Zeke limped beside him, barking out instructions as Clem gathered the dynamite in his bag and slung it over his shoulder.
He faced Zeke and clamped a hand down over his shoulder. “No different than lighting firecrackers down at the founder’s fair back home.” Clem smiled. “You remember how we made Peggy Overton scream when we blew her picnic basket to bits?”
“I remember not being able to sit for a week after Pa finished with us,” Zeke answered with a grin. He sobered quickly. “Clem, this isn’t firecrackers.”
“Ah, go on. You sound like Ma. I’ll get this set and be out in time to beat you—again—at a game of checkers tonight.” He patted Zeke’s shoulder as he walked around him and entered the dark hole in the side of the mountain.
An icy dread filled Zeke’s stomach. He’d instructed the crew to wait a few yards back from the opening behind some larger boulders. His mind was quickly calculating the firepower of the three sticks of dynamite. Clem could do it. It seemed as though Zeke’s heart halted, as did his breathing. His gaze was fixed on the yawning black mouth of the mine, willing his brother to emerge. One minute, then two…no explosion. No Clem. Maybe they were faulty. Zeke wiped his brow and sighed. He should be out here by now. Three minutes had passed. Four. Zeke scanned the score of men crouched down, waiting. “Where’s Storm Thornton?”
“Dern half-breed probably still in there.” He heard one of the miners say under his breath.
Zeke stood, preparing to give the man a lesson in consideration.
“Be prepared to buy me drinks at the Nugget,” Zeke heard Clem’s disembodied voice echoing through the dark shadows of the tunnel.
Zeke released a relieved breath and smiled. “Smart ass,” he hollered. “You and Storm get your asses out here.”
Then the world shattered. A plume of thick black smoke rolled from the entrance. Bits of rock, sharp as arrows, pelted the crew. They all ducked, shielding themselves behind the boulder.
Zeke was already running toward the mine, fighting through the residual haze and debris. Dust coated his throat as he called out to his brother. Pain shot up his leg, his eyes burned. Blindly, he stumbled toward where the opening should be. It was filled in with rubble. “Clem!” he yelled, tossing aside the broken landslide of jagged rock. “Clem!” One by one the crew joined in helping move the layers of crushed rock. Zeke’s fingers bled, his back burned, but he would find him, by God. “You there,” he barked at one of the crew. “Run and get Doc Deane.” He scanned the shocked faces of his crew. “Keep digging.”
What seemed like hours later, they’d removed tons of rock, and still there was no sign of his brother or Storm Thornton. Faces caked with dirt and sweat looked to Zeke for guidance. Hope of finding either man alive had begun to dwindle.
“Keep digging. No one leaves this mine until both men are found. Do you understand?” It was not a request. Pain, fear drove Zeke on. Years of fighting a senseless war, of watching brother fight brother, family against family had left him grateful that Clem had been spared the horror.
Now this.
Zeke fought back the tears, the frustration and guilt. There was no time. Each moment was precious. Each stone tossed aside gave renewed hope that Clem would be found alive.
“I see him,” one man called from the other side of the pile of rock that had been cast aside.
Zeke steeled himself, rounding the rocks piled higher than him. He closed his eyes, saying a prayer that by some miracle his brother had survived.
But there would be no miracles that day.
They dragged his broken body from beneath the rubble. Zeke stared down at what had once been a thriving, full-of-life man. Some turned away. Others lost the contents of their stomachs. Zeke could only stare and blame himself. “It should have been me. You bastard, why did it have to be you?” He dropped to his knees and picked up his brother’s body in his arms. Great sobs racked his body as he rocked his baby brother. He raised his eyes to the heavens, to the pristine blue sky and the brilliant sun that his brother so dearly loved. “Dammit. Why did you have to take him and not me?” he cursed the heavens.
The rest was a watery blur. He remembered barking at the stunned men to keep digging, to find Storm even as Doc Deane and Charles Hardt tried to pry Clem from his arms. He barely remembered the wagon ride back to town and he remembered sending up a fleeting prayer that Storm would be found. Laying his brother’s lifeless body on the doctors table, he collapsed and his world went black until he woke the next day in a bed at Doc’s office.
