Nodding, Thora wrote fast. “Oh, that’s a good tip. But the tactics you used in the Devlin Gang capture sounded like military ones.”
“Yeah, some of those maneuvers were ones I’d carried out in the Army. But lots of marshals are good at their job but haven’t been in the military.” He rested his elbows on his thighs. “I learned to listen for particular names or places in conversations on the street or in stores. I hung around at the train depot and looked for familiar faces from wanted posters or listened for news from the telegraph.” Subconsciously, he was aware of shifting into past tense when he talked of the methods. Sometimes, Harte struggled to believe his career as a marshal was over.
Thora leaned forward. “One thing I noticed while reviewing the newspaper articles is how much distance you traveled. One incident in May might be in western Iowa, and two months later you’d be in eastern Texas.”
“True.”
“Have you always had the same horse? Blaze, right?”
Harte slumped back in the sofa. His throat tightened. Her question hit a vulnerable spot. “I’ve worked with five horses over the eight years. Blaze has been with me only six months.”
Her brows bunched. “And the others…were they too old?”
Sympathy filled her gaze, but he couldn’t acknowledge it. “No, they were killed in the line of duty.” The images of Rocky, Jasper, Blackie, and Starlight circled in his mind like a carousel ride. Brave animals, every one.
Harte wished he could think of a new topic to distract her. As he waited for her next question, he couldn’t stop his knee from bouncing.
She glanced at the movement then back to her notebook. “What goes through your mind when you’re trailing a suspect?”
“How to bring him or them to justice without getting myself killed.” His gut clenched. He should have worded that answer better. Because he dreaded what would be her follow-up question. Don’t ask me. I can’t bear to see the light in your eyes turn dark when you hear the answer.
“How many men have you killed?” She bit her lower lip.
Hearing her words was worse than he anticipated. “Will my answer truly help your writing, Thora?”
She slipped the pencil into the notebook, closed it, and set both aside. “No, but I’m more interested in learning about you, the man.”
Harte had sworn to himself he wouldn’t reveal his failure. The numbing guilt was his to carry, and his alone. He pushed to his feet. “Reread all those articles in your scrapbook to get a tally. But every single one of those criminals deserved what they got, because they broke the law. If we don’t follow the laws, we wallow in chaos.” He swallowed against the hard lump in his throat. “Then add one to the count. One precious innocent named Sarah Emily Potter, only fourteen years old, who was going about her normal day and got caught in the crossfire. Her death casts a pall over my reputation and is the reason I quit.”
“I’m so sorry.” Thora met his gaze, eyes brimming with unshed tears. “I didn’t know.”
“A reporter who still possesses a soul kept that devastating detail out of his article. Sarah’s grieving family didn’t need to read the details in the newspaper.” Blood pounding in his ears, he jammed both hands in his pockets. “Now, you realize why I don’t deserve to be the subject of your interview.”
Without another word, Harte turned and strode out the hotel door, his heart heavy and his chest aching. Even harder to admit was the fact he didn’t deserve to deepen their relationship.
Chapter Eight
For three days, Thora stayed in her room, writing. Listening to the rough tones in Harte’s voice and seeing his ravaged expressions during the interview had proven difficult. From the point he mentioned learning to hit a target, she’d sat with dread knotting her stomach. By the time he’d mentioned the death of a young girl, she’d wanted to scoot to his side and hold him close to offer comfort.
Everything about his posture and responses demonstrated his guilt. But Thora knew enough to recognize he hadn’t wanted her sympathy. At least, not in that moment. Until Harte was closer to forgiving himself, her words wouldn’t matter.
After his abrupt departure from the interview, she’d transcribed her notes. The act of rewriting his actual words released a flood of hot tears over the pain underlying his admission. In light of what she’d learned, her reason for the trip to Montana Territory appeared both selfish and self-serving.
