Carina turned and looked back toward Crystal. “Which churches would that be, Mr. Makepeace?”
He was quiet a long moment, then, “Mrs. Shepard, forgive me for troubling you with concerns not your own.”
It was a polite way of telling her to mind her own business and not push him further. Carina recognized that, but she pushed anyway. “And if one day you are injured and unable to work?”
“Then I hope I’ll have handled my affairs well enough to see me through.”
“I’m sure you will have. But is that possible for a man on three dollars a day?”
He rubbed the heel of one hand against the other and eyed her squarely. “Probably not.”
At least he didn’t equivocate, and she respected him for that. His arguments had all been sensible and not vindictive. She guessed he was a good foreman, careful in every way he could manage. She wasn’t even sure why she had taken the tack she had. What were the miners to her?
Gathering clouds and a renewed chill sent them back to the horses, and the wind made conversation difficult on the ride back. Carina was glad. She had no desire to spar any further, especially with Quillan’s man. Did Quillan understand the conditions in his mine? Mr. Makepeace had given her a clearer picture than she’d wanted. How informed was her husband?
Mr. Makepeace left her at her door and, buffeted by the wind, led Daisy back to the livery, behind his steeldust. Carina went inside, wondering what she would do with herself. She had decided not to serve dinners on Sunday. Everyone needed one day free, she’d reasoned. But now her day threatened to stretch unbearably. And she couldn’t free her mind from the plight of the hard-rock miners.
TEN
I think God allows hardship so that in alleviating it, we might understand His mercy.
—Carina
THE MORNING BROUGHT SNOW, and when Carina stepped out to fill her basin, the air was so cold it hurt to breathe. She pumped the water swiftly and hurried back inside. Before she washed, she stoked the fire in the stove and warmed the water. No sense freezing if she didn’t have to.
After washing and dressing, she found Mae in the kitchen frying thick slabs of bacon and pouring hotcakes. Was there ever a morning without bacon and hotcakes? She thought longingly of warm, sugar-crusted tarrele, steaming coffee with real cream, sausage and peppers, and hard-boiled eggs. She sighed.
“World on your shoulders again?” Mae didn’t turn as she spoke. She flipped a long line of hotcakes, then returned to the front of the line and scooped them onto a platter. “Bring the coffee on behind me, will you?”
Carina lifted the large blue-speckled pot using a cloth around the handle and another at its base. She followed Mae into the dining room, where the men were stacked side by side as tightly as they could fit along the benches. Hungry men, gobbling up whatever they could to sustain them for their day’s work.
Some carried pie tins containing the lunches they would eat in the dark of the mines. Others made do with Mae’s fare until their ten- or twelve-hour shift was done, then came back for stewed beef. As Carina poured, she looked at the men whose cups she filled.
In the past she’d been disgusted by them, slopping like hogs, not even noticing what they ate or caring that it was the same thing day after day. She poured the next cup and noted the three-fingered grip that held it, the middle two fingers missing at the palm. She glanced at his face, and he smiled his thanks.
She moved on. They were all bundled against the cold, but they’d soon be warm enough with the steam that filled the tunnels. How would it be to go from the snow-filled air to the steam and back to the chill? No wonder so many of them suffered with incessant hacking.
Carina looked up and down the tables. There was not a trustee, store owner, lawyer, or judge among them, though Joe Turner and his managers sat at one end and Alex Makepeace in the center of another table. She emptied the pot and returned to the stove to brew more coffee. Suddenly what Mae did seemed so much more significant than her own dream.
Mae fed the masses wholesome, filling food, food to sustain them over hours of hard, torturous labor. Carina cooked elaborate, palette-pleasing fare for those who could afford more per plate than the men at Mae’s table earned each day. She felt . . . wrong.
It must have shown, for when Èmie came in to plan the day’s menu with her, she paused. “Aren’t you feeling well?”