Against the advice of the good doctor, he’d retrieved Clem’s body and discovered that Jack Peregrine had fashioned for him a practical and sturdy coffin. There were those who wanted a ceremony—wanted to pay their respects. Zeke refused. Anger and guilt shoved the rest of the world away. He wanted no help, no comfort, least of all from God at that time. No. He buried Clem alone and spent the better part of the day staring at the marker he’d made of stones and hating Clem for being such a stubborn, cocky ass of a brother. He sobbed until his body was sore, punishing himself until he no more left in him for tears. Only guilt remained.
He started walking at some point—up the mountainside. He had no idea what he was looking for, what he was running from. But something inside drove him forward as though searching for the demon that had sucked the life from him. He found it deep in the woods late that day as the sun cast dusky shadows in the deep forest atop a ridge. A slobbering eight-foot demon with snapping teeth and claws that made ribbons of his flesh. The last thing Zeke remembered was feeling the hot breath of the grizzly against his cheek and thinking he was about to die.
Chapter 7
Those eyes.
Another man’s eyes pulled at Genevieve’s memory. A moment in time that she’d tucked away never thinking it might be resurrected—the stranger who had shown up on her doorstep bringing her news from the war. A promise he’d made to her husband—his commanding officer—to return the letters she’d written, along with his watch, should anything happen to him.
This blue-eyed soldier spoke of her husband in such high esteem that she’d wondered what he’d understood about Levi Walters that she hadn’t. The soldier spoke of her letters, about how he’d read them to her husband each night as his captain lay weary from battle.
She was humbled, and quite possibly guilty of being more enamored by the young soldier’s praise of her loyalty, resiliency, and devotion to her husband. He confessed how the letters that he’d been privy to had helped him, as well, through many a difficult time at war. Lonely and perhaps needing solace, she had been stirred by his kind words, his admiration. There had been an undeniable attraction between them.
When in a single desperate moment, they’d kissed--forbidden and too soon after her husband’s death—she’d felt evidence of his desire in his passionate embrace. He had aroused emotions inside her that she’d never felt for her husband. Had it been another time, another place, they might have shared more intimately what the kiss had begun. Yet with that stolen kiss, Genevieve knew no other man would ever hold her heart like Sergeant Christian Ezekiel Kinnison. Deep down, she knew it was wrong to have such feelings and somehow, she knew he would not wish to put her—nor himself—through such misery. By morning, he’d gone. Headed west as he’d told her, to follow his brother. She’d never shared what had happened between them with another soul, nor the way her heart had broken when he went away.
When she’d awoken the next day to find the young soldier gone, Genevieve had realized that her marriage had been a shell, nothing more than an arrangement between her parents and his. With the war looming, they’d met only once before the wedding. Within the week he’d been called to war.
Early on, he’d been able to return on furlough a handful of occasions when time and proximity allowed. His conversations were always of mostly of battle. Rarely, if ever, did he mention how he’d missed her, or what her letters had meant to him. And though he performed his husbandly duty, by dawn he was off again to his
precious war.
The scent of strong coffee brought her back to the present.
“Tis a shame Silas did what he did, Mrs. Walters. Some men aren’t the marrying kind, I ‘spect.” Seamus, the Nugget’s bartender, sat two steaming mugs on the table and waited until Genevieve had sat down before seating himself. She found the simple gesture endearing, so unlike his usual cantankerous behavior.
“And you, Mr. Malone? Are you not the marrying kind?” Genevieve asked. She held the cup in both hands, grateful for its warmth. Glad for a few moments to gather her strategy in finding Penny a husband.
His gaze remained on his cup. “The thing is ma’am, I am married—or I was.”
Genevieve frowned, her heart going out to the man. “I’m sorry, Mr. Malone. What happened?”
He glanced up then, the averted his gaze as though unable to face her. “Oh, she’s alive and well. Last I knew she was still living back East.”
Genevieve studied the silver just beginning to appear at the man’s temples. He couldn’t be more than his mid-thirties, but life out here had a way of aging a man beyond his years.