What she could do was write the best story possible, one that showed the personal sacrifice endured by these brave and honorable men. The need to uphold the law was an aspect of their duty she hadn’t dwelt on much before meeting Harte Renwyck.
Once she separated the emotional from the factual, Thora used some of the details from Harte’s interview to create the marshal character for her series. Giving Hawk Ransom military training provided a believable base for his wilderness skills. Any man who’d been a soldier would relate to Hawk’s abilities. And if Thora’s own reaction to the handsome man was an indication, female readers would admire the character’s ruggedness.
Months ago at the very start of their association, her editor told Thora she needed to emphasize the differences between city and frontier life. In her research, she’d spent hours comparing the locations in the newspaper articles with an atlas to see the breadth of Harte’s searches. Lots of the regions where he traveled, especially early in his career, were beginning to be settled by whites, leaving them vulnerable to Indian attacks. Although Thora had known such an attack was unlikely at this time of peace in the region, she’d still felt uneasy while traveling with the freighter through the forests and prairie. A similar feeling must have weighed even heavier on the minds of earlier travelers. She wished she could go back and add those feelings to her Oregon Trail stories.
Late one night, she wrote a second copy of the character sketch for Hawk Ransom. Then she penned a note to Harte, hoping that her words and the description of her proposed hero would provide a substitute for the comfort she hadn’t offered when he so obviously needed it. The dejected man who’d left the hotel that night needed to know someone believed in him and stood at his side.
Dear Harte,
Here is what came from the interview you provided. I hope in Hawk Ransom you recognize the admirable qualities I’ve learned about you. Nothing you revealed about your past scares me. In fact, I’m intrigued and wish to discover more.
Life is never predictable. Accidents happen. Difficulties cross our paths. I’m a perfect example of that statement.
Please, forgive yourself.
Affectionately,
Thora
She’d struggled over choosing the correct closing, trying out several until she’d decided on the one that hinted at her growing feelings but wasn’t too forward. Once she finished, she folded the pages and sealed the flap with her personal seal pressed on the hot wax. Feeling like she’d done her best, she finally slept well for the first time in days.
The next morning, she went downstairs to find the dining room empty. Being late for breakfast meant Thora only had an apple and a dry biscuit to temper her hunger until the midday meal.
She respected how Laura ran her hotel on a designated schedule. But today, she really missed access to a cook who whipped up favorite meals and snacks at her request.
At the edge of the porch, Thora readjusted the strap of the leather satchel she’d commissioned from Nicolai. The slim rectangular pouch held her notebook, two pencils, and a pair of gloves. He’d even stamped a row of curlicue symbols along the strap edges to give the accessory a feminine look. The strap was long enough for her to wear around her neck and across her body, providing easy access to the pouch on her opposite side.
On the walk up the hill to the mine, Thora wondered what she’d say to Harte. Would he welcome her presence, or would he remain aloof?
She thrust her right hand into her skirt pocket and fingered the edge of the folded paper. Once she delivered the note, she couldn’t take back what she’d scribed in black ink.<
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This time on her ascent to the mine, Thora stopped only once and that was more to gain courage than catch her breath. Her stamina had improved during her stay in Montana Territory. She took the opportunity to tug her knitted scarf higher on her neck against the chilly breeze.
Pulse racing at what might happen, she walked around the bend in the road and aimed straight for where Harte guarded the entrance. A pang at seeing him again almost stole her words. “I know you’re working. But on your break, would you please read this?” Hand trembling, she extended the note.
He glanced at it and then looked at her. “What’s that?”
“Something important.” As she pressed the note into his hand, she just looked into his dark eyes, not saying another word.
Then she spun and hurried over to the mine office, knocking on the door frame before stepping over the threshold. The small room had a shelf that ran the length of the wall with several rolled documents, probably maps. A long rack hanging just inside the door held slim cards with names at the top. In the corner stood a wooden barrel with pickaxes inside. The letters “MM” were burned into the handles near the metal part. “Good morning, gentlemen.”