“Well enough.” Carina suddenly gripped her arm. “Èmie, am I doing right?” She swung her arm toward her elegant dining room, not in sight from the kitchen but clear in her mind. “My restaurant, my fancy food, my fancier clientele. Is it right?”
“Right for what?” Èmie’s brow lowered.
“What of all the men who can’t afford four dollars a plate? Who don’t earn four dollars in a twelve-hour day?”
Èmie caught Carina’s hands together between hers. “What is it that’s bothering you, Carina? That you’ve done something special? Created an experience that Crystal appreciates?”
“What Crystal? The glitter that feeds off the poor?”
Èmie smiled. “Is that it, then? You feel guilty for catering to the upper crust?”
Carina threw out her hands. “I don’t know what I feel. I’ve made so much money this last week—and then I think of Lucia. . . .”
“Who is not working the cribs, thanks to you and your fancy food.”
“But so many others!”
Èmie brought Carina’s hand to her lips and kissed it. “You took me from the baths.”
“I know, but . . .”
“There’s nothing to say you can’t use your money any way you please.”
Carina felt the truth of her words. Yes. She could use the money she earned from the wealthy patrons to help those in need. That would be as good as what Mae did. And she could hire another girl. Lord knew they needed the help. She felt the weight lift from her.
“I must talk to Joe Turner about freighters.” She left Èmie wondering, no doubt, what freighters had to do with anything.
Joe Turner had risen and was starting for the door when she accosted him. “Mr. Turner, may I have a word with you?”
“Of course, Mrs. Shepard.” He waited while his companions politely made their exit.
“I need far more supplies than I anticipated. Could you recommend some freighters who might be amenable to providing what I need?” Even she knew she couldn’t again go to Fairplay through the winter. Nor could she consider riding with a freighter who was not her husband. But neither could she wait for her husband.
He frowned in thought. “The freighters I use haul ore. But let me see what I can do.”
“Thank you.” Carina smiled. Joe Turner would move heaven to help her.
By the time he came for dinner that night he had three freighters willing to make the trip to Fairplay, and one of them to Denver if necessary. Carina suspected Joe Turner had used his influence somehow, but she didn’t ask. She was only thankful.
The next morning the first of them took the list she had made up, complete with the most each item should cost. He expected two days to make the trip, barring blizzards. Pleased, she agreed and sent him off. Another thought had occurred to her, but she needed to stock her larder before she could do it. Now it just remained to keep her wealthy clientele pleased enough to keep coming back.
Alex Makepeace listened to the creak and squeal of the winch letting the basket down the shaft. Four men rode together, their heads disappearing below the edge as the machinery lowered them to the depths of the mine. His conversation with Mrs. Shepard made him more aware of things than he’d been in some time.
Perhaps he should have the maintenance team do a thorough inspection. Such things cost time and money, but they saved lives. There was a thin line between profit and loss with the chanciness of silver prospects within the politics and economics of the country. His investors—no, his employers—expected the same margins as the other comparative mines, and many of them cut corners. The easiest corners being those that affected
safety.
Setting the timbering farther apart, using fewer braces and planks, which kept the loose rocks from falling on the miners’ heads, cheaper grades of lumber more susceptible to rot and mildew—all these were established practices for improving profit. His group expected no less. Alex stepped aside as a new mule was led into the shaft house.
He watched two men tie it securely, binding its legs and blindfolding it so it wouldn’t kick itself or the sides of the shaft loose during its descent. They worked the sling under its belly, then hoisted it out over the shaft. The animal dangled there a moment, breathing its last clean air.
Once it was lowered into the mine, the mule would never come out. It would spend several hours still tied up but not blindfolded to accustom it slowly to the new environment. Then it would live the rest of its days in the dark, claustrophobic, muted atmosphere underground. Each day would be a monotony of pulling one-ton ore carts along eighteen-inch rails, feeding and leaving its waste in the tunnels that now comprised its world. Alex didn’t envy the poor animal.
