“I don’t know anybody.”
Patience blinked. “Pardon?”
“I don’t know anybody to work your mine.”
“Oh—well, thank you.” Patience moved to the dry-goods table, still looking over her shoulder. “Hello! My name is—”
The woman sorting through the bolts of calico never looked up. “Patience.”
“Yes.” Patience smiled. “I’m the new owner of—”
“Mule Head.”
“Yes, that’s right, and I’m—”
“Looking for a crew.”
“Yes—do you—”
“Know anyone who’ll work for you?” The woman laughed. “No.”
“Nice talking to you.”
“Hello, my name is Patience.”
“So nice to meet you.”
“Have you ever considered a job outside the home? The pay is good, and it can be arranged for you to be home when school lets out.”
“I have a job: five kids and a lazy husband.”
“Yes, but haven’t you ever wanted to stretch? Do something on your own?”
“No. Never.”
“Nice visiting with you.”
“I’m Patience Smith—”
The young mother turned and smiled. “I know, dear. Welcome to Fiddle Creek.”
“Thank you. I was wondering if you could possibly help me?”
The young woman’s smile never lost its vigor. “I’m afraid not.”
Patience frowned. “You don’t know what I want.”
Lifting a spool of ribbon, the woman waved to the clerk. “I’ll take two yards of the lavender, Edgar!” She flicked a glance over her shoulder. “Nice talking to you.”
“The same, I’m sure.” Patience moved on.
“Think about it. The pay is excellent, and I’ll arrange to have you home before your family even realizes you’re gone. You don’t believe those silly ghost stories, do you?”
“Certainly not!”
“That’s what I thought. The moment I saw you, I said to myself, Patience, this is an intelligent, hardworking woman whom you would be honored to call an employee.”
“Well, thank you. I certainly would try to be.”
Patience’s smile lifted. “Then you’ll help?”
The lady gave her an affronted glare. “Do I look like I’ve lost my wits?”
Snatching up a tin of peaches, Patience moved on.
Coming out of the store several minutes later, Patience blew her bangs out of her eyes and sighed.
Jay leaned against a hitching post, whittling. She shot him a disdainful glance and walked past him, her chin in the air. She could hear the thud of his boots following her. Why wouldn’t he go away and leave her alone?
“No luck?”
She stopped and turned to face him. “You know what kind of luck I had. It turned out just the way you said it would. I guess that makes you happy?”
He frowned. “Not exactly.”
She stared at him. “What does that mean?”
“I admire someone who doesn’t have enough sense to give up, but you’re fighting a losing battle. These people have a thing about the Mule Head. You’ll never get anyone to work there.”
She stepped closer, looking up at him. “You could help me if you would.”
He shook his head. “No, ma’am. I’m not a miner. I’m a lawman.”
“Then go back to Denver City and do your job.”
“Right now my job is taking you back where you belong.”
“I belong here.” Her eyes locked with his, challenging him. “If you’ll help me hire a crew, I’ll cut you in on the profits.”
He removed his hat and slapped it against his thigh. “What is it about no that I’m not conveying to you?”
His eyes, electric blue, burned into her. His hair glowed in the sunlight. She fought an urge to brush her fingers through it. What was she thinking? This … oaf infuriated her!
She gripped her hands behind her back. “I’m staying. Go on back to Denver City. You found me; that’s all you were supposed to do. Tell my friends I’m all right, and I’ll come when my business here is finished.”
He opened his mouth, closed it, clapped his hat back on his head, turned, and walked away.
Patience stared after him, feeling suddenly lost and alone. She looked up to see Chappy sitting on the porch steps, whittling.
“Hire a crew?”
“No.” She glanced in the storefront resentfully. “They must all think I’m a fool.”
“Well—” the white-haired prospector calmly inspected the hummingbird he was carving—“I wouldn’t feel too bad. I could have told you they wouldn’t be interested. Women are considered bad luck in a mine.”
