Confused, Carina pushed the hair back from her cheek. “What do you mean?”
“He’s had to fight for every ounce of respect he’s won. How will it be if he learns his wife is . . .”
“Is what?” Fire filled her veins.
“Taking up with another man.”
Carina’s breath came out in a burst. “Is that what you think?” It hurt more than she’d known to have Mae doubt her. And it was so unfair. “What about Quillan? Where is he, and with whom? Do you doubt his faithfulness? Or is it only me you blame? What have I done but wait and be willing?” She threw up her hands and stalked across the room, shaking now with unspent anger toward Mae, toward Quillan, toward herself for the pleasure she did take in Alex Makepeace’s company.
“I’m not saying it’s so. Just telling you how it looks.”
Carina spun. “How it looks? How does it look when my husband won’t spend one night with me? When he sleeps on the floor or in his wagon? When he eats at the hotel instead of my table? When he leaves for months with no word, no thought for me, no—” She burst into angry tears.
Mae’s hand was warm on the side of her head. “There, there. I’m sorry I upset you.”
“I don’t know what else to do. I’ve tried to understand. I thought by knowing Rose, by knowing Wolf . . .”
“What are you talking about?”
Carina raised her tear-streaked face to Mae’s. “I had Rose’s diary. Father Charboneau gave it to me. I felt her love for Quillan and loved him better for it. And now the cave . . .”
“Carina, you’re not making sense.”
“Alex Makepeace and I found a cave under the Rose Legacy.”
Mae stepped back. “The Rose Legacy. Wolf’s mine?”
Carina nodded.
“You went back there? After falling in the shaft?” Mae said.
“I’ve been back dozens of times. I . . . I visit the grave.”
Mae paled. “Landsakes, Carina.”
Carina sniffed, swiping at the tears beneath her nose. “Mr. Makepeace and I went down the shaft to the cave. There’s another chamber that’s painted. It’s Wolf’s story.”
Mae sank to the bed. “Are you telling me Wolf went down into the cave and painted the walls?”
Carina nodded. “That’s what he must have been doing when Rose thought he was searching for gold hour after hour. He was painting his life. It’s all there. Some of it horrifying, some just sad. Some I don’t understand, but . . . but that’s where I was with Alex Makepeace.”
Carina realized she’d broken her own injunction for secrecy, but she had to. She couldn’t bear for Mae to think badly of her. She reached into her pocket and brought out the crystal. “There is also a crystal cave, no bigger than this room, with crystals like this growing from the walls and ceiling. It’s beautiful.”
Mae fingered the crystal Carina laid in her palm, then held it up to the light. She sighed. “I’m sorry I doubted you. It’s just you’re so young, and it’s hard to be alone.”
Carina sensed Mae’s own loneliness as she had when they first met. One year of happiness with her husband was all Mae had known. But, Carina thought bitterly, it was more than she had with Quillan. “Mr. Makepeace is my husband’s partner . . . and my friend.”
Mae nodded slowly. “Unfortunately, folks judge by appearances.”
Carina dropped her hands to her sides. “Then I am judged already. What kind of woman cannot keep her husband home?” She walked to the window. “Half a year ago Crystal would have had me hung. Beck’s woman, they called me. What do I care now what they think they see?”
Mae stood, holding the crystal out to Carina.
Carina shook her head. “Keep it.” When Mae went silently through the door, Carina stood a long while at the window, looking out into the night.
The moment he heard the explosion, Alex knew something was wrong. Years of unconsciously gauging a blast gave him the ability to register any differences and mark them in his mind. Even before he heard shouts of “fire!” and “cave-in!” he had jolted into action, running toward the main shaft where already men were lowering the winch in a desperate effort to have it in place for the fleeing men below.
Cave-ins were bad, often deadly, but nothing was so bad as fire. It sucked the oxygen faster than a man could run, and they would drop like canaries, crumpled and suffocated within yards of freedom. Alex’s heart hammered as he hollered orders, directing the men in procedures he’d practiced in his sleep whenever the nightmare possibilities tormented his rest.