His gaze flickered back to hers. She saw his embarrassment.
“I’ve been sending her money, but to tell you the truth watching all these men getting married has made me miss her something fierce. I’d like to send for her.” He turned the cup in his hands and took a quick sip. “If she’ll have me again, that is.”
Curiosity laced with compassion caused Genevieve to reach out and cover Seamus’s hand wrapped around his cup. “How can I help, Mr. Malone?”
He seemed to struggle with opening up to her. He laid his hands firmly on the table, his eyes meeting hers. “The truth is Mrs. Walters, she gave me the boot.”
“The boot? What would possess her to do such a thing, Mr. Malone?”
“Aye, because I was a drinkin’ bastard, ma’am,” he lamented, then seemed to remember his manners. “My apologies, ma’am.”
“Accepted, Mr. Malone. Do you feel up to sharing what happened?”
He dismissed her concern with a wave of his hand. “To be sure, the woman had every right to do as she did. I was up to no good back then, ma’am. Worthless, I was…and that’s bein’ kind about it.”
Her heart went out to his confession. It must have taken great courage to face his demons and admit to them. Certainly, he was not the grumbling curmudgeon he often portrayed himself to be. “What changed for you, Mr. Malone?” She studied him. “You don’t at all seem to be the man you’ve described.”
He nodded. “My humble thanks, ma’am.” He stared over her shoulder as though formulating his thoughts. “But if I were to name one thing, I would say it was this town. Noelle, ma’am.” He chuckled softly. “Now you take Mr. Hardt, for example--there is a fine man, a gracious man. Not everyone thinks as much, and he is tough—there’s no question to that.” The regard for his boss was evident in his eyes. He tapped his finger to the table. “I made it out this far and had no idea where to go. He offered me a job, helping him run the bar.” He took a sip of his coffee. “When the mine began to take up more of his time, he handed over the reins to me. Me.” He smiled. “Who’d have believed such a thing? I knew it was my chance to get my life right and since the day he hired me, I’ve not had a drink.” His thoughtful gaze narrowed. “I suppose you could say Noelle saved me, Mrs. Walters.”
His confession touched her in a way unexpected. Perhaps there was more to this little town than what the eye could see. She realized that, in part, Pastor Hammond’s description, while far different than what reality offered, came from perhaps a similar perspective. Maybe it was why he wrote of such an idyllic place. She sniffed, surprised by the emotions it jarred inside her. Genevieve smiled. “You’re as fine a man as I’ve had the pleasure to meet, Seamus Malone.”
The flesh above his beard blushed crimson.
“How may I help you?” she asked, determined now to do her best to bring happiness to him.
He slipped a piece of paper form his pocket, unfolded it, and handed it to her. On it was an address, faded with time. “I was hopin’ that you might consider writing to my wife. You know, put in a good word as a matchmaker, about how I am now. Help me tell her how I feel. Ask her to come to Noelle and give me another chance?”
Genevieve studied the sincerity on the man’s face. “I will do what I can to help you, Mr. Malone. But I must get through the next two days. You do understand, don’t you?”
He tapped his fingers to the table again and nodded. “I do. Most obliged, ma’am. Well, I best be getting’ back ta work, then.”
She watched him walk away and took a sip of the stout coffee he’d brought her.
“Mrs. Walters? Ma’am, may I have a moment of your time?”
Puzzled, she peered over the mug at the stranger standing before her. A tall, lanky fellow with a thick, dark moustache. His hat was tattered at the edges. The simple undershirt he wore was pock-marked with stains. It was, however, the utter and open look of earnestness in the man’s dark brown eyes that captured her attention. “The name’s Orvis Weston, ma’am.” He removed his hat to reveal dark hair, silvery at the temples, cut neatly at the neck and above the ears.
“Please, have a seat, Mr. Weston.” She nodded to the empty chair across from her. She wasn’t certain how appropriate it was to meet with not one, but two men in a saloon. Still, she was in a public place, and on Sunday’s and special occasions it was considered church. Besides, it was becoming clear that this little town might benefit from her expertise.