“I’ve heard.” She crossed the wooden planks and sat down beside him.
“Known men to set fire to a mine if a woman’s been in it.”
“Why, that’s mad.”
“Might be, but folks up here are a mite set in their ways.”
“Well, I guess it doesn’t matter.” Patience leaned back, soaking up the sun. She didn’t have the slightest idea what plan four was. “The women didn’t want to work anyway.”
“Got their hands full taking care of the family.”
“Seems that way.”
He chuckled. “Don’t know much ’bout miners, do you, sissy? Or men.”
“Nothing,” Patience admitted.
“Well,” he said, a foxy note creeping into his voice now, “you ought to learn. A pretty little thing like you will be wanting to take a husband someday. Might need to know what he’ll be looking for.”
“And what might that be?” Patience asked, not really interested. From what she could tell, the only prerequisite a woman needed to catch a man around here was that she was breathing.
“Well now, the Frenchies think it’s got something to do with a woman’s legs.”
“A woman’s legs.”
“Yep, the dark-haired girl with a large leg will get fat at thirty and lie in bed reading novels until noon.”
Patience looked back at him, sneering.
“The brunette with the slender limbs, now she’ll worry a man’s heart out with jealousy.”
Patience’s gaze moved to her wool trousers.
Chappy examined the bird’s progress. “Now, the olive-skinned maid with a pretty rounded leg is sure to make a man happy. The blonde woman with big legs will degenerate by thirty-five into nothing more than a pair of ankles double their natural size and afflicted with rheumatism. The fair-haired woman will get up at the crack of dawn to scold the servants and gossip over tea.”
“So a man wants the olive-skinned maid?”
“No, the light, rosy girl with a sturdy, muscular, well-turned leg is the one men want. But if he’s lucky enough to find a red-haired little gal with a large limb, he’d better pop the question quick as he can.” The old man’s eyes twinkled with devilment.
“What about a redheaded man? Do the same rules apply to him?”
“You know any redheaded men?”
“Maybe,” she answered evasively.
There were only two in camp: Jay Longer and seventy-year-old Webb Henson.
“The short lady should have a slender limb, and the tall lady should possess an ample one.” He handed Patience the finished bird. “Think you can remember that?”
She nodded. Of course she could remember that, but she couldn’t for the life of herself see that the observations held any credibility.
She walked back to the mine, fighting tears. At least no one could see if she cried way out here. She wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of knowing she felt like giving up.
And there was Wilson. He’d been brought up right, you could tell that. His parents must have been good people. But the old prospector probably hadn’t been a proper influence on the boy, and he was exposed to a rough element in the mining camp. A boy needed a man’s influence, a godly man’s influence. Although where she’d find that kind of man in Fiddle
Creek, she couldn’t imagine.
Her thoughts turned to red-haired Jay Longer. He seemed like a good enough man, but godly? Not that she could see, but then prayer could work miracles. She might pray for him; surely God would understand she wasn’t asking anything for herself, although he was surely a decent man. She climbed toward the mine, with her thoughts of the sheriff for company.
Chapter Eight
P had a problem. Wilson wasn’t supposed to know it, but he did.
He might be only eight years old, but he had a big mind. Almost old—really old—adultlike sometimes.
And his adultlike mind told him Patience had a problem.
She’d done a good job hiding it, but she didn’t fool him. He saw how red and swollen her eyes were every morning. And she blew her nose a lot lately. She kept saying she was coming down with a cold, but if that were so, she’d already have gotten sick.
No, Patience couldn’t fool Wilson; she was worried. Worried sick because she couldn’t get anyone to work that ole mine—and Jay Longer wasn’t very friendly. Wilson suspected P would like for the sheriff to be friendlier.
She’d gone everywhere there was to go, done everything there was to do, talked to anyone who would listen, but nobody wanted to work for her. Nobody liked ghosts. Some didn’t believe there was such a thing, but others only shook their heads and said they didn’t want to take a chance on running into Gamey if he was in the mine.