Strange, he’d always felt more sympathy for the beasts than the men—maybe because they had no voice in the matter. They were slaves to the human whims that drove them. At least every man down there had chosen the work for himself. And it was a worthy living, if a hard one.
Alex watched the last of the mules disappear and sighed. Everyone played his part, even the beasts, and maybe they minded it less than he imagined. They were certainly docile enough once they adjusted in those first hours. A man coughed beside him, and Alex turned to see what he wanted.
Finney McGough could be anywhere from thirty to sixty, wizened and hacking. He was rocked up, Alex knew, but he didn’t mention it. The miners’ consumption was a subject avoided on all fronts. Alex had his suspicions of its causes, but he kept them to himself. No sense alarming men over what couldn’t be helped. Part of the trade, was all. Part of the trade.
When the freighter returned with a full wagon, Carina was ecstatic. When she saw his bill, much of her ecstasy vanished. Quillan hadn’t exaggerated. The freighter’s markup was extortionary. She realized now how fair Quillan’s price had been even before she talked him down to the deficit amount they’d settled on for that first trip. But she couldn’t see any way past paying the bill if she needed to use freighters other than Quillan.
She would just have to get used to higher cost and smaller profit. She felt better about her plate cost. And with what this freighter had brought her she would implement her new plan. It was two days until Sunday, two days to pass the word and enlist Mae.
Èmie and Lucia she would leave out of it. They needed a day free, and she was determined they should have it. Besides, she couldn’t afford to pay them, not when she was charging only fifty cents a plate for any miner and his family. She hurried to Mae’s kitchen while the freighter unloaded her goods into the icehouse and larder.
Her pimento jar had been replaced by a crockery canister like Mae’s. She stretched up and took it down from the shelf. From it she counted out the money to pay the freighter and shoved it into the deep pocket she’d requested be sewn into the dress she wore.
“Mae,” she called into the parlor, but there was no answer. She crossed through to the entry and found Mae at her desk. “Mae, I have an idea.”
Mae licked her finger and counted a stack of bills, then entered them into her ledger. “Do I want to know?”
“Of course you do. Because you have to help me. I can’t do it alone.”
Mae glanced briefly, her violet eyes dark with doubt. She laid down her pencil and folded her fingers into a fleshy mat. “Let’s have it.”
“Sunday I’m feeding the miners.”
“So?”
“I don’t mean the mine managers or owners or engineers. I mean the miners. For fifty cents a plate. I wanted to serve them free, but I thought they might not like that. It would seem like charity.”
“It is charity. How much are you making on fifty cents a plate?”
“None. But enough the other nights to spare.”
Mae shook her head. “You feel guiltier about more things than anyone I know.”
“It isn’t about guilt. It’s about . . . kindness.”
Mae heaved herself out of her chair. “And just how do you propose doing this?”
“I’ll start serving at noon and serve through dinner. It won’t be fancy, but it’ll be different—special because it’s different. Do you see?”
“I see. Where do I come in?”
“Just tending the pasta and the sauce while I serve.”
“And you think the two of us will handle that?”
Carina bit her lower lip. “I admit it won’t be easy.”
“Impossible, more like. Didn’t you learn anything from your opening night? You hang an offer like that out and you’ll have a stampede.”
“I want to try.”
“Why? What’s this all about?”
Carina threw out her hands. “Quillan’s mine. Mr. Makepeace was telling me all about it. It sounds horrible what the men do, what they risk. I just want . . . I just want to thank them.”
Mae was shaking her head before Carina finished. “Guilt again.”
“Maybe so. Is it so bad? If it makes you want to help, to do something good? Lucia lost her father. Is it so much to bring a little cheer into their lives?”
“Not so much, I guess. I just hope you know what you’re doing.”
“Then you’ll help me?”
“It’ll take a full company.”
“It can’t. Èmie and Lucia must have the day off. How else will Dr. Simms ever get the courage to ask Èmie . . .” She realized she’d spoken out of turn.