There was so little they could do, and so little time to do it. Now it seemed each moment hung on a thread, and he worked and hollered as though he’d stepped outside himself and watched from a distance, safe from the agonizing knowledge of his own futility. Billows of smoke and dust rose from the shaft as the first winch platform of men was raised. Two of those who surfaced were bloody, but they were dragged free and flung where they lay, and the winch dropped the platform again, careening down as fast as the chain would spin.
“Watch the heat!” Alex shouted, and the winchman poured water over the chain to cool its burning links. He didn’t want another accident to compound the first. “Now oil it!” A quick dose was all they had time for before they were raising the platform again with more men.
Alex helped his foreman, James Mires, to his feet. “How bad is it?”
The man doubled over and coughed. “Bad. A dozen men at least behind the wall.”
Behind the wall meant anywhere beyond the cave-in, even in the rubble itself. Alex gripped his arm and steadied him. “The fire?”
“Think we stopped it.” Mires choked again, banging his chest as though he could expel the bad air that way.
The next platform of men confirmed that the fire was out, and Alex had a modicum of hope. Once the dust settled they’d deal with the cave-in, but the immediate danger of fire had lessened. When all the men had been retrieved from the shaft, James Mires saw to their injuries and counted heads. Thirteen men were unaccounted for, and now it was Alex Makepeace’s turn to take charge.
Using the maps of the operation he’d drawn and the men’s information, he located the collapse on paper. If the explosion had been caused by a pocket of toxic air, there would be only bodies to retrieve. But if it was powder error or any other such cause, the missing men could still be living. Time was critical.
Hours passed as they worked on the best route to the men; then shifts were taken to first fortify the surrounding tunnel, then begin the process of clearing the rubble. The first men retrieved were beyond help. Alex looked at their crushed bodies and hung his head. It wasn’t the first carnage he’d viewed, nor would it be the last. Yet it didn’t make it easy to imagine their moments of fear and pain.
He stooped to help carry one of the dead to the platform. There would be families to notify, widows to comfort. He didn’t want to think of the orphans. But these men knew what they were facing, what dangers were inherent to the job. They knew when they signed on. But Alex kept thinking of Carina, and what she would say when she heard of today’s disaster.
In shifts, they worked through the night. Alex staggered with fatigue, but his expertise was needed at every step. Each time they reached a point of decision, it was his call. Build up first and lose valuable time, or break through and risk a tumble. His call, his responsibility.
Alex sank to a pile of timbers and swabbed his face with a kerchief. He was black with soot and sweat and dust. His eyes felt scratched and burned. Already they’d removed too much rubble to raise any hopes for the men inside. This whole length of tunnel was likely collapsed. But he was determined not one body would lie unretrieved. No Tommy-knockers in this mine. Alex looked roofward and prayed silently. If even one man could be saved . . .
The winch squealed, and Alex turned slowly to see who was coming down now. His spirit sank as Carina appeared in the dark shaft. This was not something she should look upon. He stood slowly, knowing as he did how futile it would be to
ask her to leave. And truthfully, he didn’t want to.
She stepped from the platform and carried a candle lantern toward him. He waited. She stopped before him, and he saw that she’d been told enough already. “How much farther?”
He shook his head. “Three hundred yards of tunnel. How much is collapsed, I don’t know.”
She looked at the bodies, covered but not yet raised to the surface. “May I have the names of all those dead?”
Alex swiped a drop of sweat from his ear. Carina was bundled against the cold outside, but down here with the pressure and anxiety of the situation, it felt like an inferno. He took a pad from his pocket and from memory began listing the men whose bodies had already been removed.
He handed her the page. “Four still missing.”
“What contingency is made for these families?”
“None.”
She released a sharp breath.
“This is part of the job, Carina. Part of the risk. Yes, I hate it. But they know. . . .”
“Do the women know? The children?”