Wilson walked to school with a heavy heart. P said it was okay for him to walk by himself this morning. He appreciated that. He liked it when she treated him like an adult. She did most times, except lately, when she couldn’t think of anything but ghosts. And maybe the sheriff—only she got mad when he mentioned that man. Called him pigheaded and … something else. He couldn’t remember what, but he didn’t think Jay would like it.
Wilson didn’t know if he believed in ghosts.
Maybe he did; he wasn’t sure.
Patience wouldn’t be having such a hard time getting workers if it wasn’t for the rumor. If he were a man and P asked him to work in the mine, he’d do it—whether he believed in ghosts or not—because P was nice. And even better than that, there were some things a man just ought to do.
Swinging his dinner pail, Wilson made his way down the mountain. He bet that sheriff would work in the mine. He didn’t know why P hadn’t asked him to.
Hunching deeper into the coat lining, Wilson pretended he was smoking a cigarette. The crisp, cold air formed a perfect vapor for his favorite make-believe game. He played it every day when no one was looking. When he grew up, he was going to smoke for real. Smoke and cuss and spit tobacco and look mean, because that’s what men did, only P would never let him. She said a boy wasn’t to live that way, that God frowned on smoking and cussing and spitting tobacco and looking mean—well, she hadn’t said anything about looking mean, but if God didn’t like the other things, he probably didn’t like anyone looking or acting mean.
Exhaling, inhaling, exhaling, inhaling, out, in, out, in. Wilson watched the air take on fascinating shapes. It was easy to play like he was smoking because it was freezing cold. Colder than kraut—though he didn’t know why he was thinking about kraut. He hated the stinky stuff.
His foot struck something and he stumbled, nearly pitching face-first into a snowbank. He caught himself in the nick of time.
His face brightened when he spotted the sheriff coming up the hill, walking toward him.
“Jay!” he called, happy to see a familiar face. He hadn’t seen the sheriff in a long time. “What’re ya doing?”
When Jay didn’t answer, Wilson veered off the path to visit.
Jay watched Wilson trotting toward him. He looked closer to see if Patience was with him, but she wasn’t.
Irritating brat. Look at him—scrawny, red hair; wearing bottle-thick glasses that make him look like a hoot owl.
“Hey, Jay? You got a minute to talk?”
“I guess so.” Not that he wanted to talk to the boy. He didn’t; he was just killing time until Patience came to her senses. Once that happened, he, the girl, and the child would be on their way back to Denver City in the blink of an eye.
“Why haven’t you been back to see us? P misses you.”
Nosy kid. “I don’t have time for visiting. Got things to do.”
“Like what?”
Jay glared at him. Someone needed to teach this boy some manners. It wasn’t polite to ask questions like that. Besides, he couldn’t think of an answer. He’d not been all that busy, but that was his business. He had a reason for not going back to the mine. That stubborn woman would have him working for her if he wasn’t careful.
“I don’t have to discuss my affairs with you.”
Wilson cocked his head to one side, appearing to think about this. “No, I suppose not. Are you doing something you don’t want anyone to know about?”
Jay bit back the word he wanted to say. “No, I’m not doing anything I need to hide. Didn’t anyone ever tell you not to ask questions?”
“Yes, all the time. But how will I learn anything if I don’t ask?”
“You’re liable to learn more than you want to know if you do.”
“I don’t see how that would be possible,” Wilson said, after giving the matter some consideration. “I’d think it would be difficult to learn too much about anything.”
Jay smothered a sigh. What could you do with a boy like this? You couldn’t talk to him, for sure. Hard to talk to someone who had an answer for anything you said. Kid acted odd too. Hard to tell if he was all there or just being obnoxious.
He was going to be a handful when he grew up. A mining camp was no place for him. Patience meant well, and someone had to see to Wilson’s needs, but the boy wanted a man’s influence. A man’s firm hand. But he wasn’t that man.
