by Jen Turano
“I know I should ask why you have opera glasses stashed in your satchel, but since that’s somewhat self-explanatory because you’re always so annoyingly prepared for anything, what are you looking at?”
“I’m not sure, but . . . Oh dear.” Drusilla passed the opera glasses to Agatha. “Take a look.”
Pressing the opera glasses to her eyes, Agatha frowned. “Are those women riding this way?”
“Indeed, and do notice the rifles attached to their saddles.”
Agatha took another look. “I’ll bet those are soon going to prove to be problematic.”
“Exactly,” Drusilla said crisply before she took the glasses back from Agatha and quickly stowed them away. “I think we’re about to be held up, and I swear, if we get out of this latest calamity alive, I’m going to strangle Zayne. Only an idiot would flaunt his finds in a silly sack hanging from his belt.”
“You saw that?”
“I’m very observant.” Drusilla reached back in her satchel and pulled out a pistol, holding it with what seemed to be a practiced hand.
“I didn’t know you carried that.”
“Forgive me, Agatha, but this is no time for a pleasant chat regarding what you do and don’t know about me. We need to get up to the mine and warn the gentlemen. Plus, if those ladies begin shooting at us, we’ll have the better advantage if we’re higher.” Taking a firm hold of Agatha’s arm, Drusilla began to prod her up the mountain.
Agatha slipped on some loose dirt, which had Drusilla tightening her hold and hauling her upright. “I’ll bet Mr. Blackheart never imagined when he told us to avoid emergencies that one would really happen.”
Drusilla’s brows drew together. “He should have remembered you attract emergencies like honey attracts bees, but enough about that. You need to stop dawdling.”
“I’m not dawdling. I slipped, and I’d be able to move faster if you weren’t dragging me along.”
“Stop being difficult,” Drusilla said, even as she released Agatha’s arm and scrambled up a few feet. “Honestly, if I’d known exactly what I was getting into, I might have hesitated briefly before I swore to protect you, because . . .”
Agatha stopped moving. “Swore to protect me?”
Drusilla let out a grunt, which was unusual in and of itself, and glared at Agatha, looking slightly like Mr. Blackheart. “I’m your paid companion. Of course I’m expected to protect you.”
“Protect my virtue,” Agatha clarified, “and forgive me, but I don’t believe that’s in jeopardy at the moment. Nor—just so we’re clear—are you actually responsible for my reputation, since I’m rapidly becoming a lady of a certain age.”
“You’re twenty-two, hardly ancient, but this is not the time to discuss such matters. We’re soon to be set upon by a motley-looking group of outlaws.”
“They didn’t look motley to me. I thought they—”
“Would you come on?”
Snapping her mouth shut even though she still had plenty to say, Agatha climbed a few steps, then stopped. “I forgot Matilda.”
“Don’t even think about going back for her.”
“What if they shoot her?”
“Why would they do that? They’re after gold, not lunch.”
“It’s a good thing Matilda can’t hear you, otherwise, she’d be very upset.”
The next second, Drusilla had another very firm grip on her arm, and Agatha had no choice but to continue upward. “I don’t like being manhandled.”
“Since I’m a woman, that makes absolutely no sense,” Drusilla said. “But in order to alleviate your distress, I saw Matilda making a dash for the wagon. She’s a smart little thing. She’ll hide until the danger passes.”
“Or until she’s dead.”
Apparently, Drusilla didn’t feel the need to address that particular statement, because she tightened her hold and increased her pace, dragging Agatha up the mountain. They finally reached the entrance to the mine, and Drusilla promptly pushed Agatha toward the opening. “Go find Mr. Blackheart. I’ll stay here and try to dissuade those ladies from climbing after us.”
Reaching beneath her shirt, Agatha pulled a pistol from the waistband of her trousers. “I’m armed as well, so perhaps both of us should stay here and hold the ladies off.”