“They know, Carina. They accept it. Doesn’t make it any easier, but they know.” His fatigue made him sharp. When Carina reached a hand to his arm, he gripped her fingers. “I’m sorry.” And he was. As bad as he felt, he could see she was taking it even harder. Why?
She spoke evenly. “Each of these families and any others yet to be found will receive a severance large enough to see them through the winter. Take it out of my husband’s share.”
Alex shook his head. “That’s not the precedent, Carina. It will cause trouble with the other mines.”
“I don’t care about the other mines. This is my mine, my men. You will do this, Alex.” Her eyes were dark coals, their intensity unmistakable. His heart jumped with an emotion foreign to him, but recognizable enough.
He gripped her fingers still on his arm. “Carina . . .”
She turned away. “How did it happen?”
“I don’t know yet. I’ll have to study the scene. Right now my first priority is clearing it out. Finding the men.”
“Could they be alive?”
He hesitated, then, “They could.” If she heard his doubt, he couldn’t help it. Yes, it was possible, but what were the chances?
“What can I do?”
“Pray.” He lifted her fingers from his arm, pressed them briefly, then started back down the tunnel.
Carina rode the platform up the shaft. The nightmare scene below was reminiscent of the dark night of hangings and bodies lying covered like furrows in the road. How much life would Crystal claim? Signore . . . She stepped from the platform and handed the candle lantern back to the winchman.
Word had reached her early about the accident, but she hadn’t been able to leave the restaurant until the last of her diners had gone home. How strange and pointless it had seemed to be serving plate after plate of elegant fare when somewhere below ground men were gasping their last under tons of crumbled stone and timbers.
But what could she do? Alex had looked terrible, bone weary and discouraged, but he at least had a purpose and the means by which to work. She knew the burden he felt, even though he spoke the company line. Precedent. What did she care for precedent?
There were widows and children now. She would see that they had what they needed through the winter until the roads were passable enough for them to leave. She didn’t care whom she offended in order to do it. If Quillan were here . . . oh, how she wished Quillan were here. He had been so good after the flood.
She knew from what she’d seen and heard how he helped people, providing what they needed at his own expense. Surely he would agree with her now. He couldn’t know how conditions were in his mine. He wouldn’t refuse these families in their need. She put a hand to her belly. “Your papa would do the right thing.”
But Quillan wasn’t here. So she must do it for him. She clasped the list of names Alex had written up for her. Tomorrow she would find these families and tell them not to worry. Their grief was terrible enough. They would not starve as well.
“I’d like you to come with me this morning, Quillan.” Reverend Shepard cinched the soft tie that held his wife into the chair beside the window.
“No thanks.”
“Not to hear my sermon—I’ve said enough to you over the years. Just to be present, to allow God—”
“I said no.” Quillan looked at his foster father. “I’ll sit with her.”
“Martha Reisner from the ladies’ aid sits with her the last Sunday of the month.” Reverend Shepard fixed Quillan with a look too reminiscent of his stern pulpit manner. “She’ll be here any minute now. There’s no need for you to stay.”
“Then I’ll find something else.”
The reverend dropped a heavy hand on his shoulder. “As a favor to an old man.”
Quillan’s heart twisted. He didn’t want to care for this old man. Cain, maybe. He’d suffered Preacher Paine for Cain’s sake. Alan, even. But this man, this reverend . . . His hands clenched at his sides. Then he released them. “All right.” He could always recite poetry in his head.
As they headed for the door, a broad woman came through the gate. Quillan cocked a brow. “Martha Reisner?”
The reverend nodded. “And leave your uncharitable thoughts.”
Quillan wondered how he’d known. But then Martha Reisner could hardly engender much else. She was squeezed so tightly into the dress that it was a wonder she could take a breath at all. He caught his foster father’s eye and let it go.
They walked next door to the church. The wind buffeted the minister, and once Quillan caught his arm to steady him. How old was the man anyway? Quillan had thought him old when he was a boy, but he supposed most kids thought the same about their parents. He couldn’t help noticing the stares as he walked inside with the reverend.