Apparently aware of Wilson’s close scrutiny, Jay growled. “Shouldn’t you be somewhere, kid?”
“I’m walking to school by myself this morning. P said I could.”
“You better hurry along—you’re going to be late.”
“It doesn’t matter. I only go because P makes me. I hate school.” When the sheriff didn’t answer, Wilson continued. “Want to know why I hate school? Because the kids don’t like me.”
“Have you done something to make them not like you?”
“No, honest.” He hadn’t done anything—not that he could remember. He sure hadn’t thrown Butch’s sandwich anywhere.
“Yeah, well, that happens. Don’t worry about it; it’ll work itself out.” Jay pulled the collar of his wool coat tighter. “You better run along.”
“The girls talk mean to me, and Butch Miller steals my sandwich every day.”
“And you let him?”
Wilson made a humph sound. “I can’t stop him.”
Rubbing his shoulder, Jay looked away. Sunlight danced off the heavy layer of early morning hoarfrost.
Wilson suddenly thought about P and all the trouble she’d been having. Why, he bet she had forgotten to ask Jay to help her run the mine! Excited now, he realized how he could make P happy! He’d take Jay home with him; that’s what he’d do. He’d surprise the smile right off P!
Wilson sized up the sheriff’s muscular frame and decided he was strong. Strong as a bull. Fit as a fiddle. Tight as a drum, and all that other stuff people always said. He’d make a good gold miner.
He could mine a bunch of gold and then P wouldn’t cry herself to sleep; she wouldn’t cry anymore, period, because the sheriff would be around every day and she would like that.
Wilson wasn’t a fool. He knew he’d have to be pretty crafty to trick Jay into coming home with him. The man would be a good worker, all right, but it seemed like he didn’t like work. He frowned a lot—and he got mad sometimes, though Wilson could tell Jay tried to hide his anger as much as he could.
Wilson noticed that the night he’d brought him and P up to the mine. Maybe that’s why P forgot to ask him to help her: she knew he was a testy
sort.
Jay was probably a little uninspired because P wouldn’t go back to Denver City with him. Even Wilson knew that men preferred the women to mind.
Well, he’d just have to fool Jay into going home with him. Once he was there, P would see that he was strong, and she’d remember that she hadn’t asked everyone to work the mine: she hadn’t asked the sheriff. She was good about talking people into doing things they didn’t want to do. She called it tact, but Wilson called it plain ole browbeating.
But Wilson liked his idea a whole lot and decided to follow through with it. “Jay?”
The sheriff looked up. “Yes?”
“I’m not feeling so good.” Wilson clutched his stomach. “I’d better not go to school today.”
Jay frowned. “What’s wrong with you?”
“My stomach hurts.”
“Well, go back home.”
“Okay.” Wilson made it sound like he didn’t want to go home but he guessed, since Jay said it, he ought to obey. “You’d better walk me home, huh, Jay?”
Wincing, Jay glanced down at him. “You know the way back.”
A ray of sun glinted off the rim of Wilson’s glasses. “I’m feeling kind of dizzy. I can’t see straight.” He held his head for effect.
Jay shifted to the opposite foot. “You’ll be all right—it’s not far.”
Grabbing his middle, Wilson bent double. “Noooo, I think you’re going to have to walk with me, Jay, because I’m real sick.”
“Wilson—”
“Really sick, Jay. Honest.”
Jay shifted his stance, annoyed.
“Yeah—please don’t tell P!” It was a white lie; the old prospector had said only the black ones counted.
“You have to come with me. P’ll be mad if anything bad happens to me.”
“Look, kid, I didn’t take you to raise.”
Wilson peered up at him. “You don’t want me to walk home by myself, really sick, do you?”
Actually, Wilson didn’t think Jay cared one way or the other, but he was beginning to suspect he didn’t have a choice. If I’m sick, he’ll have to walk me home.
“All right, let’s get it over with.”
Wilson’s face lit up. “You’ll do it? You’ll walk home with me?”
Patience Page 8