Drusilla’s mouth thinned, and she looked rather fierce, nothing at all like the pleasant companion Agatha had grown accustomed to. “We have limited ammunition. They have rifles and I’m going to assume pistols as well. Go get Mr. Blackheart.” She took up a position right inside the entrance of the mine and gestured to Agatha. “Go.”
“Fine, but don’t think we’re not going to have a long discussion about this later.” Agatha turned on her heel and marched into the mine, pausing for a moment as her eyes adjusted to the dimness of the space. Seeing a tunnel right in front of her, she scooped up one of the numerous lit lanterns on the floor and barreled through the tunnel, yelling for Mr. Blackheart at the top of her lungs. Her voice echoed eerily around her, but to her annoyance neither Mr. Blackheart nor Zayne bothered to answer her.
She darted down a narrow passageway as irritation began to replace the anxiety flowing through her veins. Leave it to gentlemen to ignore a lady when danger was nipping at their heels. She was forced to stop when she reached a dead end, turned and raced back the way she’d come, pausing as she considered the two tunnels in front of her. The distant sound of voices met her ears, and she moved into motion once again.
“ . . . and if you’ll notice, I’ve carefully placed dynamite in precise locations so that I can increase the size of this tunnel without having all the walls collapse. I’ve attached the dynamite to that fuse line right over there, and I’ve already taken the end of that line out to the main tunnel. All I need to do is light it and—”
She skidded to a halt right in front of them. “Didn’t you hear me yelling for you?”
Zayne lifted up a lantern and peered back at her, his face looking oddly green in the light. “I don’t believe what you were doing constitutes a yell, Agatha. It sounded more like screaming to me, and of course we heard you. I’m certain people in England heard you, but you’ll need to wait a moment before explaining your dramatics. I’m right in the middle of telling Mr. Blackheart how I placed this dynamite so that no unforeseen problems will—”
“There are three women riding this way. Drusilla and I believe they’re doing so in order to hold us up.” She drew in a breath. “They’re armed, heavily we think.”
Zayne tilted his head and, to her annoyance, barely batted an eye. “Three women you say? How odd, unless . . . I vaguely remember spending time last night with three women, but . . . no, they’d have no reason to track me down out here.”
“You probably let them see that stash of gold you keep attached to your belt since you were, well, drunk,” Agatha snapped. “I would hazard a guess they’re here to divest you of it, and—” A shot suddenly rang out, and Agatha forgot what she’d been about to say.
“Stay here,” Mr. Blackheart ordered before he disappeared, a pistol gripped in his hand.
“Stay here,” Zayne repeated, his nonchalant attitude of a moment before gone. Before she had a chance to protest, he snatched the pistol out of her hand and hobbled away as fast as his bad leg would allow.
She stood frozen in place for a second, completely furious. It wasn’t as if she were some wilting flower who couldn’t handle herself in dangerous situations, but that dangerous situation would be easier to handle if Zayne hadn’t just made off with her favorite gun. Bending over, she set down the lantern, yanked up the leg of her trouser and pulled her second-favorite gun from the strap attached to her ankle and straightened. Snatching up the lantern again, she headed in the direction Zayne and Mr. Blackheart had disappeared, stopping abruptly when another shot rang out.
It sounded so close that Agatha had the unwelcome suspicion the ladies might have gotten past Drusilla and were now in the mine. Knowing she might have to make use of the element of
surprise, she turned the knob on the lantern, shutting off the flame before she set it on the ground. Edging slowly through the dark, she bit back a yelp when she hit her head on something hard. Rubbing it for a second, she started forward again, slowing to another stop when she heard a lady’s voice echo down the tunnel.
“Gentlemen, I encourage you to put down those guns or this woman will definitely not like what we do to her.”
Pulse racing, Agatha inched ahead, using her hand against the roughhewn tunnel to guide her until the light from the main entrance finally made it possible for her to see. She stopped in the shadows right as Mr. Blackheart began to speak.
“What do you want?”
“Now, now, watch your tone, sir. I don’t care for aggressive men, and I’ve been known to shoot men who’ve aggravated me in the past.”
“Who are you?” Zayne demanded.