“Just take a seat anywhere.” Reverend Shepard smoothed the wind damage on his hair and suit.
“How ’bout the steps?” Quillan waved out the door toward the wooden steps that formed his escape.
“This pew should do.” The reverend nudged him to the side, and Quillan plunked down on the hard wooden bench. He wanted more than anything to get up and run, but he’d conquered that urge early on. This was one more test of his fortitude, and he would rise to the challenge.
The hymns were no problem. Quillan liked music, and if folks wanted to sing about God and his heavenly promises, let them. Then the reverend took the pulpit. Quillan noticed the quiver in one hand, and the man’s eyes brushed his once. He opened the Bible and threaded the ribbon into place.
“ ‘And he said to them all, if any man will come after me, let him deny himself, and take up his cross daily, and follow me. For whosoever will save his life shall lose it: but whosoever will lose his life for my sake, the same shall save it.’ ” Reverend Shepard looked now at Quillan, and Quillan felt the force of his gaze.
What did he want him to do, jump up and cry out his need for a savior? Isn’t that what Cain had wanted?
“Take up his cross daily.” The reverend searched the crowd. “What is it to take up one’s cross, but to accept the sufferings the good Lord sees fit to visit upon you?”
Quillan frowned. Well, at least they saw eye to eye on the source of the suffering. But accept it? He’d rather fight.
“Why, you ask, would a good and loving God allow pain in the lives of His people? What place has suffering in victory?” And now he boomed, “ ‘And he said unto me, my grace is sufficient for thee: for my strength is made perfect in weakness.’ Beware your strength, for it takes you from God. It is in your burdens, in your failings, in your pain, that His power is made perfect.”
Once again Quillan locked eyes with his foster father. He should rejoice over the torment he’d suffered, suffered at the hands of the reverend and his wife? So God could be powerful? Quillan wanted to laugh.
“ ‘For whosoever will save his life shall lose it.’ Do you love your life more than you love your Lord? Yo
u will lose it! Anything that comes before the Lord is forfeit. ‘If any man come to me, and hate not his father, and mother, and wife, and children, and brethren, and sisters, yea, and his own life also, he cannot be my disciple.’ ”
Cain had told Quillan God wasn’t condoning hate, only drawing a line beyond which no one could raise someone or something before God. So vast should be the difference in reverence that it was like love and hate. For Quillan, the two had seemed hopelessly entwined.
“ ‘But whosoever will lose his life for my sake, the same shall save it.’ ” The reverend rested his gaze gently now. “Must you die for the Lord to know His salvation? No. You must only die to yourself. How? By taking up the cross daily. What is the cross in your life? Take it up. Bear it bravely as Simon bore the cross of our Lord.”
Quillan fought the scowl. What was his cross? Ignominious birth. Loveless childhood. Rejection. Shame. Fear. Not fear! Yes. Fear to risk his heart, fear to love. That was why he hurt Carina. Not because he’d failed Cain. But because she might fail him.
“Take up your weakness, your pain, your failing. Be weak that God might be strong. ‘For when we were yet without strength, in due time Christ died for the ungodly.’ ” The reverend seemed to shrink, though his eyes remained firm. “He has accomplished your salvation. But He has not yet perfected your circumstances. Do not be confused in the two.”
Reverend Shepard stepped down from the pulpit, and Quillan saw the quivering in one leg. Almost stumbling, the minister took his seat as another hymn filled the church. Quillan drew a slow breath. In the old man’s weakness, did he see God’s power? He’d ignored the fiery sermons easily enough, but it was in the gentle moments, when the reverend was at a loss, that Quillan had been most perilously close to seeing God.
He shook his head. He hadn’t intended to listen, certainly not to ponder the words of this man. Maybe they weren’t just the reverend’s words. Maybe they were God’s. But he and God were not on speaking terms. Quillan wet his lips and swallowed the dryness from his throat. Cain had believed he refused to surrender. Maybe he feared to.
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