“Ma’am, I’ve been watching the weddings all week.” He held his hat, turning it nervously between his hands. “I wasn’t chosen to be a groom, ma’am.”
Genevieve’s interest piqued. “Do you have an interest in getting married, Mr. Weston?” This might well solve her issue with Penelope. Perhaps she’ll have two men to choose from?
“Yes, ma’am.” He swallowed. “I surely am.”
“And you’d like my help in finding you a bride?” She smiled. “Well, Mr. Weston, as it happens, I may be able to help you.”
He cleared his throat and his gaze darted to the table of men playing cards across the room. “Appreciate that, ma’am. But thing is…I already found me the woman I want to marry. I just don’t quite know how to go about it.”
Perplexed, Genevieve eyed the man. From the table nearby came the muffled sound of laughter.
“Y’all can just hush.” His drawl, decidedly southern, warned his card-playing friends. He glanced at Genevieve. “Pay them no mind, ma’am. They don’t know what it feels like.”
“Feels like, Mr. Weston?” she asked, suddenly wishing she had a drink of Seamus’s amber-colored courage from behind the bar.
“Bein’ in love, ma’am,” he said searching her eyes.
“I see.” Genevieve placed her hands in her lap. “Why don’t you tell me a little bit about this woman? Have you corresponded at some length with her?”
More muffled laughter.
Orvis leaned forward and spoke in a hushed voice. “We’ve been corresponding a great deal, ma’am. She’s right here in Noelle.”
She raised her brows and searched her mind to what other women she’d seen in town. There were very few other than the woman she’d brought from Denver. There was, of course, Madame and her ladies at La Maison. “Is it one of the women I brought with me, Mr. Weston?” There was only two women left—Penelope and Agatha. And Agatha had been spending far too much time with Madame since the man chosen as her groom--eighty-year-old farmer had taken one look at her and vehemently decided that at seventy-five years old, she was too young for him. The crotchety old man spat a wad of chew on the ground, turned on his boot heel and went back to his ranch in the hills where he raised goats. Agatha was beyond relieved stating, “I don’t want a man who expects me to cook and clean. The men who frequent La Maison are just interested in getting down to business.” She’d declared her independence to Genevieve two days after their arrival, leaving her short
of the twelve needed to satisfy the contract. That was before Silas deserted the cause in search of gold.
Now two spots remained and only two days to fill them.
Weston lowered his voice and scooted his chair closer. “No, ma’am.”
Genevieve held her breath, managing a weak smile.
“It’s Miss Boum Boum.”
Genevieve straightened, unsure is she’d heard the man correctly. She paused to find a delicate way to ask. “Do you mean the woman who claims she can balance two tea cups on her--” She gestured loosely toward the man’s chest.
A grin split his face. “Yes, ma’am. She’s the one.”
Unexpected as this was, the real challenge now faced her. Did she help this man gain Miss Boum Boum’s hand in marriage—no easy task given that Madame—while portraying the considerate boss, behaved more like a warden to her ladies.
Or…
Try her best in talking him into marrying Penny.
She caught the man’s longing gaze. Penny would never do. No woman except the soiled dove at La Maison would satisfy this love-struck southerner. That left her with no choice but a probable confrontation with Madame Bonheur.
On the other hand, were it to be a successful union in which she played her part, it’s possible the railroad might consider the marriage to be in compliance with the original agreement. “How well do you know this woman, Mr. Weston?” Genevieve’s desire to affirm both parties were like-minded was a natural concern.
Orvis’s smile was shy. He blushed a little as he grinned. “I ‘spect I know her about as well as a man can know a woman, ma’am.”
It was Genevieve’s turn to blush. She cleared her throat. “What I mean is does Miss Boum Boum feel similarly?”
He blinked, tossing her a frown.
“Does she feel as you do, Mr. Weston?”
“Oh.” He nodded. “Yes, ma’am. She sure does. I knew there was something different about her the first time I laid eyes on her. Did you know she has many talents, Mrs. Walters? I could give you a list of the things she has shown me. You’d be mighty impressed, as I was.” In his excitement, his voice rose.
The Piper_The Eleventh Day Page 6