“Why, Mr. Beckett, how cruel that you don’t remember me, especially after we shared such a lovely time last night. I’m Mary, and that is Jessie, and the other lady is Hannah.” Mary laughed, the sound making the hair on the back of Agatha’s neck stand up. “We’ve come to relieve you of that delightful bag of gold we noticed you had last night.”
“You are more than welcome to it.”
A second later, a thump sounded, and then the woman laughed again. “I must say, that was easier than I expected.”
“I always try to be accommodating,” Zayne returned. “And since I’ve cooperated and given you what you came for, I see no reason for you to linger.”
“Ah, but that’s where you’re wrong. Me and the girls don’t like to leave any loose ends, which is why I didn’t hesitate to give you our names. But speaking of loose ends, where’s Agatha Watson?”
“What do you want with Agatha, and how did you learn her name?” Drusilla asked.
“Everyone was only too willing to talk about the odd lady journalist who rode into town. I watched her drive away from the hotel with you, Mr. Beckett, and, well, sadly for her, the last person I need to leave alive is a journalist.”
“She’s not here,” Zayne said. “Miss Watson and I suffered a slight misunderstanding on the ride over, and I’m afraid she got annoyed with me and jumped off the wagon. She’s probably back at the hotel by now.”
“You’re hardly the type of gentleman to leave a lady on her own out here in the wild, Mr. Beckett, and besides, I watched her climb up the mountain.” Mary’s voice got considerably louder. “We know you’re here, Miss Watson. You might as well come out of hiding and save all of us a great deal of trouble.”
Agatha took a second to consider her options. If she showed herself, she’d lose any hint of a surprise attack, but if she didn’t . . .
“We don’t have time for this, Mary,” one of the other ladies snapped. “And it doesn’t matter if she comes out or not. Once we dynamite the place, no one will be left alive to identify us, and we’ll finally be able to collect that fee we’ve been promised for—”
“Shut up,” Mary snarled. “Miss Watson, if you don’t stop this game immediately, I’m going to start shooting your friends, starting with the lady who tried to kill me. It really was a shame when her gun jammed, depriving her of my death.”
Agatha took a small step forward but tripped on something and fell to her knees, ripping her trousers in the process. Pushing upright, she glanced down and smiled when her gaze settled on Zayne’s fuse line, a line that just happened to be attached to . . . dynamite.
Plucking it off the ground, she straightened, but before she could consider how to proceed, squeals split the air.
“Oh no, not Matilda,” she whispered as the squeals changed to threatening-sounding grunts, something Matilda seemed to do right before she was getting ready to charge.
“Stupid pig, stop trying to bite me,” Mary shrieked before another shot sounded and Matilda’s grunts turned to terrified whimpers.
Agatha rushed into the room. “Stop shooting,” she yelled, dropping the fuse line to the floor as she aimed her pistol at the woman who was chasing after Matilda.
The woman stopped chasing Matilda, which allowed the pig to disappear behind a large crate that seemed to be filled with dynamite. Swinging her pistol around to face Agatha, the woman had the audacity to smile. “Ah, Miss Watson, I presume?”
“Indeed, and you must be Mary.”
“But of course I am,” Mary agreed. “And now, since we’ve gotten the pleasantries out of the way, I’m going to have to insist you drop that little weapon of yours and place your hands over your head.”
“I don’t think I’m going to do that, Mary,” Agatha drawled as she glanced to the right and found Zayne, Mr. Blackheart, and Drusilla being held at gunpoint by another lady, one who looked remarkably mean. She looked back to Mary. “The only thing standing between me, my friends, and death is this pistol, so you and I are going to have to come to some type of compromise.”
Mary considered her for a long moment and then smiled again. “Shoot her, Jessie.”
Agatha dropped to the ground right as another pistol went off. Rolling to her side, she squeezed the trigger and her pistol fired, but instead of hitting the woman who’d just tried to kill her, her shot went wide and hit a lantern attached to a heavy beam. Kerosene went everywhere, followed immediately by flames, and some of those flames were heading directly for the fuse line she’d dropped, while others were traveling toward the crate filled with dynamite.