“I’m not blind, Carina. I’ve seen the mooning between them two.”
Carina squeezed Mae. “I must pay the freighter. I think his name is Peter Marley. Then I’m off to tell Joe Turner my plan.”
“Landsakes.”
Carina squeezed her again.
“You are the huggingest thing.”
Carina kissed both Mae’s cheeks, and Mae laughed. “Get out, will you?”
Carina left her still laughing and rode to Joe Turner’s Carina DiGratia mine. Mr. Turner balked at her idea. “These men are too rough for your establishment.”
“Rough or not, you will tell them, won’t you?”
He shook his head. “Yes, I’ll pass the word. I only hope it doesn’t kill your other business.” He clearly enjoyed the elite aspect of her venture, but he did seem genuinely concerned for her as well.
“Don’t worry. I know what I’m doing.” She left him still shaking his head. She knew it wouldn’t hurt business. God had given her the idea, and He would watch over it. She went next to the New Boundless, her own husband’s mine. She found Alex outside the mine with a map opened out before him. “That’s not a map like any I’ve seen.”
He looked up. “It’s topographical.”
“Oh.”
“That means it maps out the lay of the land. Each of these concentric circles stands for a certain distance upward.”
“Oh.”
“Never mind. Did you have a purpose here, Mrs. Shepard?” He said the words with a great deal of humor in his brown eyes.
“I did. I want you to tell the men I’m serving miners this Sunday, fifty cents a plate.”
“Mrs. Shepard!” He put a hand to his heart. “Fifty cents a plate when the rest of us pay four dollars?”
“It’s only fair, Mr. Makepeace, and you know it.”
He appraised her in that even way of his. “Well, I’ll tell them, but I don’t mind saying there are some of us who feel stung.”
“If you feel stung, it’s your own conscience. When you make three dollars a day, you can come on Sunday, too.”
He removed his hat and held it to his chest. “Forgive me for being a clod.”
She smiled. “Never a clod, Mr. Makepeace.”
“Does that mean you won’t have time for a ride on Sunday? I was ho
ping to see more of the countryside before the winter closes in for good.”
“Not this Sunday, Mr. Makepeace. Maybe the next.”
“I’ll look forward to it.” His eyes were warm coffee sweetened with honey. His smile continued the same warmth.
Carina’s skirts swished as she passed by him and headed for her mare. That was enough to start with. Word would pass from these two mines to the others. And she had two days to make and dry the pasta. Not to mention starting on her menu for the night. Yes, it was time for more help. She’d see whom else Èmie could find.
Quillan saw the gang of boys huddled too closely to be minding their manners. Something was inside their circle, but he couldn’t make out what. Maybe they were tormenting a stray dog, but it seemed to have more bulk than that. From his distance, he couldn’t make out exactly the nature of their activity, but he recognized the mean laughter and the taunting.
He gave Sam a curt command to stay, then strode purposefully closer. The figure inside their circle rose up, and he saw it was a boy, actually nearer a man, a full head taller than the others. The mud on his pants and bulky jacket testified to a roll on the street, and Quillan saw now that one of the others held a stick.
“Come on, dummy, do a trick. Roll over, dummy. Roll over.” The taunter struck the boy with his stick, and Quillan hoped for a moment the larger would take the stick and strike back. Then he recognized the expression behind the up-thrown arms. No understanding, just fear and bewilderment.
A surge of rage filled him. What meanness festered inside those kids to mistreat a simpleton as though he were an animal? Quillan reached the group and jerked the stick from the boy’s hand. He had no intention of hitting the kid, but the look on his face didn’t make that readily apparent.
“Hey.” The kid’s lip had a natural curl that matched his mean nature. “Give it back.”
The others cheered their leader, though Quillan noticed they’d stepped back a pace.
“You want it back?” Quillan balanced the stick in his hands as though testing its weight and measure. “Where do you want it?”
Sweet Boundless Page 13
