Goodness only knows, he richly deserves it.” Her forehead creased in a frown. “I only hope he doesn’t retaliate by being even more brutal when Isabella goes home tonight. I’ve tried to convince her and the children to stay here, but she insists she has to go back.”
Now and Forever: Time Travel Romance Superbundle Page 71