Bill Simms and Michael Morgan sat at a small table with papers spread in front of them. Both stood and returned a greeting.
“Missed you a breakfast.” Bill grabbed a chair from the corner and pulled it up to the table.
“Thank you.” Smiling at his gesture, she sat quickly so the men could return to their chairs. “I worked late last night…which is what brings me here today.” She angled a look at the mine owner. “I’ve decided my next story will feature an attempted mine robbery. I would like permission to see the inside of your mine. I want to get a feel for the conditions where the men work.”
“Huh.” Mister Morgan crossed his arms over his chest. “This won’t become an exposé about my mine or the mining industry as a whole, will it?”
Thora shook her head. He must have read the same book—Ten Days in a Mad House—about Nellie Bly’s investigation into asylums. “Just basic research on the equipment and how the tunnels are laid out. I’m not a journalist. The stories I write are fiction.”
Squinting, he remained silent.
Thora sucked in a breath at the possibility her request would be denied. I need to offer an inducement. “I’ve decided to take your suggestion and name the town in my story Michael’s Crossing.”
He laughed. “Good to hear. Bill, have you got someone to pull off a task for fifteen or twenty minutes? Only as far as Location Four or Five on primary.”
“Sure enough.” Bill stood and extended a hand toward the door. “Come with me, Miss Alviss.”
Smiling, she rose and nodded. “Thank you, Mister Morgan,”
“Call me Michael.” He winked. “Soon, my name will be in headlines.” Chuckling, he turned back to the papers.
Bill settled a hat on his head and walked her toward the mine entrance. “Boss must like you. I can’t remember the last time he let anyone but workers go inside.”
“Well, I’m honored then.” That Mister Morgan didn’t hold her first appearance at the mine against her was gratifying.
Bill gestured to the alcove just inside the mine’s entrance. “Wait here, away from the breeze. I’ll rustle up a guide and a miner’s cap for you to use.”
Nodding, Thora stopped where he indicated, her attention riveted on broad-shouldered Harte standing only a dozen feet away. No sign of her letter was visible in his jacket pocket. Had he already opened it, tearing the wax seal? Or had Harte jammed the letter into a trouser pocket? Maybe the note nestled inside his jacket, near his heart. Shaking her head at the fanciful thought, she chastised herself for daydreaming again.
Instead, she forced herself to look around and start her research. Into the notebook under the head of MINE she wrote: irregular stone formation, wide thick timbers, metal braces at junctions. The sunlight reached only a few feet into the entry space then blended into the shadows, as if the cave swallowed the light whole.
Now, why did that thought cross her mind? A shiver ran up her spine.
Just then, Bill and an average-sized man with a wiry, reddish beard walked closer. Each had a contraption on their heads with a shining light.
“Here’s your miner’s cap, Thora. The light’s called an oil-wick lamp and is what allows us to see in the tunnels.”
She accepted the cloth cap with a leather bill. Attached to a loop on the cap was a device like a miniature teapot with a wick at the end of the spout. “Could you put it on, Bill? I’m not sure how it fits.”
The mine manager stepped close. “Trick is to keep your neck real stiff and use your legs to move the light up and down.” He demonstrated.
The cap fit snug over her head with the brim shading her eyes and the small metal lamp resting at her left temple. She held her breath as Bill struck a match and the wick flared. The men didn’t seem to worry about the flame close to their hair so she wouldn’t, either.
“Thora, meet Rob MacPherson, and he’ll be your guide on a short tour. Mister Morgan wants you to go only to the first level below this one.”
Rob shuffled his feet. “I understand.”
Thora turned to the man whose blue eyes shone from a dirt-and-soot-covered face and smiled. “I appreciate your help, sir.”
Shrugging, he jammed both hands in the pockets of his blackened pants. “Whatever the boss orders, ma’am.” He angled his body and swept a hand toward the tunnel, casting the light from his head lantern in that direction. “Stay behind me, and I’ll point out the features.”