“Run,” she yelled as she scrambled to her feet.
No one seemed to need any prodding.
Mary and her girls rushed from the tunnel first, without a backward glance, followed by Drusilla and Mr. Blackheart. As she ran, terror struck Agatha and brought her stumbling to a stop.
Zayne’s leg would never be up for the task of carrying him to safety fast enough.
Mr. Blackheart must have been of the same mind, because he rushed back into the tunnel, ran to Zayne, bent down, flung Zayne over his shoulder, and raced back the way he’d just come.
Her feet swept into motion, and she pounded after them, breathing a sigh of relief when fresh air hit her and she ran through the entrance of the mine. Her relief was cut short when an explosion split the air, hurting her ears, and then the mountain began to tremble as more and more explosions erupted.
She lost her balance and pitched forward, unable to stop herself as she tumbled over and over down the steep mountain, barely feeling the rough rocks tearing her clothing and skin. She finally came to a stop and could only lie there as dirt and debris settled over her and the air turned dark with dust.
The air gradually began clearing around her, and she pushed aside a mound of dirt that was covering her, but before she could sit up, the mountain gave another shudder and more explosions erupted, sending an avalanche of dirt her way. She covered her head and began choking as dirt clogged her airway.
The trembling seemed to go on forever, and every time she thought it was finished, it began again. Minutes dragged by, and then, the mountain stilled, the dust in the air thinned, and she began to unbury herself.
How long it took, she couldn’t really say, but as she pushed dirt away, panic settled deep in her bones.
She needed to find the others—see if they were hurt, or more importantly, alive. Finally managing to free herself, she sat up, frowning when she couldn’t hear a thing. She patted her ears and patted them again before she finally heard what sounded like horses in the distance. Squinting in that direction, she saw three horses racing away, ridden by none other than Mary and her girls.
“Good riddance,” she said before she stumbled to her feet, looking around for any sign of movement.
The first thing she saw was Matilda trembling a few feet away from her, bleeding from the snout, not a hint of her pink skin in sight. “It’s all right, darling,” she said softly, moving to squat down beside the pig. “Where are the others?”
Matilda let out a mournful whine and began walking over to a large pile of dirt, Agatha following
a step behind. What met her gaze on the other side of the pile took her completely by surprise.
Three pairs of outraged eyes peered back at her from blackened faces, the sight causing relief, mixed with a surprising touch of amusement, to rush through her. Only people who weren’t suffering dire injuries would be remotely capable of summoning up that particular amount of outrage.
Mr. Blackheart coughed and then coughed again. “Where’s Mary?”
“She’s gone. I saw her riding away with the other two women.”
“Must’ve thought we were dead,” Drusilla muttered before she began wheezing.
“We should be dead,” Zayne rasped as he pulled a clump of dirt out of his beard before he scowled at her. “Why, pray tell, did you think it was a good idea to bring that fuse line out to the main entrance?”
Agatha stiffened. “I didn’t actually think about it, Zayne, and it certainly wasn’t my intention to blow your mine up. It was an accident, but one that brought positive consequences.”
“Positive consequences?” he thundered. “You destroyed my mine and almost killed all of us in the process. What exactly do you consider positive about that?”
“We’re still alive, and . . .” She cleared her throat. “Since it seems I did do a rather good job of demolishing your mine—unintentionally, of course—and you mentioned it’s about to snow soon . . .” She brushed dirt from her sleeve and summoned up a smile. “You won’t have enough time to build new tunnels, at least not until the spring, which means you have absolutely no reason to resist returning home to New York.”
Zayne’s mouth dropped open, he peered at her through dirt-encrusted lashes, and then . . . the yelling began.
5
Zayne stretched out his legs and leaned back against the plush seat as a distinct sense of disgruntlement settled over him. That disgruntlement made it next to impossible for him to enjoy the opulence of the private Pullman car on the train his family had sent for him. And that gave him yet another reason to be annoyed with Agatha.