“Thanks, Bill.” Thora followed the man who’d already walked past the circle of her light. A short tunnel had been hacked inside of the mountain. Like at the entrance, thick timbers ran along the walls. Cool air brushed against her cheeks. Ten feet away from the entrance the sunlight disappeared.
“This here is what we call the ground level of the mine.” Rob waved a hand over his head. “The very first vein was discovered near the entrance, but the later ones are lower.”
For the next few minutes, she listened to his descriptions and asked the questions she’d prepared. Wooden pieces resembling railroad ties ran along the walls and over the ceiling. She had to write fast, because she sensed Rob’s impatience when she took too long adding every detail she saw.
After several tries, she got the knack of holding up her notebook near the light instead of bending over it. She followed him to a spot near a three-foot high metal gate. “What’s this?”
“The cage. We use the lift to move people up and down between the levels.” Holding his head stiffly level, Rob leaned over and cranked a handle attached to a big wheel.
Chains she hadn’t noticed before rattled. Soon, a metal box appeared. The sides and top were made of cross-hatched metal strips and attached with big bolts to a wooden platform floor. Her stomach jumped. This contraption was worse than the elevator at her publisher’s office.
“Step inside, miss.” Rob held open the gate. “The cage is the only way to get to the guts of the mine.”
At the prospect of being lowered into the darkness below, Thora swallowed hard, fear pressing against her chest. She almost refused, but staying where she was wouldn’t get her the needed information. On shaking legs, she walked onto the platform and leaned a hip against the sides. She grabbed the railing with one hand and clutched the notebook and pencil close to her chest with the other.
The sound of metal rattling drowned out Rob’s voice. He operated a lever at one side of the cage.
The ride in the cage dropped her into an even darker space. Darkness crept closer behind her each time she turned. She focused on taking in steady breaths to calm her rising agitation. How far would they drop if the gears failed? What was she risking for a story?
Dampness erupted on her chest, under her arms, and along her hairline. When she thought she couldn’t hold onto her panic a second longer, the cage stopped.
Rob unlatched the gate and
stepped onto an uneven stone surface. He held out a hand.
Thora grabbed tight like his hand was a life preserver on an ocean liner. She stepped over the gap between the cage and solid ground that might only be four or five inches but looked much wider. She shuddered at their depth.
As he walked, Rob pointed out the individual buckets used to collect rocks and the big buckets that sat on narrow rails. He indicated where shafts or tunnels broke off from the main one.
The image of a century-old gnarled tree came to mind with roots that curled and wandered in all directions. Numbers were etched high on the wall but they must be written in a code. She hoped for an explanation, but Rob moved on before she could ask.
“Excuse me, miss. Stay right here.” He waved a circle in the immediate area. “I have to go down this rope to speak to someone at the half level.”
Half-level? What did that term mean?
Rob grabbed a thick rope and lowered himself hand over hand out of sight.
Thora couldn’t stomach looking over the edge. At least his absence gave her a few moments to flesh out her notes. Slowly, she turned in a circle to look for an outcropping where she could sit, the meager head lamp lighting only a small area at a time.
The first almost-flat spot contained an uncomfortable point so Thora moved to an alcove with a handy chair. Ideas popped like seed corn in hot oil, and she sat and wrote enough that she needed to get a fresh pencil. She also had time to include a few sketches.
Off to her right came a metallic clunk.
Maybe Rob was coming back by a different route. She stood and moved down the uneven walkway until she reached a cross tunnel. The murmur of voices sounded from the distance.
She glanced back over her shoulder but the tunnels and walls all looked the same. A clank came again so she knew miners worked down this tunnel and wanted to observe their methods.
Stepping over a low board across the opening, she stumbled against another board lying in the walkway. After shoving it next to other lying haphazardly in the path, she moved into a space that was as black as obsidian. Was this the right way?
Chasing Adventure Page 12
